7^" (THE PARIAH ^ F. ANSTEY AUTHOB OF 'VICE VERSA' 'THE GIAN'T'S EOBE' 'a fallen idol' etc. LONDON SMITH, ELDEE, & CO., 15 WATEELOO PLACE 1890 [,All rights reservecCi CONTENTS. BOOK I. ANTIPATHY AND ATTRACTION. CHAPTER PAGE I. ENGLISH EXOLUSrVENESS 1 II. BREAEING THE ICE . . . 10 in. A HIGH-HANDED PEOCEEDING 17 IV. lOUNG ME. CHADWICK 26 V. TALENTINE AND OESON 37 VI. SO YOUNG AND SO UN-TENDEE ! 47 VII. A EEACTION 57 VIII. AN UNEXPECTED DELIVEEANCE 69 IX. A CLOUD FBOM ACEOSS THE SEA 78 BOOK 11. KICKING AGAINST THE PRICKS. I. SCTLLA AND CHAEYBDIS 84 II. DELF AND CHINA 90 ni. TO DEAF EAE3 100 IV. THE DANGEES OF NOT KNOWING WHEN TO STOP . . . 108 V. A MODUS VIVENDI 116 BOOK III. PRELIMINARIES TO HANGING A DOG. I. COMMENTS AFTER CHURCH 128 n. ATTEMPTS TO MANUFACTURE A SILK PUESE 138 m. CAEE AND THE HOESEMAN 148 IV. DISMOUNTED 156 V. A SOJOUEN IN COVENTRY 164 VI. MARGOT ASKS ADVICE AND RECEIVES IT 172 IV CONTENTS CHAPTER PAGE VU. CARELESS CLEMENCY 180 Vin. PKIVATE TUITION 189 IX, DEFFERIKQ CODES 199 X. THE LAST BTKAW 209 BOOK IV. CUCKOO TACTICS. I, CIRCUMSTANTIAL EVIDENCE 218 li. AMATEUR HEROISM 226 m. AN UNWILLING ARBITRESS 235 IV. TEUSTINQ TO A REED 245 V. VESTIGIA NULLA BETRORSUM 253 VI. THE BEST THING FOR EVERYBODY 262 BOOK V. JUDGMENT V. INCLINATION. I. IN DOUBT 273 II. A PARTIAL SOLUTIOa o 281 ni. WARNED 288 IV. THE TORTURES OF INDECISION 295 V. MISS cheveninq's candour 805 VI. in a BALCONY 313 VII. MRS. ANTROEUS AS A DIPLOMATIST 824 VIII. AUTUMN MANCEUVRES 332 BOOK VI. NEMESIS. I. LOVERS AND A RENDEZVOUS 342 n. A RETROSPECT 349 m. BUT A LITTLE LONGER 356 IV. UNDECEIVED 365 V. ON THE VERGE 877 VI. LITERA SCRIPTA 385 Vn. GAINING TIME 896 Vm. THE COURAGE OF DESPAIR 405 IX. MARGOT GOES TO MAKE AMENDS 414 X. BEYOND HER PO^VEB 423 rr. A HOUSE OF MOURNING 420 XII, NUGENT UNDERSTANDS AT L.\ST 436 THE PAEIAH BOOK I. ANTIPATHY AND ATTRACTION • Sie war liebensioilrdig, und er licbte Sie ; Er aber war nicht liebens- wilrdig, und Sie licbte Ihn nicht ' (Altes Stiick) Heine CHAPTEE I. ENGLISH EXCLUSIVENESS. And curving a contumelious lip, Gorgonised me from liead to foot With a stony British stare. — Mated. It was the hottest hour of an afternoon in mid-Augrist ; the plage at Trouville was crowded, the great bathing function at its height. Bathing-machines were lurching and. jolting down to the water's edge ; stout French gentlemen, striped red, white and blue, like cheap sweetstuff, were floundering in a couple of feet of water with the air of sea-lions ; younger men were swhnming out beyond the masts, or displaying their symmetry on the deck of their double-canoes ; ladies in baggy blue tunics and trousers were clinging to the ropes and screaming with shrill ecstasy when a larger wave than usual knocked their oilskin caps together ; on the sands there were gay tents, tricolour tiags, giant iimbrellas, under which the bathers received en pieignoir or read their ' Gil Bias ' and ' Petit Journal ' between their dips. To the Britisli mind there is something irregular and almost improper in the idea of bathing in the afternoon, and the British constitution generally prefers to digest its mid-day meal under other conditions than seated on a straw chair, in a scorching sim, and on glaring white-hot sand, watching foreigners making more or less painful exhibitions of themselves. And so, the Grand Hotel Californie at Trouville being the establishment most in favour with English-speakmg visitors, some B 2 THE PAHIAII of these were generally to be found at this particular time upon a terrace opening out of the central Balle of that hotel, and protected from the sun as far as possible by a great awning. This afternoon, for some reason, the party was less numerous and representative than on others, consisting chiefly of Mr. and Mrs. bpoker, a young married couple, and Mr. Iliram P. AVhipple, a reflective but unconnuunicatix e American, with a withered wife and a brilliant daughter. Conversation had followed its well-worn groove —abuse of the management, the hours, the wines, the cookery, the beds, the charges, for there are few travellers with souls so dead as to owti themselves satisfied with anything at a foreign hotel, but all that could be said on these subjects had been said once more and a pause had followed, the reproach of which each seemed too lazy to remove, until Mr. Spoker, a light-eyelashed, foxy-faced young man, introduced a new subject. ' If we'd had a Uttle more energy, all of us,' he remarked, ' we niiglit have been at Deauville races this afternoon; they ran a drag over from the hotel.' ' Well,' said ^liss Magnolia Wliipple, ' if anything could make me hotter than I am it would be looking on at horse-racing on an afternoon like this ; not that yoxi could expect any horse to hurry — tliey won't do more than stroU quietly along the course on the shady side.' ' Of course,' said Mr. Spoker, ' these foreign meetings aren't like the real thing — rather j;?a?/irt(7 at racing.' ' Now wouldn't anj-one think, to hear him talk, that he never missed a race when he's at home "? ' cried his wife, who charged herself with the duty of unmasking her husband's harmless little affectations; 'and yet I don't believe he was ever even at the Derby more than once in liis life — now, were you, Alfred ? Ah, he won't answer!' she cried in high glee. 'I've offended him. Never mind, Alfred, dear, you do know something about racings he spotted the winning horse at the "Petits Chevaux" last night from the way it carried its tail — he won fourteen francs, which gives him a right to talk like a sportsman.' ' As you lost them and a lot more in the course of the evening,' retorted Mr. Spoker, ' I shovdd have thought it didn't give you any right to talk at all.' ' Should you, Alfred, really ? Ah, well, you see your mistake now, dear. By the way,' she broke ofi', ' does anyone know what has become of Mrs. Chevening and her daughter ? They generally sit out here for a httle while. I wonder if they've gone to the races 1 ' ' Mrs. Chevening's too real high-toned to go, unless it was on top of a four-in-hand with a few dukes around,' drawled Miss Magnolia Whipple. 'And there's not much aristocracy at this hotel, only one Itiilian prmce, and poppa took him for a waiter.' ' ilagnolia Whipple, you do dress tilings uji beyond aU ! ' re- ENGLISH EXCLUSIVENESS 3 inonstraLecl her mother. ' Your father merely told him he must take two dollars off our bill ; it was the hotel clerk he thought ho was speaking to.' '^Ye^, and that wouldn't turn most princes' heads, I should thmk. But it was Mrs. Chevening wo were talking of. Can any- one inform me what's the reason they have for thinking themselves just too select for an^ t'ling, those two, particularly the girl ? Why has she got that way of not seeming to have any use for most people '? Who is she, anywaj- '? ' ' They belong to a good family — well connected and all that — related to Lord Yaverland.' said Mr. Spokcr. ' Alfred, you are too funny when you talk Peerage, and yon don't know anything about it yourself — only what she chose to tell you.' ' She's the widow of a colonel, isn't she ? ' said Miss "^liipple, ' and not a live colonel at that. We don't think very much of that at home. And they don't seem to live in any .^tyle where they are, either. I don't see why they behave as if nothing and nobody was good enough for them.' ' Magnolia,' said her mother, ' you'll haxe people thinking you're jealous if j-ou go on that way.' ' Mother's like the lady who was always telling her daughter to take her eyelashes out of tangle,' said Miss Magnolia with perfect serenity; 'but I'ln not jealous— our stjdes are too distinct to clash. And I admire her, ever so much. I think she's too beautiful almost to live, and I'd just adore her if she'd let me — but she never has any time for lue, and that makes me so inad with her. I don't like being made to feel no account everj- time ! ' One or two of her mule listeners seemed half conscious here that a complimentary speech of some sort was expected from them, but complimenting the pretty American in public was rather like riding at the quintain ; any lack of adroitness was certain to result in a shower of chaff, so they deferred the venture to a uiore private occasion. She had scarcely finished her sentence before one of the swing- doors which communicated with the central hall of the hotel opened, and the party was joined by the lady whose title to exclusiveness she had been calling in question. Mrs. Chevening greeted tlie company with a smiling and com- prehensive nod, not perhaps free from a suspicion of condescension, as she took one of the seats that had been placed at her disposal. She was a handsome woman, who mo\ed and spoke with a languid grace that was mannered without being atfectod. In spite of the grey streaks in her luxuriant hair, and one or two lines traced by anxiety or worry on her brow and about her mouth, she looked some years younger than her actual age, which was forty-three. Her dress was what an English matron of means and position might be expected to wear at such a place, and certainly, even to a female eye, betrayed no signs of undue regard for economy. 'b2 4 THE PARIAll * We've jxist been discussing some of the people at tliis hotel)' said Miss Magnolia andaciously. 'Oh,' said Mrs. Chevening, who did not ajiprove of Miss AVliipplc ; ' and were they really worth the trouble ? ' ' Well, we were wondering,' replied the j'oung lady demurely. ' I can't say I liave seen anyone as yet in whom I could feel the faintest interest,' continued the other. ' Trouville is so changed from what I remember it — such a very different class of people come here now.' ' Talking of queer people,' put in Mr. Spoker, who perhaps felt that tlie conversation was trenching on delicate ground, ' who's the man who goes about in a pith helmet — man who comes to table d'hote in a light coat — looks like an Army man ? ' ' Not in the least like any Army man I ever met ! ' said Mrs. Cheveningin the tone of an authority on the subject. ' He looks an odious person — they put him next to me at dinner last night.' ' Did you get any talk with him ? ' ' I ? No, indeed ! I am not so fond of talking to persons I know nothing about, so many people travel now who are quite too impossible ; and tliis man may be a bootmaker or something dreadful of that kind at home, for anything one can tell.' ' If you really want to know all about him, Spoker,' said one of the men, ' old Liversedge is j'our man ; lives in his part of the country, or knew him out in India or something — don't seem very intimate liere tliough.' ' Mr. Liversedge knows something about everybody, it seems to me,' said Miss Magnolia ; ' and it's never anything they'd be likely to put in their aiitobiogi-aphies either. It seems a little cooler now ; the band will have begun at the Casino by this time ; sup- pose we make a move ; — won't you honour us, Mrs. Chevening? ' ' You are very good,' was the reply, ' but I must find my daughter first. I thought she would have been out here.' ' She liasn't come near us since lunch. Seems as if she had found more interesting company somewhere,' said Miss Whipple, not without malice, as she prepared to descend with the rest of her party and cross the boarded sands to the Casino. Meanwhile the wearer of the pith helmet — a covering which had procured him notice even at Trouville, where hats and caps incline to tlie fantastic — had been wandering disconsolately about the town. Earlier in the day he liad attempted to take a bath, but failing to master the rather complicated preliminaries, he had got into a machine without any of the numerous tickets, and the haigneur, after vainly trying to inform hhn that he must go back and book his cabauc, j^cignoir, serviette, and costume, by separate I)rocesses, and tlien present himself anew, was reduced to ordering him out of the macliine in unmistakable pantomime ; whereupon the Englishman had retreated under cover of a volley of Hindu- stani, and turned disgustedly n\) the nearest street. ' What was that fool in the red flannel driving at, I wonder,' he was thinking. ENGLISH EXCLUSIVENESS 5 • I should have hoped I was respectable enough to be allowed to bathe in their beastly sea without producing my passport and cei'tificate of birth, and the Lord knows what ! ' The heat in the narrow streets was oppressive ; the gutters exhaled a succession of odours that were not refreshing, the pave- ments were bare, for all the usual loiterers were awaj' at Deauville ; the proprietors of the shops where ' Articles de Paris ' were sold were asleep in their muslined and mirrored back-parlours ; the davie du comiitoir at the confectioner's was dozing over her feuilleton ; the waiters in the green-shuttered cafe's were sleeping with their heads laid on the marble-topped tables. As the wanderer passed a private house where windows opened upon the street, he had a view of a gaudy little room, all ormolu and floral tapestry, with a stout bourgeois and his poodle slumbering peacefully on opposite armchairs. The only sounds that broke the hot stillness were the click of billiard balls, or rattle of dominoes from the upper rooms of restaurants, the di'ows}' tinkle of a pension piano, or the peevish jingle of bells whenever one of the fly-horses on the place shook his long-suffering and sheepskinned head. At the little circulating library where English was spoken, but not understood, yesterday's London j)apers had not yet come in. The Englishman had smoked all his own cigars and mistrusted, not unjustly, those produced under the fostei'ing care of the French government. He was absolutely without resources, being one of those persons who soon exhaust the pleasure of novelty. ^Valking idly along in that unenviable mood in which each change of direction seems more wearisome, Mr. Joshua Chadwick, as his name was, fell into a somewhat bitter and sombre train of thought. ' Upon my soul,' he was saying inwardlj', ' for all the acquaint- ances I've made, or am likely to make in this hole, I might as well be back at one of the old Furredpore concerns at once — better, for 1 could do as I pleased there. It does seem an extraordinary thing that with so many English people at the hotel I haven't found a soul to speak to. They stuck me between a pair of Frenchmen at every tahlc d'hote except last night, and then I didn't get on much better, that woman with the grey hair wouldn't talk. I wonder if Liversedge has been telling them about me. It's likely enough. I was pretty short with him when he came up to me with some ej'e- wash or other about our being neighbours at Gorsecoiube now, and hoping we should be friends. " If I wasn't good enough for you in Bengal," I said, "I'm not good enough for you here." I've never forgiven him that day he came to dine with me at the factory, and found a ryot — an obstinate old devil who wouldn't sow a single beegah of his fields in indigo — locked up in the go-down. Anj'body else would have taken no notice, seeing he was my guest ; but Liversedge had me up and fined me, and made me let the nigger out too. That was the last time he ever dined with me while he was in the district. But what could he say against me here ? Only that I wasn't as steady as I might have been. "Who was 6 THE PARIAH there out there to care how I lived ? Who will care now when I'm rich and turned resjiectable ? Respectable! j-es, I've got some object in keeping respectable now, for the boj^'s sake.' Joshna Chadwick's career had been a singularl}- liard and un- successful one till quite lately. Twenty-two years before he was in his father's business with every prospect of a speedy partner- ship. Then he had committed the oO'cnce which had led to his expulsion ; he had married one of the assistants employed in tlie establishment — an imprudence wliich the old man could not forgive. Chadwick had gone out to Calcutta : his father's business laj^ in Oriental goods generally, and he expected that one of the banks there, with whom their house had deaUngs, might be inclined to help huu, as proved to be the case. The bank, like many Indian banks, owned silk and indigo factories in various districts, and to one of them young Chadwick was sent as assistant-manager. At that time he was rather of the type of ' good young man,' brought up in a strict Dissenting cu'cle, an active Christian of a somewhat exuberant class, — energetic, emotional, fond of power. To be persecuted for doing right was gratifying ; he went out v»ith a light heart to make a home for his young wife, and gain riches in sjiite of the parental edict. He happened to reach the indigo plantation in the very height of the disputes between jilanters, ryots, and missionaries, and his avowed leaning to the latter did not make him more popular with hia fellow-planters. He was not a man with any gi-aces of manner, nor was he accustomed to society ; he lived much to himself, and put by all that he could save from his salary towards the home he was plannmg. Then came the news which made him an altered man ; his wife had died, leaving him with an infant son whom he had never seen. He grew morose and overbearing, fell out with his only friends, the missionaries, and presently became notorious for his high-handed dealings with the natives. Later, when he was transfen-ed to a concern in another part of the country, he threw off every restraint and lived in a manner whicli made it impossible for married planters at all events to associate with him. He managed to save cnougli to buy a share in the factory ; but the indigo interest in Bengal was slowly declming, and after long years of struggle against refractory rj'ots and bad seasons, Chadwick had been glad to sell out for what he could, and the Bank had helped him to purchase a factory in Behar, where the prospects of making a living were more favourable. In Behar he liad at last bcgtm to prosper, but there, too, his life was no more reputable than before ; his unsociable manners and irregular habits excluded him from such society as was to be had, and Chadwick was perfectly content to be so excluded. All this time he had not heard from his father, and but rarely of his son, for whose support he had sent over small remittances from time to time, but the fact that he had cost his mother's life possibly ENGLISH EXCLUSIVENESS 7 turned his heart against him from the first, for ho felt no real interest in the hoy. At last he heard, through the Calcutta Bank, that his father was dead, and afterwards, to his utter astonishment, that he had relented and left his only son a half share in a very handsome fortune. Thereupon he had left his plantation to tlie care of an agent, and returned to his native land, with a sense that his altered position had brought new responsibilities, that he must leave sack and live cleanly in future. So far, however, neither his money nor his studious regard for the proprieties had procured him the footing he had expected in his native land. At Gorsecombo, the village in Pineshire, where his father had built himself a country house, he had not found himself at all cordially welcomed by the local society. Even here at Trouville, his fellow countrymen seemed to have combined to relegate him to the enjoyment of his own society. Once, in his reckless revolt against conventions, he would have been resigned enough, but the isolation one achieves is very different from that which is thrust upon one, and Chadwick resented being treated as an outsider in this way. He did not make siifticient allowance for the natural suspicion and exclusiveness of the travelling Englishman, or the tendency of a clique when once formed to be chary of admitting others into its circle. And then, too, by a merciful law of nature which ordains that none of us can know exactly- what impression we produce upon an unbiassed mind, he did not realise that his appearance was not in itself a recommendation. Chadwick was a big man with a face coarsely and floridly coloured, bronzed by the sun, seamed and lined by hard living ; he had strangely' excitable-looking light-gi'ey eyes, and a large, loose, sensual mouth ; he was not positively ill-looking, nor was his expression bad, though to a fastidious sense there was something overpowering about the whole man which did not encom'age advances. ' I siippose,' he said, continuing his meditations, ' I could find ways of j)assing my time at a place like this, if I chose to look about me — but there's the boy to be thought of now. I'll give the other thing a chance. Perhaps it's been my fault after all. I've been expecting other people to make up to me, instead of meeting them half-way myself. I'll go back to that hotel, and have another trj-.' Strong in this new resolution, he struck up a little street under huge white calico banners advertising pianos for hire, and up between high walls and staring doll's-house-like villas, iintil he reached the Hotel Californie, a large unbeautiful pile as architec- turally characterless and pretentious as most hotels. No one was in the big entrance hall except Mr. Liversedge, who was asleep on one of the divans, a couple of enormously stout foreigners, a husband and wife, who were sitting side by side on another, panting lilie over-driven cattle. Through the glass screen at the end he could see the heads of the group on the terrace out- 8 THE r.VRIAH Bidc. He looked a moment through the glass doors, and then hia nerve failed him — it required more moral courage than he possessed just then in spite of his resolve to go out and sit amongst them, and risk an unmistakable snub by joining in the conversation. ' I don't feel up to tackling the lot of 'em,' he thought, and ■went out again and round by a lower path to a terrace immediately under and out of sight of the balcony, where he might find an opportunity of cultivating the acquaintance of a solitary Briton. On this terrace, -whicli led up to the balcony or upper terrace by a double flight of steps and was laid out with shrubs and benches, Fortune favoured Mr. Chadwick even beyond his hopes, for, although there was no portly paterfamilias or sociable bachelor there, upon one of the seats sat a girl of about eighteen or nineteen, evidently English, and with somethmg much more than the mere prettiness of youth and health. He remembered that she had sat on the other side of his unresponsive neighbour of the table d'hote, who was probably her mother, and the mere facts that she was absorbed in a book and that he had not been in any way introduced were no reasons, with him, for not addressing her. If he could succeed in getting on good terms with her, he thought she would smooth his way for him with the rest of the English set ; at anj' rate, it was worth trying, and so he di-ew up a chair, and sat by her bench for a minute or so in silence. Miss Chevening's face had disturbed the peace of mind of more than one who still foimd it as impossible to recall it accurately as to forget it. Her expression was constantly shifting with every change of feeling, like a child's, and every change gave a new meaning and character to her featm-es. Her hazel eyes could rest on you with the serenest and most mortifying indifference, or shine with a frank sweet friendliness that was a patent of distinction in itself for the recipient. Her beautiful flexible mouth had an habi- tual curve of slight disdain, her manner to people who did not interest her was apt to be curt, and to those who provoked her anger, merciless. She was impulsive and oiitspoken at times, par- ticularly in her dislikes ; she was fastidiously mtolerant of common- place, of boredom. At school she had been made the unwilling object of passionate homage from enthusiastic school-girls, and she had laughed at them pitilessly, though sometimes condescending to make use of their devotion. As yet, those who knew her best would have found it hard to say positively whether she had a heart or not, in the metaphorical sense of the word, if it had not been for the affection she showed for the j'ounger members of her own family. All this does not perhaps constitute a very lovable character, and it must be admitted that Miss Chevening's virtues and amia* bility had never made her friends at all apprehensive of her early decease, but a lovely face and form atone for many shortcomings, and gain for their possessor a regard often as little deserved aa sought, ENGLISH EXCLUSIVENESS 9 Perhaps the past had done something to embitter her view of the world. She had been singiilarly beautiful from her childhood, and had always been accustomed to be made much of, especially at country-houses, where she frequently accompanied her father and mother on visits, and obtained a precocious knowledge of society. [She had been expensively educated at a fashionable watering- place school, and although Colonel Clievening had been ordered out to Afghanistan in the meanwhile, and was killed at Maiwand when Margot was sixteen, he left his widow fairly well off, and there seemed no reason why his daughters should not take their natural place in society when they were of an age to come out. Unhappily, Mrs. Clievening, who was at once ambitious and extravagant, conceived the idea of increasing her income by specu- lation — with results that may be easily imagined. She had to give up her house in Chesham Place, and tind another large enough for her family and at a rent suitable to her reduced means, and, tempted by its cheapness, she took one of the old houses which are to be found along the river bank between Chiswick and Hammer- smith. Perhaps she had expected that her fi-iends would f:nd her out there ; or perhaps, in the first bitterness of her reverses, she had been glad of a retreat ; at all events, she found herself deserted by all her former set. Chiswick was too long a drive for them, and they soon forgot, first her address and then her existence. Mrs. Cheveninghaving chosen to take offence at a neglect which she might have expected, had made no effort to keep up her relations ^yith her smart friends, and the consequence was that Margot, at a time when, had all gone well, she would have been presented to her Sovereign and laimched into her first London season was living the life of any young lady of the middle-class who had never aspired to society. Her devoted school-girl friends had come out and forgotten her : her aunt, Lady Yaverland, who had daughters of her own, con- sidered her duty to her niece and sister-in-law sufticiently fidfilled by a card for an afternoon concert at Portman Square in the winter. One or two families at Bedford Park or Kew, and in the sleepy old-world mansions which still resist the onset of modern bricks and mortar, formed their only acquaintances now ; and Miss Chevening's social distractions were all of the mildest subiu'ban order— a garden-party, the lawn tennis club in summer, a carpet- dance or two in winter. As a rule she was something more than resigned ; she liked the old-fashioned creeper-covered house by the river ; she had been more closely di'awn to her sisters and brother hj their altered cir- cumstances, and the best side of her nature was reserved for them, which is not invariably the case ; but Margot had a proud convic- tion in the superiority of her own family. Nevertheless there were times when she felt a vague discontent, when she longed for a larger horizon than the one which lay before 10 THE PARIAn her. Memories still lingered of the days when the wheels of her life had run with luxurious smoothness ; when, child as she was, she had been surromided with tlatteries and pleasures. She was as disposed for the pleasm-e now as then ; she could not help knowing that she liad an even better title to the homage, yet the world in which she had once thought to move knew her not, and probably woixld never know her. It was this consciousness of being shut out from ckcles in which she was capable of shining, wliich gave her somethmg of the bear- ing of a banished princess, who found everything in her meaner estate endurable but its pleasures. This was the girl with whom Joshua Chadwick had somewhat rashly determined to ingratiate himself; and even he, though not a ditlidcnt man in most respects, seemed to feel that there was Bomething rather formidable about tlie undertaking. CHAPTER II. BREAKING THE ICE. At length Chadwick conquered his Iiesitation and began : ' I hope I'm not disturbing you, sitting here ? ' he said. The girl on the bench lifted her eyes for a moment with a slight surprise, and then said indifferentl}', ' Not in the least,' and retm'ned to her book. ' You seem interested in what j-ou are reading ? ' Very.' Tliis time she did not raise her eyes. ' Might I inqiiire the subject ? ' With a charming negligent gesture she held the book towards him so that he might read the title. ' " Sesame and Lilies," eh ? A work on Horticulture, I pre- sume ? ' ' Yes,' said Miss Chevening, with a fine contempt for accuracy. ' Ah, the only plant Fve had any experience of is mdigo.' She did not conceive herself called upon to retmii any answer to this. ' Yes,' he continued, ' I ought to know something aboiit indigo. I've spent more than twenty years of my life ti'ying to make a living out of it — hard work it was, too, and yet it doesn't seem such a bad time now to look back on. I miss it now I'm out of it all.' He was silent for a moment ; again he saw the coolies beating tlie blue-green licpiid in the great vat to a milky frotli, and smelt the pleasant fresh scent of the dye ; for an instant he was back in the old life, with all its risks, contests, and hopes ; an autocrat in his factory, a terror to villagers who shirked their sowing. Then the vision faded again, and he was only a friendless Englishman abroad, trying to induce a monosyllabic young woman to talk to liim. BKEAKING THE ICE 11 Her continued inattention exasperated him into saying, ' I slioukl have thought it wouldn't have done you any harm to put down yom- book for a few minutes and be sociable ; I'm not a great talker myself, but it does seem hard to have been here two days, with plenty of my fellow-countrymen- about, and not a civil word from one of them all the time ! ' She closed her book resignedly ; she did not intend to let him drive her away, and she saw that, unconventional as his manners were, he did not mean to be offensive. Perhaps, after all, it might anuise her for a short while to let him talk ; he was a new type, and at least he was not commonplace, like most people. ' I am quite willing to listen to you,' she said, ' if you have any- thing to say.' ' That's more than anyone else has been yet,' he answered. ' Why, the other day at fable d'hote I passed a man the salt, and he was so afrtiid of its leading to anything, that he said, " Mercy, m'siew," knowing as well that I wasn't French as I did he was English. I call that small-minded, don't you ? ' ' Perhaps it Avas only shyness. Englishmen are rather noted for being reserved, aren't they ? ' ' Tin not reserved,' he said ; ' if anyone wants to know who I am and what I am I'm quite willing to tell him. I've no reason for concealing it. But half the people you meet ai'e so mortally afraid of compromising themselves by making acquaintances. Thei'e's one comfort, I shan't be lonely very long, my boy comes in a day or two, he'll be company for me.' ' Is he crossing from England, then ? ' ' No ; he's been travelling about the Continent, and I thought I'd go over and meet him at one of these French seaside places, and we'd enjoy ourselves a bit together before we went back. My father didn't give me such opportunities when I was young; he was a hard man, turned me adrift for marrying against his wishes, and there was I, all the best years of my life, toiling to make more than a bare living out in Bengal. I couldn't do much for my son in those days — all the money I could spare went towards purchasing a share in a concern, or paying off loans or meeting losses. Flow- ever, my father came round before he died, and I'm a rich man now and able to make it up to my boy. He's a good boj-, too, and considering how short a time we've known one another, it's sur- prising how we've taken to each other. He'll want for nothing now. I'm a richer man than I ever hoped to be — a richer man than most down in our parts, and my son shall have a better time of it than I had.' Most of Miss Chevening's interest had been exhausted by this time. Chadwick did not improve on acquaintance ; she did not care to be the recipient of these sudden confidences, and found his rough swagger rather more trying than she had anticipated. She was distinctly relieved, therefore, to see her mother coming towai'ds them from the upper terrace. 12 THE rAPvIAH ' So here you are, Margot ! ' exclaimed Mrs. Chevcning. ' I have been looking for you everywhere.' ' Your daughter, ma'am,' said Chadwick, ' has been giving me the pleasure of her society down here.' ' Indeed ? ' she said coldly. ' ^Margot, I have brought you two letters from Littlchampton ; they were lying on the portier's table as I came through.' ' Oil, at last ! ' cried Miss Chevening, all her languor suddenly becoming animation. ' Give them to me, please. . . . From Ida I Motlier, look — two whole sheets ; she must be really better ! ' 'Pray don't let us detain you here,' said Mrs. Chevening to Joshua Chadwick, who showed no inclination to go. ' You're not detaining me — I've only too much time on my hands,' he declared. ' Then I suppose it is we who must find some other place,' said ^Irs. Chevening. ' Come, Margot.' ' Oh ! ' he said, clumsily, ' 1"11 go. I didn't know I was intruding ; thought the hotel grounds \\ ere free to all. But I can easily go Bomewhere else, since I'm in the way here. Good afternoon.' ' Wliat a terrible person ! ' murmured Mrs. Chevening, as she sat down by her daugliter's side. ' You haven't really been allow- ing him to have any conversation with you, Margot, have j'ou "? ' ' Ida di-ove to Worthing on Satm'day, and wasn't in the least tii'ed,' was the irrelevant replj*. ' Dear pet — so glad ! but j'ou didn't hear my question, I think. "Were j'ou talking to that dreadful man ? ' ' Oh, a little, — yes. At least he talked to me — he told me things.' 'Margot, how very imprudent you are;— now we shall find it very ditlicult to make him keep his distance. "What did lie tell you ? ' ' They have been twice to Arundel,' Miss Chevening announced from her letter. ' Were you asking nie sometliing? Oh, well, he told me that he had been an indigo-planter, out in liengal, I think he said. And about his son, who is coming to lueet him here soon. And how he was immensely rich, and could buy anything he took a fancy to — he was very full of his wealth — and how no one here would speak to liim, which he seemed to take to heart. I think that was about all.' ' He seems to have been very confidential,' said Mrs. Chevening, whose disjjleasure seemed to have already evajtorated. * I couldn't help it, dear. I don't think I was at all en- couraging.' ' Well, tell me what Ida says.' * I'll read you the end of her letter : — • ' '' I can't tell you what a perfect time we are having here. Eeggie and Lettice are running about on the sands all day, and have the most fearful ai^petites. You can't think how sweet dear Hennie has been all the time we have been here— really more like JBREAKING THE ICE 13 a sister tliaii a governess ! I wish yon liked her morfe tliaii yon do, bccanse I think she feels that a good deal. I often think of yon and wonder if yon are enjoying yourselves — it must be such fun being in a big hotel ; I suppose j'ou have a dance every night almost ? Be sure and tell me if you see anything very strikinf^— in the costumes I mean, of course. Hennie has two lovely gowns, and looks quite pretty in them. One is a," — and so on — "Don't you think my writing is getting like yours — it isn't nearly so schcolf,'irly as it used to be, is it ? " ' ' Miss Henderson seems to me much too fond of dress for a woman in her position,' remarked Mrs. Chevening ; ' I shall really have to speak to her about it when we get home. You don't care about her very much, do you, Margot? ' ' I think she's rather silly in some things ; but Ida's devoted to her ; she couldn't bear to part with her now.' ' I wish I could have afforded someone who was a little more —but we have to be so careful about what we spend now,' sighed Mrs. Chevening. ' You know I help as much as I can with the two younger ones,' said Margot, 'but I've no genius for teaching, and I don't know nearly so much as Miss Henderson in most thinj^s. Reggie is quite beyond me. But I must read you Lettice's epistle — she has a style which is all her own : — ' " My dear beloved Margot, — We all like littlehampton ex- sessively, it is the greediest place we have ever been to, and we have such glorius apetits. Reggie and I bild the most beutiful sub- teranean cavuns in the sand, for pirits. We have not seen a pirit yet to speak to, but there is a very plesant costgard along the cliffs. Reggie and I had afternoon tea with him yesterday in his cottage, and he showed us all his meddles — we are going again soon."' (' I shall write to Miss Henderson, and beg her to be very careful where she allows those children to p^o,' said Mrs. Chevening at this point. ' I dare say she would di-aw the lino at pirates,' said Margot, laughing, ' though I believe Lettice woitld go to tea with Captain Kidd himself if she was invited.') '"Yarrow sends his love ; he is very well. We have only just forgiven him for killing a little rabit. Reggie is taming the sweetest little teeny crab, he is going to train it to come when he calls, and to walk strate ; he says he shall do it all by kindness. It can lie on its back and play at being dead so prettily, but we don't know who tort it that. I have a lot of new drawings to show you. Some are Nativities and Anunciations, and some are mistical." ' (' What does the child mean ? ' exclaimed her mother. ' Didn't you know? ' said Margot. ' Lettice has been mad about tiie Old Masters ever since she was taken to the National Gallery; she imitates their sub- jects now in lead pencil, and would be dreadfully hiu-t if anyone thought they were funny. I never trust myself to do more than glance at them.') ' "I have done a Mastardom of Saint Sibastion. which is the best I have ever done, and very good. The day before 14 THE rAIlIAH yesterday Ilennie and Ida went to ■\Yurtbiiig, so Reggie and I were left alone. We walked along the proniinade and pretended we could see you and mother over in France waving hankychifs to us. Yes- terday nothing hapened except the arival of a bun-loaf about tca- tiine. Eeggie says he can"t bother to write, so I'm to send an apolijy. Isn't my speling very much impruved ? Do come back soon. I tlnnk littlehampton must be ever so much more emusing than France is." ' ' Peebles for pleasure ! ' remarked jMargot at Lettice's opinion on the comparative merits of France and Littleham[)ton. ' She is the quaintest darling. But Trouville really is beginning to pall a little, dear, don't j^ou thuik "? Mightn't we finish our liolida.y with them ? ' ' You are a most incomprehensible girl,' said Mrs. Chevening. 'I thought, after all the anxiety and worry of Ida's illness, it would be a pleasant change for j^ou — this continental life — and j^ou are tired of it already.' ' I am a little tired of the Californle, I think,' said Margot ; ' the people are not very interesting, and we hardly ever go out of tho hotel, do we ? ' ' I don't care about sight-seeing,' said Mrs. Chevening ; '^and there is the Casino.' ' Oh, the Casino, yes ! ' replied Margot, with a little pout, for Mrs. Chevening, although she took out the full value of her sixtj- francs' ahonncment, did not patronise anj- entertainment that could not be seen without extra payment. Margot would have liked to see more of the surrounding countrj', to visit some of the sleepy little towns and the old liomcly churches, where the walls were covered with tokens of naive and often touching devotion, and votive ships hung from the diru rafters ; but her mother's tastes did not lie in this direction, she was content to oscillate between the jilagc and tlie Casino, and seemed to find perfect satisfaction in the rather micro- scopic talk of the Spokers and Whipples and their set. Mrs. Chevening had sent Margot up to make her preparations for the table tVJiole, and sat for a time absorbed in meditations which, to judge by her expression, were not of a cheerful character, and which, using an autlior's privilege, I may indicate more full}'. ' It was a mistake to come here,' she was telHng herself, ' a mere waste of money. If I had taken her to Whitbv, or Cowes, or Folkestone, we should have met peojile worth knowing, some of my old set perhaps — but here ! Yet how could I tell ? The very best people go to Trouville some seasons, it only happens that this year they've chosen to stay away. Perhaps,' and here she broke into a bitter little smile, ' it would have made very little difference even if they were here. ^Yhat young man with a name and position would look at a penniless girl, though she's as lovely as Margot ? I was a fool to think of it, and yet it would break my heart if she were to marry some thu-d-rate young actor or government clerk, and settle down for life in Bedford Park or Shepherd's Bush. She ought to BREAKING THE ICE 15 marry a rich man, if only for the sake of the other children. Oh, if poor dear Hamilton had only been spared, how different it all mi^dit have been ! And Gwendolen, ^\ho might have brought her out and done everything for her, if she only would — but she's afraid of Margot interfering with her own girl's chances. I dare say not withoiit reason, for all those Bradings are as plain as pestles. I wonder,' and here her thoughts were too disjointed and enigmatic to be capable of being put into words, but at the end of a long reverie she rose, and said aloud, ' Wasn't somebody saying that Mr. Liver- sedge knew all about him ? It might be worth while finding out.' Mr. Liversedge was an ex-civil servant who had been high up in the service, he was now a gossiping old bachelor with nothing to do but flutter about from one watering-place to another, and tell stories spiced with a pof-poiin-i of Eastern scandal. Cheltenham, Lea- mington, the liiviera, and the Oriental Club knew him well, and now he had come to Trouville with his hoary head and his hoarier stories, to see whether ' the fleeting remnant of his liver ' would be benelited by Norman air. He spent most of his evenings in plaj-ing an Indian variety of ' Patience ' in the salon de lecture, and would occasionally offer to instruct the prettiest married woman (for he had a wholesome dread of girls and widows) in the mj'steries of the game. He had rather mistrusted Mrs. Chevening at first, and had been careful to parade his anti-m;ptial opinions, but his alarm had now abated. She found him stretched at full length on a divan in the hall, waiting for the dinner gong, and he was easily induced to tell her all he knew about the stranger in the pith helmet. 'Ciirious,' he said, ' how the fellows you don't care to meet luill croj) up at the most unlUcely places. I knew this Chadwick soon after I joined my first appointment. He was managing a factory in my division, and I was brought in contact with him occasionally. He was the only planter about there I didn't get on witli — violent, overbearing fellow — not a man you could know at all. I dare say he was soured by the way he'd been treated. Father had those big shops in "SVigmore Street — Oriental warehouses — carpets, Indian wares, you know 'em. Well, this man fell in love with one of the young ladies in the establishment and married her. The old man was a very strict and proper old gentleman with great ideas of class distinctions, so he turned his son out of the business, out of the home, and country too, for marrying beneath him. The wife died soon after, before she could come out and join her husband, and after that he didn't seem to care what he did. I had some trouble with him, and we were very stand-off for some time. I got a coUectorship in the Moorshedabad district, flattered myself I'd seen the last of him. Not a bit of it, he turned up as planter then on his own account — quieter, I must say, but still — well, he didn't care to make himself popular with the people there. I got transferred again, and — well, to make a long story short, I retired about two years ago, and after wandering about a little, settled down at Gorse- combe, and whom do I find there but this identical man ! It appears 16 THE rAElAa the old Cbadwick, after living for years over his place of business, suddenly took it into his head to build a house for himself in the country. When he died he left the house and half his property, a half share in the business, which they tell me represents an enormous Bum — he left all this to our friend, who naturally allowed his indigo to look after itself and came over to his new kingdom — and here he is, worth, w^ell— a good many more lacs than I shall ever be ! ' ' And has he no family? ' asked Mrs. Chevening, *no one to share all this good fortune '? ' ' One son,' said Liversedge. ' I never happened to come across liira wliile I was at the Bungalow — my place at Gorsecombe — but lie mi;st be a fine young fellow by this time. I forget whether I heard that the old grandfather took him up and had him educated or not.' ' Very lilvel3%' said Mrs. Chevening ; ' it would be the least he coiild do. But how very odd that you should go on meeting this Mr. Cbadwick like that.' ' Even here, j'ou see, I've not escaped him — went out day before yesterday, and the first thing I saw was his confomided old sun- helmet ! However, I keep out of his way. I don't want to have more than I can help to do with the man.' ' Well,' said Mrs. Chevening, ' I don't know whether it is the way you have told the story, but, do you know, I feel quite interested in him, poor man ! ' How nearly, she mused, she had thrown away what for anything she knew, miglit prove the very opportunity she was in search of ! To think that slie had been discouraging advances from a wealthy planter, with an only son who was expected to arrive shortly ! How unwise it was, how wrong, indeed, to be governed by first impres- sions. The father was not prepossessing, it was true, but it did not at all follow that his son would resemble him. On the contrary, it was likely enough that he would possess an education and ac- complishments suitable to his expectations. And if this young man were to make Margot's acqiiaintance, might not the happiest i*esults be expected ? It was a chance at all events, and one she could not afford to neglect ; at whatever sacrifice to her private feelings, this Mr. Cbadwick must be cultivated. Had she gone too far to make this possible now '? She remembered the man's loneliness, his evi- dent desire for companionshii> of some sort — no, it would not be diflioult to conciliate him. But it must be done without delay, if she waited until the son appeared, it might be too late. It was an unpleasant necessity*, especially after the opinions she had pro- jiounced, but that could not be helped. ' So long as it turns out well,' she concluded, 'what need I care what the people here choose to think ! ' And, as a preliminary measure, she set herself deliberately to forget all that she had said and thought which was at variance with her new departure, — such act of oVilivion being a mental fact that no renegade can safely omit. A IIIGII-HANDED PROCEEDING 17 CHAPTER III. A HIGH-HANDED PROCEEDING. ♦I THINK your manner is a little too inclined to be forbidding, Margot,' remarked her mother as they were walking down to the Casino later in the evening ; ' it is almost as serious a mistake for a young girl to make as the opposite extreme — it really is ! ' ' What have I done now, dear ? ' inquired Miss Chevening, with lifted eyebrows. ' Well, you were so very " snubby " to that poor Mr. Chadwick at table d hote, I really felt bound to make some amends to him.' ' Is Mr. Chadwick the horrid man who would talk to me down on the terrace ? ' ' We have no right to condemn any fellow-creature as horrid on so slight an acquaintance,' enunciated Mrs. Chevening. ' I often tliink we miss making many pleasant and valuable friendships, Margot, simply because we will be so exclusive.' ' 1 thoiight I was so imprudent to encourage him — not that I ever dreamed of such a thing — a little time ago ! ' ' That is very different. I knew nothing of him then. I like him, Margot ; I quite like him. Of course one sees he is not just like other people, but a little unconventionality is so refreshing. And he seems so lonely here, it is only kind to take some notice of him.' ' Well, you will see,' predicted Miss Chevening ; ' you have raised him, dear, but you won't find it so easy to lay him again — we shall be always seeing that dreadful helmet bearing down on us now.' ' I think,' said her mother with great dignity, ' you may trust me to check any encroachment, and, let me tell you, it is the worst possible style to adopt that contemptuous tone. We are all made of the same flesh, remember, all erring mortals — here to-day and gone to-morrow.' 'Ah, but he ivon't be gone to-morrow,' said Margot, who did not relish the moralising turn of the conversation ; he's waiting for his son.' ' Did he tell you what the son was doing ! ' said ]\Irs. Chevening, ' travelling about Normandy, seeing all the old towns and great cathedrals — such a nice thing for a j^oung man to care about — seeing cathedrals — I think. Shows such refined tastes. But then he has seen so little of his father all these years.' 'You evidently think that accounts for it,' remarked Miss Chevening maliciously. ' I did not say anything of the kind. Tifr. Chadwick is a very pleasant person in his way, but his son is likely to have had moro c 18 THE PARIAH advantages in education and training — one so often sees that. He seems such an affectionate fotlier too.' ' Is the son married as well, then ? ' said Margot, who happened to be in a provoking mood. 'You are a little dull to-night, dear, — or is it only inattentive? Man-ied ! AVhy, he is quite a boy, twenty-one or so.' ' Boys of twentj'-one or so do marry,' said Margot. '^Yell, this one is ?/Hmarried, and I was of course speaking of the father ; he is very proud of his son. Margot, I could see.' ' Is he ? ' was all Miss IMargot could be induced to rei:)ly, and the conversation di'opped. Nevertheless she retained an unpleasant impression of that tabic d'lwtc; it had both puzzled and pained her that her mother's treatment of the obnoxiovis Mr. Chadwick should have undergone so marked a change. She was angry, too, at the complacency with which Mrs. Chevening's advances had been met, and the sudden and alarming development fi-om a mere table d'hote conversation to an established acquaintanceship. Mrs. Chevening, of coui'se, had made no allusion to her recent frigidity, sti'iving rather to render it speedily forgotten, and she had been only too successful. Margot's pride was sorely wounded that her mother had so compromised her dignity, and though she was at a loss to guess her motive, she knew instinctively that it was very far from bemg mere good natm-e or compassion. Her presentiment that Mr. Chadwick would follow up the advantage was amply fulfilled ; he stuck to them diiring the next few days with a persistency that was almost pathetic, they could go nowhere without the certainty of his turning up at some un- expected point, and, much as Margot chafed itnder the infliction, her mother endured and even encouraged it. Under her tegis he gained admission into the English set at the Californie, and his social quarantine was ended, but he attached himself chieflj^ to Mrs. Chevening, which had the effect of throwing Margot very much upon her own societj^ It was on tlie third day of this xtnaccountable friendship that her mother said, ' Margot, Mr. Chadwick is very anxious that we should go over to Deauville Races with him to-morrow, it's the last day, and he is expecting his son this evening, so we shall be a party of four.' ' No, mother, really,' she protested ; ' I don't in the least want to go — yoit must leave me out.' 'Don't be childish, Margot— seT/zs/t I should say — for if you ^^■on't go, I must stay hero with you of course.' ' I don't see whj- — but surely a whole afternoon without Mr. Chadwick's companionship will be a little half-holiday for us ? I know it will be so for me.' ' It was most good-natured of him to wish us to come with him, and I can't hurt his feelings by refusing. Besides, I have promised for yott.' ' I wibh you would tell me what there is about Mr. Chadwick A IIIGII-IIANDED PROCEEDING 19 that you sliould cncoui-age him as you do — he seems to me a rather objectionable person. Surely, mother, you raust feel that he isn't — well, quite our equal in some ways ? ' ' I detest that way of speaking,' said Mrs. Chevening sharply. ' Are 3'ou aware that we are little better than paupers ? ' ' We are not too poor to choose our acquaintances siirely. I own to preferring people who have an average amount of rehnemeut. You are generally more exacting than I am.' ' You choose to look do\\n on poor Mr. Chadwick because he has not acquired a mere varnish of manner — you forget that he has spent his life under great disadvantages, Margot, and I see nothing Bo very unpresentable about him after all. But you need not see more of him than j^ou wish to-morrow, his son will be there to amuse you.' ' If he is at all like his father, he will not amuse me. Oh, mother, can't you see that I would very much rather stay at home ! ' ' I confess I don't understand you. I should have thought a girl, especially one who has had so few pleasiu'es as you have, would be glad enough to go, for the mere spectacle.' Margot allowed this remark to pass in silence, though there was the least little curl of disdain at the corners of her full lips which sufficiently indicated her thoughts. It was a chilly evening, and they were taking their after-dinner coffee in the big entrance hall instead of upon the terrace as usual. For once they were alone together ; ]\Ir. and Mrs. Spoker were rocking on two American chahs side by side at some distance, bickering languidly ; Mr. "Whipple and Mr. Chadwick were smoking on the terrace below with turned up collars ; Mr. Liversedge, stretched at full length on one of the divans opposite the Chevenings was engi'ossed in the workings of his digestive organs, and the rest of their set were scattered in various directions about the hotel. The foreign element was represented by the stout couple who had scarcely breath enough for respiration and none at all to devote to conversational purposes, and by one dejected stranger who was pacing monotonously up and down the mattmg. ' Don't you think we might be going down to the Casino ? ' said Margot at last ; ' they are at least awake there.' Mrs. Cheveniug assented, and they were about to go up for hats and wraps, when the sharp jingle of grelots was heard outside, and immediately afterwards the gi'eat black and red omnibus of the hotel dj-ew up to the entrance, its lamps blazmg in the dusk. The gold-laced porter came out of his lair on one side, the dignified manageress left her biu'eau on the other, and prepared to receive the latest arrivals. ' Wait one moment,' said Mrs. Chevening, ' I must see who have come, and if they look as if they would be at all nice.' There was only one passenger in the omnibus, and Margot could see him distinctly from where she was sitting near the bureau. He c2 20 THE PARIAH was an Enf^lishman evidently, and young ; a tall, broad-shonldered fellow, with close-cut curling dark hair, and strong, rather stern features, a very favom-able specimen of the young Englishman whom a public school and university training has turned out well both mentally and physically. ' Mr. Chadwick on the terrace ? ' she heard him say. • Veiy well, if you'll have my things taken up to my room, I'll go and find him at once.' He passed close to her with a brisk, easy step, and her eyes followed him involuntarily, though he did not appear to have noticed her. ^Vhere had he gained that air of mingled power and refine- ment ? How did it come that plebeian-looking Mr. Cbadwick had a son hke that ? It upset Miss Chevening's views on descent, which were of a decidedly conservative cast ; he must have inherited his features and bearing fi-om tlie mother's side, she concluded. ' I wonder,' said Mrs. Chevening, ' if that yoimg man could have been the son Mr. Chadwick is expecting.' ' ^Yhich young man? ' was the hypocritical rejoinder ; evidently Mrs. Chevening had not overheard him inquiring for Mr. Chadwick, and Margot did not choose to enlighten her. But later in the even- ing, as they were leaving the concert-room at the Casino, she said, ' I suppose, after all, I had better go with you to Deauville to-morrow, mother. I couldn't let j'ou go alone very well.' 'I was siu-e j-ou would be sensible about it, my love,' said Mrs. Chevening, ' and j'ou will see you will have a very pleasant afternoon, if you only malce U]) j^our mind to enjoy yoiu'self.' Margot smUed to herself; she was feeling tolerably certain that she would have no reason to complain of boredom. She stood some time at her open window that evening, looking down on the wide crescent of lights along thepZa^/e, with the green and red lanterns of the lighthouses on the pier and the electric haze above the Casino, and it seemed as if the place were invested with a new beauty for her, and she felt a di'eamy jileasure m listening for the long, languid roll of the waves as they broke below in the silence. She did not care to analyse the causes for this change ; she despised school-girl sentiment, and would have felt something like shame in admitting that a passmg glimpse of a stranger could account for this difference, but nevertheless she found herself dwelling with a vague anticipation iipon the fact that she would meet him on the morrow, and the probability that she would see him rather frequently during the next few daj^s. There was something in liis face which had in- terested her at once ; he looked older by some years than the age her mother had mentioned, an age at which manj' are still raw and undeveloped boj-s. Margot had met many of these latter at tennis parties and dances, and never cared to perceive then* open admii-a- tion, but akeady she was anxious that this acquaintance who was to be should not be totally indifferent to her. Her former antipathy to his father seemed imroasonable, she Mas grateful to him for his perseverance in cultivating them, and to her mother for her absence A nmn-HANDED PROCEEDING 21 of prejudice in suffering him. Had her own wishes prevailed she would now have lost all chance of knowing the only man for whose acquaintance she felt the slightest desire. She awoke early next morning with the same vague sense that something not disagreeable was about to happen. The day pro- mised to be a very hot one ; as she looked out she saw a veil of pearly mist receding from the waveless sea ; a fishmg-smack with a sky-blue mainsail and red-ochre jib, repeated vividly in the glassy water, had just been towed to the head of the jetty by a string of fisherwomen, and was gliding gently oiit to sea. The sands were almost bare as yet, though the boarded promenade rang with the tramp of a few early risers. She felt impatient to be out too, and about an hour later, after the coffee and pctif-jjain which form one of the little luxuries of continental life, Margot was on her way across the planks, intending to walk througli the market while the morning was cool. She was used to going about alone, and indeed would have had no chance of obtaining the exercise she loved if she had waited for her mother to accompany her. As she walked on, feeling an increased exhilaration with every breath of the pure morning air, she became a witness of a little scene which roused her to sudden anger. Immediately in front of her was a small French boy, all striped collar and brown legs, who was being towed along with little vicious jerks by his nurse, not a bonne but a maiden from London who had been engaged, no doubt, in order that the young gentleman might acquu'e an English accent of the utmost purit^'. He was enjoying the fullest opportunuies just then of extending his vocabulary, and Margot could hear her shrill rating some yards away. ' Oh, yes, indeed, it's likel^v, ain't it, as I'm gowin' wherever yoii please, my lord ? All the world's got to give way to a little grizzlin' bag o' bones, like you, is it ? Well, I ain't goin' to be at j'our beck and call, and so I tell you — yoix'll just go wherever I want you to, and so you'd better make up j'our min i to it — ^jear me '? ' ' Good ]\Iaman said I may go attrapp the little crevettes and ecrevisses, Suzanne.' ' Oh, I dessay — but you won't trapp no crevats nor yet no crevices to-day, so don't you put yoiu-self out expectin' it. I've trouble enough with you as it is, without your messin' about with rocks and pools, I can tell yer. You come and sit qxiiet on the sands along o' me, and don't let me have none o' your contrariness, or I'll make j^ou remember it when I gets you 'ome, so now.' ' You are not good for me, Suzanne. And when Maman comea, I shall tell it to her how you are not gentille du tout du tout ! ' ' Tell tiles, will yer ? Let me catch you making complynts against me, that's all — yer nasty little disagribble himp, yer ! ' And at this the nurse shook him violentlj'. Now one of Miss Chevening's charactei'istics was a caste preju- dice which, though seldom exhibited, was almost as de?ply rooted as 22 THE PARIAH a Brahmin's. She was never arrogant to dependents, bnt she looked upon them as a separate and inferior order, created for the conveni- ence of their superiors, and this girl's coarse tyranny seemed to her an intolerable piece of presumption. She quickened her pace, and stopped the muse imperiously. ' How dare you speak in that inso- lent naauner ? ' she demanded. She looked magnificent as she stood there, her brows drawn to a line above her great hazel eyes, and a brighter flush staining her cheeks. The small boy glanced up at her in awe and admiration, as at some beautiful but hot-tempered angel who had flown down impulsively' to protect him. The nurse was less likely to be impressed hj Margot's appear- ance, and tossed her head, remarking pertly, that she supposed she was not under any obligation to accoiint for what she said to strangers. ' You are under an obligation to treat your master's child in a proper manner,' said Margot. Susan belonged to a type of nursemaid which is still not uncom- mon in London, as a stroll through Kensington Gardens may con- vince the sceptical at any time. Violent-tempered, coarse in grain, with no understanding of, if no actual dislike to, children, she treated a charge exactly as she might the little brother Johnny or Billy she had dragged about the gutter in earlier days ; her affection was as violent as her abuse, and she would have thought herself lowered by the least concession to a child's wishes. In appearance she was by no means a bad-looking girl, with reddish hair, a hot-tempered expression, and a figure which, though not short, was clumsj'. ' It's likely as I'm to be made a slave of by a baby like that ! ' she cried. ' It did not seem as if you were the slave from the way you were talking,' said Miss Chevening with her haughtiest air. ' You were certainly not engaged to make a slave of him.' ' Whatever I was engaged for, I don't require to be taught my duties by you, miss,' said Susan. ' Come along, Master Onree, and don't let's take no notice o' what she says.' ' You had better listen,' said Miss Chevening, ' and you had better be civil. I am not at all sure that I ought not to find out who your mistress is, and let her know how her son is treated.' j\liss Susan's light eyes had no very pleasant look in them. At this threat, not being aware that the speaker was the very last person to execute it, she was subdued for the moment, however, and muttered something about trying to do her dut}', and hoping the young lady would not make mischief. ' That will do,' said Margot. 'Little boy, what is your name ? ' The little boy, ajjparently dazzled by the lovely imperious face that was bent down to his, made a little shrinking movement towards his nurse. 'He don't take to strangers, miss,' said Susan; 'there, Onree, the young lady ain't cross with you, only with poor Nana.' A HIGH-HANDED PROCEEDING 23 ' Listen, Henri,' said Margot in French, ' if you want to go shrimping, yoi; shall; you shall come and catch crevettes with me,' and she held out her linn slim hand to be taken. What induced her to make this sudden proiiosition she could not have told ; whether it was good nature, or a perverse determination to conquer the boy's affections, or the desire to teach this girl a lesson, or all three combined. 'I'm not going to trust that child out of mj^ sight to please no- body,' declared Susan, who had caught the tenor of the words. ' I shall not ill-treat him at all events,' replied IMargot, ' but you can follow us if you choose. Henri, you have a right to do what your mamma has given permission for. Susan is only your servant, do you understand ? You mustn't he a little chicken of a boy. Have you got your net ? Very well, then, now we'll start.' This little episode had an unseen hearer, for it had taken place on the edge of the planks near a small bathing shed, beside which sat a young man, who could scarcely have avoided hearing all that passed unless he had chosen to rise from his chair and walk away — ■ which, as the conversation was not of a private nature and amused hun, he saw no necessity to do. The speakers themselves, however, were invisible to him and he to them, and as their voices died away he had the curiosity to get up and look after the figures that were moving towards tlie rocks. The girl's voice — sweet, high-bred, and high-spirited — had im- pressed him strongly; the distant glimpse he had of a slender tall figure appealed still further to his imagination ; he wished he had been able to see her face. Long after he had returned to his chair he was absorbed in speculation as to what she would be like, whether he should be able to recognise her if they met, and other equally profitable subjects. At last he could stay where he was no longer. ' They must have got past the Koches Noires by this time,' he mused ; ' is the tide coming in or going out '? ' He went up to one of the slates which give such information — '^ Haute Maree, 10.45 a.m.," ho read : ' it's past ten now. I wonder if they know that ? if not, this is an awkward coast to be caught in. Suppose I stroll that way — it can do no harm at all events.' Miss Chevening had not gone very far with her small jjrotcgd before she found herself wondering what had possessed her to take charge of him, and wishing very heartily that she had left him to his own devices. Her fondness for children's society was largely dependent upon their ability to entertain her ; little Henri seemed still mistrustful of her intentions towards him, which annoyed her, and, unlike French boj's in general, he was painfully, obstinately shy. They reached the Black Rocks, where tiny crabs, apple- green, olive, and orange, scuttled across the ribbed sand with the air of persons late for an important appointment, but Henri showed 24 THE PARIAH jio anxiety to capture one, niakinf!; way for them to pass, on the contrary, 'with courtesy. ' Faites attention, i\Ia(lemoiselle,' he would cry, and squeeze her hand tightly, while the shrimps, pellucid grey thin{;s that shot ahout in the pools or huried themselves in the sand, caused him a very languid excitement. ' Eegardez-moi ces petites betes-la ! ' he exclaimed, and even suggested, ' Dis done, si nous ponssions ici le filet '? ' but nothing woiiid induce him to handle them when they were hopping in the net — 'like jerky little wet ghosts,' as Margot mentally likened them. 'You seem rather afraid of shrimps,' she remarked at last, 'now you have come out to hunt them.' ' They are damp, and they skip a faire peur ! ' he complained ; ' they are ugly.' ' The crabs are pretty, at all events, she said. ' See if you can catch one, and bring it to me to look at.' He ran after one, but soon dropped it in dismay. ' It is not pretty — it pinches,' he announced with an injured expression. ' I thmk if I were you, Henri, I would hunt only shells — they are quieter and not so dangerous, you know.' ' Yes,' he agreed, much relieved ; ' and they are really pretty. I will hunt shells.' Margot began to find him wearisome. Susan, too, was a vexa- tion to her, she stalked behind like a dismounted Black Care, in a sulk which was sighted for a long range. Miss Chevening ignored her entirely, but she could not help being aware that she was there, and noticing the i)ropitiatory backward glances of her comi:)anion. She exerted herself afresh to engage the boy's attention, for her self-love was concerned, but he would not be won, and she grew disgusted at last. ' It is not very polite of you, young man,' she said, ' to keep turnmg from me to look at Susan ! ' ' But she weeps ! ' ' Fiddle-de-dee ! ' said Margot ; ' I forget the French for that — but Susan isn't weeping, and what if she were ? ' ' She is angry at me that I leave her, I am sure of it.' ' I believe you rather like being bullied after all. I want to make you stick up for yoiu'self— do you understand that in English ?— no, of com-se you don't. Remember this, you are a little gentleman and Susan is a servant ; her anger — unless you are naughty (and you are too much of a little sheep ever to be that,' said Margot, privately) — ' her anger is nothing to you. Do you see ? ' But he didn't see ; he knew better than Margot that his nurse's temper made a considerable difference to his comfort. ' Let me run and tell her that I love her well.' ' Ah, I think you had better go back to her altogether — you are a very nicely behaved little boy, but, do you know, you are not amusing ? so I'll give you up to your lawful guardian.' And she A HIGII-HANDED rROCEEDING 25 stopped for that injured person to come up, who, seeing that she was being waited for, lingered ostentatiously, with a show of deep interest in the horizon. ' Susan,' said Miss Chevening, carrying off her sense of defeat as well as she might, ' Master Henri thinks he would like to go back now, so perhaps you will have the goodness to go with him, and treat him more kindly in future.' But the child spoilt the whole effect of this admonition by running to the nurse and pulling her hand in his impatience to be gone — a fact of which Miss Susan was not slow to take advantage. ' He knows who his friends are, you see, miss,' she said ; ' you don't go down with him for all your high and mightiness, he's only frightened of you. Never mind, Onree dear, the cross young lady shan't have you — we'U leave her to herself.' Margot did not deign to make any reply ; she tiu-ned and con- tinued her walk along the shore towards Villerville ; she was angry at her failure, and a little downcast too, but the salt air soon restored her serenity-, as she went swiftly on, with her eyes on the line of white specks just visible above the cm'ved dark blue sea, a line which was all there was to indicate the port of Havre. Gradually she became aware of footsteps behind which seemed hurrying to overtake her. Glancing up at the low brown and green cliffs on her right, she saw no cabin or path in sight, but was too proud to look round or betray any alarm at being followed in such a lonely spot : she had not heard that Trouville sands were at all frequented by footpads, but she was not quite comfortable not- withstanding. ' I had better face him, whatever he is,' she decided, and turned suddenly, when she found herself in the presence of the young man who had attracted her notice the night before. She was angry that he should have thought fit to force liimself upon her like this, and her face expressed its most chilling siu-prise. ' I am afraid you think me very officious,' he said, ' but it struck me that you might not know that the tide is coming in.' She was instantly reassured by his manner, which was merely that of a man who had put some pressure on himself to hazard a caution. ' Yoii mean I ought to turn back ? ' she said. ' Of course,' he said, ' I don't know how soon you wish to get back, but it is a long way up the cliff and round by the road, and unless you tm-n at once you won't be able to go back along the shore without having some rather awkward rocks to climb.' She thanked him and turned. ' But how are you going to manage,' she asked, as he seemed about to pass on. ' Oh,' he said, ' I shall find a path up the cliff somewhere.' ' I couldn't let you do that ver^' well,' she siid, ' after you have come all this way to warn me ; you would get back late then. And besides,' she added, ' I might find it difficult to get round the Point alone.' ' I shall be very pleased to go back with you if you will allow me.' 26 THE TARIAH She was not at all sure that she ought to have suggested it, but after all, as she tokl herself, she knew who he was, he had behaved very nicelj', and if the tide reached the rocks round the Point before she did she would certainly be glad of some help, ' Then I think you had better come,' she said carelessly. CHAPTER IV. YOUNG MR. CHADWICK. So he wallied on by her side, a privilege which he had certainly not counted upon but had obtained in a perfectly legitimate wajs since the risk, if slight, was real enough. He was a little dazzled, not- withstanding, now that he had seen her ; he had expected beauty of the haughty aquiline type — this girl's spirited petulant profile was almost childish in its outline save for the rather ironical curve of the firm moiith, and the decision of the perfect chin. There was a franli directness, too, in her manner, a calm unconsciousness which gave her a singular charm ; she struck him as a piquant combina- tion of inconsistent qualities. ' Your small French friend soon got tired of his shrimpmg,' he began, by way of opening a conversation. Her eyes expanded. ' How did j'ou come to know anything about that ? ' she inquned. He decided upon perfect frankness, thoi;gh he wished now that he had chosen any other topic. ' I happened to be close by when you rescued him from his nurse's clutches,' he said. His grey eyes had a subdued twinkle in them, with which she vamly tried to feel offended. ' I can't think what made me do it,' she said, ' it must have seemed perfectly absurd.' ' It was rather a high-handed proceeding, perhaps,' he admitted, ' but, if you will let me tell you so, I thought it was very kind of you to take the child's part like that.' ' To tell you the truth,' she said, ' I didn't think about the child at all, it was that woman's insolence which annoj'ed me so. I could not resist putting her down.' ' You gave the small boy a happy morning, at all events,' he said. ' I have not even that consolation,' she replied, with a little sardonic grimace. ' I don't know which of us was more relieved when we parted.' 'And do you think he'll be better treated in future ? ' ' I really don't know. Probably not. I can't say I feel very much interest— it was such a whining little animal ! ' For the moment he felt slightly repelled — there was something rather heartless in this indifference of hers. ' Does that seem strange ? ' she added, laughing, ' after interfering YOUNG MR. CHADWICK 27 as I did. But I didn't know then that he would look upon me as a kind of ogress, and be longing to get back to his tyrant all the time. I shall not rescue any more little boys. Don't let us talk about liina any more. Do you know whether the races will be' worth seeing this afternoon ? ' ' I really have no idea. Why ? Are you going ? ' I dare say several people at the Californie will go,' said Margot, ' and I believe we shall make up a jiarty.' She would not betray that she knew who he was, and he evidently was not aware as yet of the proposed expedition. ' The Californie,' he said, ' that is my hotel.' Miss Chevening was grateful to him for sparing her any 2)^n'ascs de coiffeur on this coincidence. ' I arrived alone last night. I had a friend, but he got out at one of the stations after a delay of 20 minutes to knoAV how much longer the train was going to stop, and while he was busy making inquiry at the buffet, the train satisfied his curiosity by going on without him.' Margot laughed. ' And is he there still ? ' she inquired. ' Oh no, he came on by a later train without any further mis- haps, rather to my surprise, for he does not speak with tongues very fluently, and I quite expected to hear of him turning up at Paris or Lyons or Marseilles, or somewhere.' It struck Margot that there was a certain repressed contempt in his manner of speaking of this friend. 'You were travelling companions till then, I suppose,' she said; ' was it pleasant ? ' ' Pleasant '? Oh well, yes. I suppose so — as pleasant as could be expected,' he said, rather dryly. ' You don't care much for the Continent ? ' ' Oh yes, 1 do, only in this case — well, I'm glad it is over, it was rather collar-work, and I did not quite know what I was letting myself in for when I agreed to go with him. But I've no right to bore you with all this.' He was not boring her by any means ; she liked his cool manner, and the very tones of his voice were pleasant to her ear ; there was no effort or affectation about him ; he did not pose or fall into the ordinary young man's mistake of trying to be brilliant, but he gave her the impression of a cultivated and rather fastidious natm-e, whose friendship once gained coiUd be depended upon. The more she saw of him, the greater grew her wonder that he could have sprung from such a parentage. And so, before the walk was over, they were talking gaily and intimately, more like old friends than a couple whose acquaintance- ship had been made in a highly irregular manner durmg the last twenty minutes. ' Here we are at the sea-wall,' he said at last ; ' and I hope yoii won't accuse me of being an alarmist — another five minutes, and we should certainly have had to climb for it.' ' As it is, we have not even got our feet wet,' said Margot ; ' I 28 THE PARIAH almost wish we had had a little more excitement. Bnt for one thing I am deeply grateful — that the tide didn't come up while I was with that little French boy and his nurse — I should have felt so very foolish.' Privately he thought this a rather egotistic view of the con- sequences. ' Yes,' she continued, ' I can fancy how that nurse would have played Job's comforter, and how tliat little boy would have let himself drown on purpose. I do hate being hmnihated ! ' ' I suppose,' he said, ' we none of us exactly revel in it.' ' I detest it more than most people,' she declared. ' I would do almost anytliing rather than have to confess mj-self in the wrong.' He laughed. ' That is a very amiable trait in you,' he observed. ' I suppose I am not amiable,' she remarked calmly, ' so perhaps it is better to warn you at once.' ' I should be more alarmed, I dare say, if I had any prospect of finding out how far the warning was justified,' he said Ughtly ; ' but I scarcely think I shall have an opportunity of discovermg even that in the time I am here.' Amiable or not, he was thinking, it would be difficult for her to do or say anj-tliing which would quite destroy her charm ; very probably she was right in what she said of herself; in fact, he had already arrived at very much the same conclusion froin what he had seen and heard. Wilful and ungi'acious and even heartless she might be, but that would not prevent the recollection of the past half-hour from stirring him strangely whenever it rose to his mind, ' Vi'e are close to the Cahforuie now,' he said abruptly, ' so I will say good-bye.' ' Evidently he has no idea how soon we shall mset again,' she reflected, with a little amusement as she left him, and she looked foward to enjoying his surprise when he learnt that he might spend that afternoon, and probably several more, in her society, if he cared to do so. That he would so care, she felt assured ; that she would be well-content was a point she was equally clear upon. And so she came into her mother's room in the highest good- humour. ' You don't mean to say you have been out in this hot sun all these hours ? ' said Mrs. Chevening ; ' you will ruin your complexion, Margot, and your hands too ! ' ' You know I never freckle,' said Margot, ' and as for my hands —look I ' ' Well,' said Mrs. Chevening, notbeirg able to discover any fault in the pretty fair liands her daughter extended, palms downward, in self defence, ' but you ought not to be wandering about the town alone all the morning.' ' I was on the shore among the rocks, and I had what ought to have been a romantic adventure — someone came after me and told me it was dangerous to go on and I ought to turn back, so he walked all the way back with me.' ' I thought you had at least some sense of propriety 1 ' said Mrs. YOUNG MR. CHADWICK 29 Chevening angrily ; ' how can yon do such things, Margot ? What was he — who was he — how did yon come to allow it ? ' ' I thought if the tide was really likely to cut me off, it would lio as well to have somebody with me,' said Margot, ' so I made him turn back too.* ' You made him ? — a stranger ! Do you know what you are saying ? ' ' He wasn't exactly a stranger — at least, I knew him by sight. He's staying at the hotel. He is ]\Ir, Chadwick's son.' Mrs. Chevening's face, which had been a picture of progressive horror, suddenly cleared as Margot made this last announcement. 'You quite frightened me, darling,' she said. ' I was afraid it was somebody I knew nothing about. Still, I wish you would not have these adventures — you really must stay quietly with me in future. Tell me about this young Mr. Chadwick — was he pleasant, Margot ? ' ' He is a gentleman, at all events,' said Margot ; but her mother divined at once that he had made a favourable impression. ' Well, you had better put on your things now,' she said. ' Did I tell you we don't lunch at table d'Jtote to-day. Mr. Chadwick thought it would be pleasanter if we all lunched together a Uttle later. That pretty surah frock of yours will do nicelj^ dear.' ' How fortunately things have turned out I ' reflected Mrs. Chevening w^hen alone ; ' and she is looking her very best to-day ! * Margot took some little pains over her toilette, so that it was slightly after the appointed time that she came into the hall and was conducted by one of the waiters into a large room opening into the salle a manger to a table which had been laid for four by one of the windows where Mr. Chadwick and her mother were already seated. ' Well, young lady,' said her host, in his usual exuberant manner, ' I hope you've not brought a young lady's appetite after your adventure. Your mother's been telling me all about it. So my young rascal has saved you from a watery grave, eh '? That's enough to make him a public benefactor.' ' It was very kind of him to warn me about turning back,' said Margot, ' but I don't know that it was quite a question of a watery grave.' ' That's the way we look at the thing now it's over, is it ? ' said Mr. Chadwick, with a resentment which showed itself through his boisterous geniality ; ' I dare say by to-morrow you'll have quietly dropped him out of the affair altogether. Now,' — he was looking at the wine-list, — ' the first thing is — what will you ladies like to drink ? I dare say you won't say no to some champagne. Gar^on, a bottle of that, and look here, just see if my son's lost his way, and tell him we're in here, will j'ou ? Oh, here he comes at last. Nice manners, young fellow ; nice manners — keeping ladies waiting like this ! ' Margot was sitting with her back to the big folding doors which 30 THE PARIAH a waiter had just obsequiously thrown open, and she kept her eyea upon her plate. She was wondering how the son would carry off the situation ; he had seemed easy and self-possessed enough, but Avas he able to keep his father in subjection without a painful amount of friction ? — j^es, she had confidence in him, that luncheon would be tolerable now he was come. The waiter drew back the chair next to hers with the usual flourish, and not imtil it was taken did Margot raise her eyes to welcome her neighbour. As she did so, all her anticipations crumbled into dust — the young man who sat at her side was an absolute stranger. That was bad enough, but it was not the worst ; even the hasty glance she took revealed a person whom the most charitable would hardly describe by the title ' gentleman.' Insignificant-looking, with a white face, hair parted in a plume, mouth open loosely from very evident embarrassment, a blunt common nose like his father's, Allen Chadwick seemed to her in that first shock of utterly un- expected disappointment, the most odious person she had ever been brought in contact with. The author, whose duty it is to see and describe from a less prejudiced point of view than Miss Chevening was capable of assuming just then, hastens to add that this face was redeemed to some extent by a pair of eyes which were deep and honest, with that pathetic look in them of a dog that only asks to be tolerated. ' Mrs. Chevening,' said his father, who evidently was perfectly satisfied with his son's appearance, ' this is my boy, Allen.' Mrs. Chevening bowed graciously, whereupon Allen rose, knock- ing over his chair, and came awkwardly round to her, holding out his hand. She was startled for a moment, but regained presence of mind to shake the proffered hand, and say, ' Oh, how do you do ? You must let me thank you for your gallantry to my heedless girl this morning.' ' Eh ■? ' said the unfortunate Allen. ' What girl ? ' Margot bit her imderlip. ' Mother,' she said in a low voice, ' I — I made a mistake — it was someone else I met and took for Mr. Chadwick ! ' ' Realty, my dear,' said l\Irs. Chevening, ' you make mistakes which are extremely annoying for others — pray sit down, Mr. Chad- wick, and begin j'om hmch.' ' So you're not the lucky man after all, Allen ? ' said his father ; ' well, you'll have to make yourself all the more agreeable — see if you can give the young lady a glass of wine and drink to her better acquaintance. Stop, do you know her or don't you ? I haven't got that straight yet.' ' She — she has the advantage of me at present,' said Allen Chadwick. Margot compelled herself to touch the hand he extended, and YOUNG MR. CHAD WICK 31 he spilt most of the champagne upon her gloves which lay by her plate. ' I'm sure I'm very sorry, miss,' he stammered. Mrs. Chevening was smiling with an expression of suffering. ' Now we must leave Mr. Chaclwick to enjoy his sole in peace,' she said ; and he set to work in a tentative manner with two forks, which from nervousness he seemed as httle at home with as with a pair of chopsticks. ]Margot sat like a statue of disdain ; she could hardly bear to think yet of all that the reality implied. What had become now of her bright hojies, the pleasant flutter with which she had put on her prettiest fi'ock for that afternoon ?^all for the benefit of this uncouth, underbred boy on her left hand ! And who was the stranger she had rashly accepted as a Chadwick, and treated with the les? reserve as one she was certain to know under any ckcum- stances ? How was she to meet him now, and what would he think of her ? She was angry with herself, with her mother, with Mr. Chadwick, and most of all with the unconscious and innocent Allen. It was a most vmcomfortable luncheon party ; a couple of Ger- man waiters, one patronising, as if he had paid for it all, the other morose, as if he expected to have to do so, only added to young Chadwick's very evident discomfort. Mrs. Chevening, who was in secret scarcely less mortified than her daughter, did her best to promote conversation, and the giver of the feast alone was easy and unembarrassed. He tried to draw his son out, but the young man confined himself to monosyllables imtil the champagne loosed his tongue a little. ' "What's become of what's-his-name — Orme, by the way ? ' asked the father. ' I told 'em to keep a place for him at the regular de- jeuner — know whether he went in or not '? ' ' I don't know,' said Allen ; ' I'm not in his confidence. I haven't set eyes on him even to-day.' ' Well, there was lunch all there for him, so he might just as weU have eaten it. Remind me to go into accounts with him some- time to-day, and see what I've got to pay for your toiu', j'oung chap. There's no occasion for him to be staying on here — imless you can't do without him.' ' Oh, I can do without him well enough,' Allen blurted out. ' Orme's a travelling companion I engaged for him,' explained his father, ' gentleman-hkc young chap — college fellow, at the Bar, and all that. But, somehow or other, he and my boy don't seem to have got on together — eh, Allen '? ' ' I never said so, governor, that I know of ; he wasn't my stj-le, that's aU.' ' I made up my mind you'd fallen out when he came on alone last night ; you'll be more careful how you get out to stretch your legs another time ; it was a h;cky thing you were able to come on after all.' Now Margot knew how her mistake had arisen ; her acquaint- ance of that morning must be this Mr. Orme ; she could well under- 82 THE PARIAH stand now how far from agreeable his travellmg experiences must have been. And he was about to be dismissed hke a common courier — he was not thought fit to sit down to hmcheon with this pohshed pair ! She would most jirobably never see him again, and her heart hardened against the person she considered responsible for this sudden termination of all she had been looking forward to, until, by the time the luncheon came to an end, she regarded her unfortunate neighbour with absolute antipath3\ ' If you ladies have any finishing touches to put to your toilettes,' said their host gracefully ; ' you haven't too much time. I told them to have the Barker round at two sharp, so you'd better be at the entrance by that.' Margot's first proceeding was to discard the pretty open-work hat she had been wearing, and put on the plain boating-straw she adopted for everyday use ; she could not escape going to Deauville now, or it would seem as if — well, she must go, but she could not resist indulging in this exhibition. ' My dear child ! ' cried her mother, as she discovered the altera- tion, ' what possessed you to do such a thing as that '? You were looking so nice before ! ' ' This is quite good enough for the occasion,' said Margot ; * it really isn't safe to speak to me just now, mother ; such a very little would make me declare I won't go at all.' Mrs. Chevening looked at her face, and decided not to press the point. ' I am sure j-ou wouldn't put me in such an unjileasant position as that at the very last moment,' she said. ' I could wish myself that young Mr. Chadwick had a little more manner, cer- tainly, but you miist have patience with him, dear.' ' I know,' said Margot. ' But what I simply can't understand is why 3'ou ever brought yourself to associate with such people at all. Was it worth crossing the Channel to encumber ourselves with two Chadwicks ? They're not even decently mannered, they're not amusing, and we shall never get rid of them any more as long as we're here ! If you can see any pleasure in such a prospect as that, I certainly can't pretend to follow you ! ' ' We shall gain nothing by discussing it now,' said Mrs. Cheven- ing, a little imcomfortably ; ' the elder Mr. Chadwick is quite well- meaning, and I see nothing so objectionable about him, at all events. I don't pretend the son is all he might be — but no one, Margot, is without his good qualities, if only one has patience to find them out.' 'As if I wanted to find any of his ! ' cried Margot ; ' but there — I promise to treat him as well as I can, only I do think it ia a little hard on me, you know ! ' Down below, the two Chadwicks were strolUng up and down in front of the hotel. ' Well,' said the father, ' you haven't sat down to lunch often with a girl hke that, I dax'e say.' ' No, governor, I don't know that I have.' ' And is that all you say, as if such girls as that were as common YOUNG MR. CHADWICK 33 as coppers ! AVhy, ^vllcn I was j-our age I should have found more to say for myself tliaii you did, I can tell j'ou. You must mako yourself more agreeable if you're gomg to get on with the ladies, young fellow ! ' ' Well,' said Allen, ' I've not been used to ladies of her sort.' ' I know that — but what you've got to do is to get used. I give yoi; the ojiportunity, it's for j'ou to make the best of it. Lord bless me ! a young chap of your age ought not to be afraid of speaking up to a girl ; the prettier she is, the more you should lay yourself out to be agreeable.' ' I shall never do it like you do,' said Allen. ' You can try at all events. I've my reasons for wanting to see you fi-iends, and girls look for liveliness and conversation ; you must make yourself more pleasant, my boy ; bless you, it's easy enough.' Perhaps Allen himself was a little encouraged by his father's confidence, but there was ample reason for misgivings as to his chances of finding any great favour in the eyes of a young lady of Miss Chevening's fastidiousness. A young man of moderate abilities whom a cheap commercial education has just enabled to occujiy a clerk's desk in a warehouseman's office, whose home-life has been colourless and mean, and his pleasures such as may be expected when mind and purse are equally ill-furnished, is at some social disadvantage, even when he has good looks and a glib tongue on his side, which Allen could not be said to possess. From his motlier, who had died in his infancy, he inherited a yielding and subservient disposition, which made him accept the monotony and dnidgery of his early life without complaint ; he lived with his mother's sister, a widow who kept a small shop in a back street, and who, kind as she was in her narrow way, had not been able to make the little parlour behind the shop a very attractive place wherein to pass his evenings. So he had gradually drifted into the amusements and resorts of his class, so far as he could afford them, though he had no actual predisposition to dissipation, and his excesses hitherto had been rare and venial enough, considering the nature of his surroundings. He was not without a feeling for the beautiful, though he had always looked on it from afar, as something in which, by tlie nature of things, he had and could have no part. fcJometimes when he read the second-hand novels which, borrowed from a bookstall a few doors off, formed his only literature, he felt a vague discontent as he faintly realised a world of refinement, a society of beautiful women and accomplished men, but it was too gi'eat a stretch for his imagination ever to conceive himself as the hero of these romances ; tawdry and fustian as most of them were, they smote him notwithstanding with the sense of his own insigni- ficance. And the cravings for something higher, some element of romance or passion, to ennoble his sordid existence were always inarticulate, half-unconscious, and would in the course of time have died a natural death, or fomad satisfaction in some makeshift attachment ending iu D iJ4 THE PAKIAH an imprudent early marriage, disenchantment, and a lifelong struggle for bare existence — had not Fate intervened in the most unexpected manner. lie laaew that he had a father out in India in some capacity ; his aunt from time to time received scanty remittances which defraj'ed his school and maintenance until he was old enough to earn his own living, when they ceased, and he had been informed that his father could do little or nothing for him in the future. Of his grandfather he had never heard, for his aunt cherished a deep resentment on account of the treatment her sister had met with, and so the great change in Allen's hfe had come iipon him with the dazzling surprise of a fairy tale. He had come back from the office tired and cold one snowy evening in January to supper, and in the little parlour behind the shop he found a stranger, so prosperous and generally splendid in his appearance that Allen hardly believed his ears when he was told that this was the father he had been accustomed to regard as a struggling exile. The elder Chadwick was a little touched by the son's evident admiration ; he felt some compunction for having done so little for him hitherto, his heart wanned with old memories of the dead wife, wliose timid, grateful eyes looked at him once more from his son's pale face ; from that moment father and son became more united than if they had always lived togctlier instead of meeting then for the first time. And Allen learnt the wonderful news that, thanks to the tardy repentance of tlie grandfather, his old life was ended for ever ; he was to go and live in luxury and splendour with his father in future, down at the country place in Pineshire, where the old man had ended his lonely days. At first he had felt strange and bewildered under these new con- ditions, but he soon became at ease with his father, whom he regarded with ardent gratitude and something \erj like reverence. In the son's eyes Joshua Chadwick, with his florid manner, his Indian experiences, and rough good-nature, seemed a superior being, by whose confidence and companionship he felt more than honoured. And the elder was satisfied with his son on the whole ; the boy was not over bright, perhaps, he reflected, but he would improve, he wanted a little travel to give him a polish ; and so, towards the end of the summer, Allen was sent abroad with a J'oung man, whom his father, too much occupied by his affairs to accompany him imme- diately, had engaged to act as Mentor, imtil he was able to join him. Nugent Orine had accepted the post, as the fee offered was a handsome one ; he needed funds, and his chance of professional work was not good enough to keep him in chambers for the whole of the Long Vacation. The engagement had been made by letter, and it was not until everytliing had been arranged that he had a personal interview with his charge, when lie felt a shock of dismay at the task he had tmder- YOUNG MR. CHAD WICK 35 taken. He had been prepared for some wild young fellow, fresh from a public school or newly rusticated, who would need a firm hand, but with whom he woxild have something in common, of whom he would have no cause to be constantly ashamed. With Allen Chadwick he found lumself from the very first hopelessly out of touch ; the yoiuig man was awkward, constrained, and, as it seemed, sulkily reserved with his leader. He appeared to have no tastes, no preferences, no interests ; he acquiesced when Orme pro- posed that thej' should finish their torn: by exploring some of the old Norman cities and towns ; but the carven glories of Eouen, the stately abbeys of Caen, the cathedral of Beauvais rising in splendid hicompleteness high above the clustered red roofs ; St. Lo, with its twin grey spires and sleepy old square and streets, and Coutances, en- throned on its poplar-covered hill, seemed equally powerless to draw the shghtest sign of interest or appreciation from this young Chad- wick. Such remarks as he made only confirmed Orme in the con- tempt he felt for this barren and stunted intelligence. It cost Orme a positive struggle sometimes to keep his im- patience and dislike from appearing too plainly imder the constant irritant of such a companion, and involuntarily and withoiit his knowledge somethmg of his feeling showed itself in his manner occasionally. He welcomed the end of his task with a relief which he believed was fully shared by his fellow-traveller, but in this he was entirely mistaken. Allen Chadwick was secretly dreading the moment of separation ; he had been drawn towards Orme from the ver^'^ first, and had long cherished the hope that before the tour was over the distance between them might be removed. To Allen this young man, only a few years his senior, with the fine clear-cut face and pleasantly mcisive voice, the easy bearing and air of unconscious superiority, was a revelation. Orme was his hero, and could have made him happj' at any time by a word or smile that spoke of real friendship and sj-mpathy ; but he waited for them in ^ain. Orme never snubbed him, but, as has been said, he could not always disguise his repugnance, though it never occurred to him that this was perceived ; nor would he in anj' case have given Allen credit for enough sensitiveness to be pained by such a thing. Nevertheless Allen did perceive it, and felt it acutelj', although he hid his feelings characteristically under a mask of sullen reserve. He even tried to cherish a bitter resentment against Orme, and think of him as a stuck-up swell who gave himself airs because he had been to college. "What was he, after all, but a paid dependent? And then Allen would be as nearly insolent as he dared, which is Baying httle enough, and would writhe under his senior's utter indifference. Orme noticed with a contemptuous amusement these feeble attempts at self-assertion : what he never suspected was the heart- ache that underlay them ; he looked upon his charge as a hopeless cub in whom there was nothing worth understanding ; he did his 36 THE TAPJAn duty in keeping him out of mischief, and he was conscientiously civU to him — more than that he did not think could be expected from him. Allen had been very depressed now that the tour was over, and the friendship he coveted further out of reach than ever ; but, as he waited with his father before the hotel, Orme's approaching departure was far enough away from his mind. He could think of nothing just then but Miss Chevening, remember nothing but the fact that in a few minutes he was to see her again, that he was actually about to spend the whole aftei-noon with her. She had awakened all the latent romance in him, so long starved and denied an outlet; he would have given all he was worth to be of some slight service to her, to earn her gratitude in some unformulated manner ; he was eager to give her a more favourable impression of himself, and no suspicion of his own grotesqueness in relation to her crossed his mind. And yet, while he was secretly thrilling with a delicious ex- citement, he remained to outward observation the same duU, uncouth, and hopelessly uninteresting young man ; his father did not guess the reason for his abstracted silence, and Allen was quite incapable of translating into words the impression Margot had made upon him, even if he had not shrunk instmctively from confiding it to anyone. Presently she appeared with her mother, and he could not find any words to address to her. She seemed, he tliought, displeased at something as she stood there ; but it only made her look loveher. He did not speak even when the fiacre started, and they were all four driving, with the usual French accompaniment of whip-crack- ing, strange cries and jingling bells, down the street, and along the quay, with its row of yellowing limes, cafes, and masts. Margot sat opposite to liim, but he could not see her eyes for the sunshade which she had opened, appai-ently not finding the white canvas awn- ing above the vehicle a sufiicient protection ; she was very silent, but Allen was content to look at as much of her face as was visible, until his father, who had been carrying on all the conversation with Mrs. Chevening, gave him an admonitory touch with his elbow, intended to remind him of his recent counsels. Allen turned crimson, but managed, after clearing his throat, to get out. ' AVe shall have it broiling hot on the course, by all appear- ances ? ' The sunshade was slightly raised, revealing her ej'es with a kind of haughty surprise in them. ' Were you speaking to me ? ' she asked. ' I didn't catch what j'ou said — I beg your pardon.' ' Oh, it's granted, miss, I'm sure,' said poor Allen. It is difficult to understand, perhaps, why this form of accepting an apology — a far more logical and reasonable reply than the conventional ' not at all ' — should stamp its utterer as one of the baser sort, but that it has that effect is undeniable. Miss Chevening's pretty eyebrows were raised a little higher, her expressive mouth took a downward curve. YOUNG Mn. CHADWICK 37 '1 was only saying, and I hope I didn't interrupt yoii, miss,' he went on, ' that it looked like turning out a broiling hot aftex'noon.' ' Oh,' said Margot ; ' yes, it does not promise very well at pi-esent.' And the sunshade descended again, this time concealing the whole of her face. ' She's busy thinking over something,' he concluded. She was thinking, truly enough, and the dainty screen hid a quiver of passionate indignation. ' How can mother expose me to this — how can she?' ran the burden of her thoughts. The afternoon did not promise well indeed. CHAPTER V. VALENTINE AND ORSON. She mutter'd ' I have hghted on a fool, Raw, yet so stale ! ' — Pelleas and Ettarre. Over a bridge and the glittering tidal river, past the railway station and its lines of dingy rolling-stock, along a broad thoroughfare, a region chiefly of factories and workshops, the fiacre jingled in the stream of vehicles and foot-passengers, till it turned abruptly down a laae and in at a gate, where two nuns stood beseeching alms, and presently, after lurching and pitching over the turf, the carriage drew up along the raiUngs near the winning-post. The variety of costume; the little gardes municipales in their green tunics and light-blue trousers ; the blouses of the men, the white caps of the women, the tricornes and yellow belts of the gendarmes, the troopers in wide, cherry-coloured breeches, the cures in furry broad-brimmed hats, all gave an animation and shifting colour to the crowd, which was as naively pleased with itself and the spectacle provided as French crowds generally are on gala occasions. The fashionable and sporting contingent from Deauville was scantily represented, it being the last and least important day of the racing week. Mr. Chadwick's hired fly was one of the few vehicles on the ground. The steeplechase course would not have commanded much respect at Sandown, and the temper of a sentinel who stood guard over the highest hedge was severely tried by the behaviour of a small boy, who leaped it several times in a Eemiis-like spirit of derision. ' I think I will stay in the carriage,' said Mrs. Chevening, ' but there's really no reason wliy you should be a prisoner, Margot, dear, if Mr. Allen Chadwick will kindly take charge of you.' ' If you'd like to take a turn, I'll take care of you with pleasure, miss,' said Allen. Margot had her own reasons for consenting, and as soon as Allen and she were at some distance from the carriage she began : ' Oh, Mr. Chadwick, there is one thing I really must ask of you.' ' You've only to name it,' said Allen, and his heart throbbed. Was he to do her a favour already ? 38 THE pahiaii ' It's only a trifle, no doubt,' she said, ' but I really cannot let you speak to nie as miss.' ' 1 didn't know yon would like to be familiar all at once,' he said. She shivered. ' You don't quite understand — we are not likely ever to be intimate, but — but we maj' meet occasionally here, and it is not necessary or usual to use any title or name at all. You may call me Miss Chevening if you like, but not Miss — if you do, I sliall not answer. Do you think you can remember that ? ' ' Yes, Miss Chevcning,' he said. ' I'm siu'e I'm only anxious to do the correct thing, but you see. Miss — Miss Chevening, it's like this, I ' ' Oh, please — not any explanations ! ' she said hastily. ' I (juite understand — and now, tell me, docs your father mean to stay here any time '? ' ■ ' I promise you I shan't do anything to hurry him,' said Allen. ' This is a regular jolly place, little as I've seen of it, always some- thing going on — it's like Y'armouth for that. There's nothing to do in all those old Cathedral places Orme would potter about in, and precious little to see.' ' Your friend Mr. Orme seems to have rather different tastes from yours '? ' observed INIargot. ' He's no friend of mine,' said Allen awkwardly. ' I can do without his friendsliip well enough.' ' Is ]\Ir. Orme the sort of jierson you can't bring yourself to associate with, then ? ' said ]\Iargot. ' Poor Mr. Orme ! ' ' It's him that holds off — not me,' said Allen. ' Not that he Imrts me by it. I'm off his hands now, anj'how, and that's a blessing for both parties ! ' ' And has this Mr. Orme left Trou\ille, then ? ' asked Margot carelessly. • ' He's got to settle up with the guv'nor first — he'll go as soon as he can — to-morrow most likely. He doesn't want more of me than he can help ! ' said Allen, with a forced laugh. ' Perhaps,' said IMargot, ' you have not taken any pains to be pleasant to him.' (' I won't have Mr. Orme driven out of Trouvillo by this boor, if I can prevent it,' she was thinking. ' I wonder if I could prevent it.') ' ]\tuch he cared whether I was pleasant or not ! ' said Allen ; ' but there, Miss Chevening, don't let's talk about him. I've given up minding all that now — here are the horses coming out.' INIargot could say nothing more, and she detested him more cordially thnn ever at that moment ; she was in a mood to hate everything just then, in her chagrin at the cruel trick that had been played uiion her, and having nobodj' to blame but herself, she naturally felt disposed to quarrel with everybody else. The horses came out, a string of weedy, long-tailed and long- legged screws, to most of whom the candid statement placed against two or three names on the oflicial race-card, ' origine inconnue ' eeemed equally applicable ; but theii" appearance caused a flutter of VALENTINE AND ORSON 89 excitement in tlie crowd, and such admiring comments as ' Voila le proprietaire lui-menae qui monte ! ' ' C'est line belle bete tout de meme.' ' Tenez, ca ne sera pas content do trotter, lui ! ' It was not a very thrilling event perhaps, this course an trot monte, though with any other companion INIargot might have found some ami;sement in the spectacle of some half-dozen French gentlemen of various degrees of corpulence going round and round the track at a hard trot which degenerated into a gallop at intervals ; the favourite came in last, and an ill-conditioned dog added to his jockej^'s Innniliation by yelping derisively after his horse's heels, ' II n'est pas mouille du tout ; il Ji'a pas I'te pousse ! ' said the bystanders, in charitable excuse for his defeat ; ' Fall it se servir de la cravache, vous savez.' Margot was just about to suggest a return to the cai'riage wlien, as she glanced listlessly round, she saw her friend of the beach some yards away. Would he see her ? Even if he did, she remembered, ho could not well do more than return her bow — at least she would bow to him. Vnxt he did not once look round, he stood there alone, and she could not help thinking how handsome and manly he looked, what a contrast he made to tins little monstrosity at her side. It was exasperating to know that he was going away in a few hours, while the other, her hcfe noire, would remain. She was powerless ; even if they met in the little time that was left, what chance would there be of renewing that pleasant conversation by the sea-shore '? She knew very well how it would be, they would not even meet at table ci']tdte, iov shevronld doubtless be condemned to form one of that quartette of the morning — he would go away without ever having learnt her name. ' You were asking me about Orme jiist now,' said Allen. ' If yon want to know what he's like, that's him over there.' ' Where "? ' said Margot, with well-acted indifference ; and when she did at last siicceed in looking in the direction Allen mentioned, she said, ' So iliat is Mr. Orme ! Don't you think he looks a little lonely all by himself — oughtn't yoir to go and speak to hmi? ' ' He's not lonely,' said Allen ; ' he wouldn't thank me for speak- ing to him, I can tell you ! ' ' I see,' said Margot, ' it woiildn't do for you to take any notice of a mere tutor, even though nobody here would know anything about it. I dare saj' you are quite right, but it seems a little cm'ious.' He flushed. 'It — it isn't fZ/a?,' he said, 'it's Orme that's the one to look down. And I can't go and speak to him while I'm with you.' Margot's heart was beating a little quicker than usual; she felt desperate. After all, Allen was not likely to see anything unusual in what she was anxious to lead wp to. ' If I am the only impediment,' she said lightly, ' that can easily be settled. You can bring him up and introduce him to me if you lilce.' 40 THE rArjAii ' Do you want me to ? ' asked Allen, hesitating ; he clearly did not welcome the suggestion with any enthusiasm. ' I said — if you liked,' repeated Margot. a little impatiently. • I think,' she added with a slight smile, 'he will appreciate such an attention on yom- part.' ' He mayn't care about coming — he's a queer sort of chap,' said Allen ; ' and — and what ought I to say to him ? ' ' Don't you really know how such a tiling is usually managed, Mr. Chadwick ? ' exclaimed Margot, feeling angrier with him for emphasizing her humiUation in this way. ' Surely you can say that you want to introduce him to a friend of yours ; it is not a very complicated operation, I should have imagined.' ' I've never done it before,' confessed Allen humbly, 'but I'll go and tell him that.' ' If only,' Miss Chevening meditated, ' if only he doesn't ixiake some terrible mess of it — it will serve me right perhaps, though, if he does ! ' Nugent Orme was abandoning himself to the surroundings, listening to the cries of the women who were inviting speculators to take a one-franc ticket in their ' poule,' of the small boys crj'ing ' Demandez le Jockey du Jour ! ' with a shrill and yet not un- nnisical intonation, and the chorus from the bookmakers' quarter of ' Un et demi le champ ! ' ' Egalite le champ ! ' 'La place d'Emidoff ! ' and similar sporting technicalities, when he felt his arm touched, and turned to find Allen, with a very red face, standing at his side. ' 'Ullo I ' said Allen clumsily,'! — I didn't think I should see you here.' ' No reason why you shouldn't, is there ? ' replied Orme. ' No,' said Allen, ' only I didn't. And I say -' ' Well, what is it ? ' asked Orme, as he stopped in confusion. 'If you don't mind, I — I want to introdixce you to a gud I'm with. It's that one over there.' Orme's face, which had begun to wear a curious expression, changed as his eyes fell on ]\Iiss Chevening's graceful figure, which he recognised at once, though he could not conceive how Allen had managed to make her acquaintance. She was looking idly away just then, and seemed so little aware of either of them that he checked himself in his acceptance of the introduction. ' Did you ask her ? ' he said, feeling no confidence in his pupil's Bocial proficiency ; ' are j-ou sure she wishes it ? ' He was too proud, much as he wished it himself, to run any risk of appearing to force himself upon her notice, especially with such a sponsor as poor Chadwick. 'It's all right,' said Allen, ' I told her who you were— she said I might do it if I liked.' Allen brought him up to her, but here he broke down, and could only blurt out, ' This is Orme.' Margot was qviite at her ease as she laughed and said, ' After VALEKTINE AND ORSON 41 all, Mr. Chadwick leaves me to introduce myself, Mr. Orme. I am Misa Chevening. Mr. Chadwick thought you might be feeling a little solitai-y in the crowd, but perhaps you are one of those people who never do feel solitary anywhere ? ' ' On the contrary,' he said smiling, ' I am deeply grateful to him.' And he put his hand on Allen's shoulder for a moment with a friendliness which made the yoimg man flush with pride and pleasure. Margot had her wish after all ; she had met this Mr. Orme once more, and the afternoon was not quite a failure. Still it was irksome to her to have Allen standing by, listening to every word that was said with what she chose to consider a mean inquisitive- ness ; in reality, he was only wondering, with a dash of envy, at the alteration in her tone which Orme's presence seemed to have produced. Orme himself was on his guard ; he was cool and cautious by disposition, and he did not intend to allow his head to be turned by the fact that Miss Chevening thought St to show him a marked graciousness. He could not come to any decided conclusion about her as yet ; for all he could tell that curiously fascinating manner of hers — with its abruptness, its candom-, its simplicitj', varied by touches of irony — might be that of a consummate flirt. He w^as not sm-e whether in his heart he approved of her, but he felt the chann of her nevertheless. She interested him strangely, more than anyone he had ever met — this slender, imperious girl, with the hazel eyes and the gleam of bronze in her soft hair ; but he must resist her, since he was going away next day, and her true character, simple or complex, would always remain a sealed book for him. ' What is the next race ? ' she said ; ' au trot attele.' I wish I knew which horse was the favourite — it makes it a little more exciting. Mr. Chadwick, I'm sure you know all about racing, which is the favourite '? ' Allen had been to Hampton once, and had seen some races at the Alexandra Palace, besides betting with fellow-clerks to a greater extent than he could always afford, so this appeal naturally flattered him. ' That's more than I can tell just now,' he said ; ' but we might go over to the bookmakers, and I could pick up something from them, I daresay. Would you like to be put on to anything for this race ? I shall be proud of the job, I assure you.' ' Thank you,' said Margot, 'I don't bet, and I don't care to go amongst those shouting men on the pedestals. I only wanted to know which is the favourite, if you could find out for me.' Allen was transported by her tone and the smile which she gave him. ' I'll find out somehow,' he said, ' though I'm not much good at their lingo. I maj',' he added with a flourish, ' do some- thing on my own account.' He went away, highly pleased at his commission, and when he 42 THE PARIAH had disappeared in the crowd Margot turned to her companion Avith a smile. ' I think I can understand now,' she said, ' why you did not find your toiir particuhirly pleasant.' He had, of course, made no aUusion as yet to their previous meeting, and, in the aUered state of his feeling towai"ds Allen, her smile, taken in connection ■with his willingness to please her, seemed slightly cruel. ' I had no right to imply that,' he said ; ' I'm afi-aid it was a good deal my fault if we did not get on.' ' No, it was not,' she declared ; ' how could you do more than tolerate such a creature ? I have only had to sutler him for two or three hours, but even that . You must be feeling very glad you are going so soon. He told me you were leaving to-morrow.' ' I am leaving to-morrow,' he said a little sadlj', ' but I am not certain that I am glad.' 81ie would not have believed it, but he was not thinking so much of her as of his pupil just then. Something had been revealed to him within the last half-hour which gave him a pang of self-reproach ; he had begun to doubt whether he had been altogether just towards his late companion, had not been too quick to despise him, too blinded by social prejudices to see such good points as ho had. Ilis conscience troubled him a little, and he was generous enough to be pained at the suspicion of having repelled his pupil's timid and awkward advances all this time. It was too late now to make amends, but he reproached himself for having been so bhnded by prejudice. Margot, necessarily in ignorance of all this, was well satisfied that he should be sorry to leave Trouville ; of course, although he could not say so in so many words, there could only be one reason why he should regret it. 'I should be only too delighted if ive were leaving to-mori'ow,' she said, ' but I suppose I shall be condemned to many more days of the society of Mr. Chadwick and his interesting son. The hotel was not wildly amusing before — but now ! ' And she broke oft" with a little gi-imace of disgust which seemed charming on her brilliant face. Orme laughed ; the Chadwicks did seem a curious pair to bo in companionship with her ; he was not altogether proof against the flattc/y implied in this confession, of dislike for another. ' I dare- say you will find means to avenge yourself,' he said. ' I am not very patient when I am bored,' she confessed, ' espe- cially by persons of that class. Do you know, Mr. Orme, I must tell you — though you will not consider it a comjiliment — when we met this morning I thought you were Mr. Chadwick's son. I did ; I thouglit you were going to be here some time, instead of being on your way home.' ' I wish that had been true,' he said ; ' the latter part of it, at least.' If you had not put that in,' she observed, ' I should not have VALENTINE AND OESON 43 believed you — nobody could wish he were Mr. Allen Chadwick. It is a pity you will see nothinf^ of Trouville,' she added ; ' it's rather an amusing little place, and the surrounding country is so pretty.' ' I have been here before, but it is a pity,' he said simply. And just then the course was cleared for a race au trot attele, with light gigs in the American style, which gave another tivrn to tlieir conversation. But the longer he stood by her side, listening to her half-mocking, half-interested talk, the harder it seemed that in all probability their acquaintance would last but this one short day. It was not until the race was over that either of them remem- bered Allen, and it w^as not Margot who suggested that they had better see what had become of him. They found him, excited but imintelligible, engaged in an altercation with the proprietor of a nouvelle comhinaison on the ^wj-t mutiiel system. ' I desire mon nionnaie — toute la monnaie ! ' he was repeating; 'j'ai donne sept francs, et vous donnez deux francs et demi seulement. Je n'appelle (;a un parry mutual, je dis ! ' To which the bookmaker merely replied by a shrug of confidential pity to the audience. ' Vous voyez,' he appealed to them, ' 9a — c'est un Anglais, 9a n'est pas dans le mouvement ! ' "Whereupon the crowd, particularly those who had been equally unfortunate, laughed in compassionate Buperioritj-. Margot held aloof. ' If he chooses to make himself ridiculous,' she said, ' don't let us interfere. He will be hooted at presently.' But Orme went up and drew him quietly away. ' You're no match for a French bookmaker, Chadwick,' he said ; ' better give in.' ' Bi;t he's done me,' insisted Allen ; ' I can prove it. I gave him ' ' And he's stuck to it, whatever it was,' said Orme ; ' some bookmakers do. Come away.' ' I'll tell you how it was, miss,' protested Allen to Margot, ' I mean Miss Chevenmg. I went up to him ' ' It's quite useless explaining to me,' she said. ' I know nothing about betting, and I don't want to know anything. Hadn't we better go back to the carriage ? ' Orme took this as a dismissal, rather to Margot's disappoint- ment. ' Then I shall not see you again?' she said indifferently. ' I hope yoii will have a pleasant crossing.' ' Thanks,' he said. ' I am a good sailor. Good-bye.' As soon as Margot was alone •with Allen she suddenly changed her manner to him ; she was as nearly gracioxis as she could bring herself to be. ' I thought you said Mr. Orme was glad to go ? ' she began. ' Why, isn't he ? ' There w'as an accent in his voice which encouraged Margot in something she had resolved to attempt. ' Has he been talliing aboiit it to you ? ' ' Do you want him to stay ? ' she said, looking away as she spoke. 44 THE TAEIAH •I — I should like it, if he liked it.' answered Allen, flushmg. ' Don't 3'ou see,' she said, ' that he can hardly stay on now ■without an invitation ? But I think that, if you were to ask him ' ' Would 7J0U like me to ask him ? ' cried Allen. ' I ! "What is it to do with me ? ' she said, exasperated at the thought that this boor had blundered on her true motive. ' Will you please understand that whether Mr. Orme goes or stays is perfectlj'^ unimportant so far as I am concerned. I thought yoxi had taken a wrong idea into j-our head about him, and might be glad to have it corrected. I am sorry I said anythmg about it at all now.' ' I'm sure it was meant kindly on yo\ir part, miss,' said Allen. ' Of course 1 know you si^oke out of friendliness to me, and I'm much obliged. I'll try whether Orme can be got to stay. I'U sjjeak to him this very evening.' ' If you do,' said Margot, ' you will have the goodness not to mention my name, or I shall be exceedingly angry. You will recollect that ? ' ' I'd rather he thought it was all my idea,' he replied ; ' and I do take it very kindly of you putting me up to it.' ' Don't say any more about that, please,' said Margot, feeling slightly ashamed of herself ; but she was gi'atified, too, for she had now some cause for beheving that she had not seen the last of Mr. Orme yet. Meanwhile, much of Mr. Chadwick's conversation with Mrs. Chevening as they sat in the carriage by the winnmg-post had tm'ned ujaon his son. 'I suppose now,' he had said, 'there's not much difference between my boy and your young lad}-, as far as yeai's go —he's just of age ? ' ' Margot is only nineteen,' said Mrs. Chevening. She was much oppressed by the perversity of things in general just then ; was it worth while, she wondered, persevering with her scheme any longer ? Could she expect her daughter to marry such a completely unpresentable young man ? The father was polished by comparison, and yet she would not have suffered him but for her hasty con- clusion that his son would most probably be found to have escaped all trace of \nilgarity, and be a yoimg Englishman of the ordinary type, "vell-looking and well-educated. The reality had gone some way to cause her to lose heart ; and yet — these Chadwicks were extremely well off, if Margot could bring herself to tolerate him, a load of anxiety would fall from lier shoulders. Mrs. Chevening thought of her growing family and increasing expenses ; what a help Margot might be to them all — if only she would ! ' Nineteen,' said Chad wick, ' and admirers by the dozen already, I daresay? Does she ha2)pen to favour any one in particular, so far as you are aware, that is ? ' Mrs. Chevening closed her eyes for a moment : ' I have no reason for supposing so,' she said faintly. VALENTINE AND ORSON 45 ' Difficult to please, perhaps ? ' suggested Chaclwick. Mrs. Chevcning, not finding any imnaediate answer to this, took refuge in one of those inarticulate murmiTrs which are so useful in such emergencies. ' Oh, I'm not blaming her, if she is,' he said. ' It's only natural she should know her own value. I've not seen anyone since I've been back in the old country, to come near her in looks.' ' I think she is prett^',' Mrs. Chevenmg admitted complacently. ' People seem to admire her, certamly. But beauty is such a mere accident.' ' It's the kind of accident a good many would like to meet with,' he said. ' Now, my boy- — his face will never make his fortune. But for all that, he's a real good fellow, and so you would say if you knew him as well as I do ! ' ' That I can quite believe.' ' He's not been much used to ladies' societj^' said Chadwick, ' but perhaps he's none the worse for that,' he added, as if to counteract any air of apology in his tone. 'At all events, it is a deficiency so easily overcome, isn't it?' 'Well, it's not eveiybody I'd say so much to, but I don't think it would do him any harm if he saw a little of a nice, well-brought- up girl — such as yovir young lady for instance. I shouldn't have any objection to his going about with her. And it makes it livelier for her, too, having a companion of the opposite sex.' ' I think my daughter is perfectly happy so long as she is with me,' said Mrs. Chevening, with a touch of dignity. ' Oh, no doubt, no doubt. Still, it isn't quite the same thing, is it? And, judging by the time they've been away together, they seem to have hit it off already.' Mrs. Chevening kept her private doubts to herself, but presently when Allen and Margot returned, the restored animation and good- humour in her face atibrded her mother an agreeable surprise ; so long as she did not take one of her inveterate dislikes, things were not hopeless. Soon afterwards the last race — a steeplechase over very mild obstacles — was run without any mishaps occurring to invest it with excitement, and then the drum beat to disperse the crowd, which streamed peacefully homewards, Avell satisfied with the afternoon's sport, and the fly carried Mr. Chadwick and his party through the long shadows and slanting red sunlight back to the Californie. jMargot's anticipations were justified : they dined apart that evening, after the tahlo d'hote, at which Nugent Orme had taken his place, not without a hope of seeing lier again. She was not there, and he felt that it was on the wliole better for his peace of mind. He was smoking a cigarette in the dusk in front of the hotel when Allen came out and sat down on the bench by his side. For some time he was silent, but at length he said, ' I say, I wish we'd got on better together while we were away.' 46 THE PARIAH ' We got on pretty well together, didn't we ? ' said Orme, not knowing quite what to say. ' We were never what you may call thick,' said Allen ; ' I know I've not had your education and all that. It's natiu-al you should hold off from me.' ' If I ever did or said anything to make you think that, my dear fellow,' said Orme, ' I can only say I'm heartily sorry. You see, you rather kejjt me at a distance yourself.' This view of the case was rather soothing to Allen. ' I wasn't going to force my friendship where it didn't seem wanted,' he said; ' that was why I kept to myself pretty much.' ' ^^'cll,' said Orme, with a little sigh, ' we shall know hetter another time, eh, Chadwick ? I'm sorry we didn't learn to under- stand one another sooner. Where is your father, do you know ? I must go into matters with him some time this evening.' ' Father's on the balcony with Mrs. Chevening and the others,' said Allen ; ' and — what I wanted to speak about was this, Orme — you're not obliged to go to-morrow, are you ? ' ' I don't think your father expects me to stay on any longer,' said Orme. ' Oh, I spoke to him about that ; he said I might ask yoia, and — and I wish you'd stay.' Sta^- — and see more of Miss Chevenmg ; was it prudent ? and yet, there was nothing to call him back to his new chambers at pre- sent ; would he not be ungracious in thrusting back Allen's offer of friendship '? Tliej^ could never, perhaps, be friends in the truest sense of the word, but he might do something to atone for his past super- ciliousness. He had been gained by the other's evident desire to win his liking, a deshe which he had never suspected till that day. To ask how far the prospect of meeting Miss Chevening contributed to influence him were to consider too curiously, but this change of feel- ing towards Allen was genuine enough, ' I'll stay with pleasure,' he said warmly ; ' it's kind of you to wish it.' Allen's heart swelled with a great joy ; he had scarcely hoped to be met lUiC this, and felt bigger in his own estimation. ' I'm glad you'll stay,' he said : ' I'm glad yon don't mind being friends.' And the two shook hands. It was a singular result to foUow the caprice of a self-willed girl, this establishment of a better imder- standing between two such natures as those of Allen and Orme ; but though it brought about the conclusion she wished, she had not designed it, nor woidd she have been interested by so unimportant a matter. so YOUNG AND SO UN-TENDER 47 CHAPTER VI. so YOUNG AND SO UN-TENDER ! What right can you have, God's other works to scorn, despise . . . revile them In the gross as mere men broadly — not as noble men, forsooth, — But as Pariahs of the outer world, forbidden to assoil them In the hope of living — dying, — near that sweetness of your mouth ? Lady Geraldine's Courtshij). Nugent Orme stayed on at Trouville as Mr. Chadwick's j^iest, but Bomehow he did not find as many opportunities as he had hoped for of improving his acquaintance with Miss Chevening. Her mother had shown him especial civiHty, and had introduced liim to many of her friends, the "Whipples in particular ; his chau* was placed next Miss Magnolia's at table d'hote, an arrangement which did not dis- please that young lady. But he never found his seat near Margot's, and such conversations as he had with her were short and semi- pubhc. As for Margot, without very well knowing how it was or how to avoid it, she found herself constantly paired off with the obnoxious Allen, who would not see how intensely she disliked his companion- ship ; his shyness was wearing off a little — which made her detest him all the more ; she raged in secret, and at last expostulated openly with her mother. ' It is improving him so wonderfully, darling,' was all Mrs. Che- vening could find to say, ' It is not improving me — it is driving me nearly insane. I simply cannot stand him, mother.' ' You wouldn't say so if you knew how it pleases his father — he feels how incomplete his son's training has been, and is so glad for him to be with you.' ' Why shoiUd I complete other people's sons, dear ? and why do you care whether Mr. Chadwick is pleased or not ? ' 'It should be enough for you that I do wish it,' answered Mrs. Chevening with a rather weak assertion of her authority. 'We are not so surrounded by friends, my dear, that we can afford to offend people who are only too willing to show us every kindness. If you had a little u:iore heart, Margot, ,you would be touched by that poor boy's anxiety to please you, j-ou woiild indeed ! ' ' I suppose I haven't any heart, dear, for it only u-ritates me. And the worst of it is, I can't make him see it ; some day I shall speak so plainly that even he will have no excuse for not under- Btanding.' Mrs. Chevening flushed with unmistakable anger. ' Listen to me, you heedless girl,' she cried. 'I forbid you I forbid you to 48 THE PAKIAH Bay anything insvilting to that young man ! Think what you please of him, since you are determined to dislike him, but behave decently to him in public you must and shall. It is not a great deal to ask of you, after all the expense I have incurred in coming here — solely on yoTir account. I thought it would be a pleasant change for you — and this is my i e .vard ! ' Margot dreaded a burst of tears at this point, and hastened to make a timely capitulation. ' There, mother dear,' she said, ' don't Bcold me. I'm not really going to be naughty. Why, if you wished it, I'd walk about TrouviUe with a bear ; indeed, a nice brown sleepy bear wouldn't be nearly so — never mind. I'Umake the best of the — the other animal, the hcte noire. But I do think that I ought to be allowed to abuse him when he's not to hear me.' She looked so charming as she stood there, with a half-humoroiis protest beneath her suppliant expression, that her mother's dis- pleasure was appeased. ' Ah, Margot,' she said with a sigh, ' if you only knew your own power ! ' ' That's exactly what they say of wild beasts in a cage, dear. ^Vould j'ou like to put me in a cage ? ' ' You have no right to say such things,' cried ]\rrs. Chevening, when j'ou know I am only anxious for your good — for the good of you all. It is unkind and ungrateful of you to talk to me about cages.' Margot stared. ' Why, I meant nothing — what could 1 mean ? Evidently this isn't one of my lucky mornings. Come down and sit on the sands somewhere, and you shall see how good I can be.' On that occasion, as it happened, Miss Chevening was spared from proving the genuineness of her good intentions. Under one of the giant lunbrellas they found the Spokers. ' I've been trying to induce Alfred to bathe,' Mrs. Spoker annoiinced, ' but he's afraid of my finding out how badly he swims. He says he has his tub every morning, but I believe he stands outside and splashes.' ' Sea-bathing doesn't agree with me,' said Mr. Spoker. ' I think perhaps he is right about that,' remarked his wife impartially, ' because he bathed once when we were at Torquay on our honeymoon, and he was perfectly green all day. I shall always think of him — pale gi'een w'ith a bright crimson nose,' she went on cheerfully ; ' yes, you luere like that, dear. I very nearly packed up and went home at once.' ' Why didn't you tell me ? I would have done all the packing for you,' said her husband. ' I thought it was my duty to bear you, whatever colours you turned,' she said ; ' and I must say he has never looked quite so like a dying dolphin since. But you are dreadfully odd and peculiar, Alfred, in lots of ways.' She was proceeding to describe her astonisliment on first seeing Alfred scrubbing the top of his head with a nail-brush, when one ot so YOUNG AND SO UN-TENDER 49 the opera-bonffeish cahanes came creaking and jolting over the sand and stojiped a few paces oti". ' There's young Mr. Chadwick,' said Mrs. Clievening. ' Mrs. Spoker, do you know that it's market day ? Wouldn't it be pleasant for you and Mr. Sjjoker, and Margot and ' ' Oh, and there's that nice Mr. Orrae, too,' cried Mrs. Spoker ; ' delightful ! No, Alfred, I shan't let you come, five's an awkward number ; you must stay and amuse Mrs. Chevening, she hasn't heard all your stories. Mr. Orme will take care of me.' Probably Mrs. Spoker had some idea of the truth, and was mischievous enough to thwart any scliemes Mrs. Chevening might be entertaining ; or else she gathered from Miss Chevening's ex- pression that she would be grateful for a little relief from j'oung Mr. Chadwick's society, and had the goodnature to oblige her. At all events the four had not proceeded far before Mrs. Spoker had effected a transfer of partners, and Orme found himself assigned to M argot. It pleased her to express some siu-prise at his being still at Trouville. ' I thought you left yesterday or the day before,' she Baid. ' I haven't seen you anywhere.' ' I'm afraid that was because it did not occur to you to look. I was at table cVliotc' ' Oh, so you were, I remember now^ — you were sitting by the "NVhipples. I hope vou found them entertaining ? ' * Miss Whipple is amusing — when you like that kind of thing. Well, I wish I had been in as jileasant company as you ajipear to have been. I haven't been amused at all. Mr. Orme, tell me, weren't you induced to stay on here by the prospect of having some more of Mr. Allen Chadwick's society '? ' ' I stayed on his invitation,' he replied. ' I wish you could manage to enjoy a little more of it, because I seem to have monopolised it at present, and I don't want to be selfish.' ' If I have had less of it than I might have expected that is really not my fault.' ' You mean that it is mine ? What I must have been depriving you of! Have you been very inconsolable '? ' ' I think I oi^glit to tell you,' he said, ' I'm afraid I gave you the impression that I disliked him rather than otherwise. It was true then ; but lately I have come to see that I was unjust. I see much now that I would not see before.' ' Ah,' she replied ; ' I suppose he is seen to better advantage at a distance — like a mountain ; but you see I have had no opportunities of discovering that for myself. I have been so very unfortunately placed. But I am rather curious to know what these newly-dis- covered beauties in his character really are. Has he suddenly developed a sense of humour, or a glimmering notion of how he ought to behave ? Was his twang assumed to try us ? Or is he K 50 THE TARIAH that boriiigest of all bores — the rougli diamond ? Do i)lease en- lighten me.' ' I don't think it would be of much use if I tried,' he said. ' Suppose we change the subject ? ' ' Suppose we do without a subject,' she retorted, and walked on in majestic silence with her chin very much elevated. Miss Che- vening did not take at all kindly to a setting-down. He had been a little repelled again by this exhibition of disdain, he thought her needlessly hard, and yet there was something captivatingly childish in this petulance of hers which made it difficult to take her seriously. ' Is talking strictly prohibited ? ' he said at last, and she broke into a charming, unwilHng smile. ' "Was I cross ? ' she said. ' Yes, I know I was. But you were so very superior, weren't you ? Never mind, here we are at the market, let us try to finish our walk without quarrelling.' Her ej-es were kind and fi-ank and fiiendly again, and for the rest of the morning no one could have been more sweetly engaging, more read}^ to give pleasiu-e and be pleased, than this most contra- dictory and variable young lady. Orme wandered by her side, through the maze of white-capped old women, with their baskets and stalls heaped with wares of all kinds — butter in leaves, live rabbits in boxes, dogfish in baskets, and cool, fresh-smelling country-produce. All the time he had a sense of the delight and privilege of being with her, coupled with a kind of impatience at himself that his enjoyment was not keener and more conscious still. It seemed to him that it was somehow not so delightful now as he felt it would be to look back upon later. Near the quay a travelling dentist had stationed a gilded vehicle like a diligence, from the coupe of which, gorgeously arrayed in a crunson dressing-gown, he was commending the virtues of a tooth- ache tincture, while a young woman on the roof punctuated his more iinpressive periods with a pair of cymbals. As they came up he was sprinkling his audience witli drops of the tincture, by way of an ajipeal to their senses. ' If it smelt unpleasantlj',' ho was good enough to explain, ' I should not permit myself to offer it to you.' But Miss Chevening bestowed all her notice upon a small wooden box which was suspended from the splashboard, and which had a pane of glass in fi'ont. Through this pane peered a melancholy and cynical little monkey, which liad excited her s3-mpa- thies. The crowd of grinning fisher-lads and wrinkled old peasants made way for her as she moved up to the cage. ' Oh, see, Mr. Orme,' she cried appealingly, ' the poor little thhig ! Is he a patient, do you think ? Do they try the tincture and things on you, dear ? No, your teeth are too good.' And, bending down, she began to talk the most charming and caressing nonsense to the captive, while Orme wondered idly whether the monkey was at all consoled by the sight of that exquisite face at his prison wicket. Probably the creature's ideal was something very different ; he merely so YOUXG AND SO UN-TENDER 51 blinked his tired eyes and scratched his ear with a bored sus- picion. The dentist was inviting any sufferer from toothache to step up and obtain rehcf, whereupon a sheepish and palpable hireling mounted, and was treated with the tincture to the sound of cymbals. 'Vous etes console, n'est-ce pas ? ' the professor inrpiired majesti- cally, after a dramatic pause for the cure to take effect. ' Mais oui,' said the patient, with a perfunctoriness that suggested consola- tion in advance. Then, as the dentist showed an alarming disposi- tion to become anatomical (with diagrams), and to produce un- pleasant things in bottles out of the boot, Nugent thought it as well to go on, and they strolled along the quay by the fish-stalls, which were laden with immense and hideous Hat fish, heaps of little grey shrimps (which a marketing bonne would occasionally stir up with the ferule of a depreciatory umbrella), and Prussian-blue lobsters, blindly groping for revenge. And Miss Chevening had remarked the prevalent expression of the fish — a ludicrous goggle-eyed astonishment that they should have been caught at last, taken in by a trick as old as the sea itself. 'I remember feeling quite guilty about catching a fish once,' said Orme. ' I was out deep-sea fishing, and we caiight an immense cod. He lay there, gasping and spluttering, in the bows, exactly like a highly respectable and indignant old gentleiuan in a white waistcoat ; he only wanted a gold chain. I really felt inclined to apologise for taking the liberty of hooking him.' ' But you didn't put him back ? ' ' AVell — no ; but I avoided his ej-e. He breathed his last with a calm dignity that completed my reinorse.' ' The remorse of the ^Yalrus and the Carpenter,' she said. ' Look, this fish has a striking face — they call it a " St. Pierre " here — one side of his profile is pious and resigned, the other is "sneering and "malignant. I wonder which he kept for his familj-.' All this is trivial enough, and would be scarcely worth recording were it not that it is just such light-hearted foolish talk as this that advances an acquaintanceship many months in a single hour. Orme saw a new Miss Chevening, tender-hearted, full of the sweetest gaiety, simple and natiu-al ; a very diuereut person from the scorn- ful, sarcastic young lady of half an hour before. Presently m some way she came to tell him about her family, and the old riverside home at Chiswick. ' Such a queer, shabby, out-of-the-way old hoi;se,' she said, ' with only a narrow little path and some old poplars in front, no road, and then the river. But the dearest old place for all that— espe- cially in the simimer, when you can sit out on the balcony and see the boats go shooting by, and the people streaming across the bridge to Kew Gardens. Even in the winter, though, when it's all foggy and misty, I like it. I am always glad to got back to it. I hated it when we first went to live there — we all did — but now I wouldn't change it for any place in the world.' E 2 62 THE PAPJAlt This and more of the same natm'e he learnt from her during that walk ; and all the time he had her quite to himself, for Mrs. Spoker kept Allen at a discreet distance until the return, when she joined them, in raptures with the dentist, to whom she declared she intended to present her husband for scientific purposes. Orme, as has been said, came away with a deeper and more pleasin<^ impression of Miss Chevening, but he was by no means in love with her even yet ; he told himself that she was an interesting study, a comrade who could be delightful when it pleased her. She was certainly lovely, but the tj'pe of woman he admired was smaller, faker, less mutinous, if not meeker, than Margot, with her fine physique, her masses of dusky hair with the gleam of bronze in it, and her vivid, spirited face. There was not the least danger ; and besides, had she not, even in the short time he had known her, shown qualities which in his heart he did not admire ? He was not in love, that was certain ; but he thought of her pretty constantly notwithstanding. He had more frequent opportmiities of observmg her now, for since that wallv with her, it had come to be looked upon as a natural thing that he as well as Allen should be in attendance upon Miss Chevening. Her mother, though of com'se present on these occa- sions, raised no objection, being either too indolent to engage in any further encounter with her daughter, or doubtful whether she could interfere without offending Chadwick, which she was very anxious to avoid. But this greater freedom of intercourse brought Ornae, on the whole, more of torment than delight, though each day he felt the physical attraction of her more powerfully, and she made no secret of a growing pleasure in his society. Allen usually made the thh-d person in the party, and it was her treatment of him which almost coimteracted her charm in Orme's eyes. Generally she scarcelj' deigned to notice him at all, but if she did it was invariably m a subdued tone of profoundest contempt ; when she had occasion to speak of him in his absence it was with the deepest, the most unsparing disdain. Some men might have fomid a delicious flattery in such a con- trast. Orme had a somewhat ascetic conscience in these matters, his keen admiration of this girl's beautj' made him a sterner critic of her faults, which he absolutely resented. With all her loveli- ness, he denied her right to adopt that attitude of supreme scorn- fulness to one so helpless and inoffensive as the unfortunate Allen ; everj' fresh instance of it gave Orme a sharper pain, and the fact that Allen was quite unconscious of all her veiled mockery only made her conduct worse in his friend's eyes. Why, he wondered, should she, who looked all that was sweet and lovable, show this ugly side to her nature ? As it would be worse than useless to protest, he woiild at least do nothing that would imply acquiescence, he would prevent this young Chadwick from being made publicly ridiculous. so YOUNG AND SO UN-TENDER 53 And, perhaps with a view to his own protection from a f^rcater danger, he contrived expeditions for Allen and himself to various places along the coast and inland which kept them away from the rest of the party for the greater part of each day. At last this precaution defeated itself. He and Allen had taken the train to Pont I'Eveque, and were wall^ing back to Trouvillc by way of Bonneville, the fine old Norman stronghold where Duke William extended a dubious hosi^itality to JSaxon Harold, and Matilda beguiled her solitude by needlework, and Berengaria moui'ned for Cceur de Lion. The massive keep and the old walls with crumbling towers at the angles are all that remain of the castle now, though a whitewashed, green-shuttered building has grown in amongst the ruins like a parasite. Outside the entrance they saw a large white-awninged break and pair, and in the covirtyard — which is now neatly laid out with gravel walks and turf, blazing flower-beds and fruit-trees — a party of tourists had just preceded them. ' Oh yes,' Orme heard a familiar voice remarking, ' I know very well it's all perfectly sweet and too majestic for anything, but I don't seem as if I could have my imagination excited by any more old relics. I've been round peopling so manj' antiquated piles with knights and pages and chatelaines and troubadours that I don't feel to have any left for a number-two ruin like this. I can't re- create the dead past worth a red cent to-daj'. Oh, Mr. Orme. now this is what I call a delightful meeting ! I hope you feel it delight- ful as well ■? Yes, we're all here, the others are going round. M. de Pommesucant, we'd better go round too, if you've no objection.' ' It was Mr. Chadwick's idea— our coming here in a party,' ex- plained Miss 'Whipple to Orme as they walked on ; 'he managed it all — he's perfectly splendid at managing. I do admire him for one thing, anyway,' she added in a tone of impartial laudation, ' he's a live man all the time, there are no tlies on him.' Orme could see the rest of the pai'ty on ahead — Chadwick, the Spokers, the Whipples, and Mrs. Chevening, and, with a thrill he could not prevent, he saw a slim tall figure which coiUd only belong to Miss Chevening. ' I say,' Mr. Spoker was observing, as thej^ all stood round a kind of deep cellar, 'this is interesting — isn't it interesting, now '? The guide says this is the identical oubliette in which Do Chaumont was imprisoned by Richard I. ; how it carries you back to the old times, eh ? See, there's a lamp burning down there.' ' Before you're quite carried back, dear,' snid his affectionate wife, ' perhaps you'll tell us who De Chaumont was, and what he did. Ah, I knew he didn't know ! ' she cried, ' he was so very enthu- Biastic' ' I know quite enough to make it interesting to me, my love, whatever it may be to you,' he retorted. ' Here's a curious thing, now, we are coming to the very chapel in which Harold took the solemn oath to help "William to acquire the throne of England.' 54 THE PAEIAH ' Wlij',' remarked Miss Whipple, ' there isn't room to take so much as an atlidavit in there ! — no wonder he broke it. Let's come away, this is disenchanting.' 'Mees Chevenain,' the yonng Frenchman, an entlmsiastic Anglo- maniac, was saj'ing to Margot, ' will j'ou make with me the ascension of the tower ? and upon the top we will 'ave a beautiful blow on the eye.' Margot was in rather a reckless mood just then ; for some time ehe had noticed Orme's defection, and resented it deeply. She had found him agreeable and interesting, she had respected him and been anxious to have his good opinion. Now, it seemed, he preferred the company of that iU-bred idiot to hers. Of course she affected to treat the whole matter with indifference, but her heart was very bitter against both Allen and his friend, and she was childishly ready to seek some means of retaliation. She had chosen not to see the newcomers, and, by way of avoid- ing them, went itp the worn stone steps with M. de Pommesucant, and stood on the little platform looking down on the moat, whose velvet-ridged sides were flecked with shade from the gnarled old apple-trees that grew along the bank. Beyond, across the tree-tops, la}' the shimmering plain, with the roofs of Touques glittering in the afternoon smi, and, further still, the deep lapis lazuli blue of the sea. Inland stretched a rich country landscape, a patchwork of deep chocolate, tender green, and the brilliant j'ellow of the colza, inter- sected bj' long double lines of poplars, and backed by distant ultra- marme liiUs. The hattoirs of the washerwomen, as they knelt over a soapy little roofed tank below, made a cheerful hammering. ' You find it magnificent ? ' her companion asked. ' The view ? ' she said absently — she had hardly noticed it — ' oh yes.' ' And I,' he agi-eed. ' To some, nature is trisie and wants of gaiety. For me, no. I am like you others — you English. I love the repose, the picturesque. I come to Trouville, not to live as in Paris, but for change, for simplicity. I am very fond of all j^our English ways of li\ing : your fox-lumt, your dogscart, j-our novel — ah, how I adore j'our " Vicaire of Wackfiel " and your "Clarissa Arlow " ! — your 'ome and your games of the family. Tlicre is a game 1 have often heard but seen nevare, it is called, I think, " Kiss at a Eing;" could yow inform me how to play him?' ' I am afraid not,' said Margot ; ' but tliere is someone below Vtho I daresay could tell you all about it ; we wiU go do^vn and I will ask him.' In the courtyard she saw Allen and Ormo, witli all of the party except her mother and Mr. Chadwick, who were watching the cus- todian as he drojiped pieces of lighted newspaper down the castle well. ' Mr. Chadwick,' said Margot sweetly to Allen, in her clear soft tones, ' M. de Pommesu(;ant is very anxious to know how " Kiss in the Eing" is played. I suppose you have played it often enough on so YOUNG AND SO UN-TENDER 55 Bank Holidays, and are quite an authority ; would you mind ex- plaining it to him ? ' 'It's simple enough,' said the unsuspecting Allen. ' We might have a game here, if you didn't mind.' ' Thanks,' she said, ' we should mind very much. You see, M. tie Pommesu(;ant, English ladies are not in the habit of playing "Kiss in the King." ' ' Then it is only for the English gentilmans?' said the mystified Frenchman. Miss Chevening laughed. ' I must leave Mr. Chadwick to answer that, he plays it at all events. "NYhei-e do you play it, Mr. Chadwick ? — at tea-gardens and places of that sort ? Please instract M. de Pommesurant.' ' A thousand thanks,' said the latter gentleman gallantly, ' but I do not wish to learn a game I cannot play with the English ladies.' ' Perhaps you are right,' said Margot ; ' it is not at all an aristo- cratic amusement, in spite of INIr. Chadwick's fondness for it.' She had the gratification of knowing that Nugent Orme was standing close by, and she could see from his expression that he was intensely angry. She did not care, anything was better than that he should seem so provokingly unconscious of her existence. The rest of the party had gone on in search of further objects of interest or points of view, and she was preparing to follow when she was stopped by Orme. ' Don't go 5'et, Miss Chevening,' he said. ' I want to speak to yon.' There was an air of axithority in his tone tliat mastered her. 'You must find me a seat, then,' she said. Th^'re were some under the fruit-trees, and she sat down. ' Do you prefer standing ? ' she said, as he stood moodily by. ' Yes, I do,' he said shortly. ' Miss Chevening,' he broke out a moment after, ' whj^ in Heaven's name, can't you leave that poor young Chadwick in peace ? ' She was provokingly innocent and surprised. ' What did I do? I merely assumed he had played a vulgar game, and as it turned out I was quite right.' ' You did it to humiliate him and make him openly ridiculous,' he said. ' He noticed nothing.' ' Such an excuse as that is worse than none. I thought, if I kept him out of j'our way as much as possible, you would have some consideration for him when you did meet.' She sat there restlessly spreading and shutting her hand. ' I can't help it,' she saidrebelliously ; 'I do not see why I should have to meet such a person at all, and when I do But you would never understand how I feel about it. I can't be civil to him ; the mere s-ight of him ' ' I don't understand,' he replied. ' I hope I never shall. What- ever you are and whatever he may be you have no right to treat 56 THE PARIAH him with a contempt Hke this. It is insolent, wicked ; you ought not to encourage it, for your own sake. Miss Chevening. If you despise him so intensely, that should be a reason for letting him alone.' She coloured, she knew, if he did not, what her real motives had been in making that gratuitous attack on liis protege ; apparently ehe had succeeded only too well. 'You are a very warm partisan,' she said maliciousl3\ 'Don't they say that the latest converts are always keenest to make prose- lytes ? Wasn't your own conversion rather recent, Mr. Orme ? ' ' At least,' he retorted angi-ily, ' I can't charge myself with hav- ing been carried away by prejudice.' ' As I am ? I don't adxnit that it is prejudice ; I call it instinct, Mr. Orme, the instinct given to us for our protection against noxious creatures of all kinds. But whatever it is,' she added wilfully, ' I have it and I must obey it, whether it displeases you or not. So I'm afraid your lecture has not done very much good to anybody.' ' Evidently,' he answered. He felt irritated and depressed, he had only made matters worse by speaking, and even now, angry as he was with her, he was gallingly conscious that that air of impertinent mockery made her more bewitching than ever. ' Have you quite finished your remarks? ' she inquired, ' because, if BO, I think I will go and see what the others are doing over there. Don't let me disturb you.' He watched her go lightly across the turf without attempting to foUow her ; she was singing gaily to herself as she went. She had no heart, he thought ; she was as irresponsible in her careless cruelty as a child. In justice to Margot, however, it should be mentioned that she bad had soine additional reasons of late for emphasizing her dislike of Allen. She more than suspected that her mother was secretly encouraging the idea of an engagement between them ; she had more than once been certain that she had heard her name and his coupled together in conversation by Chadwick, with whom her mother seemed now so completely in accord. Nothing should make her yield to anything so horrible and preposterous ; of that she was serenely confident; but in the meantime she would leave as little room for misunderstanding as possible. She was not very angry with Nugent. The difference between them had formed rather a pleasing excitement ; he had looked particularly well when roused ; she looked forward to several repetitions of the scene. It was highly absurd and presumptions of him to take sides against her and find fault with her, but it was better than if slie had been imimportant in his eyes. If she chose, she thought, she could soon make him change his opinion ; it was impossible that he could really place Allen before her. Orme was considering how soon he could bring his stay to a close without discourtesy to Chadwick, when Mrs. Chevening re- so YOUNG AND SO UN-TENDER 57 lievcd him from all perplexity on that point. She came to him under the trees, smiling at him as she advanced with her most laboured insincerity. ' So sorry, dear Mr. Orme,' she began, ' to hear we are to lose yon so soon ! Mr. Chadwick tells me j'ou are leaving to-morrow, I didn't know you were only staj-ing here a week.' In any case, unless his desire to stay had overcome all self- respect he could not have ignored so very plain a conge, seeing that she had evidently been deputed to this delicate mission. As it was, he was glad of his release. ' Yes, I must leave here to-morrow,' he said. ' I have stayed too long already.' 'Not too long for us, not nearly long enough,' she replied gi'aciously; 'but of course there is your profession— the Bar, is it not ? and to succeed in that you must work so very hard. I can quite understand that you don't feel justified in taking a longer holiday — quite — quite, Mr. Orme.' ' Where are ]\Ir. Allen Chadwick and Mr. Orme ? ' asked Miss Whipple a little later. ' They've walked on,' said Mrs. Chevening. ' Mr. Orme wouldn't take a seat in tlie break ; so foolish of him, when he will want to get back early ; he has all his packing to do.' ' Why, is jNIr. Orme going away ? ' ' Oh, I thought you knew ; he was just telling me all about it, how he couldn't stay a day over to-morrow— a week was all he intended to stay ; it seems such a very arduous profession, the Bar.' There were comments of various kinds, though none unfavour- able upon Orme, and some expressions of sorrow at his departure, but Miss Chevening did not join in them. It is possible that she had not heard that he was leaving, for she was much interested in ascertaining the precise depth of the castle-well at that time. CHAPTER VII. A REACTION. From which I escaped heart-free, with the least little touch of spleen. — Maud. That evening Orme, having finished his packing, such as it was, had come down and gone out upon the terrace overlooking the sands. It was deserted just then ; empty cofi'ee-cups and liqueur glasses stood on the little round tables, the visitors had adjourned to the Casino or their private rooms — he had the place to himself. He ?.eaned upon the balcony rail and looked out to sea, on which darkness was rapidly closing, the long bars of orange and citron which broke the slate-coloured cloud-banks in the west were narrow- 58 THE PARIAH ing and fading, and over the dim sands below, the light from the hotel lamps thckcred fantastically as the breeze blew the tricolonred banners with which they were festooned across their globes, and, farther out, the Maves broke in gleaming phosphorescent rolls. Far away to the right, two bright revolvmg lights and a chain of fiery points indicated Havre, where he would be next day ; on the left were the crimson and gi-een lights of the piers and the garish electric halo above the Casino. He was thinking, a little sorely, about Miss Chevening. He had not spoken to her since their conversation in the courtyard at Bonneville. He had seen her at the table cVhote — at a distance as usual — and that would in all probability prove to have been his last sight of her. Perhaps, as he was bringing himself to see, it was best so. There had been perO in his friendship : he had come dangerously near losing his heart to her. He had admired her unwillingly, against his better judgment, unable altogether to resist the charm of her insouciance, her graceful disdain, her pretty impertinences, even when most distrustful of the nature they seemed to reveal. But this last experience had cured him, disenchanted him, he thought. This ghl was more than careless — she was cruel, merci- less to everyone that did not fall in with her fastidious taste ; remonstrances, appeals were thrown away upon her. Heaven help the man who let himself love such a woman as that ! Well, he had had his warning ; he should go awaj^ next morning without a pang or a regret — except that disenchantment is perliaps fraught with the keenest regret of all. "While he was indulging in these meditations, he heard the swing-doors move behind him and the sweep of drapery, and then his name called by Miss Chevening herself. He turned, to find her standing close by, her eyes shining and her face looking pale in the subdued light. ' You have somethmg to say to me ? ' he asked, wondering greatly. ' I wanted to ask you first, if it is true that you are going away to-morrow ? ' ' Quite true. It was understood that I could only be here a week.' ' I did not know. If I had, I should not have spoken as I did this afternoon to you.' ' I really don't remember,' he said, ' that I had any reason to complain personally of what you said.' ' Ah ! ' she said, ' don't put me off bj' being cold and civil, please, Mr. Orme ; I couldn't bear to thuik that our last talk should be like that. I don't want you to go away thinking very badly of me — and — and I am afraid you will ! ' She spoke with such a sweet humilitj^ such eliildish eagerness to put herself right with him, that no man could have hardened his heart against her, and no one but a coxcomb have misinterpreted her appeal. A REACTION 59 ' It is too good of you to care what I think,' Orme said. ' Of coiu'se I care ! Haven't we been friends ? Considering liow short a time we have known one another, we were very good friends, I think— till lately. And though I don't suppose we are very likely to meet again, I should like to part fi'iends. I don't want to have it all spoilt at the last.' She was more dangerous just then than he had ever found her before. He had to keep a firm command over himself to restrain some speech which would be a hideous mistake. ' I know,' she went on, ' it was I who spoilt it, but — but I think you are a little too severe. You don't consider enough what it is to me to have to know a creature like that, it's so different for a man — it is really ! And it acts on my nerves, it makes me — well, not myself. I am not bad except to people I thoroughly dislike. This afternoon, I own, I had no excuse — it was mean of me, but seeing him there suddenly — it annoyed me ; I wanted to make him feel a little, but he felt nothing — it was I who felt ashamed ! And that made me speak to you as I did. You know how I hate owning myself in the wrong, but I will this once — just a little bit.' Orme could not help being amused as well as touched. Miss Chevening's penitence was so evidently of a limited order. ' That is something, isn't it ? ' he said, smiling. ' There is another thing,' continued Miss Clievening hurriedly. ' Perhaps, as yoii seem to take such an interest in him, you may be feeling a little uncomfortable about leaving him to my tender mercies ? Y'^ou need not be. I hope we shall not have to be here very much longer, but, while we are, I will be as good to him as I can possibly be expected to be. There ! ' ' I am sure you will not re.gret it.' ' Ai-e j-ou ? I am not — but never mind. And j-ou do believe a little more in me than you did, don't you ? ' "What could he do but protest ? And just then, too, his belief in her was cloi;dcd by no mistrust. It was impossible to look at her as she stood there and think a harsh thought of her. ' Then — that is all, and — mother is waiting for me in the salo7i ; I must go in now, Mr. Orme. We may not meet again before you go to-morrow, so will you shake hands — ^just to show we are friends again ? ' ' I am only too glad that you will let me be your friend — now and always,' he said, as he held her hand for an instant, and then she went within, leaving him less reconciled to his appi'oaching departure than she had found hiua, and yet with a consolatory glow at his heart. He would go away now with a memory of her maiTcd by no touch of bitterness ; it was an episode in his life, and it was finished, but it Avould be long before he forj^ot it, and as often as he recalled it, it would always be with the same tantalising wonder whether he had just escaped delicious happmess or exqui- site misery. 60 THE PARIAH The next morning Miss Clievening, -who had been one of the party who saw Nugent Orme off, stood by the hghthouse, following the steamer as it crossed the bay to Havre, mitil it became iu- distingiiishuble agauast the blurred smoke and sparkle of the quays. She felt a little sad ; she had not realised till then how much he had filled her life of late ; how interesting it had been, even to dift'er from him. It gave her a momentary pang to look at the Roches Noires and remember that walk with him the first day. Trotiville looked different, somehow, now he had gone — it seemed to have lost its meaning. 'He went away very sudden at the last,' said Allen, coming up to her. ' I'm sorry he had to go like that : aren't you, Miss Chevening ? ' Miss Chevening made a diplomatic reply to the effect that there was always something rather melancholy in seeing people off, even if thej^ were almost strangers. ' Wh}', j-on couldn't call him a stranger ! ' cried Allen ; ' you knew him — well, pretty near as well as you do us. You won't have to see us off just yet,' he added consolingly. ' It is just i^ossible,' remarked Margot, ' that — to spare ourselves all avoidable pain — we may go first.' ' Or — I say — we might all go together, eh ? ' he suggested eagerly. ' We might, of course, but I don't see the slightest reason for such an arrangement.' This could not be called exactly cordial, but it was an effort to her to answer him at all, and she was really putting some control upon herself in doing so at that particular time. But for the joint effect of her promise to Orme and the thought of her mother's dis- pleasm-e, she could not have endured Allen as jjatientl}' as she did during the following days. Margot's regret for Oi-me was but a passing one ; she was heart- whole still, and rather annoj-ed with herself for indulging even a momentary sentiment. He was only a friend ; she did not want him as anything else, she would probably not see him again, and she did not feel particitlarly unhappy at the thought. Still, she Kked thinking of him. Meanwhile, the Trouville season was drawing to a close ; the shrill chorus of lauijhter and squeaking from the oilskin-capped bathers i,'rew less loud and sustained ; it was comparatively easy to get a chair, and even a striped umbrella, on the sands ; the company became more bourgeois, there were fewer j^achtsmen in spotless white CarUst caps, and more stout gentlemen in black alpaca leading very small dogs adorned with immense rosettes. In the hotels the tables tVhotc contracted as fast as the famous peaii de chagrin, and the survivors made gloomy jests on their reduced numbers; strips of bedside carpet were protraded, like bilious tongues, from the upi)er windows, and in the toy villas along the plage all the crimson blinds were drawn, and the Swiss verandahg deserted. A REACTIOJJ 61 As a further sign, Margot and her mother, driving -out one afternoon witli the two Chadwicks, met the head-waiter of the Cahfornie and his two principal assistants all mounted on spirited horses, with which they seemed none of them to be on the closest terms. ' Why, that's the fellow who brings me my wine,' cried Chad- wick ; ' he'll be grassed if he doesn't look out, to a dead certainty.' ' None of them can ride a little bit,' said Allen ; ' regular muffs-^ look, that one has lost his stirrup ! ' ' You talk as if you knew something about it,' said Margot suavely. ' Do you ride ? ' Her benevolent intention of putting him out of countenance failed for once. ' Oh yes,' he said. ' I'm very fond of it. I ride every day at home.' This statement, while it siu-prised her, certainly raised him a little in her estimation ; she had a great respect for manliness, and had not expected him to possess such an accomplishment as horse- manship. It was lucky for him that she did not know the exact extent and duration of that possession, which might have altered the case. As it was, she treated him with so much more consideration, that that evening, on returning from their drive, after Chadwick had rallied the equestrian waiters on their riding until he was satisfied he had thoroughly endeared himself to them, and Margot and her mother had reached their rooms, Mrs. Chevening — not verj' wisely — commended her daughter upon her im^^roved manner towards Allen. ' I am really so pleased to see how nicely you behave to that young Mr. Chadwick now,' she said; 'you've quite got over your old objections to him, haven't you, darling Margot ? ' ' If you ask me, dear,' said Margot calmly, ' I think I dislike and detest him more cordially every day, only I'm tired of show- ing it.' ' Now that's so iingracious, to spoil it like that, when I was feeling so happy about it all, too ! ' ' Happy '? But ivhy should you be happy about it, mother ? ' incpiired Margot, as she drew the pin out of her hat and turned round suddenly. ' Is it very unnatural that I shoiild like to see my daughter on — on pleasant terms with the son of someone who is becoming almost an intimate fi-iend ? ' 'You have a stronger reason than that, dear,' she said. ' Tell me what it is.' ' You say such odd things at times,' protested Mrs, Chevening. •"What stronger reason could I have ? ' ' Ah, you forget I am gi-own-up ! I can't help putting things together, and seeing that you are letting yourself build hopes on what may come of this friendship.' G2 THE PARI AH ' IIo^y dare you ! ' Mrs. Chevening was beginning, when her daughter stopped her. ' Now it's no use, mother dear ; you know as well as I do that you have been thinhiug what a good thing it would be if that dread- ful young boor were to pay me the honour of proposing to me. Thank goodness, siich an idea has never occm-red to him — he wouldn't dare to even conceive it ! but if he did ; oh, if he did, do you suppose I would ever consent for anything in the world — whj^, mother, I simply couldn't ! ' ' Well, my dear,' said her mother, after a pause, ' there's no occasion to excite yourself over it. He has not asked you yet, and there will be time enough to do so when he does.' ' He will be a very foolish youth indeed if he ever does ; but, so long as you quite understand, the rest is his atiair. Luckily, there is very little time left him, for I suppose we shan't stay here miich longer? Everybody is going; even the Spooners leave the day after to-morrow. "\Vhen shall we go, dear ? ' ' "When I think proper, my love,' was the unsatisfactory reply. ' It must be expensive, staying here, surely ? ' said Miss Cheven- ing, pouting. ' That, again, is entirely my affair.' Miss Chevening shrugged her shoulders as she prepared to leave the room. ' Very well, mother dear, only I warn you I can't go on behav- ing nicely for ever. I can't guarantee that my patience shall last many days more — he must not try me too far, that is all.' Mrs. Chevening made no answer ; when her daughter was gone she went to the window and threw open the wooden shutters as if she felt the need of air. ' If she would only be sensible ! ' she mused aloud; ' if she wiU only see things in the proper light — but I am afraid of her — yes, I am afraid of her spoiling everything ! ' Margot was by no means satisfied with this conversation ; it was disagi-ceable, for one thing, to know that their stay at Trouvdle — of which place slie was heartilj' thed — was still indefinitely prolonged, but she had other reasons for disquietiide. She could place but little confidence in her mother, who, indolent and rather shiftless as she was hi most things, was capable occasionally of devising, and even following out, a tortuous policy with surprising energy and persis- tency. And for some time Margot liad had an instinctive misgiving that her mother was working to secure Allen Chadwick as a son-in- law, and that she afreadj- had his father's assent and co-operation. Tliis was not in any way alarming to Miss Chevening, who felt a calm reliance in her own power to withstand all argiunents, prayers, or pressure ; but it made her very indignant that her own mother should know lier so little. And then she felt that she her- self must have encouraged the delusion lately by her milder de- meanour towards this youthful Orson, which was more exasperating than anything else. That mistake, at aU events, she resolved she would avoid for the future. A REACTION 63 So that when, that same evening, she found herself, as was her nightly fate, walking by Allen's side behind their resjiective parents to the Casino, she was once more in her most rebellious mood. How much longer, she wondered wearily, would this go on ? How long before he gave her the chance of refusing hiin ; he had assumed none of the airs of a wooer as yet — the fact being that he stood iu far too much awe of her. ' I dialled those waiter chaps in fine style,' he was saying ; ' did you hear me, Miss Chevening, eh ? ' ' You gave me every opporti;nity of hearing you,' she replied. He had passed the head-^^•aiter in the entrance hall, and, in imitation of his father, had been facetious at his expense. 'You don't think he minded what I said, eh? do you?' he asked, struck by her tone into sudden misgivings ; ' he grained like blazes.' ' I dare say it afforded him exquisite amusement,' said Margot, but if yon don't mind, I shall be grateful if you will choose any other time for amusing head-waiters with merry jests of that kind than when you happen to be with me.' ' Whj', I only asked him ' he began. ' Will you please be quiet ? ' said Miss Chevening, with a very dangerous distinctness. ' I am not at all in a good temper this evening. I would rather not be talked to just now, reall3\' He glanced at her sidewaj's, scarcely believing she was serious, but the glimpse he had of her drawn eyebrows and the ominous compres- sion of her lower lip gave him, though he was not wise, temporary wisdom to follow her advice until they reached the Casino. Arrived there, Mrs. Chevening, after establishing herself with Chadwick on the promenade, playfully suggested that Allen must be pining to lose some money at the Race Game, and that dear Margot was always so amused looking on ; she thought perhaps if they would promise not to be very long away, they m'ujlit — And they went in to the Petits Chevaux, Margot calculating that there, at least, she would have less of his conversation. ' Les Petits Chevaux,' perhaps the best known of all French watering-place games, is not a veiy reckless or ruinous mode of dissipation — at Trouville, at all events. The fact that the Board has no interest at stake ensures that the game is conducted with exemplary fairness ; each of the little leaden horses is ' run to win,' and the greatest plunger cannot lose or gain more than a trifling number of fi-ancs on each race. To the large number of sportsmen who, to quote one of Mr. Pmero's characters, 'don't know a horse from a ham-sandwich,' Les Petits Chevaux must be a superior kind of race-meeting, with nothing to pay for a stand, and an event run every four minutes instead of every quarter of an hour. The speculator has always one chance in eight of gaining seven times his stake, which makes the amusement highly popular with all ages, from shaky old gentlemen and raddled old women, to fi-esh young girls, and even childi-en, who surround the green cloth and C4 THE PARI AH revolving horses as excitedly as if every race were the Derby or the Grand Prix at the very least. Margot was standing looking on at the scene, which generally amused her for a short time. All the players were so intensely serious over it ; there was a desperate scramble to seize a ticket from the rack at the end of the stick with which the croupier went round ; bitter jealousies and protestations from the side which he did not happen to visit, for at Trouville there is a limit to the number of tickets sold on each race. The croupiers would ignore dozens of grasping hands, and resist the most bewitching blandish- ments, with a splendid sense of their own importance ; then came the expectant hush as the spring was pulled, and the gaily-coloured • field ' went spmning round and round, gradually to sepai-ate, slacken, and stop, one by one, until the umpire triumphantly announced the number of the winner, and the cashier paid all holders of the corresponding ticket. She saw many of the regular visitors, some who came in time for the opening race about half- past eight and stayed till ten or eleven ; there was the grim old lady with a moutli like a purse, whose husband paid the francs whilst she pocketed any winnings; there was the old Anglo-Parisian who sat in the front row with lack-lustre eyes and took a chance as seldom as possible ; there was the stout person with the pretty face and the bare hands which had such a subtle vulgarity in their movements. Close by were a young married couple trying the effect of a sprig of white heather they had found that morning on the clitf, and a little overdressed child whose mother, m an eccentric hat and toilet, had given her a fr'anc to try her fortune with. Near Margot was an old Frenchman who, from constant atten- dance, had come to acquire a profound knowledge of metal horse- flesh ; he could tell as soon as the field began to thin which horse would stop first and where, and was equally excited whether he had any mone^- on the race or not. He resembled other sporting prophets in that his anticipations were not invariably corroborated by the result. ' Are you going to have a try, eh ? ' said Allen to her. ' I'll get you a ticket.' Miss Chevening declined the offer ; she objected to being under the slightest obligation to him ; her pride, too, made her dislike to join in the undignified scramble for francs in that mixed assembly. ' Well,' said iUlen, ' I think I'll have a go in, if you don't mind waiting a bit.' ' Here, ici ! ' he cried, as the croupier went by with his rack and the little saucer underneath for the coins; he snatched a ticket. ' Number tliree,' he said, ' hasn't won since we've been hero. I'm lucky at all this sort of thmg. I won a i^ot the other evening.' ' I can quite imagine that,' said Margot, with a curling lip, ' j'ou are so very careful not to lose, you see.' A REACTION G5 '- Oh, I've a head on me,' ho agi-eed. ' ^Yhat's that fellow calling out '? ' ' He is saying that somebody has not paid for his ticket,' said Margot. ' Not very honourable, if it was done on inu-i)Ose, was it?' ' Some of these French fellows are up to any dodge,' he answered, and the cashier, having received no reply to his demand for the missing stake, emptied the saucer into his partitioned box with a shrug. A curly -haired boy with a saintly face, like the type of the pattern orphan in moral engravings, was pushing the horses into position for a new start, and the race began. ' Le quatre est bon ! ' said the old Frenchman encouragingly to a neighbour, ' le quatre est tres bon.' But No. 4 stops under one of the brass arches on the wTong side of the post. ' Ce sera le sept,' he announced with authority, as No. 7 came gliding nearer and nearer the post. ' Ah, non, il a passe ' (with the deepest melancholy), ' il va niourir .... il est mort ! ' ' Didn't I tell you 1 ' cried Allen. ' Look at three going as strong as ever, he'll just romp in— you see ! ' Margot took no notice of him: 'Ce sera le deux,' said the infallible Frenchman again, ' ou le trois ! ' he added. ' It's a dead heat,' said Allen, who seemed much excited. ' I do call it cruel luck, don't you ? ' but she would not answer. The umpii-e was measuring the distance from the horses' noses to the post with a piece of strmg. ' Le trois ! ' he declared, with a grin, ' r excellent trois, messieurs et mesdames!' and he gave the unsuccessful No. 2 a contemptuous jerk back to the starting point. ' Here ! ' shouted Allen to the cashier, ' ici avec la monnaie — c'est moi, j'ai le trois : regardez 1 ' ' I wouldn't excite myself,' said Margot contemptuously ; ' they are not likely to cheat you — they play quite fairly ! ' ' By Jove ! ' he exclaimed suddenly ; ' I half think it was me who forgot to put the two fi-ancs in — they're in my waistcoat pocket now.* • I am sure it was you,' said Margot ; ' I was watching.' He laughed : ' I've done them finely,' ho said. ' It was " heads I won, tails they lost," and no mistake that time. But I didn't mean to, you know,' he added. 'I was in such a hurry, I didn't notice. I call that a good joke, though, eh ? ' 'People's ideas of jokes are so different,' said Margot, as he pocketed his winnings. ' Have you won enough ? ' ' Wait a bit,' he said ; ' I must have another shot. Hear what they're calling out. " Qui desire de la moimaie ? " I thought we all wanted monej' — I do ! ' ' He is only offering small change,' Margot said, as she glanced at him with a weary disgust. The principal croupier and umpire, who seemed to regard his duties in a fiivolous light, was holding up the remaining ticket ou r 66 THE PARiAn his rack. ' C'est le huit, messieurs, le beau liuit, rexeellent huit. Qui veut le huit ? ' ' Here, I'll have it,' said Allen, and secm-ecl it. ' You saw me pay that time!' he remarked to Margot, who had not beenhstening or attending to anythmg of this. Again tlie mnoeent-faeed boy marshals the field into line and retires meekly to put more tickets into their slits on the racks ; again the horses spin round. Eight, as the experienced Frenchman remarks wisely, is always a sluggish animal, and he is true to his reputation on this occasion, for he comes to a standstill halfway from the loost. Allen says, ' No luck this time,' and tears up his ticket, while the other horses are still chculating at various rates of speed. But now occurs a curious turn of fortune — all but two have stopped in the rear of number eight ; the survivors are gently nearing the winning-post amidst the k£enest interest, their impetus being just sufficient to send them past it, and by the rules of the game, to dis- qualify them fi"om winning, so that the despised number eight, being now the first on the left side of the post, actually becomes the winner after all. Allen had torn up his ticket, but the floor was strewn with dis- carded tickets of all numbers, and he picks uj) one which bears the winning number, but which is of a different colour from the original. ' Voila — c'est moi — ^j'ai gagne ! ' he bawls, as the cashier — not the person who sold him the ticket paper — looks at it and pushes it aside contemptuously. ' Here ! ' shouts Allen, ' payez-moi, do you hear ? Vite ! it's all right, I tell you ; this yoimg lady wiU tell you it's all right. Miss Margot, tell them how it was ! ' He looked round as he spoke, and found himself alone. Outside one of the large glass doors of the saloon devoted to the Petits Chevaux, sat Mrs. Chevenmg and Mr. Chadwick. ' You know,' he had said, as he dropped his cigar ash into the tub of an adjoining orange-tree, ' I don"t pretend that boy of mine is as smart as I should like to see him, but I'm not going to have him looked down on.' ' But indeed,' mumim-ed Mrs. Chevening, with her eyes upon the slanted spears which supported the canvas above the band-kiosk, and which now stood bare against the starlight, ' indeed, dear Mr. Chadwick, it is so very unlikely that anj-one could do that. And when he has been a httle more in the society of nice EngHsh gu-ls • ' Well,' he said, ' there's your Miss Margot — she's a nice girl enough, but it strikes me she don't take to him as much as I should like to see.' ' How can you say so ! ' cried Mrs. Chevening. ' Margot's is such a very peculiar nature, so slow in according her friendship — there she is like me— but most loj^al when her friendship has once been given I I could tell you many instances which would quite convince yon A REACTION 67 that she and your Allen are admirable friends now — you miist have noticed how constantly they are together. I assure you, I never _ remember her allowing anyone to monopolise her society before. I was quite sur]n'ised.' ' They arc a good deal together,' he admitted. ' I suppose, as you say so, they get on better than they seem to.' ' Surely you must see for yourself how much his manners have altered for the better — it is a little education in itself, being really intimate with a frank, fresh, highbred girl as, although I am her mother, I can't help seeing that she is; and there is no idea of anything but ordinary fi'iendship on either side. Margot is quite free from any foolish desire to turn a boy's head —you need not be afraid of that.' ' If she chose to turn it, and marry him, I don't know that I should have much to say against it,' said Chadwick ; ' but I daresay that woulcha't suit you — you don't mind associating with us out here, but if it came to any talk of more, why, it would be good- night, I suppose ? ' ' Yon are vei-y, very mijust ! ' said Mrs. Chevening. ' "Who am I to have any rithculous notions of that sort ? Can you possibly imagme — I — I You evidently do not imderstand the value I put upon our acquaintance. I have been quite di'eadmg to think how soon it would be over ! ' ' How over ? ' asked Chadwick. ' We're not so very far from London, where you live. I shall run up now and then, if I don't take a house in town for the season next year. It needn't be over, xmless you like.' ' People alwaj's say that,' she returned ; ' but you will have found other fi'icnds in your county before that time, and you will soon think it a bore to come all the way to Chiswick to caU on us. I am sure Margot will miss her fi-iend Allen — she is so very constant, poor dear.' ' Do you mean what you're saying ? ' he replied, bending forward ; ' because ' But Mrs. Chevening was not destined to hear the conclusion of this sentence ; for just at that moment a shadow fell between them, and, as they looked up, they saw Margot standing hj the orange tree. ' Mr. Chadwick,' she said, with a calmness which seemed to cost her some effort, ' I think you had better go to your son. He is making rather a disturbance in there.' ' Eh, what ? Allen ! ' said Chad\\ick, rising. ' ^Yhat is the matter ? ' ' You had better ask him,' said Margot ; ' but there is reallj- no time to bo lost.' He went in at once, and Margot caught her mother's arm : ' Let us go, mother, quick — before they come back ! I can't speak to him, I can't ! ' she said hurriedly. Her eyebrows were con- tracted, and her eyes looked dark and excited in the glare that came through the op«n doors. Mrs. Chevening saw at once that F 2 68 THE PARIAH something was very wrong indeed. ' Don't ask me about it here-^ let us go, let us get away from this place first ! ' said Margot. ' You will certainly be better at home,' said her mother, sup- pressing her disi^leasure as well as she might, as thej* went down by tlie steps from the terrace, and one of the black-liveried and silver- chained huissiers obsequiously let them through the gate. "When they were walking along the planks in the darkness, Mrs. Chevening said : ' Now, perhaps, you will tell me what this means ? ' ' He tried to cheat, mother ! ' cried Margot. ' Twice ! I thought it might be a mistake the first time — but the second they found him out, and he dared — he dared to try to get me to screen him ! ' ' "What did you say to him ? "What did you do ? ' ' I ? Nothing. I left him and came to you ; and he was making such a scene— everyone was looking at us ! Oh, mother, if you knew how ashamed I feel to have been there ! ' Margot's indignation and disgust were not unnatural under the circumstances, for, as it happened, the number which Allen had di-awn on the occasion had not attracted her attention. She had heard him say his horse had lost and had seen him tear up his ticket, and so she was horrified to see him pick up another and present it as if he had won. Policy induced Mrs. Chevening to take a charitable and, though she did not suspect it, a correct view of the matter. ' You must have been mistaken,' she said ; ' it is absmd to imagine that a young man who has plenty of pocket-money, as I kno^v, would cheat for a few paltry francs ! ' 'I am not mistaken,' said Margot. 'I was there and saw it. If he has plenty it makes it all the worse. I am not surprised ; I knew he was like that. I forced myself to endure him because yow wished it ; you will not ask me to humiliate myself any longer after this. You will not, will you ? ' ' I am sure it can all be explained,' said Mrs. Chevening. ' If you like to listen to any explanations, of course he may give them, but not to me. I will never speak to him again. I mean it, mother. I have borne it too long. You must tell him not to expect that I shall take the slightest notice of him.' ' That is absurd ! ' said her mother. ' How can you avoid it in a place like this ? ' ' I will avoid it. I will keep in my room rather than see him and have to speak to him. If he meets me and dares to behave as if nothing had happened, he shall know what I think of him ! ' declared angry Margot. ' Then, my dear,' said Mrs. Choveuing, ' you will do more mischief than you have any idea of.' AN UNEXPECTED DELIVERANCE 69 CHAPTER VIII. AN UNEXPECTED DELIVERANCE. O, he's as tedious As is a tired horte, a railing wife ; Worse than a smoky house : — I had rather live With cheese and garlic in a windmill, far, Than feed on cakes, and have him talk to me ! Henry IV. Part I. Act 3. Gone, and the light gone with her, and left me in shadow here! Gone — flitted away. Taken the stars from the night and the sun from the day ! The Window. Mrs. Ciievening said no more just then, and Margot, having given expression to her long pent-up indignation, was wise enough to remain content, eo that they reached the Cahfornie in silence. Two tired waiters, possibly the equestrians of that afternoon, were reposing on the divans in the hall, and rose guiltily as they entered. As Margot sat opposite her mother in the lift she thought how sharp and haggard her featiures looked. ' I'm tired, mother,' she said, as soon as they were alone in the sitting-room of their suite ; ' and I'm sure j'ou are. I think I'll go to bed at once.' ' You will stay for a few minutes, if you please,' said Mrs. Chevening, as she untied her evening cloak with hands that were not as steady as usual. ' I want to talk to j'ou a little first, about — about the Chadwicks.' Margot sat down with a resigned air. ' Haven't we talked about them enougli ? ' she protested. ' I want to know if you were serious in what you said down there. Am I to understand that you mean to decline all intercourse whatever with that boy — or what ? ' ' I should like to, but I suppose I can't really do that without a fuss. I shall certainly refuse to go anywhere alone with him.' ' You know perfectly well that I have never wished you to do that at any time — I have always been close at hand.' ' But I have had to walk with him, to sit next to him, listen to him,' cried Margot impetuously. ' I will not do that anj' more.' ' You mean to show him publicly that you do not consider him fit to speak to you ? ' ' He is nut fit to speak to me,' she said proudlj'. ' Even if this had never happened, mother, you must know really tliat I ought not to be forced to treat him as an equal ; his verj' accent is enough, he is hopelessly common and underbred. I bore everything till to-night ; but can you wish me to let myself bo seen with someone who has been found out cheating in a public place like that ? ' ' I will spare you all future annoyance from him,' sftid Mrs. 70 THE PAEIAII Chevening, 'but I must have your promise that you will act sensibly about this. The poor young man has been badly brought up, and that is very deplorable, no doubt, but we ought to pity him. I can't believe myself that you have not been mistaken in what 3-0U thot:ght you saw ; but think of his poor father's feehngs if you humiliate his son as j-ou seem bent upon doing.' ' Is it my {-dixit if he behaves so as to deserve it ? ' she said. ' Mr. Chadwick may be a valuable friend to us some day,' retorted her mother. ' You know nothing of the world, Margot, nor how every year makes it more difficult for me to live and keep out of debt. Yoiu' brother and sisters are growmg up, and I he awake night after night, wondering how I am to pro^•ide for them all, and what will become of them if anything happens to me. But you think nothing of anyone but yourself — you leave me to make all the sacrifices, to bear all the burden alone — you -svill do nothing to help ! ' ' Does that mean,' Margot exclaimed, ' that you hope Mr. Chadwick will lend you money? Sm-ely we have not sunk to that!' ' You must mean to insult me hy even suggesting such a thing ! ' said Mrs. Chevening passionately. ' How am I to make you under- stand that it is j-our dutj^ to me, to yoiu- brother and sisters, to obey me m what I ask ? You mrist not allow this young man to see any difference in j-our manner, do you hear, you must not ! I must have your promise before you leave the room.' Margot' s hands were entwining themselves feverishly upon the gaudy velvet table-cover. 'Mother dear,' she said earnestly, 'it's no use ; if I gave a promise I could not keep it, it is asking too much — it is mdeed ! I know what you want ; you are hoping that I might bring mj'self some day to accept him. I told you before that I could not do that — not even for you and the others. You must give up the idea — nothing would ever make me listen for a single moment ! ' ' Am I to tell you again,' said her mother impatiently, • that I am not asking you to do anything of the sort ? I simply ask you to have a little charity, a little patience, not to do or say anything that can make any breach. Come, you will not be so obstinate and unreasonable as to refuse that ? ' It seemed to Margot that if she did not make a stand then, she would find herself pledged to more than she could fulfil. She felt absolutely unable to promise to restrain the contempt she felt for Allen Chadwick after what had happened — it was not right that she should be called upon to do so. ' I do refuse,' she said firmly. ' I detest him, and I wish hiiu to know that I do. ' ' Then,' said Mrs. Chevening, ' I will not keep you here. You shall go back to-morrow.' If she had any hope of impressing her daughter by this threat, she was undeceived. AN UNEXPECTED DELIVERANCE 71 Do you mean it — really mean it ? ' cried Margot, 'Go back to Littleliampton to-morrow and see the children again — get away from those two Chadwicks ? Mother, it sounds too delightful to be true ! ' ' Delightful or not,' replied her mother frostily, ' I mean what I say. I shall go with you as far as Ilonfieur to-morrow, and see you on board the Littleliampton boat, so you had better have all yoiu" things ready in time for the mid-day diligence.' ' Then you are not going to Littleliampton, too ? ' cried Margot in surprise. ' Certainly not, at present. I am very well content with Trou- ville, and I can trust myself, though it seems I cannot trust my daiightcr, to stay for a few days A\itliout insulting peoi:)le who are only anxious to be our friends. It is no pleasure to me to travel any distance with a disobedient, ungrateful girl, I assure J'^ou.' Margot tried to assume a j)roper degree of concern, but in her joy at this unhoped-for escape, it is to be feared that her mother's displeasmre did not cloud her spirits very perceptibly, and her chief alarm that night was lest Mrs. Chevening should change her mind b}- morning. But that lady was evidently in earnest ; she secured places by the diligence and sent off a telegi'am to Miss Henderson, her governess, at the earliest possible moment, and so managed matters that ]\Iargot and she were on the top of the shabby old Honfleiu- diligence, which was toiling up the hill above Trouville at the very time when Mr, Chndwick and his son were searching for them diligently on the sands. INIargot drew a deep breath of relief as they came out on the level road along the cliff. Behind lay Trouville and Deauville, glancing and shining in the sun. Pleasant as were some of the memories they held, lier more recent experiences made her anxious to turn her back on them; there she could just make out the imposing mass of tho Casino at the landward end of the long curved jetties with the white lighthouses, as it all lay spread out below. Devoutly she tlianked Providence that she would never again be compelled to walk tlirough those rooms under iUlen Chadwick's escort. And on her left was the sparkling blue sea, which she would cross that night to find herself by morning at Littlehampton, with Ida and Peggie, and her favourite Lettice. What a relief the placid respectability of that not too lively watering-place would be after Trouville ! So she mused, and her spirits grew lighter and lighter as the diligence jingled drowsily along under the branching trees, through Henne- queville with its little church, where Margot had seen the aiodel votive ships hanging up from the dim rafters, past Villerville with its narrow empty streets of tall houses, and down into hilly Honfleur. The Littlehampton steamer was lying alongside one of the quaj's, and was to start at dusk, and ]\Irs. Chevening, who had preserved an injured silence throughout the drive, secured a passage, and 72 THE PARIAH Margot and she had a parting meal, which neither found an agree- able one, at one of the hotels before going on board the boat. ' I must leave you now,' said Mrs. Chevening coldly. ' I wish you had not compelled me to send you away in this manner, but I have spoken to the stewardess, and Miss Henderson will meet you at Littlehampton, so you will be safe enough. Good-bye, Margot. I hope on reflection you will see how foohsh and ^vrong you have been.' ' Good-bye, dear,' said Margot, a little piteously. ' Don't be angry with me, and — and j-ou will be with us very soon, won't you ? ' ' You will hear — that is, I shall let Miss Henderson know when to exjiect me.' And Mrs. Chevening, after going on board the packet and confiding Margot to the care of the stewardess with a recommendation to keep as much m the ladies' cabin as possible, departed to catch the return diligence to Trouville. She did not altogether like leaving her in this way, but she had no other course imless she quitted Trouville, too, which did not suit her conveni- ence. Margot, besides, was perfectly capable of taking care of herself, and the governess would be on the quay to meet her next morning. Margot was conscious of being in disgrace, and though she was too proud to show it, she felt the frigidity with which her mother took leave of her. Still her chief sensation was always relief — re- lief at the knowledge that by to-morrow she would have put the Channel between herself and her incubus, Allen Chadwick. She could not repent of the firmness which had procured her release. And then she was going to her family, the sisters and brother who were more to her than anyone else in the world. So that, before the steamer left the harbour. Miss Chevening had foi'gotten all that was unpleasant and fallen asleep in a state of perfect contentment. Nowhere on Trouville sands could Mr. Chadwick discern the becoming foulard costume which was Mrs. Chevening's usual morn- ing dress. He felt a little lost without a companion to w"hom he had grown so accustomed, and his son did not succeed in consoling him for the deprivation. At dejeuner she and her daughter were absent from their usual places, but still he merely thought that they were away on some excursion for the day. ' If she'd told me she wanted to go anywhere,' he repeated, 'we covild have all gone together.' Allen said nothing for some time, until, late in the afternoon, he put into words a fear that had been growing. ' You don't think they've gone for good ? ' he suggested. ' Without so much as a good-bye, after the way we've been about together ? ' said his father. ' No, I certainly don't think that. But it's odd, because at the Casino last night ' ' Do you think she — they were angry with me for having that row -with the cashier chap ? ' said Allen flushing. ' That was when I last saw Miss Margot. I looked round, and she was gone. I've been wondering why ever since,' AN UNEXPECTED DELTV'EEANCE 73 Do you know why sho went, eh ? She came to tell mo you were in a mess of some sort, and ask me to go to you. What do you think of that ? She was as flustered and eager as if you'd been her own brother. I believe she thought the establishment were going to do something very bad to j'ou ! ' A great weight was off Allen's mind ; he was overjoyed to hear for the first time that stately Miss Chevcning had concerned herself on his accomit ; it gave a new fervour to his devotion. He had been tormenting himself with fantastic fears that she had resented his playing at the Petits Chevaux, and had gone away in disgust. ' So she did stay, till that began ? ' ho exclaimed. ' I wish sho had seen the finish of it. Why, they gave in directly they saw 1 was the only claimant. I wasn't going to see them do me out of my winnings, no fear, if I had' torn up the ticket ! ' ' Well, you can tell her all about it at dinner to-night. She regularly frightened me at first. I expected to find you in for a duel — pistols or swords — first thing in the morning ! She was so upset she got her naother to take her home at once, and that's how we missed them.' But at the table d'hote that evening Mr. Chadwick found one of the waiters drawing back Mrs. and Miss Chevening's chairs for two strangers. ' Here, gar^on, hold on,' he said ; ' those two are engaged — those ladies, who always sit here — you know that well enough.' ' Pardon, but they have leave ; they have their baggages by the omnibus for the diligence to Honfleur this morning. I was to see them depart,' said the waiter with a grin. Mr. Chadwick was plainly highly disconcerted by this informa- tion, though he passed it off at the time. ' All right,' he said ; ' it's all the same to me — don't like seeing people turned out of their proper scats, that's all.' But afterwards he waxed exceedingly bitter over it to Allen. ' I can't understand it,' he said over and over again ; ' it beats me. I suppose I've been a^\ay from England so long. But if ever a woman regularly went out of her way to be friendly she did. And the money I've spent to make things jileasant and agreeable for her ! Not that I grudge it, that's neither here nor there, but to go off without a word or even a line to say she was sorry to have to go, or hoped we might meet again, or anything of the sort ! If that's Society manners, all I can say is, no more fine ladies for me ! Just make use of you as long as it's convenient, and then throw you off like one of their gloves ! I'm downright disgusted with the pair of them. I thought they had more gratitude 1 ' ' Perhaps they couldn't help themselves — I mean, going away so suddenly,' suggested Allen ; it was what he wanted to believe himself, and anything that was a reflection on Margot gave him a curious pain. The suggestion, however, drew down his father's anger upon his own head. ' Couldn't help themselves ? You don't know what you are 74 THE PAEIAH talking about ! I tell j'Oii thej' coiild have helped themselves if they'd chosen to. And now I come to think of it, it's as likely as not that that precious allau* at the Casino last night did the business ! ' ' But,' stammered Allen, * didn't you say ]\Iiss Margot came and told you to come to ine '? There was no disgrace in what I did ! ' ' The mother maj' have got hold of some garbled account. She's a proud-tempered woman, and naturally she wouldn't like her daughter to be seen going about with a fellow who'd got himself mixed up in a public row at the Casino. About a few paltry francs, too ! ' he burst out, aUowing his wrath to escape by this con- venient channel. ' I wish to God you could break yourself of these low ways and behave more lilie a gentleman ! I'd have paid you the monej- ten times over sooner than have this happen ! What's the good of my going and makmg acquaintances if j'ou drive 'em out of the place ? ' This was the first time that Mr. Chadwick had spoken to hia son in anger, and the first time, also, that he had ever seemed to show any conscioiTsness of his son's deficiencies. Allen was silent, stunned almost hj this th'ade, but what affected him chiefly was a terrible fear that his father was right. The blow had been bitter enough as it was ; he could hardly realise even yet that he had lost his beautiful companion without the slightest warning, but the thought that his own folly was the cause was intolerable. Yet he made no effort to defend himself ; he felt a singular reluctance to speaking of Miss Chevening to his father at all, and he dreaded lest, if he said anything more, he might be compelled to give up the last lingcrmg hope that he had had no share in bringing about her sudden departure. Miss Chevening had been, for her, quite gracious of late, and he had never — luckily for his peace of mind — suspected the dislike and contempt that lay beneath her passive endiu'ance of him. As he became more at ease with her, he found himself able to talk, and her replies gave him no impression other than that she was a little absent-minded sometimes. So that AUen, for the first time in his life, had passed a sort of enchanted existence, privileged to accompany, day after day, this lovely princess who hardly seemed to belong to ordinary Hfe, and whom he did not expect to treat him quite as an equal. It was enough for him that she allowed him to bo with her, spoke to him now and then of her own accord, and smiled, ever so indifferently, on rare occasions. She was gone. All the people and things he saw had associations of some kind with her. He noted them inwardly as he walked on ]>y his father's side, and at each he felt his heart gi'ow sorer and heavier, and he hardly heard the elder man's stormy reproaches as his anger vented itself in 'rapid alternation upon Mrs. Chevening, her daughter, and his son. Anyone who had seen the pair walk- ing along the resounding boards would have noticed no more than AN UNEXPECTED DELIVEEANCE 75 a higli-coloured, loose-mouthocl man apparently lecturing a sulky, common-looking youth, who appeared absolutely unimpressed, and impenitent. Of the utter blankness, the inward dragging pain that Allen was feeling, he gave and could give no sign whatever. So throughout the remainder of that miserable day Mr. Chadwick indulged his feelings, and Allen listened with a sense that nothing mattered very much now ; he would almost rather have been still drudging away at his desk in the city warehouse than suffer the desolation that had come upon him. The next morning when they came in to dejeuner, ]\Ir. Chad- wick still occupied with his grievance, there sat Mrs. Chevening in her usual place, fresh and smiling and serene ! Allen felt his heart leap. Had a mnacle happened, then ? Would he see Margot again after all? His father stared as if he had seen a ghost. He could not throw off his resentment all at once — it had struck too deep. He nodded brusquely as he sat down. ' Thej^ told me here you'd left Trouville,' he said. ' Did you think better of it, or what ? ' ' Sm-ely you had a better opinion of me than that ! ' cried Mrs. Chevening, plaintively. ' As if I should have gone away altogether without thanking you for all your kindness. What ynust you think of mo? ' ' Well, so long as you're not gone,' said Chadwick, his face clearing. ' We couldn't think, my boy and I, what had become of you all yesterday.' ' It was all so very sudden,' said INIrs. Chevening, who had pre- pared herself for this emergency. ' You know I have left my younger darlings at Littlehami^ton, in lodgings, nay second child is so delicate. Well, only yesterday morning, Margot had a letter in which Ida begged her so pathetically not to stay away much longer that Margot insisted that she must be worse and begged to go at once. Dear ^Margot is so perfectly devoted to Ida, and she to her, and so, though it was quite absurd, as I told her, and I really couldn't leave TrouvUle myself so soon, unless I was wanted, I saw it would be too cruel to keep Margot, and I took her over to Honfleur and put her on board the boat for Littlehampton. Poor darling, it was only her sense of duty made her go. She was quite sorry to go when it came to parting ! ' Like many of Mrs. Chcvening's mis-statements, this contained a certain amount of truth. There had been a letter, which came as they were startmg, and which expressed Ida's longing for her sister's return. Allen's hopes subsided as quickly as they had risen, and yet his ■worst fears were relieved — she had not left on his accoiint. ' Sorry she deserted us lilie that,' said his father ; ' but very creditable to her, I'm sure. Allen will have to amuse himself alone now.' Dear Margot was so anxious that I should explain,' said her 76 THE TARIAH mother mendacioiislj'. ' She quite hoped to have scon him before leaving. I was to deUver all manner of kmd messages. She is so ■warmhearted ; she felt so afraid of seeming imgrateful, and I thinli she wiU miss her Tronville companion,' she added gi'aciously. Allen coloured to the eyes. ' I shall miss licr, ma'am,' he said awkwardly ; but he was almost consoled — she had remembered him, she liked him better than she had let him see, then — he fell into a rapture of adoration at the thought. Later, when he had gone, and Mr. Chadwick was sitting with Mrs. Chevening alone in the big hall, he said, still a little sus- piciously, ' What made you leave the Casino the other evening so suddenly ? ' Mrs. Chevening had her answer ready. ' It was very foolish of me,' she said, ' but ]\Iargot was so terribly upset — she thought Allen was in some trouble, and I really had to take her home. You know — or perhaps you don't know — that she almost looks upon him as a sort of big brother, she was so interested in him from the very first. I hope,' she ventured, feeling herself on rather delicate ground, ' that there was no — no quarrel or unpleasantness ? ' ' Lord, no ! ' said Mr. Chadwick ; ' it was their mistake — they acknowledged it before I came up ' — and he explained how the affair had ended. ' Poor Allen ! ' Mrs. Chevening commented ; ' how insolent these croupier men are ! Margot will be so anxious to hear how it ended, she spoke of nothing else all the evening. How clever of him to insist on his rights and not let himself be cheated ! ' ' Oh, he's a smart chap — in some ways,' said his father, in whose opinion Allen was now quite restored. ' That's where a business training comes in, you see ; makes 'em know the vahie of money, and take care they're not done. So your ]Miss Margot was making herself unhappy aboiit it, eh ? Well, I like that. I didn't think, between ourselves, she took so much interest in him.' ' You don't know ]\Iargot ! She does not easily attach herself, but when her liking is once gained — it may sound conceited to say 60, but I do think any young man might be proud to have my daughter for a friend. She is not easy to please. Perhaps you noticed that she would scarcely have anything to say to that Mr. Orme, clever and self-confident as he was ? ' ' I don't know that I noticed one way or the other,' said Mr. Chadwick bluntly ; ' but you don't think there's any chance that Allen might — eh ? ' ' No,' said Mrs. Chevening ; ' oh, dear no ; pray don't imagine that for an instant — it is quite what I said ; she looks upon him as a big brother, who has never had a sister of his own — a sister can do so much for a young man. I always think, you know, that nothing can c[uitc supply the want of female influence in a boy's hfe.' ' He had his aunt,' said Mr. Chadwick ; ' but I know what you meaHf he is rough, poor chap ; he don't feel at home in a drawing- AN UNEXPECTED DELIVEEANCE 77 room, even alone with me. I wish I could see my way clearer, for my sake, as well as his ! ' He said no more at the time — but Mrs. Chevening knew that her words had not been lost upon him. Margot was able to sleep on board the steamer, which is more than she would have done had she foreseen the kind of colour with which lier secession would be invested by her mother's policy. She woke early, however, and went on deck, eager to see the familiar coast-line once more ; and, as she reached the top of the brass-edged steps, she saw a face she did not immediately recognise, though its owner had evidently a better memory. ' You know me well enough, miss, though it may not suit you to own to it,' said the woman, and at the voice Margot knew at once that she had had the ill-tempered nursemaid Susan for a fellow-passenger. Susan was looking, and knew she was looking, woefully green and dishevelled beside Margot, whose face even in the raw morning air, was almost as fresh and fair as if she had never left the shore. Perhaps this gave an additional acerbity to the maid's manner. ' I've reason enough to remember you, miss,' she added, ' and I shan't forget j-ou in a hurry.' ' I remember you perfectly,' said Margot. ' If the sight of me reminds you to treat your unfortunate charge more kindlj^, I hope you never will forget me,' and she was about to turn away and think no more of it, but the girl placed herself in her way, and Margot saw that she was trembling with passion. ' I wouldn't be a nippercrit, miss,' she said. ' I'd have the courage of my opmions, I would.' Miss Chevening's eyes 'opened to their hai;ghtiest width. ' I haven't the slightest idea what you're talking about,' she said in her low incisive tones ; ' but you needn't explain, I don"t want to know in the least.' ' Ah, but I want j'ou to know,' said Susan. ' You don't take mc, in with your innocent ways and pretended ignorance. Y'^ou look a proud one, but you don't think it beneath you to hound a poor girl out of her place behind her back. My missis, as was a lady if ever there was one, though French, she'd never have give me notice but for tale-tellers coming telling lies against me. I know better, don't talk to mc ! ' ' I don't intend to,' said Margot. 'No, you can't face me — that's how it is,' said Susan, sticking her hands into the pockets of her smart ulster. ' No wonder, takmg the bread out of my mouth as you have, and anomalous too— so mean ! ' Miss Chevening began to be afraid that a crowd would collect round them, but fortunately the few passengers who were on deck had gone forward, and Susan's voice, which was gi-owing louder and more violent, was drowned by the din and carried aft by the breeze. ' Listen to me, you foolish girl," said Margot. ' If your mistress 78 THE PARIAH has sent you away for not treating her son properly, it is only what you deserve and I am glad of it. Still, if you have no friends to go to and want help while j-ou are looking for another place, I would willmgly ' ' Take your money after what you've done ! ' said the gu-1. ' I'd rather die in the workhouse. Luckily for me, I'm in no want of friends nor money neither, so you won't undo what you've done that way. You must feel yom'sclf you've acted shabby, or you wouldn't make such a offer ! ' Margofs patience gave way at this. ' You are an ungrateful idiot,' she said contemptuously, ' or you wouldn't have such ideas at all ; but if it gives you any comfort to believe that I accused you secretly, go on believing it by all means, it can make no difference to me, only be so good as to leave me in peace.' ' That's an easy way to put it oft',' said Susan ; ' but, never mind, perhaps some day your turn'll come, and you'll see how you hke such treatment. I've said all I mean to say, and, now you know what I think of you, I'll say good morning and thanks for past favom-s received and may I live to see 'em returned ! ' ]\Iargot was indignant though a little amused, too, that this unamiable girl should regard her as an anonymous persecutor, but she was too supremely indifferent to dream of trying to convince the ex-nurse of her mistake, and perhaps to atteixipt it might have been trouble thrown away. So Susan landed and went on her waj', more firmly convinced than ever that she owed the loss of her situation with the wealthy Parisians to Margot Chevening — instead, as was actually the case, to one of her foreign fellow-servants. CHAPTER IX. A CLOUD FROM ACROSS THE SEA. It was a week since Margot's abrupt departm-e from Normandj', and as yet her mother had fixed no date for rejoining her family at Littlehampton, nor for their general retiu-n to London. She had written, it was true, but only to Miss Henderson, and to the effect that the lodgings should be retained iintil she wrote again. ' It's too bad of mother to keep us in this poky little place,' Ida declared fretfully. ' I am quite strong again now, and I'm sure there's nothing here to stay for longer than one can possibly help.' They were walking along the shore towards "Worthing — Margot, Ida, and Miss Henderson — and as she spoke Ida turned and looked back at the row of lodging-houses, the windmills, and the imassuming Uttle jetty and lighthouse, which, gilded by the September haze, com- prised the main features of Littlehampton. ' Ida, darling,' protested the governess, ' don't be ungi-ateful — remember what you were when you came and what you are now.' There was nothing of the invalid A CLOUD FROM ACROSS THE SEA 79 in Ida Chevenlnct's appearance just then. Tall — a little too tall, perhaps, for a girl of sixteen — she promised a figure as faultless as her elder sister's when her strength should be completely regained, and the transitionary period was passed. She would be beautifid, too, though her face would never have the animation and deci- sion which made Margot's so difficult to forget. She was indolent and somewhat weak by nature, and delicate health had encouraged her disposition to cling to others. She was impulsive, and, per- haps from bemg so much in Miss Henderson's company, decidedly sentimental, not to say affected. Miss Henderson was the type of governess least fitted for the charge of a girl of Ida's age and dispo- sition. She was j'oung and produced a first impression of being good-looking — Ida thought her lovely, and was constantly assuring her of the fact. She had a few showy accomplishments, no solid education. She knew how to behave, especially when Mrs. Cheveuing was present, but it was always behaviom-, not breeding, as her patroness perceived clearly enough, though she saw no rea- son for parting with her on that accoimt. ' Henderson was useful and cheap ; she made no inconvenient fuss when her salary was (as happened not infrequently) in arrears ; the children liked her, she w^ould do well enough,' thought Mrs. Chevening, who, m fact, could not afford to risk a change. But between Margot and Miss Henderson there was always a certain distance : Miss Chevening instinctively disliking certain slight but unmistakable indications of underbreeding which revealed themselves in the other's more unguarded moments, and the governess perceiving and resenting a coolness which she chose to ascribe to jealousy. Ida, ho^vever, was an enthusiastic heroine-worshipper, and saw no shortcomings. ' If I'm well now,' she said in answer to Miss Henderson's last remonstrance, ' I owe it all to you, dear darling Hennie. I beheve I should have died if it hadn't been for you ! ' 'You were certainly very ill when we came, and that night I sat up with you was an awfully anxious one for us all, dearest Ida,' said the governess. ' That was after you had gone to Trouville,' she explained to Margot. ' I think it was a pity you did not tell us at the time, then,' said Margot. ' The doctor assured us that you Avere quite out of danger, Ida, or I would never have left you.' ' I wouldn't have you told,' said Ida. 'You mustn't blame poor Hennie.' And she took the governess's hand and fondled it affec- tionately. To Margot, who had considerable doubts of any real relapse at all, this seemed unhealthy and exaggerated, but she was too deeply attached to her sister to be capable of saying a word to check her effusions, and besides it would only weaken such influence as she still retained over Ida. ' But I am longing to get away fi-om this place,' continued Ida presently ; ' it is too horridly slow. Don't you hate it, Margot ? But no — I believe you actually like it ! ' ' I believe I actually do,' said Margot, laughing, and she spoke 80 THE PARUfl the truth. After all the bustle and glare of TrouvlUe, there wa9 somethmg restful and quieting in the unpretentious little Sussex watering-place, to say nothing of the unspeakable relief she felt at her deliverance from Allen Chadwick. And it was such a lovelj^ after- noon, with a lazy purple sea lapping far away, and the sky above their heads a perfect azure, repeated in the rills which channelled the sands. There was a touch of autumn chill in the air, and the reeds and bushes along the low coast were turning yeUow and russet, but she felt braced and invigorated as she trod the elastic sand, on which the gulls had left their footprints in innumerable little tridents. She was too happy just then to remember with any regret that other shore across the sea where she had had one experi- ence at least that she could look back upon without reluctance. But even Nugent Orme had not left an ineffaceable impression on her mind. Any element of romance Trouville might have contained for her had been slain by other recollections, and besides. Mi*. Orme was in England somewhere. There was not much to inspirit her in that fact, but somehow it filled up the measure of her content in being where she was. ' I can't think how you can endure it ! ' Ida declared, ' especi- ally after Trouville. I am sm-e Troiiville must have been lovely. I would never have left it till I was obliged. You never teU us any- thing about what you did there, Margot. It's rather mean of you.' ' There is so very little to teU. I was very glad to get away from it,' said Margot. ' But why ? It must have been better fun than this. Weren't the people at the hotel pleasant ? "Was it mother — or what ? ' ' Some of the people were — not very pleasant,' said Margot. ' Mother wouldn't know people who were not all right, would she ? She's generally so awfully particular.' ' She knew these people,' said Margot. ' They were quite respect- able. He was, or had been, an indigo-planter, I beheve, and very well off; but — well, I disliked them.' ' Was there a Mrs. Indigo -planter ? ' mquu-ed Ida ; ' was it she ? ' ' There was only this Mr. Chadwick,' said Margot looking out to sea, ' and — and his son.' ^ Noio we're beginning to be told something,' said Miss Hender- son, slily; 'please go on.' ' There is nothing to tell, CamiUa, as it happens,' said Margot. ' But the son made love to you — I'm sure he did, now didn't he ? ' ' Thank goodness, no ; he would not have dared,' said Margot. ' You are so very romantic, Camilla. But it was quite bad enough as it was ; and, if you please, we won't talk about it any more, it is over now.' ' Just tell us this, and we won't want to know any more,' said Ida. 'Was he handsome? I'm sm-e he was handsome — and rather conceited ; wasn't he, Margot ? ' ' You are quite a witch, dear,' Mai'got replied, with rather a mahcious little laugh. A CLOUD FEO'Sl ACROSS THE SEA 81 ' Poor Margot,' said Ida, sympathetically ; ' never mind, it will all come right in time.' ' It has come right already,' said Margot, lightly ; ' and now suppose we drop the Chadwicks : it is time to turn back.' They walked back by the shore, and as they reached Little- hampton and were tramping over the shingle to the modest espla- nade, a pretty little figure came fluttering down to ineet them. ' Why, Lettice,' said Margot, as the child clung to her hand, ' where's nurse ? ' ' Nurse ? Oh, she's plaj-ing cricket with Reggie on the green somewhere ; she's getting to bowl quite nicely now, you know, though it's a pity she can't bat better. I've been running about ^\•ith Yarrow, and oh, Margot, I've had quite an adventure ! I had been playing cricket with Reggie, but I got him out three times running and he wouldn't go (that wasn't fair of him, was it ?), so I left him, and then I had the adventure. I was throwing my ball for Yarrow to rmi after — he woiUdn't let me alone till I did — and there was someone — a man, not at all old — lying down on the beach, and — I didn't mean it, but the ball boimced somehow, and, oh, I\Iargot, what do you think ? — it hit him in the eye ! I was dwcad- fiilhj sorrj' ' (Lettice was eight, but she was still a little uncertain aboiit her r's when excited, and had to bear some teasing from her brother in consequence), ' but I went up and apologised directly, of com'se, and he said he wasn't hurt mi;ch (it was the india-rubber ball), and then he asked me my name, so of course I told him, and then ' (and here Lettice's golden-brown eyes grew larger) ' he asked if I had a sister called Margot, and told me he knew you quite well, and had met you over in France — did he meet you, Margot ? ' A sudden consciousness deepened Margot's colour. Could it be ? Was Nugent Orme here '? Had he come with any idea of finding her, and if he had "? ' I can't tell till I have seen him, can I ? ' she said. ' Very likely I have met him.' ' That wasn't all,' said Lettice ; he asked me — that was when we got more consequential — he asked me " would I mind being his sister some day." ' ' He — asked you that ? ' exclaimed Margot, with a keen resent- ment. How could Mr. Orme have allowed himself to say such a thing to a child ! ' Y^ou vucst have misunderstood him, Lettice.' Lettice shook her head. ' But I didn't, Margot, he said it ever so many times — he told me it was all settled. Only I do not under- stand how I ever can be his sister — do yoii, I\Iargot '? ' ' No, dear,' said Margot. ' He made a very great mistake if lie really told you so.' That Nugent Orme could be guilty of such presumption, should actually take her consent for granted in this vmy, filled her with the keenest vexation, and yet she found it almost impossible to believe. If it should be true, she felt with some bitterness that whatever place he had begun to occupy in her thoughts would be vacant now. What could she have said or done G 82 THE PARIAH to give him such an impression ? Well, he would learn that he was less u-resistible than he seemed to imagine. ' But what was he lilve, this mysterious person ? ' questioned Ida, with a mischievous enjoyment of her elder sister's agitation. ' Describe him, Lettice.' Description was not Lettice's sti'ong point. ' He was like — well, not like anything in particular,' she said ; ' and I'm sure he said that mother and his father had settled it all, and that I was to be his sister soon.' ' His father ! ' exclaimed Margot, with a sudden illumination. It was slie who had taken too much for gi-anted, not Nugent Orme, who had probably never given her a second thought since he left Trouville. And the jierson who made so siu-e of her consent was her hetc noire — the raw lad from whose society she thought she had delivered herself for ever. ' It strikes me,' said Miss Henderson to her, ' we have not been told the whole story of yoiu* Httle Trou^dlle romance yet, dear. "When are we to know all '? ' ' Eim on to the house and tell them we're commg, Lettice,' said Margot, and waiting till the child had gone, she turned to the governess : 'There is nothing to know,' she said a little haughtily. ' I hate that kind of jokmg, Camilla. If you saw him, you would understand how it annoys me. But what is the use of talking about it ? Nothing that anyone said would change my mind. If this Chadwick boy — for that is all he is —is really here, you will see him for j-ourselves, sooner or later. Then you will know.' ' A foreign postcard from mother,' aimounced Eeggie, who was already seated at the tea-table. ' She'U be here by the steamer to-morrow, and wants Margot to meet her and nobody else. I wonder why we mayn't all go ! ' Ida looked at Margot with an almost envious interest ; she was to be a heroine in a real love-affair, then, this beautiful sister of hers ; she would be pressed to accept an unwelcome lover, just as in so many of the novels Hennie and herself had been dehghting in of late. Would Margot yield, or remain obstinate '? Either way it would be very interesting, Ida thought ; she was siu'e this planter's soil was nice really, if Margot would only see it — very likely they had had a quarrel. Margot was looking forward to meeting her mother with a cer- tain excitement. Evidently this project of uniting her to young Chadwick was not abandoned. Allen himself apparently regarded it as settled. Margot was not afi'aid ; she did not see what new arguments her mother could urge that could shake her determina- tion. There might be cases in which a daughter was bound to sacrifice herself for the family, but this was not one of them ; even if it was. she thought, she would have enough strength of mind to repudiate the obligation. No, she felt perfectly safe ; no one could force her to marry against her will. And yet, when she was alone that night and lay in her room, A CLOUD Fr.OM ACTvOSS THE SEA 83 listening to the monotonous roll of the sea, a sudden, restless dread overcame her as she thought of the steamer which was even then ploughing its way across the waves ; what if it were carrying some sentence which, with all her coiTrage, she would find herself powerless to resist ? She rose at last, from some half- superstitious impulse, and went to the window. The amber harvest moon was casting its shimmer on the calm sea and bathing the little harbour and jetty in mellow radiance, but beyond, where the French coast lay, a black cloud loomed up ominously, and seemed to be shooting a long arm across the sky towards her. With a little laugh at her own weakness, Margot drew the blind, and shut out the sight. o2 84 THE PARIAH BOOK IT. KICKING AGAINST THE PRICKS. CHAPTER I. BCYLLA AND CHARYBDIS. Thou sweetest Bister in the world, hast never a word for me ? Tlie Lay of the Brown Eosary, Miss Chevening had risen betimes next morning and gone down to the quay. It was cold and cloudy, and there was a light autumn fog on the sea, but Mai'got was sustained against all atmo- spherical influences just then; she was about to know on what grounds her mother conceived that she could exact her submission. The spirit of opposition was roused ; she felt strong enough to meet all appeals with an unflinching negative. And as she passed the quaint old whitewashed hotel, which at that time still stood on an isolated piece of the green, someone, who seemed to have been waiting for this, came out from the porch, and advanced, sheepishly enough, to meet her. Margot watched him with a sardonic amuse- ment ; that clumsy bow and self-consciovis flush of his pleased her mood just then — this was the person her mother considered a suit- able companion for her for life. 'I — I thought you'd be likely to come this way,' he said. 'I hope you've been pretty well since I saw you last . . . Margot ? ' He brovight out her Christian name with an evident effort, which by its very abjectness disarmed her to some extent ; he seemed too pitiable just then in his humble anxiety to propitiate her. * I am quite well, Mr. Chadwick,' she said. ' I hardly expected to see you so soon — are you staying here ? ' ' Came over yesterday with the governor,' he explained. ' I was trying to get a sight of you all day, but I didn't like to give you a look up at your lodgings.' ' That would have been rather an odd thing to do, would it not ? ' said Margot. ' I wanted to tell you something,' he resumed nervously. ' I — I dare say you'll laugh, but I haven't been able to get out of my mind that perhaps that night before you went away, at the Casino, you fancied ' SCYLLA AND CIIARYBDIS 85 ' Oh, please I ' protested Margot, ' tlon't let us go back to Trou- ville ! I have forgotten it. I want to forget all that hateful tune.' ' No, but listen,' he said. ' I'm going down to meet the boat — we may as well go together.' And he poured into her imwilling ears a rapid vindication of his behaviour at the Petits Chevaux table. ' Very well,' said Margot, as he finished ; ' but you need not have given youi-self so much trouble to tell me all this, Mr. Chadwick. I don't see that it is of very much importance now, 3'ou know.' ' More than ever, now,' he said. Margot felt driven to bay. ' You seem to me to mean something ? You meant something yesterday— if it was really you who spoke to my little sister. Will you kindly explain ? Did you, or didn't you, inform her that you meant to— to become her brother very soon ? ' ' If I did,' said Allen, ' it was nothing but true — surely you've been told all about it ? ' ' My consent to such a very desirable arrangement was natur- ally taken for granted I ' retorted Margot bitterly ; ' still, Mr. Chad- wick, you might have paid me the compliment of waiting.' ' I r exclaimed Allen. ' It was none of my doing.' ' Y^ou are extremely candid,' said Miss Chevening, with a slight laugh, ' I will be candid, too. If anyone has persuaded you to beheve that I ' ' Stop ! ' cried Allen, with more delicacy than might have been expected from him, perhaps. ' I see what you're thinking. I know well enough you could never come to look on me in that sort of waj' — such a thing never entered my head, indeed it didn't, miss — Miss Margot. I know myself better than that. No, it wasn't that I meant.' ' I'm afraid I'm very dull,' said Margot, beginning to wish that she could recall that unfortunate speech ; 'but what did you mean, then ? Because I don't see ' ' Isn't there another way for us all to live together, and me be a kind of brother to your sisters, and — and to you ? ' he said. ' Y'our mother ' Mai'got stood quite still ; her face was deadly white, her eyes blazed with anger. In a flash her mind went back to those days at Trouville, to her mother's marked encouragement of the ex-indigo planter, their constant companionship, the strange anxiety to pre- vent her from betraying her dislike to the son. In her egotism, she had never suspected that she herself v/as the least concerned, she had let herself be removed where she could ofl'er no opposition — and now it was too late ! Her head wlihlcd in the rush of fierce anger, impotent protest against this humiliation which her own mother had brought upon them ! ' I thought you knew ! ' stammered Allen. ' It was the day after you left ; father told me almost directly. Look here, if you don't 86 THE PARIAH believe me, come down to the Custom-IIouse — father's there wait- ing ; he'll tell you it's all true ! ' ' Don't speuk to me ! ' said Margot, closing her eyes for a mo- ment, ' and — and go on to the quay alone, please ; you can say, if — if you are asked, that I am not well enough to come — don't talk, go— go ! ' She walked back to the little lodging-house parlour and stood in the bow-window looking out over the green, mechanically watching a groom who was exercising a horse there — she felt as ii she were going mad. How long she stood there, with a horrible feeling that her face was a mask with nothing but an aching emptiness behind, she did not know, but presently the children came down to breakfast. ' Hasn't mother come ? Why hasn't mother come ? Did you go dowTi to see if she was on the steamer ? Whij didn't you go down ? ' were amongst the questions she had to endure from Eeggie and Lettice, until the prawns served as a merciful distraction. ' How pale you look, darling ! ' said Ida, the moment she ap- peared, ' and — and hasn't mother come ? Is anything wrong ? ' ' Yes — no,' said Margot impatiently. ' Mother is quite well, I beheve ; she will be here directly no doubt.' She shivered as she spoke at the thought of the arrival. Miss Henderson cast an amused glance at Ida; evidently Margot's heroics were beginning to evaporate. Margot saw the glance — how little they all guessed what was before therh ! and who was to prepare them ? She could not, and she sat there in mute misery, with a nervous glance at the road whenever the sound of fly-wheels approached. And, after many false alarms, the dreaded moment came ; one of those four-wheeled struld-hruf/s which are only to be seen at watering-places, drove up, piled with luggage, and in it, looking rather the worse for the passage, but smihng perseveringly, sat Mrs. Chevening. The children ran out to welcome her, and Ida and Miss Hender- son were on the steps. Margot alone remained within, and listened with a shuddering disgust to the kisses and greetings in the passage outside. How could her mother behave as if nothing was changed, as if she had not deliberately bartered away their old peaceful inde- pendent life I But Allen might have been mistaken. The first moment that her mother's eyes met hers, she knew it was all too true — there was a look at once deprecatory and defiant that told her all, ' Well, Margot dearest, how are you ? ' said Mrs. Chevening, in a higher key than ordinary. ' Not rej^ented deserting Trouville in that absurd manner, I hope ? ' Margot slu-ank a little fi'om her embraces. ' Not till to-day,' ehe said in a low voice. 'Why, you reaUy don't look yourself I ' cried Mrs. Chevening. * When dear Allen told me you were not well enough to be on the SCYLLA AND CHARYBDIS 87 quay, I thought that a lazy fit perhaps — but just come up to my I'oom presently, darling, and we two wiU have a cosy little chat all to oui'selves ! ' A little later, when Mrs. Chevenmg had changed her travelling costume and regained her ordinary appearance, Margot entered the room. ' You have something to tell me, mother ? ' she said. Mrs. Chevening looked at the proud pale face, with the beauti- ful mouth arched in a slight curve of irrepressible contempt, and felt slightly uncomfortable. ' Just see if jon can find my hand- glass first, dearest one,' she said ; ' those Custom-House wretches do make such havoc in one's dressing-bag. It really is as Joshua said to them ' 'Is "Joshua" Mr. Chadwick?' asked Margot. ' It is true, I suppose — you are going to — to marry him ? ' ' ^Yhat a tragic voice ! ' exclaimed Mrs. Chevening ; ' one would think he was an ogre. There are not many men, let me tell you, in his position who would have acted as generously as he has done ; he looks upon you all as his own children akeady ; he is ready to provide you with all those advantages which only wealth can afford, which otherwise I should have to see you deprived of for ever.' ' Do you think I should have missed them ? ' cried Margot. ' That bears out what I always say of you, dearest ; j'ou are just a trifle too self-absorbed. I was thinkmg less of you than of the others. You forget that in — in our happier days, you had all these advantages ; no expense was spared to give j'ou all the education and accomphshments a gnl ought to have on entering the world. Even after my terrible loss I contrived (you will never know with what efforts) to keep you at Brighton for the full course. It doesn't — it really does not — become you now to stand in the way of the yoimger ones, especially when, as you might know if you cared to, I can hardly tell which way to turn for enough money to keep them decently fed and dressed.' ' Mother,' cried Margot, ' we had always enough, and I would have worked, I would have done anvthing — anijthinq to prevent this ! ' ' I reallj- don't know in what way you could have earned more than enough to kce^) 3-ourself, and perhaps you are not aware that my bills are nothing like all paid.' ' Then whv are we here ? Wliy did we go to an expensive place likeTrouvilk?' ' I went chiefly for your sake, my dear ; but I see no reason to repent it, nor, I should think, wiU those wretched tradesmen who have been woiTying my life oitt so long.' ' You might,' said Margot in a low voice — ' you rpight have remembered papa — it is such a few years since he ' ' You think I have forgotten ? How little you know your mother, Margot, if you can say such cruel things ! But his con- stant anxiety was that he was able to save so little for you children. 88 THE PARIAH and if he wei'e permitted to advise me now, he would understand and approve — yes, though my eldest daughter presumes to judge and condemn ! ' and Mrs. Cheveuing ai)phed a corner of her handkerchief dehcately to the corner of each eye. ' Tell me just this,' said Margot ; 'do you — oh, it's horrible to say — do you love this Mr. Chadwick ? Shall you be proud of him ? Oh, you cannot, you cannot ! ' ' I deny your right to put such questions to me,' said Mrs. Chevening. ' I shall do my duty. At our age it would be absurd to pretend to sentiment. If j-ou choose to say so, I am marrying for convenience — but at least it is the convenience of those who are dear to me, and when they turn against me, and speak like strangers, and as if they had nothing but contempt for theu* poor mother any more — ah, my dear, I trust no daughter of yours will ever cut you to the heart as you are cutting me now ! How hard — how wictcedhj hard you are to me, Margot ! ' ' I don't mean to be — I won't be ! ' she cried, throwing her beautiful strong arms roimd her mother ; ' only give this up — let us be as we weie together in our dear old shabby house, with no one to come between us, mother darling ! It isn't too late — it will be better in the end. Send Mr. Chadwick awaj^ agam ! ' Mrs. Chevening disengaged herself angrily. ' You are talking like an idiot ! ' she said. ' I shall certaiiily keep a promise I con- sider sacred ; so let me hear no more of this.' 'Then,' said Margot wiltUy, ' let me go away! I cannot live m the same house with them. I could not breathe there — let me go ! ' ' By all means go,' returned her mother, ' if you wish to make us out monsters in the eyes of the world. Only, as I said before, I am at a loss to see what you propose to do. I don't think j'our aunt Gwendolen will receive you very warmly ; she will probably call yoii a foolish girl for running away from a comfortable home and one who only desires to be an indulgent father to you. And I doubt whether you would be more independent as a governess, even if you were fit to undertake a situation. One thing you will understand, that if you choose to do anything so headstrong, you will cut yourself oft' from all of us, and I should have thought j'ou had some affection for j-our sisters and Reggie at least, if you have none for me ! I certainly could not expect or wish Mr. Chadwick to receive you at our new home, after you had shown everybody that you thought y^ourself too good to associate with him. If you separate from us now, you do so for ever ! ' Margot drew a long, sobbing breath; she realised the cruel force of her mother's words. All the tenderer side of her natiu-e was expended upon her younger sisters and brother ; she was pas- sionately devoted to them, and yet, if she were to carry out her impulsive resolve, and refuse to countenance her mother's act of disloyaltj' to the dead, there was nothing before her but a life of sohtude and slavery. She would be shut out from all she loved, condemned to the employment most uncongenial and unfitted to SCYLLA AND CIIARVliDIS 89 her nature — teaching. She saw no other resource ; she knew too well that, iintramed as she was, she could not hope to gain a footing on the stage or the concert-plattbrm, and she shrank from the mere idea of serving in a shop. She felt herself, in the full course of her indignation and passionate protest, brought up short and hemmed in by impenetrable realities against which she was powerless, rebel as she might. She had not broken down till then, but now, as much with anger as grief, she burst into a passion of tears. ' I can't leave them ! ' she sobbed. ' Mother, you know it would kill me — oh, what shall I do ! ' Mrs. Chevening saw that the battle was almost won, ' Do ? ' she said. 'Do what any sensible girl would do in your place. Give up raging and sulking at a state of things that you can't possibly prevent. Of course you can make your stepfather and me very uncomfortable if you choose. But please be consistent — submit cheerfully, and I really cannot see that you will have any hardships to bear. Or, if you can't do that, carry out your protest and go ! ' ' Would you be glad for me to go ? ' demanded Margot. ' You goose, of course not ! I want to be proud of my eldest daughter, and see her in surroundings worthy of her, for I needn't tell you, my dear, that you have yoiu" share of beauty, though it is completelj' thrown awaj^ in the sort of life we have had to live till now. But I can't have you spoiling everything by posing as a martj^r, and refusing to recognise my husband at the verj^time you are living under his roof and eating his bread. You must see your- self how impossible a state of things that would be ! ' ' It is not Mr. Chadwick so much,' said Margot ; ' it is his son — will he be there ? ' ' Of com-se he will be there ! Do you suppose his father would turn the poor boy out to gratify your convenience ? What harm can poor AUen possibly do you ? He is ready to be a devoted son to me and the fondest of brothers to you all. I was quite touched b}' his real delight when he was told — any other young man in his position would have felt injured, jealous perhaps. And a few sisterly hints, a little patience and tact on your part, Margot, and he would soon grow out of any slight mannerisms he has picked lip, I am sure he has an excellent disposition, and will not be difficult to manage. Now pray let me see you looking brave and cheerful, and not acting as a wet blanket any more. Promise me to be sensible.' ' I promise that I won't show what I can't help feeling, just at first, any more than I can help. I can't pretend to be glad, or to be fond of Mr. Chadwick all at once. Y''ou won't ask too much ? ' ' I will be satisfied with that— for the present,' said l\rrs. Chevening ; ' now kiss me, darling, and go to your room till you are a little more composed.' So Margot found herself driven to surrender ignominiously. Alone in her room once more, as she thought of the gallant, hand- 90 TTIE rARIAIl some soldier who had been so proud of her, and had liked to have her with him wherever it was possible in those last few months before he weiit out to meet his death in Afghanistan, her tears rose afresh. Her mother might forget — but she, never ! For the new head of the house she had no respect, no affection, but she would keep her compact with her mother as far as outward show went. But there was Allen — and at the thought of him she set her teeth and clenched her soft hands in angry revolt. There would be no escape from him now — never ! He would live in the same house, he would have the right of treating her as his equal, of speaking of her, and to her, as his sister. Even while he was nothing to her but an accidental acquaintance, she had con- ceived an antipathy to him which she felt herself was exaggerated — but now that antipathy had timied to hatred — yes, she hated liim, though till then she had held him beneath the dignity of hatred ; she halod him for what she well knew he had no more part in bringing about than herself. And — bitterest and most unjjalatable of all — this hatred which possessed her must be confined to her own breast ; only in secret could she dare to give herself the luxury of expression. From its object it must be rigorously hidden. There may be some, perhaps, to whom Allen Chadwick will seem scarcely less to be pitied. Mei'e unrequited affection is too ordinary a woe to excite much compassion ; it is only when humble unselfish devotion on one side is naet with deep-seated mvmcible aversion on the other that the situation has something of a tragic side to it. CHAPTER 11. ^ELF AND CHINA. The little hearts that know not how to forgive ! — Maud. Margot's passionate resentment had worn itself out for the time being, and she gi'ew tu-ed of bemg miserable alone. There were the others, too, who were probably stiU in ignorance of what was impending ; a sense of loyalty to them made her wish to prepare them. As she expected, she found them with Miss Henderson in a small sitting-room at the back, which was generally reserved for lessons on wet daj's ; even before she opened the door sounds of subdued wailing within told her that she was too late — they knew all. It was a doleful little gatheriag cnou,'h : Ida, with red eyes and a look of tragic despair, was holding tightly to the governess's hand, which she caressed from time to time as they sat on the shiny little sofa. Miss Henderson had assumed an an* of mar- tyred resignation suitable to the occasion, though she was inwardly deeply perplexed as to the effect these changes were to have upon her DELF AND CHINA 91 future. If only she could retain her post, things might not be so bad after all ; in the meantime a really interesting woe like the present was too great a luxury not to be indulged in to the full ; and both Ida and she (although perhaps tliey did not know it) had derived considerable enjoyment from it already. Their tears broke out afresh on Margot's entrance; Ida and Lettice threw themselves sobbing into her arms ; Reggie went to the window, which com- manded a not too lively prospect of cistern, back-garden, and slate- roofed stables, and stood there whistling in a dismal quaver. Miss Henderson wept in a discreet manner on the sofa, behind a hand- kerchief with a highly ornamental border. 'Isn't it too awful! ' cried Ida indistinctlj'. ' I call it simply horrid of mother to do this. Behind all our backs too I Margot, you were there — you must have known — why didn't you stop it ? you might at least have prepared us ! ' ' How could I ? ' said Margot. ' Do you think if I had known — but I was kept in the dark too.' ' It will kill me — I know it will ! ' moaned Ida ; ' jnst as I was getting well, too ! How can mother ? What miserable ghls we are I ' ' It's as bad for me as you, every bit,' broke in Reggie, with a suspicious sniff, ' only I d-don't b-blub about it I ' ' Margot, shall we all have to be somebody else, too, if mother is ? ' asked Lettice ; ' or what ? "Will nothing ever be the same any more ? ' ' Of course it won't ! ' said Ida, disconsolately. ' We shall be nobodies, now — the first thing will be that poor dear Hennie will be sent away, and we shall have to get on anyhow. I dare say we shall be turned out, too, some day — he'll be sure to hate us all ! And there's a step-brother, a young man — he'll never rest till he's per — persecuted i:s out of the house ! I know what it will be. Margot and I will have to hem shirts (and I hate sewing) and Reggie will sell papers, and Lettice mum — mum — matches, and we shall all die of cold on doorsteps ! ' At this affecting prophecy she went into fresh floods of tears, and threw herself inconsolable upon the sofa again, whereuijon a general chorus of lamentation arose. Margot, however, did not join in it, feeling the scene, in fact, a parody upon her own recep- tion of her mother's announcement ; she could not see it in a humorous light just then, but it made her angry and a Httle ashamed. ' For goodness' sake, don't let us make idiots of ourselves any more ! ' she exclaimed. ' We shall be treated kindly enough, if that is all, I dare say. It is quite bad enough without trying to make it worse ! ' ' Is his name Chadwick ? ' demanded Ida. ' Wasn't that the name of the people you disliked so at the hotel ? ' ' Never mind what I told you once,' said Margot, ' and — and I never said that I disliked the father particularly.' 92 THE PAr.IAII ' It was the son, then, and you really did hate him ? Hennie and I were not quite sure whether you meant it. What is he like ? Do tell us ! ' ' You will see for yourself quite soon enough,' said Margot. ' He is a terrible person ! ' ' A terrible person 1 ' cried Lettice. ' Margot I and they are here — both of them. We saw their hats over the railings. Such horrid-looking hats ! ' Steps were heard blundermg up the stairs outside. Margot's face paled slightly. ' They're coming,' she whispered. ' Dry your eyes — quick, don't let them see we have been crying.' A knock, violent from timiditj', and Allen appeared — alone. 'It's only me,' he announced with an embarrassed appeal to Margot. 'Your mother said if I came up you'd introduce me, and— and make things comfortable all round.' Margot was leaning lightly against the head of the sofa, which she was smoothing as delicately as if it were some favourite animal ; she lifted her eyebrows at his remark with a careless disdain. ' Were those mother's exact words, I wonder ? ' she said ; 'but I can't introduce you unless you will come out of that doorway.' (' He looks exactly as if he had come to wind the clock ! ' she was thinking.) ' That is better — do you naind shutting the door ? Now we can get it done. This is our new brother. Mr. Allen Chadwick — Miss Henderson. This is my sister Ida, and this is Lettice, and that is Eeggie.' Allen made fumbling attempts to shake hands all round. ' I — you mustn't think I've any wish to intrude,' he said. ' It's rum at first, I know, but everythmg must have a beginning, eh ? And as for Margot here, why I and she are quite old friends — though I'm sure when we first met I'd no more idea we should come to be such near relations — had you ? ' ' I ! ' said Margot. ' Xo, certainly not ! ' ' No more j'ou hadn't,' he said. ' Why, do you remember this morning how taken aback j-oti were when I told you ? ' ' Do I remember ? ' repeated Margot. ' Why yes, I have some faint recollection of it.' ' Mine isn't faint,' he said without detecting the irony in her tone. ' You wouldn't believe it at any price — the same with me at first. It seemed too good to be true. To think of me feeling lonely all these years for want of someone my own age to be com- pany, and all the time a family gi'owing up ready for me, if 07ily I'd known it I It's funny when you come to look at it.' ' We haven't arrived at seeing the funny side of it yet,' observed Margot calmly. ' It is strange enough, certainly.' ' That's what I meant,' he explained ; ' but I'm sure I've no call to quarrel with present arrangements. I'm as pleased as Punch, if you don't consider it a liberty of me to say so.' He was more voluble than usual, in spite of his nervousness, for he could not rej^ress the pride and satisfaction it gave hix^a to DBLF AND CHINA 93 bo ablo to claim kinship with them, though he was awed at the same time by a sense of their immense superiority to himself. The younger Chevenings were remarkably good-looking, with the same air of race and distinction that gave such character to their elder sister's beauty. Between them and the undersized, insignifi- cant-looking Allen a gulf of difference was fixed, which he could not fail to perceive. Some natures would have felt this superiority only to hate its possessors with a rankling envy, but there was no trace of this in Allen's sentiments towards the Chevenings. He felt an almost awe-struck admiration for them already. Margot he had worshijiped from the first in reverent humility, all uncon- scious, poor fellow, of the intensity of her repugnance to him. And now that he had seen the others — Ida, with her delicate face and clinging grace, Reggie, whose eyes had a look in them of Margot's, and Lettice, whose dainty childish loveliness was a new experience to him, he was willing to extend his allegiance in a scarcely less degree, anxious to convince them of the sinceritj^ of his good will — • so far as his somewhat restricted vocabulary would permit. Unfortunately his past had left him with a manner, which, when it was not uncoutli, was instinctively obsequious in the presence of those in what he had been taught to regard as a higher station tlian his own. Theoretically they were his equals now, but it cost him an effort to remember and act upon the knowledge, and, when he did, the only result was a familiarity which hardly rendered him more engaging. On the other side, the first impressions were very far from favourable. Miss Henderson made up her mind privately at the first sight of him that it would not only be necessary, but desirable, to look out for another situation, and gave a side-glance of pity at Ida, who needed it at that moment. Ida's romantic imaginings of a dark, black-browed step-brother, who would be forbidding, but interesting in appearance, and would hate them all relentlessly — until he was disarmed by her own sweetness — were dispersed by the realitj' — but she was none the happier for that. On the con- trary, the knowledge that the fate in store for them was of so com- monplace, not to say vulgar, a kind was the bitterest drop in her cup. Eeggie stood and stared, with his hands thrust deep in his pocket ; how such a feUow as this could be by any possibility about to become their brother was more than he could understand. Why — he looked like a sort of shop-boy, only a little better dressed. Lettice was the only one who seemed more reassured than dis- maj'ed. Allen's annoitncement to her the day before had not left any deep impression, and in the general disturbance of all her ideas she had not had time to connect the unknown step-brother with the person whose acquaintance she had made already — now that she recognised him, her worst fears fled. ' I didn't know the new brother was going to tiu-n out to be yoib 94 THE PARIAH after all,' she remarked. ' You weren't in fun yesterday, then ? I don't think you're a terrible person at all. Are you ? ' ' Not that I'm aware of,' said Allen. ' First time I ever heard of it, if I am.' ' I didn't think so,' pursued Lettice, ' because, when I hit you by accident viiih Yarrow's ball, you tm-ned so very red and looked fi'ightened^didn't you ? ' ' I — I can't say,' said AUen, in some confusion. ' I couldn't see myself, you know.' ' Look in the glass now — you're just the same. If you're afraid of us,' suggested Lettice, 'hadn't you better be somebody else's brother, instead of ours ? Because, really and truly, we've only just enough room for ourselves at home. It wouldn't be at all comfortable for you.' ' Don't you trouble about me,' said Allen ; ' I shall be right enough. Ajid you won't Uve where you are much longer. There'll be lots of room.' ' He is only teasing you, dear,' said Margot, noticing the alarm returning to Lettice's eyes. ' Don't believe a word he says.' ' Why,' he protested, ' it's all true. I'm not joking, you will tm'n out of where you are ! ' Lettice's mouth was quivering : ' Then Ida was right ! ' she said. ' You are going to tm'n us out— when you know we've always lived at homo with mother all our lives ! Oh, it is unkind of you ! "Why should yoii want us to — to sell matches and starve ? We never did anything to you, any of us ! ' Allen understood at last. ' So that's what you've got in your head, is it ? ' he cried, mth a noisy laugh. ' That's a good one and no mistake ! Do you think anybody in their senses would want to tium the like of you out '? Don't you be alarmed about that. I'U answer for it, father'U only be too glad to have you about — why, he'll think notliing too good for you ; he won't make any differences, bless you, he's not that sort. What I meant by saying that you wouldn't Hve where you are long, was only that you'd soon be coming to live along with me and father — that's all ! ' ' But, if you don't mind,' said Lettice, ' I think we would rather stay where we are — we're so used to our own house, you see. Margot, wouldn't you rather be at home ? ' ' We have not been consulted, Lettice,' said her elder sister, with a bitter httle smile. ' Everything has been settled without us. We must do as we are told 1 ' ' I shan't, then,' interrupted Reggie. ' I shaU just go on hving where we are now. I'm sure his father won't have nearly such a nice house as ours is.' ' You wait till you see it ! ' said Allen. ' It's a splendid big house, ■with rooms you could put six of these into — regular first- class mansion, you know ; glass-houses, with grapes and peaches growing, and conservatories, and a little stream running through DELF AKD CHINA 95 the grounds where you can fish if you like — I tell you, It's some- thing like a place, ours is ! ' Lettice and Eeggie were both impressed b3' this picture. ' Would there be room for Yarrow there ? ' inquired Lettice. 'Eoom for a dozen Yarrows!' said Allen. 'My governor's rich, you know. Money's no consequence to him — why, since I've been with him, I've only to ask him for whatever it is I want — and so it'll be with you, so long as you behave yourselves, of course. You just see if you aren't a precious sight better off with us than what you would if you went on as you are ! ' In reality, this speech, though not remarkable for tact, was dictated by the desu-e to reconcile them all, and Margot particularly, to the future, and was perfectly free from any mere impulse of ostentation. But on Miss Chevening's fastidious and prejudiced car it jarred as the coarse expression of ignorant purse-pride. That this contemptible boor should dare to patronise them, to thmk that any riches, any material comfort could be a recompense for the humiliation of being related to him ! She said nothing — of what use was it to speak now ! — but her foot beat the floor in her nervous irritation, and her beautiful haughty face grew more contemptuous, if possible, than before. ' It would be nice to have a big garden,' said Lettice, ' and I like peaches too. But I don't think I should like li\dng in somebody else's house always — it would be like being on a visit, and never going away. Shall you be there all the time ? ' This question was put with an intonation that left little room for a flattering construction. ' I shan't be in your way,' said Allen, feeling almost bound to apologise for being there at all. ' And long before that you'U have got used to the governor and me — see if you haven't ! ' ' It takes me a long time to get used to people, always,' said Lettice gi-avely ; ' years, sometmies.' ' Well,' he conceded, ' take your own time — don't hurry your- self.' Lettice's dignity was easily offended. ' As if I was going to ! ' she exclaimed. ' Y"ou can't hiu'ry with things like that, and I'm not sure that I ever shaU get quite used to you. Y''ou see, you'll only be a Pretence Brother, and I've got Eeggie, who's a real one already ! ' ' Well,' said Allen, ' put up with me as well as you can, then, and I shan't complam.' ' If that will do,' said Lettice, ' I've begun to put up with you alreadj', and of course j-ou must put up with us too.' He looked at her and the others with a rough admiration. ' That won't be much of a job,' he said, with the uncouth jocularity which was his only social equipment. ' I can do that on my head.' A silence followed this short dialogue. Margot employed her- self in studying a hideous glass disc containing an impossible view of Arundel Castle as if she had discovered in it a rare artistic merit. 96 THE PARIAH Ida and the governess, ignoring Allen, carried on a conversation in low tones, Reggie retui'ned to his ■window, and Lettice to the drawing which had been interrupted. Allen was left stranded in the centre of the carpet, equally unable to take his de2)arture and start the conversation afresh ; he had an idea that it would some- how betray ignorance of polite society to address any remark io a governess, and besides, he did not know what to say to her. He would have liked to talk to Margot about Trouville, but her manner was not encouraging just then, not even so encouraging as it used to be — he wondered why she had grown less cordial. He was just screwing up his courage to make an observation when there came the sweeping sound of a dress outside, and Mrs. Chevening, smiling and yet with a visible anxiety in her eyes, appeared. ' So you have found your way up, dear Allen ? ' she said to him. • And 3'ou all look quite at home together already. Children, I am bringing — Mr. Chadwick m to have a peep at you. Joshua, they are here — you can come up.' Then a heavier footstep was heard ascending, and Chadwick entered. ' Darlings,' said their mother, ' here is somebody who is very anxious to be kind and good to you all, and I know you all mean to be good children, and make hun proud of you.' They came forward, one by one, to be presented, Chadwick seeming sensible — as well he might — of a certain awkwardness in the situation ' So these are the chicks ? ' he said. ' Come, we shan't be dull at Agra House, Avhatever else we are ! "Well, my dears, I hope we're going to be good friends. You've heard who I am by this time. Your mamma is kind enough to say she's going to be my wife, and so you're all coming to live comfortably with me, eh? Upon my word, Selina, they're a credit to you — they are indeed. I don't know when I've seen a finer looking lot — pick em anywhere you like ! AUen, old fellow, what do you think of your new brother and sisters, eh ? Will they do ? ' ' Yes — thank'ee, father,' returned Allen, at a loss, as usual, for any more adequate words to express his feelings. ' Dear boj',' said Mrs. Chevening, ' you must come as often as you like while we are here — they will be so delighted to have you with them, and Margot is quite an old friend of yours, you know.' ' Ah, young lady, there you are, then ? ' said Chadwick. ' You kept so quiet, I didn't notice you. Come, haven't you a word for an old acquaintance ? You're not looking as well as you did at Trouville. I never inade out exactly why you ran away and left us all there. A pretty fright I had whiFn I foi;nd you and your mother both gone, and left not so much as a card to say good-bye. Anxious about Jo^xr sister, were j'ou? That's right enough — not that there's much of the invalid about her now. Well, you didn't expect to see us turning up like this, I dare say ? ' Margot forced herself to puc her fingers in his hand and submit DELF AND CHINA 97 to his boisterous rallying. She wondered whether her mother winced under it, as she did, but no — Mrs. Chevening was smiling complacently, having a^^parently made up her mind to see no shortcomings in her future husband. Chadwick, more to keep himself in countenance than with any more definite object, had been wandering round the table, where he came upon a sheet of paper covered with jiencil drawings of a primitive order of art. ' What have we got here ? ' he said. ' Who's the artist ? ' 'Lettice, I suspect,' said her mother. ' Is it you, missie ? Come here and tell us what it's all about.' ' I — I don't like to quite,' said Lettice shj'ly, who had a habit of solacing herself in calamity by inventing pictures appropriate to the particular situation. ' Don't be silly, darling,' said Mrs. Chevening. ' Do what j'ou are asked to do — at once ! ' ' It's only a story,' explained Lettice at last. 'Those are the pictures for it — only j^ou're holding them upside down.' ' Oh, this way up, with care, eh ? Well, who's this in a straw hat jumping with an umbrella m her hand — Mrs. Jim Crow ? ' 'It isn't a straw hat,' said Lettice, forgetting everything else in the reflection on her powers of portrayal, ' it's a halo — she's a kind of saint, you know, like those in the Old Masters, and it isn't an umbrella in her hand exactly, but something of the same kind. She's protecting a poor little girl (that's the little girl in the corner) because her mamma married again, and so she was turned out of the house.' ' Lettice, you mustn't tease Mr. Chadwick ! ' interrupted her mother hastily. ' Children have such absiu'd fancies, Joshua, but they don't mean anything by them.' ' Let's have this out,' said Chadwick, roughly but not unkindly, ' So you've been thinking that little girls whose mammas marry again always get turned out as a regular thing, eh ? You won't want that saint yet awhile — tell her to wait till you're a naughty little girl and deserve turning out. Then she can bring on her umbrella ! ' 'I'm sure to be naughty some daj,' said Lettice, whom ex- perience had made fatalistic in this respect ; ' a little naughty, you know.' ' Well, you'll have to be very naughty indeed before you're turned out, and then I shall think twice about it. I've been turned out myself once, and I know what it's like ! ' He patted her head as he spoke, and Lettice, though she winced a Httle under his heavy hand, felt that she need not think seriously about dymg on a doorstep just yet. ' Well,' said Chadwick, who could not be accused of excess of sentiment, ' they'll be doing that beefsteak to a cinder, Allen, my boy, if we are not back at the hotel soon ! Good-bye, my darl — h'm — my dears ! See you again soon ! ' H 98 THE PARIAH "NYlien the gli-ls were alone again, there was a cantioiTS silence, broken by Margot : ' Did I exaggerate much ? ' she demanded. ' Isn't our future brother a fascinating person ? How i^roud we shall be to be seen with him ! ' ' Margot,' asked Lettice, ' would you call him a gentleman ? ' ' If 1 called him a Greek god, dear,' said Margot, ' that wouldn't make him one. Why ? ' ' I was only thinking,' said Lettice, whose thoughts were apt to take an involved form, ' there are some gentlemen who are gentlemen who aren't gentlemen — and there are other gentlemen who aren't gentlemen who are gentlemen — which should you say he was, Margot ? ' ' I'm not clever enough to tell you, darling — and now you and Eeggie must go and get ready for dinner — off with you, quick ! ' When they were gone, Ida said, with a tragic little gi'oan, ' It really is too awful, Margot ! Hennie, don't you pity us all ? ' ' I do indeed, dearest — only, you know, I can't very well say so ! ' ' No, you poor darling ! Oh, if only they will leave us you — you %vill try not to be sent awaj', Hennie, won't you — you won't desei't us ? ' Miss Henderson had been reconsidering her idea of seeking another engagement. These Chadwicks were clearly rich — she might even gain an increase in salary by remaining ; she really was attached to Ida in her way, and her accomplishments were not so varied as to make it easy for her, in these days of competition, to find immediate employment Avithout difficulty. She had decided, therefore, to use her best efforts to remain. Even if Mrs. Chevening, as was not unlikely, should be not unwilling to get rid of her, there were those arrears of salary which she might find it inconvenient to pay oft' all at once — and the governess had a shrewd suspicion that her employer would not disclose to her futm^e husband more of her embarrassments than was absolutely necessary. So she replied with much fervour that she would stand by her beloved Ida till cruel necessity forced her awaj' ; she hoped, she praj'ed, that when all her past services were remembered, no one would have the heart to send her adrift on the world — not even such peopile as the Chadwicks seemed to be. ' Do you think mother really will marry that man ? ' Ida asked Margot ; ' she might change her mind — even at the last moment. Can't we do anything to show her how we hate it ? He might give it up if he knew ! ' ' Do you think I haven't done all I could ? ' cried Margot. ' She says she is doing it for our sakes. For our sakes ! ' she repeated, with a sense of the irony of the words. ' But I am quite sure of this : she means to do it, and nothing in the world we can do or say will prevent her. We are quite helpless, you see. If we show tJievi what we feel aboi;t it, we shall only look ridiculous. Whj^' DELF AND CHINA 99 she continued with deep indignation, ' mother even said ji;st now that if I chose to oppose her openly, she would send me away — away from you all . . . She said she would have no other course.' ' Oh, Margot ! ' exclaimed Ida. ' You see what the danger is — we must put a good face on it. We needn't be hypocrites, of course, but if we're all to keep to- gether, we must be prudent. We need only be civil to — to him, and if mother forces his horrid son upon us, well, we must bear it as well as we can. Fortunately,' added Margot, ' I think I taught him at Trouville not to expect too much.' ' How hateful he was, with his boasts about his father's money and house and all the rest of it ! ' exclaimed Ida. ' That is the sort of conversation we shall have to get used to,' said Margot ; ' we shall be constantly reminded how much better off we are, and how thankful we ought to be. As if our dear old shabby house at Chiswick, where we knew only people we cared about, and did just as we pleased, was not all the home we ever wanted ! ' ' And yet we always used to be grumbling at it, didn't we ? ' said Ida, rendered imgrammatical by remorse. ' I know I was. Like the silly fir-tree in Hans Andersen, that never knew when it was well off. But must we really try to like that awful boy, Margot ? ' ' LiTie him — no ! ' said Miss Chevening. ' Who can like a thmg like that ? I detest him, and I alwaj's shall. But what is the use of showing it ? You have to be very rude before you make any impression on that sort of person — I gave up the attempt long ago. We will take no more notice of him than we can possibly help, but I am afraid we shall have to take some.' ' After all,' said Miss Henderson, ' there are plenty of ways of keeping people at a distance without giving them any cause to complain.' ' That's how we will treat him ! ' cried Ida gleefixlly. ' Y^ou shall teach me, Hennie.' And while these tactics were being discussed, the unconscious enemy was walking over the green in dazed delight at his own good fortune in being admitted into such a family, and thmking of the pleasm'e he would feel in introducing Margot to the glories of Agra House. After all, it is not amiss to be dull of perception sometimes. H 3 100 THE PARIAH CHAPTER III. TO DEAF EARS. Not much need be said of the time which was si)enc by the Chevenings and the two Chadwicks at Littlehampton. For Margot, they were days of acute hiiniiUation ; — she felt as if they were all bemg led captives at the chariot wheels of some Barbarian Conqueror. She coiild no longer, as at Trouville, look forward to approaching release ; she was no longer free even to give full utterance to her thoughts ; at things which had once moved her scorn she had now to blush as one dhectly concerned, and all her pride rebelled against the necessity which laid such a yoke as this upon her. It was exaggerated feeling on her part, a prejudice she had wilfully fomented in her own mind — even Margot would have admitted that there was nothing in itself degrading or derogatory in an aUiance with a wealthy ex-indigo-planter. It is true that Chadwick's early training, and the exceptionally unfriended life — thanks to his own choice and conduct — he had led in Bengal, had not tended to mvest him with even the average amount of social polish. But, though coarse in gi-ain and with a nature warped by a series of misfortmies, he was not, after all, aggressively vulgar in appearance ; he was passable enough, and, so far, had shown every sign of being kindly disposed to those who were about to be dependent upon him. Still, Margot could not pardon her mother in her heart for descending to such a union as this. She would have fomid it difficult to reconcile herself to any second marriage her mother might make ; but, in this case, her disapproval was aggi"avated by the intense, the um-easonably intense, chslike she had conceived for the imiocent Allen. She was compelled, as far as possible, to abstain from expressing it openly, but in secret made no attempt to overcome it. On the contrary, she deliberately indulged it, storing up every jarring speech, every vulgar trick of voice and manner, as food to keep her resentment alive. She did not avoid his society at most times, and even humoiu-ed his halting efforts to entertain her, as if with a perverse determination to spare herself nothing. Allen was again in the seventh heaven ; she treated him once more as in those happy days at Trouville, listened while he talked to her, and made replies in which he at least failed to detect any covert irony. Then her sisters were with her now, and with them she would be sweet and natural, and gay sometimes, when she forgot, and he imagined, mistakenly enough, that he had some share in this intimacy, and was gladder at heart. Ah ! if she would be really a sister to him, he told himself that he would ask no more, for was not that more than he had any claim to expect ? — TO DEAF EARS 101 though even then he knew very well that a feeling was growing up within him, which he was afraid to define to himself, and which he already liad a foreboding would not end in happiness. Yet he did not strangle this hopeless passion of his when he might have done, but glozed it over with another name, as many a wiser and better educated person has done before him. He did all in his power to propitiate the younger members of the family, but, except in the case of Eeggie, his efforts were not as yet very successful, and Reggie's adherence was due to a dis- covery that this queer new brother had plenty of pocket-money, and could be induced to spend it on sweetstuff for his benefit by a few judicious hints. He had it all to himself, too, for Lettice declined to accept any, even fi"om her brother. Her rejection of all Allen's advances gave him a sore heart now and then, for he felt strongly drawn to Lettice, with her qv;aint dignity and frank, fearless ways ; he would willingly have been friends with her, if she had consented. But Lettice's affections were not to be bought, and the example set her by her elders served to coiuiteract any friendliness she might otherwise have extended to him. For Ida Allen cared less ; she took less pains to control her tongue ; he did arrive sometimes at suspecting her of deliberately intending to be disagreeable. She was affected, too, and querulous, and, pretty as she was, he felt less desire to conciliate her than any of the others ; in fact, something very like the foundation of a grudge against her was laid in him during those last few days at Littlehampton. The time was spent mostly in expeditions to various local places of interest ; to Arundel, and Chichester, and Worthing, and others ; expeditions of which Chadwick, as at Trouville, assiuned the entire command. He had not seen them since he was a boy, he declared, and he insisted that they should all see them together, though Margot, at least, chafed at going sightseeing in this bourgeois fashion. It had seemed wearisome enough in Normandy, but now she was directly involved and could no longer maintain her atti- tude of unconcerned superiority. To a high-spirited, intensely proud girl as she was, exclusive and fastidious by nature, and regarding the commonijlace with youthful intolerance, her position was genuinely trying, though not so hard, it must be owned, as she chose to consider it. She was miserable ; she had often felt before that she was deprived of opportunities which other girls enjoyed, which she, too, had once confidently looked forward to; but, if existence in the unfashionable old house by the river, with few friends and little gaiety, had been dull, it was never ignoble — there was a dignity in it, in spite of their limited means and money troubles (of which she had pre- ferred to remain in contented ignorance), which had comforted her at her lowest. Now that was all over ; there could be no poetry henceforth for her m this new atmosphere of vidgar well- being. Condemned to be constantly with those who were utterly 102 THE PARIAH out of sympathy with her, she felt for ever shut out from con- genial societ}- — for she could not imagine that any ' nice ' people Avoulcl care to visit at her step-father's. Had he not enlarged sometimes on the unh-iendhness of his county neighbours ? She did not wonder at it, and of cotu'se they would be under the ban too. Mrs. Chevening's equanimity did not seem to be distm-bed by any doubts as to the wisdom of the step she was taking. She had taken it rather sooner than she had mtended, for the shock of her supposed departure from Trouville had brought Chadwick's feelings to a climax ; still she had long seen that, if she was to extricate herself from her gro^\■ing difticulties, she must either marry her daughter well, or marry again herself. She had made careful inquiries mto Chadwick's position, and at one time she had allowed herself to speculate on the possibility of marrying Margot to his only son. But when Allen appeared on the scene, even Mrs. Chevening saw that this scheme must be abandoned. Margot proved impracticable, and her mother was clever enough to see that she was powerless here. His father, meanwhile, was showing unmistakable signs of desiring something more than fiiendship; he did not pretend to be in love, but he spoke more and more often of his big empty house, and the need he felt of a wife who would help him to gain a footing in the comity. He was not alarmed by the fact of so many step-chikken — there was enough for all. Mrs. Chevening was tired of her fallen fortimes, of the constant and mcreasmg battle between expenses and income ; she wanted to see her brilliant Margot enjoying her rightful opportimities of marrying well ; there were her other daughters to be considered, her son to be educated. As the wife of a wealthj' ex-indigo -planter, she felt very certain of ensuring all these advantages ; he was not over-refined, but she could school him where it was necessaiy, and keep him as much in the background as possible ; the only social bar lay in what his father had been, and that could be got over now. And so Mrs. Chevening soon persuaded herself that it was the only thing to do, and that, for her children's sake, she ought to accept the offer, wliicli was made in a peremptory ' take it or leave it ' style that demanded an instant decision. Accordingly, with some graceful phrases about giving her orphaned children a father, and supplymg herself the place of a mother to 'poor Allen,' she had consented, with a private reflection that, should it turn out that she had been misinformed in anj' essential respects, she could always withdraw in time. She had dreaded having to break the news to her family — above all to Margot, with whom she knew she must employ all her firmness before she could compel her to any sort of acqui- escence. However, that was over, and really, as far as she could tell, the girls seemed wonderfully reconciled to it akeady, and by careful management, she kept their dislike to Allen fi'om appearing TO DEAF EAKS 103 too plainly. ' They really seemed quite attached to dear Allen,' slic would tell his father. ' He was a constant companion in all their walks. She was so pleased to see the shjaiess melting away, but of course Margot had given liim a good character, and they felt as if they had known him ever so long ; he seemed so happy to be with them, too — it was quite ideal altogether ! ' Chadwick saw nothing, believed, and was well satisfied. He felt that he had done an uncommonly good stroke of business. He was going to marry a widow, who was still handsome and beyond question a lady. With her and her beautiful daughters to form the attraction at Agra House, he need not complain of isolation any longer, the county society would soon rally round him . And for Allen, too, the companionship of lively pretty girls would be a capital thing ; it would teach him certain things which his father was beginning dimly to see he needed to be taught. Yes, his first marriage had been a mistake, he saw that now, and he had had to pay for it with over twenty years' exile and hard- ship — his second marriage was going to be a success. Such, so far, were the various attitudes of the persons in- terested. It should be mentioned here that one humble member of the Chevening family extended to Allen a friendship which had nothing in it of reserve or self-interest, and that was the dog Yarrow. For some inscrutable reason, the collie received him at once into unhesitating fovour, beaming on him with liquid golden- tawny eyes, presenting him handsomely with his honest paw and pushing his panting head under Allen's arm at every possible opportunity. For this he was lectured in private by Lettice, who considered it almost in the light of a desertion to the enemy ; and even Margot, to whom he nominally belonged, was not above feeling a secret chagrin — althougli she did not deign openly to notice this exhibition of bad taste on Yarrow's part. Allen did not know much about dogs, and had never owned one in his life, but he was gi-ateful to the collie for his preference — it seemed to him a good omen that Margot's dog should be fond of him. When this constant companionship with the Chevening girls came to an end, as it did in a very few daj-s on their departure for London, he felt almost as bereaved as on that miserable afternoon at Trouville when he learned that Margot had gone. But things were not nearty so bad now ; he would see them still occasionally at Chiswick during the wmter, and early in the year they were all coming to live at Agi'a House (so christened by his grandfather, in defiant commemoration of the business which had enriched him) — that was something to be patient for. The weeks that followed were rather dull for him ; his father was absent in town for the gi'eater part of the time, and Allen lived at his new liome with no other companion than the grim relative who had brought him up, and whom Chadwick had established there as temporary care- taker. Allen naturally had no experience of shooting or hunting ; the man who looked after the stables gave him a few riding lessons 104 THE PAKIAH now and then, but Allen showed no particular aptitude for horse- manship, and the groom was rather ashamed of going out with him. ' He do sit loose, that yomig chap — as loose as anyone I ever see on top of a horse,' he would remark in the village. ' Now the gov'nor, any one 'ud tell he's been in the saddle a bit, not that I call Jiim a rider — but that yoimg Allen, blest if I think he knows a horse 'as a mouth at all ! ' He was not more successful at shooting ; he knew none of the residents, and the Agra House groimds had no cover to speak of, so the sport was confined to missing an occasional rabbit. And his aunt, though she treated him with an increase of respect, aa became his altered fortunes, was not cheerful society, especially when she approached the subject of her brother-in-law's second marriage. ' What he wants to marry for at his age, I don't know ! ' she would often remark, as they sat in the big dining-room, with the ' handsome ' furniture, dull-toned paper, and immense gaselier, Avhich the late Mr. Chadwick had insisted upon. ' I'd have looked after everything for him, if that was all. But no — he's not content with that, he must be marrying the first woman who chooses to set her cap at him— a widow, they tell me. Any family, has she got ? ' she inquired once. ' Four,' Allen answered, with a secret thrill ; ' one grown-up — a young lady, you know.' ' Ah ! a worldly widow with a family,' his aunt commented. ' Well, I don't know what your poor mother would have said to it, I'm sure, if she could see such doings. But there, it's no use my saying anything — though I'm sorry for you, that I am ! ' ' You needn't be, aimt,' was Allen's ordinary reply to this. ' I'm glad.' ' Glad, are you ? Then, Allen Chadwick, you're a bigger fool than I took you for — but there, you'll find your mistake out some day ! ' And Miss Wrigley would go on with her knittmg with a highly expressive snort. In her narrow way she had done her duty by her nephew, and though he had not been as steady as she wished him to be, and was not as bright and smart as some of her neighbours' lads, she had a certam grim affection for him, which showed itself in a toiich of sharpness sometimes at his apparent inability to take his own part and look after his interests. ' He's like his mother in that,' she would think. ' She'd have let anyone cut the head off her shoulders if they asked her ! ' While Allen was longing for the weeks to pass, and the day to come which would make him a member of Margot's family, she was grudging every hour that brought her nearer to the time. More than any of the others, she clung to the picturesque old- fashioned house by the river where they had sj^ent the last few years. It was dingy and dark from the creepers that overgi-ew the front, and the scraggy truncated ehns that almost brushed the great bow-window with their branches. The river, now leaden and mist-shrouded, glided by on the other side of the narrow road. At TO DEAF E.vnS 105 nij^lit she heard the water lap and wash against the hank under her window, and wondered how she could ever have thought the sound a dismal one. Melancholy it might be, but, now that she had little cause to be joyous, the river seemed a soothing and unobtrusive sharer in her sorrow— she liked to fancy that it was a little sorry to lose them all. And the house, so cool and fresh in summer, so snug and com- fortable in winter, with such refinement and harmony in its faded tones and old furnitm-e ; the house, with its memories of happy, dreammg hom's spent on summer afternoons in the balcony over the porch, of merx-y family romps, when her dignity as growing school-girl or ' finished ' young lady was thrown to the winds ; the very walls, associated with so many simple little festivals — how dear they had all become ! She had never known till then how much it would cost her to leave all this, and they were to leave it for what ? For a country house, built the day before yester- day by a retired tradesmen — for the elder Chadwick was nothing more ; a poor exchange enough, even could they have been per- mitted to occupy it alone ; but when she thought whose house it would be, and the position they would fill in it, her heart swelled with indignation against her mother. When Lady Yaverland heard of the step her younger sister was contemplating, she did what she had not found time to do for some years — she drove down to Chiswick in state from Portman Square, and it being impossible to drive up to the house, from the fact that the road along the bank was a mere footpath at that particular spot, her carriage was to be seen waiting in a back road, the nearest point of approach, with the coachman wearing an expression which seemed to disown all personal responsibility for being found in such a neighbourhood, while a fur-caped footman stood majestically by the railings in fi'ont of the shabby old ivy-grown house. Lady Yaverland had brought her youngest daughter, Valeria, with her, and, at a suggestion from her mother, Margot took her cousin off to her own room. The two girls had never been intimate ; the Honourable Miss Valeria Brading, who, if patrician, was undeniably plain in appearance, was inclined to resent her cousin's beauty, and patronised her when they met in a highly provoking manner. ' Do tell me all about it,' she began, as she sank down in Margot's easy- chair. ' I am so interested. When is Aunt Selina going to marry ? Aren't you awfully delighted ? ' ' Mother is going to marry early next year, Valeria,' said Mar- got. ' And I'm not awfully delighted. I thirdi it's di-eadful ! ' ' You verij cm'ious person ! ' said Miss Brading languidly. ' Why, I should have thought it was the best thmg that could happen for all of you. Won't you be fearfully well off now. I thought he was so rich and all that ? ' ' What are his riches to us ? ' said Margot. ' Do you thinli one can't be happy without that ? ' ' I should certainly have thoi;ght,' said Miss Valeria, with aglance 106 THE PARIAH round the room, in the appointments of which taste ■\vas more con- spicuous than hixury, ' that you would hke to see more of the workl than you can possibly do in a place like this. I dare saj' you will live in town for the season now, and go out, and all that sort of thing. You'll enjoy it, because it will all be fresh to you. It isn't as if yoii had grown up m it as I have ! ' ' I don't know where we shall live — in the country, most likely, all the year,' said Margot, ' but I know I shall not enjoy anything, wherever we are. I should hate myself if I thought I could ! ' ' That's so silly, dear,' remarked her cousin, in a superior tone, which was undeniably infuriating. ' If'e think it quite a nice arrange- ment in every way.' ' Very likely,' said Miss Chevening warmly. ' It must be pleasanter to have rich relations than poor ones, however little you see of them. Never mind, Valeria, we will agree that we ought to consider ourselves very fortunate — only we are so stupid that we don't. And now let's talk of something else.' ' Indeed, I've no wish to piu'sue the subject, only I miTst say that, if you will hui-y yourselves away in a place like this, it is rather too much to complain of people not coming to see you — it is really.' ' Is it, Valeria ? ' said Margot. ' If I did complain, I won't do it again. Come into the schooh'oom and see Ida and Lettice, they'll be so glad.' Lady Yaverlaud took her leave in a naost cordial manner. ' Good-bye, Selina, dearest,' she said, as she rose ; ' we shall hope to see more of you in the future. I really am more enchanted than I can say. Now do bring Mr. Chadwick to see me some day — let me see, shall it be next Wednesday,'?^No, I've got something on Wednesda}^ I Tinoiv. Thursday, then ? or stop, there are people coming to lunch on Thursday, we shan't get a moment together. Valeria, are we free on Friday, darling ? Oh, that tiresome afternoon concert at the Brutons' ! Well, I must write and fix a day, and, in any case, you wUl be sure to let me know when and where the cere- mony is to take place — I shall make a pomt of being there. Fioberts, tell Jennings the carriage, please.' So Lady Yaverland and her daughter walked back to their smart carriage, which was presently rolling away along the bankside, past the baring trees and decaymg houses. Lady Yaverland was really pleased. She had married a wealthy manufactm-er, who, for some services he had rendered his party, had been raised to the peerage as Baron Yaverland some years ago. After her husband had received this distinction, she had taken a position in society which did not allow her to see much of her sister, especially when Mrs. Chevening had become a widow, and was forced by her own im- prudent speculations to withdraw beyond the radius recognised by Society and its coachmen. She had felt some twinges of conscience, nevertheless, and was always on the point of seeing whether something could not be done for 'poor dear Selina,' consoling herself for doing nothing by the TO DEAF EAr.S 107 reflection that livino; must be very cheap at Chiswick, and if SeHna was really in anj' difficulties she would write and ask ibr assistance. Now that Selina was actually going to make a really sensible marriage, Lady Yaverland's heai-t naturally warmed to her ; she could be cordial now with impunity — and hence her visit. 'Dear Selina!' she said to her daughter, as they drove away, ' she seems so contented and satisfied, spoke so nicely of him, I was quite pleased to hear her. She'll have everything she can want now, and those poor girls will be provided for after all. I must send her something really nice for a wedding present. You must help me to choose. Margot very delighted about it all, I suppose ? ' ' I shoi;ldn't say she was enthusiastic exactly,' drawled Miss Valeria. ' I gathered that she rather disapproved of it.' ' Foolish gii-1 1 ' said her mother. ' However, she will have to resign herself to the inevitable.' Mrs. Chevening stood at the window smiling and kissing her hand while her sister in her heavy furs was stepping daintily along the narrow path. ' Good-bye, good-bye, dearest ones, come again soon ! ' she was saying, rather to govern her expression than with any hope of being audible. ' What a pity it is for that poor girl to be so plain ! And Gwendolen looks quite twenty years older than when I saw her last. However, I am very glad she came. You see now, Margot, that my own sister doesn't consider I have lost caste, whatever my daughter chooses to think ! ' ' When you bring Mr. Chadwick to see Aunt Gwendolen, mother,' said Margot, ' shall you take Allen too ? ' ' I see no necessity for it,' replied her mother ; ' he is hardly fit to go into society at present, poor fellow ! ' ' No,' said Margot, ' but you consider him quite fit for our society, don't yoia inother ? ' 'I thought,' said her mother, ' that I was not to have the pain of hearing such language as this from you again, Margot ! ' ' Mother ! ' said the girl passionately, ' I can't always keep silence— you must let me speak oiit sometimes, when we are alone. I do try to treat Mr. Chadwick as yoii would wish. I — I am even getting not to mind him. But Allen — mother, you can't expect me to feel that he is the sort of person I can bear to think of as a con- stant companion — as a brother ! I know you believe you are doing the best for us all — perhaps you are, for the others — but, at least you might understand that I can't help being a little bitter now and then — ^just on my own account ! ' She stood there, tall and slender, with a look of unconquerable pride on her fan- face, and yet her voice had something wmning and appealing in it which caused her mother a momentary pang of self-reproach. Mrs. Chevenmg thought of her future step-son and placed him mentally by the side of this girl — the effect was grotesque enough to arouse a certain sj-mpathy with her daughter's protest. Well, well, my dear,' she said, with a little sigh, ' I don't ask 108 THE PAPJAH you to feel what perhaps it is not natural that j'ou should feel. 1 am quite sure that you will see one day that I am right in the course I am taking, and if Allen is the chief objection, Margot,' she added, ' be patient, dearest, a little while. Yoimg men are not generally great stay-at-homes I ' CHAPTER IV. THE DANGERS OF NOT KNOWING WHEN TO STOP. It was some time before Lady Yaverland found leisure to fix a day for making the acquaintance of her sister's husband-elect, but she did so at last, and even sent an invitation to dinner. ' It had better be dinner, George,' she had said to her husband. ' I don't want poor Selina to feel herself abandoned, and we need not see anj-thing of them afterwards, you know. And if we don't have them now, we shall have to ask them down to Arreton later ! ' 'It was a very quiet little dinner — " only just ourselves," ' as Lady Yaverland had explained ; even the daughters of the house were not present, and their absence was not accounted for. Perhaps the dinner did not promise to establish any very cordial relations for the futiu'e between the principal persons concerned. Chadwick had seen enough of the world not to feel intimidated by the pre-' sence of a peer, but he took rather more pains to make this evident than he need have done. In fact, he talked down and contradicted his host so iDersistently that Lord Y''averland, though the mildest and least exacting of noblemen, became a little restive at last, and liis wife deemed it necessary to rebuke the offender. ' Perhaps j'ou don't know, Mr. Chadwick, — and if so I may tell you ' — she said, with an ambiguous blaudness, ' that the indigo question, and in fact, Indian affairs generally, have been a special study of Lord Y'^aver- land's for some years ! ' ' Can't help that, my lady,' said Chadwick. ' Of course, if his lordship tells me he's been there, that's another thing ! ' ' It has always been a di-eam of mine,' said the host, ' to visit a country in which I take considerable interest — but, as a matter of fact ' ' You haven't got beyond dreaming at present ? ' interrupted Chadwick, with his loud laugh, ' That's where it is, you see ! Not that you'd know much more about it if you went — they'd show you round, and tell yon just as much as they wanted you to know, and, after six weeks of that sort of thing, you'd come back and write an article in a crack magazine, or a book very likely, and think you had settled the whole question. Now I've been out there, lived there over twenty years, and I know what Tin talking about, and I tell you, you may take it from mc ' DANGERS OF NOT KNOWING WHEN TO STOP 109 ' Forgive me, said Lord Yaverland stiffly, ' there are some thin^js I really cannot consent to take from anybody. Selina, was Trou- ville at all crowded this season ? ' Mrs. Chevening saw of course that her future husband was not, producing the best of impressions, but she accepted it philosophi- cally enough. She did not care very much whether her sister and she were to be intimate in future or not ; their paths had always lain too much apart to make that a very likely contingency ; and now, though she was willing that Chadwick should understand that if she was poor she was no adventuress, she did not expect this meeting to lead to anything. Even Chadwick's breaches of the ordinary amenities of life did not cause her any acute distress — he was ' like that,' and it was of no use minding, but she was glad that Margot, who had been included in the invitation, had declined to accompany her — she would not have liked to see the expression she knew her daughter's face would have worn. AVhcn the two sisters were alone together in the great drawing- room. Lady Yaverland began with a little hesitation : ' I hope, Selina,' she said, ' I hope you are quite — quite sure that this is a — a wise thing you are going to do ! ' ' Eeally, Gwendolen,' retorted Mrs. Chevening, w^ith a rather accelerated beat of her fan, ' I think I maybe considered old enough to raanage my own affairs. I have been left to manage them for myself all these years ! ' ' And a dreadful muddle you have made of them ! ' came into Lady Yaverland's mind, but all she said was, ' You mustn't be anpry with me, Selina, I can't help asking, because — because — well, it is so very unlike anvthing I should have expected you to do ! ' ' It is all very well, Gwendolen,' said Mrs. Chevening. ' I don't pretend that I should have done quite this if I hadn't been so horribh^ poor. But what was I to do "? You know you wouldn't have helped me ! ' ' It is unkind of you to say that,' interposed Lady Yaverland, who felt this thrust to come unpleasantly near home. ' You never asked me — though ' (this was due to a recollection chat her purse mii^ht still be not out of danger) ' I assure you I have so many claims upon me that I often don't know where to cui'n for money myself. However, it is different for you now — you will not be horribly poor any longer at all events ! ' ' No, I suppose not, And really he is very good ! ' ' I don't doubt it for a moment, and of course, as you say, j'ou are the best judge — I dare say you will be very happy.' In parting Chadwick gave his host and hostess a pressing invi- tation to visit them at his place at Gorsecombe after the marriaijfe. 'Always pleased to see any of Selina's family, ixiy lord,' he assured him. ' Just drop us a line a day or cwo before to say we're to expect you, and you may depend upon us co let you know if it s mcon- venient — run down when you ciin, and no ceremony.' 110 THE PARIAH To which Lady Yaverland had replied somewhat frostily for herself and her husband, that ' Mr. Chadwick was too kind — but they so seldom paid any visits now.' ' An offensive fellow, Gwen ! ' Lord Yaverland remarked when his guests were gone. ' Don't know when I've seen a more offensive fellow. What on earth possessed Selina to take up with him ? ' ' Poor dear Selina ! ' said his wife, ' she has her gii'ls to think of. He's very well off, I understand. I'm afraid we can't know them, though.' ' I couldn't stand him at Arreton, I know that. Selina must come alone if she comes at all.' ' She won't expect it ; she is very sensible about some things. We have done our duty, at least ; we can run up for the wedding, you know — I'm afraid you've had a boring evening, George ? ' ' Well, my dear, I did find him a trilie fatiguing.' ' Think what it will be for poor Selina ! ' ' That's licr look-out,' said Lord Yaverland, as he retired to his library. At about the same time Chadwick, as he escorted Mrs. Chevening home, was reviewing the evening with complacency. ' I think, Selina,' he was saying, ' I gave his lordship a Avrinkle or two ' (a siu'mise which was more literally correct than he imagined). 'I tackled him about India — did you hear me ? I alwaj's get my monkey up when I hear these swells laying down the law about indigo, when all the time they don't know the dif- ference between a r^^ot and a gantidar ! Still, I hope I was civil, eh?' ' I think, if anything, you were almost too — too respectful in some ways,' hazarded Mrs. Chevening. ' George isn't accustomed to. be called " my lord " quite so often.' ' Why, I threw it in fi-om time to time, just to show I remem- bered the difference in rank between us,' cried Chadwick. ' God bless my soul, Selina, do you suppose I don't know how to behave — even if I have lived amongst niggers all my life ? You seem to think I'm an ignorant boor by the way you talk, hanged if you don't ! ' ' Indeed, Joshua, I never thought any such thing ! ' protested Mrs. Chevening, ^\•ho saw that his pride was seriously rutlled, ' and I'm sure George was very much struck by all you said — I thought you were so right about things.' ' Right ? I should think I ^vas right ! ' said Chadwick, moUified at once. ' He knocked mider completely after you went. I've taken rather a fancy to him, I must say, and your sister seems a pleasant woman — stiffer than I care about — but pleasant.' ' Gwendolen can be very pleasant,' said her sister. ' W^ell,' said Chadwick, ' I- can't trot out any lords on nnj side of the family, Selina, but perhaps we're none the worse for that. Not that I've any objection to lords as such, but I don't run after 'em, and I'm in no hurry for them to run after me ! ' ' I scarcely think you are likely to suffer any annoyance of that DANGERS OF NOT KNOWING WHEN TO STOP 111 kind,' Mrs. Chevening could not help retorting — to which he replied in all sincerity, that he ' did not advise any lord to try it on.' Christmas approached, the last they were all to spend at Osier House, which fact alone would have been enough to spoil the day in anticipation for Margot, even if the party at the dinner- table were not to be joined by Allen and his father. Chadwick had en- gaged qiiarters for Christmas at a hotel in Chiswick, and it was arranged that Allen should come up and share them. He was almost as much at the house as his father, and it fell to the girls' lot to entertain him, which they found as irksome a task as ever. Margot had schooled herself once more to behave to him with a kind of severe tolerance, and, as usual, he accepted this as a symp- tom of growing friendliness, and responded witli what disdainful Morgot chose to consider odious familiarity — though, could she have known it, there was nothing but the purest respect and admi- ration in his feelings for her. However, she could not, or would not, see it, and escaped from the infliction of his company as often as she could, sometimes soothing her irritation bj' lonely walks along the quaint old-world streets and alleys by the riverside between Hammersmith and Kew bridges; for Margot preferred, when in these moods, to Avalk alone. She had gone out one afternoon a day or two before Christmas, and followed the road which, after striking inland to save a curve of the bank, returns again to the river through one of the most picturesque of old suburban streets. How she loved it now — this irregular A^inding thoroughfare of old brick houses, with projecting corbelled roofs, whose white-sashed A\-indows must have seen Hogarth's sturdy figure pass and repass many a time ! The little shops were bright with Christmas cheer ; in the greengrocer's window stood the little figure of Father Christmas, which had made its annual reappearance there every year she had been in Chiswick — it would come out again next year, no doubt, but she would not be there to see. The grim old mansions further on showed a glimpse of warmth and firelight through the tall windows, and here, at the end of the lane, was the chinx'h, and through a gap the river shoAved a dull lead-colour, with oily eddies and flaws on its swollen surface, and the faint outlines of trees on the opposite bank ; a tug, with a trail of barges in its wake, came panting and pufting down, as if protesting against over- work. It was stiU light, the day had been mild for the season, and the rain had not long cleared ; Margot walked on, unwilling to turn back just then, her whole thoughts absorbed in self-pity. She had left the river again, had passed a timber-yard, where a log was screaming like a hurt animal under the whirr of the steam-saw, and now she had come to a quiet old terrace, which, reserving its best side for the river, presents the anomaloiis ajipearance of ha\ing all its front doors at the back. At the end of this row of quaint, diminutive, pillared porches and irregularly placed windows, she had resolved to turn, but before she reached it, someone came 112 THE rARIAH towards her from the narrow lane in front, and, with a curious mixture of feeling, she saw that it was Nugent Orme. Orme, of course, had heen at least as quick in recognising her, in spite of the failing light and the partial disguise of her winter "v\Taps. People who had once known Miss Cheveuing were not apt to pass her by, and, as it chanced, he was thinking of her at that very moment. To tell the truth, this was not the lirst time he had taken this walk of late, and with a faint undefined exi^ectation of some such encounter as this, though hitherto only to experi- ence the \mzz\mg fact that the last place, as a rule, to find people one is anxious to meet, is the neighbourhood where they happen to dweU. This time he had a definite reason for turning his steps in that direction, as he had to see somebody at Chiswick, though he had set oiit to walk there by the longer way along the river bank, less with any real hope of seemg Miss Chevening than to please his fancy once more with the endeavour to identify her house among the many comfortable old houses by the riverside with the trees darkening their verandahed fi-onts. From this it will be perceived that the impression Miss Cheven- ing had left on him was deeper after all than he had been disposed to believe at the time. He was constantly making efforts to call up her featm'es and expression exactly ; sometimes with a tanta- lising flash of success, generally with results distressing by their vagueness. He speculated about her a good deal, too, gomg back often in fancy to that delicious scene of reconciliation on his last night, and trying to penetrate her motives. If only he could be quite sure she was as anxious to keep his friendship as she seemed —if only she was as frank and unaffected as he had beheved at the time — if she had not been practising on him for some reason or other ! All this did not affect either his rest or his ajDpetite, but it gave his leisure thoughts an interest, a pervading romance and sentiment which had not begun to fade as yet. Now he saw her again, and instantly felt how faithlessly and inadequately his memory had served him — the reality was so far more charming, there was so much that he had unaccountably for- gotten ! That blending in her of the imperious young goddess and the wilful child, for instance, had escaped him utterly till he saw her now. She smiled at him as she held out her hand ; her eyes were kind, though her mouth Avas a little tremulous, and she looked less buoyant and less happy than he remembered her ; she had not forgotten him, but he fancied she was not altogether glad to see him just then. ' Is this one of your haunts ? ' she mqufred, as they stood there. He exj)lained, without thiiilimg it necessary to mention that it was not his first visit, that he had to call at Chiswick hotel on business of his father's. ' Do you know that j'ou have chosen the most roundabout way to get there ? ' DANGEES OP NOT KNOWING WHEN TO STOP 113 ' Have I really ? ' he said hypocritically ; ' however, it is too late to alter that now.' ' You might reach the main road from here if you are pressed for time, but it is much the uglier way certainly. I was just turning back, so, if you like, we might walli together part of the way, and I could put you in the right road.' Mies Chevening did not know, and I am afraid did not gi-eatly care, how far she w'as warranted by the proprieties in makmg this offer. At first, the pain of meeting him had outw'eighed the pleasure, and her impulse had been to jDass on after a few common- place words, and go back by a different waj'. But when she saw the very evident pleasm'e in his eyes, she had not the heart for this — it would be pleasant after all to talk with him again, even though it w^as all so changed now. How gi-atefully and gladly he accepted need not be said. He had found her again, more kind and more beautiful than ever ; he was walking by her side, and she was talking to him with the old sweet brusqueness, and a delicate note of sadness in her voice sometimes that endeared her more to him than any gaietj'. 'It seems years ago smce the Trouville days,' she said, and added : ' I mean so many things have happened since — to me at least.' She was wondering — half hoi)efiilly — if he had heard; she was svnre he would be sorry for her. ' Pleasant things, I hope ? ' he said. He knew nothmg, then^ could she bring herself to tell him ? ' No, indeed ; nothmg will ever be pleasant any more ! ' said Miss Chevening, in a tone of mournful conviction. ' I am so sorry — so sincerely sorry,' he said gently. ' I hardly dare to ask questions, but — it is not illness ? ' ' Nothing to do with illness. We — we shall have to leave our pretty old house, for one thing.' ' You are not leaving England ? ' he asked anxiously. ' No — I almost wish we were, instead of but I can't tell you just now. I will try to tell j-ou presently, if I am able. Now, tell me about yoiurself, and all that you have been doing since wo parted.' Seeing that she evidently meant to change the subject, he gave her as much of his history durmg the past months as was likely to be of any interest to her, and she listened and made comments which he thought showed a delightful interest in his proceedings, and bj^-and-by they passed to general topics. And they walked on, past Chiswick Mall (where she professed to know the very house where Miss Pinkerton had once kept her celebrated academy, and the gate through which the Sedley coach had driven that summer day with Amelia and Becky Sharp inside, and black Sambo behind), past the church, and the little angle of eighteenth-century build- ings, with the more modern, but still old-fashioned, shops below the red brick bulging fronts and high brown roofs ; the butcher's, with its Chi-istmas show of red and white joints ; the grocer's, with X 114 THE rARIAII the heat of the gas made a misty bhu* on the small-paned shop- fronts. Then mto gloom again, under the bulging ivj^-topped walls of private parks, ■with glimpses through the railings of gi'een and mildewed statues, looking slightly imcanny in the gathering gloom ; and, here and there, amongst the shadowy trunks and tree-tops, a great cedar rising in darker outlme against the grey background. Then along a lonelj' road facmg the west, where a gleam of stormy yellow showed that the sun was setting, and on till the river came in sight once more, and the willows and poplars were delicately traced against a sunset sky which had suddenly' become mottled with vivid patches of olive, gi'ey, green, crocus and blue. Thej^ met scarcolj^ anybody ; this old-world region, though surroimded by building estates, and villas, and flaring new shojis, seems forgotten, iintouched amidst so much change— given over for a httle longer to dignified decay and ghostly memories of past grandeur ; there was a strange intimate charm to him in walking there with her in the silence and solitude, something dreamy and poetic in the place which both felt. 'You are not very far from your journey's end now, Mr. Orme,' she said, with a return to practical life, as they entered the region of brick and stucco once more, and saw the tall mass of the water- tower painted in faint gi'ey monochrome upon the gi-een evening skj'. 'I will show you a short cut which will take you to the hotel.' '■ The hotel ? ' he said abstractedly ; ' to be sure, I was going there. That reminds me ' (the young man was glad to catch at any excuses for prolonging the conversation), ' I don't think I mentioned who it is I am going to see. You remember the Chad- wicks, at the Californie ? ' ' Very well,' she said — the possibility that he 'svas going to call on Mr. Chadwick had already occurred to her — she had expected this, and tried to avert it. Now it had come. ' I remember,' he said, ' that they were not favourites of yours, still it maj^ interest you to hear that the father is going to marry again.' She would tell him in a moment — not yet ; she pi;t off her revelation, not unwillmg that he should be impressed by her stoicism. ' It does interest me — very much,' she said, witli her enigmatic smile. ' Do you — have j'ou heard who the lady is '? ' ' Onlj" the mere fact at present, and not even that till a day or two ago. I am sorrj- for that poor yoimg fellow.' ' Sorry— sorry for 7; im ? ' Miss Chevening flamed out sud- denly. 'J should have thought other persons were more to be pitied.' ' So you haven't forgiven him even yet ! ' he said, smiling at this proof that the old j)etulant prejudice was still alive; 'aren't you rather hard on him. Miss Chevenmg ? ' ' But why should lie be the person to be pitied for his father's second marriage ? ' she persisted. DANGERS OF NOT KNOWING WHEN TO STOP 115 The pleasantest conversations generally have a stage at which wo coiilil wish, afterwards, they had ended — little as he knew it, Orme was passing that stage now. ' Well, you see,' he explained, ' he's an onlj^ son, and — well, I gathered from what I was told that the lady who is going to marry his father was not doing so out of disinterested affection exactly. And, though you will prohabl}- decline to believe that anybody would marrj' him for love, a woman who does it for money is not likely to prove the best conceivable step-mother, is she '? ' They were standing together at the point where the riverside path begins again — though the road is continued inland. In the pain, the indignant surprise, and shame which that imprudent speech of his had excited, all impulse to enlighten him vanished. Where now was the compassion — the respectful and admiring compassion — she had looked for ? How could she tell him, after that ! Was this how the world would look at it ? Oh, the world was cruel and stupid, and she hated it ! The scene around her suddenly became dreary and dismal — she hated it all ; the humble little riverside cottages and ancient taverns, the muddy path, the dim black barges close in under the bank, between which the water was swashing and gui'gling mournfully, the pale river gliding by, the ugly lattice bridge over which a train, a long line of yellow bars, was passmg, repeated in the water below, all seemed an appropriate background to her wretchedness at that moment. 'I — I don't agree with you at all,' she said tremulously; 'it is you who are not charitable now ! And,' she added, recovering her dignity, ' I will say good-bye here, please, Mr. Orme.' He felt that her manner had altered, that he had received his dismissal, but he did not suspect the extent of his offence. She never could mention young Chadwick without that hostility ; he ougliG to have known better, he reflected, as he went on alone, but with no serious uneasiness. Nothing could dash his spirits just then — he had found her again — his beautiful, unforgettable friend, and he had new recollections to live upon until he saw her again — for that he should see her again, he was certain ! She was more delightful than ever, less abrupt and imperious, gentler and more subdued. He must not let himself fall in love with her — that was out of the question as j'et — but what if, some day — ? For a man who was not admittedly in love he found a pleasure in dwelling upon the possibility of becoming so which might ha^e caused him to beware. But perhaps he no longer wished to beware. He had known when he set oi;t to w^alk that afternoon, so he told himself now, that this afternoon was not to be as any common afternoon. ^largot went on her way in a very different frame of mind : she had been punished, she thought bitterly, for her desire to enjoy Nugent Orme's companionship once more for a little while ! When he knew that he had been speaking slightingly to her of her own mother, what would he feel '? Would it make him despise them all ? And then she remembered his manner when they met by i2 116 THE rAni.ui the terrace that afternoon — he did Hke her, she was certain, he had been very glad to see her again, he -would be horrified with himself when he knew, and he would be sorry for her. It was useless tryuig to feel angry with him, he had offended hi perfect innocence. She felt that she might be siu'e of a staunch fi'iend in him. But now she would be leavmg London very soon, and then she would lose sight of him — this time altogether perhaps ! It might have been so different if — if it were not for this marriage, and, as she reached this point in her meditations, all her dis- pleasiu'e as usual concentrated itself upon one unconscious and unoffending liead. CHAPTEK V. A MODUS VIVENDI. On s'enniiie toujours avec les gens avec qui il n'est pas permis da s'ennuj-er. — La Jtochefoucaidd. Miss Chevenixg had very little farther to go ; after'passing a quaint old inn, with a cheery glow behind its striped bUnds, an irregular and incongi-uous row of buildings — small shops, cottages and at intervals a house of some importance, all standing within a few feet of the river bank — she stopped at a gate close behind wliich a steep flight of stone steps led up to a door between two slender columns supporting an overhanging bay, and this was Osier House, her home for only a very httle while longer. The door was opened by a housemaid, who was in secret a severe trial to Margot, so far was she from coming up to the West- End standard of domestic smartness and neatness. ' Whj', you have had a walk, miss ! ' said this handmaiden, with a cheerful giin, which Margot would have preferred to see ex- changed for a cleaner apron ; however, all that did not matter much now. ' Yes,' she said ; ' have you brought up tea yet, Anne ? ' ' Why no ! I ain't on'y just come down from tidj-ing myself, miss,' said this imblushing person ; 'but I'm going to bring the vounger ones theirs in the schoolroom ; will you take yours thei'e, or up in the droring-room with the mistress ? Mr. Chadwick, Zie'U be in soon.' ' In the schoolroom,' Miss Chevening interrupted quickly ; and, her serenity very far from recovered, she went into the school- room, where she fomid them all engaged over some round game of cards. ' Quite a happy family ! ' she exclaimed with a touch of her habitual disdain, when she saw that Allen was amongst the party. A MODUS VIVENDI 117 ' Mother said we were to plaj-,' explained Lettice ; 'don't you think we could stop now, ]\Iargot ? ' she asked in a plaintive voice. ♦ It is so unpleasant playing with anybody who cheats whenever he can ! ' struck in Ida. ' I saw him taking my comiters.' ' It was only for a lark, Margot,' Allen protested ; ' it's not as il we were playing for monej'.' ' You do draw that distinction, then ! ' said Margot ; ' but why cheat at all ? It's not generally considered part of the fun — at least not with us ! ' ' I won't cheat any more,' said Allen, ' if you'll come and play too, Margot ? ' ' Not even that inducement tempts me,' she returned ; ' and, Camilla, I fancy you might let them leave off now ; they seem tired of it.' ' Well,' said Miss Henderson, ' if Mr. Allen will excuse us, I do thinli the game has lasted long enough.' ' I didn't want to play cards,' said Allen, who had certainly been given small reason to enjoy this particular game, ' it was your mother set us down to it.' ' Mother didn't know you wouldn't play fair,' said Lettice, who attached a serious importance to winning coimters ; ' that spoils everything ! ' ' Yes,' said Reg.gie, ' it's cheating to look at your cards before playing, and that's what you did everytime ; if yoic cheat, we ought all to cheat, or it's not fair ! ' ' I've told you it was all by way of a joke like I ' said Allen ; ' but of course I can't do anything to please you — I'm ready enough to stop, I can tell you.' He was more irritated than usual, for his cheating had been a very obvious and simple performance, due to some blundering idea of promoting the hilarity, whicli struck hmi as wanting, for some reason. He was not aware that the humour of an unpojiular person must be irresistible indeed to extort success, but then he was not aware either how unpopular he was. He could not take his eyes from Margot as she stood there, with the deUcate colour in her cheeks freshened by her walk ; he had hoped she would join them, and, perhaps, take his part against the rest, for he always felt as if he knew her best, and it made him very sore that she, too, should seem to turn against him. ' Please don't let us all lose our tempers,' said Margot ; ' they don't understand your jieculiar notions about games of chance, AUen, that is all.' ' Now you're bringing that Petits Chevaux business up again ! ' he said, alxnost savagely ; ' haven't I told you how that was ? I didn't think you'd throw that in my teeth, Margot ! ' * I had no intention of throwing anything in your teeth,' she returned haughtily ; ' they have had enough of cards for thjg evening, as you must see by this tirne,' 118 THE PAEIAII 'Perhaps j'Oii've had enough of mc too?' he asked roughly, thougli his voice qiiivered. Margot shrugged her shoulders. ' No one has said so,' she an- swered ; ' stay by all means, if you like to behave youi"self.' ' I loon't stay ! ' said Allen, — ' not to be treated this way. I'm willing enough to be pleasant — but you're all against me, every one of you ! Anyone would think I wasn't fit to come near you. You forget it's my father who- ' Margofs eyes gleamed with anger as she held open the door. 'Will you kindly go out of the room before you say another word ? ' she said, very qiiietly. He was cowed in an instant. ' I — I wasn't gomg to say any- thing,' he said ; ' you — you drive me to it — you're so precious hard on a chap ! ' ' Go ! ' was all Margot said : and he went, out of the room and out of the house, with a feeling that he was in hopeless disgrace. The girls looked at one another blankly as the fi'ont door slammed. ' "We liave done it now,' said Ida ; ' he will tell mother, and she'll be awfully angi-y ; you know how particularly she told us not to quarrel with him.' ' He m&y tell mother, if he wishes to,' said Margot. ' ^^Hiat a delightful, loveable brother he will make ! We ought to be very grateful girls ! ' Allen was walking back to the hotel, the only place he could go to, with a growing sense of injustice. He liked them all so much - — and they would not like him ! and now they had made him lose his temper and say things (or very nearly say them) that he had never meant to do. What had possessed him, and how could he regain Margot's good oi^mion ? He quite believed he was winning it till then, and he could not bear his hfe if she would not forgive hiBi. Someone was just leaving the hotel as he came up ; he heard his father's voice calling from the portico — ' Good-bye, glad you came over, and you may tell yom* father what I said.' Then a tall, well-set-up figm-e was about to pass him. ' Orme ! ' cried Allen, ' I say — ]\Ir. Orme ! ' Orme stopped. ' So j'ou're at Chiswick too ! ' he said ; ' whj', I haven't seen you since our Trouville time ; how are things with 3'ou, old fellow ? ' There was a kindness in his voice that went to Allen's heart just then. ' They're bad,' he said dolefullj', — ' beastly bad. I'm that wretched, Orme, I can't bear myseK! ' Orme drew his arm within his. ' Tell us all aboiit it,' he said encouragingly. ' You've heard my father's going to get married again ? ' began Allen. ' I have just been told, and to whom ! ' replied Orme, winc- ing slightly; he was a little hurt at Margot's reticence, and just beginning to recall with shame his own rash and unpardonable A MODUS VIVENDI 119 remarks. ' But I can't see,' he continued, ' that you've any reason to be so wretched as that, though I know it's hard perhaps at first.' Then Allen confided to him the cause of his unhappiness, and the scene which had just taken place. ' I should be nothing but pleased about it,' he concluded, ' if Margot — if they'd only show signs of coining roimd ; but the3''re all against me; I can't satisfy them, do what I will ! Mrs. Chevening, she's the only one now that speaks me civil.' Orme could not help making excuses for Miss Chevening in his heart ; he knew the strength of her prejudices, and perhaps he felt what it must be to her to have to receive this unfortunate neglected boy as her equal ; he had been as prejudiced himself not so very long ago — he pitied both sides, and her not less of the two. But he did his best to smooth matters. ' Look here,' he said, ' don't make too much of this — you mustn't expect to get on with them quite at once. Have patience, and it will all come right. All you have to do is to wait. I wouldn't appear to force myself on them, you know. Eemember, it's a gi'eat change for them as well as for j-ou, they will feel that for a little time — it's natural ! ' ' But Margot's had plenty of time to get used to me ! ' said Allen ; ' I thought she was used to me — and now she's as hard on me as the rest of 'em.' ' Miss Chevening is — is quick-tempered, I dare say,' said Nugent, 'but she's generous too. When she sees that you really want to be on good terms with them all, and only ask to be met half-way, depend upon it she will be kinder; she doesn't understand that quite yet.' ' If I could only think that, I wouldn't mind,' he declared ; ' she might treat me as unkind as she chose, I'd bear it cheerful! I xvould, Orme, so long as she came round in the end. ^\liat I'm so unhappy about is, that p'raps she never icill come round I ' ' She wiU, my dear fellow,' said Orme ; ' I'll answer for it she will, if you're patient. Meet her as if all this had not happened, and let her see that you are ready to forget it and be friends if she chooses, but leave it to her to make any advances.' - 'I will,' said Allen ; I'll do that— thank you, Orme, but I don't believe it'll be any use. I know Td be glad enough if it would ! ' Orme parted from him at the Gunnersbury Station with a deeper pity. ' Poor young fellow ! ' he was thinking, ' I wonder if I gave him the right advice — I hope I have. She can so well afford to treat him decently, with all the advantages on her side. I don't believe she can be bad-hearted, with that face ! Still, he will have a good deal to overcome.' And then he occupied himself with the more personal consideration of whether he, too, had offended irre- mediably that afternoon. ' If I had known, I would have cut my tongue out sooner than make that infernally foolish speech ! ' he thought uTitably ; ' but who could have thought such a thing possible ? There, it's no use thinking of it ! ' 120 THE PAEIAH As he went back to his rooms his expedition began to appear more eventful than satisfactory. ' We're both in the same boat,] he told himself grimly, ' except that he has a chance of putting him- self right with her, and I haven't — imless it comes at the Vicarage some day.' Chadwick came in that evening as usual. ' Christmas will be on us very soon now,' he remarked (he had a talent for platitude). ' Day after to-morrow. Well, it will be rather a different sort of Christmas fi-om the ones I've had to spend for the last twenty years ' A pleasanter, 1 nope ! ' said Mrs. Chevening. ' Ah, you may say that. Why, last year, except a half-share in a concern that hadn't paid for eighteen months, I wasn't worth a rupee. I didn't keep Christmas much out there, I can tell you. But they take care you don't forget it in the old country. You wouldn't believe the number of begging letters I get, which reminds me — you'll be interested in this, young lady,' he added, turning to Margot, who knew what was coming and tried hard to seem in- different, — 'who d'ye suppose now I had calling on me this after- noon ? — someone you've met. Give a guess.' ' I never was clever at guessing ! ' replied Margot, hoping that her face was not betraying her. ' Well, I thought you'd have guessed this — it was that clever young tutor fellow I got for my boy. Came about some fund or other, his father, the Vicar, got me to say I'd do something for. Young Orme didn't know who was to be the second Mrs. Chadwick till I told him, Selina. A rare surprise it was to him to find she'd turned out to be an old friend of his ! ' ' Really, Joshua,' said Mrs. Chevening, ' I should hardly call him a friend of mine. I never ijarticularly noticed him.' ' Ah, and I suppose I shall hear now that Miss Margot didn't notice him particularly either ! ' ' Of course I noticed him,' said Margot calmly ; ' I saw and spoke to him several times— he was one of yoiur friends. What then ? • ' Nothing that I know of,' answered Chadwick, who was not quite at ease with this stately step- daughter of his. 'I asked him to come back with me and have a talk about old times with you two ladies, but he said he must get back to town.' ' I can't profess to be sorry to have missed him,' said Mrs. Chevening ; ' he was not the sort of yoimg man that I take much interest in ; and besides, we are not likely to see anythmg of him again.' ' I don't know that,' said Chadwick ; ' he'll be down at the Vicarage sometimes, I dare say, for the holidays ; he's going down to-morrow, he said. I thought I told you his father was the Vicar of Gorsecombe.' Margot listened, and all at once, for some reason, she could not account for, her lot seepaed to have grown more supportable. Sh^ A MODUS TIVKNDI 121 found comfort, excitement even, in the thought that her mother's marriage would bring her nearer to someone wlao she instinctively felt admired her, whose good opinion she valued, whose syuipathy she desired. He would be there now and then to see the trials she would have to subiuit to, and her heroism under them — for of course she would be heroic. She forgot the humiliation she had felt at the idea of his learning her changed fortmies. After all, it was through no fault of hers — why hadn't she told him herself at once ? she fancied she knew what had led him to decline Mr. Chadwick's offer to bring him to Osier House, and liked him the better for it. Altogether, when Allen came in presently, full of misgivings but resolved to carry out Orme's advice, he found, to his joy and surprise, that it was no longer necessary. Margot seemed entirely to have forgotten her recent displeasure, and was gentler and more nearly cordial than he had ever known her yet. She even began a conversation with him of her own accord, while their respective parents were discussing some decorator's plans at the other end of the room, and for the first time she condescended to show an interest in the neighbourhood they were all to live in. If her questions reverted from time to time to the Vicarage and its occu- pants, he was not likely to notice that under the new sensation of finding his remarks received with attentive interest. He took this to be a sign that her heart smote her with a sense that she had been unkind, and that she had set herself to make amends. It was true what Orme had said — she was generous, but, whether kind or cruel, generous or m:iforgiving, she exercised a power over him that would be hard to destroy. Christmas passed, the new year outwore its novelty, and, ac- cording to the calendar, winter was already giving place to spring, though shrivelling winds and black frosts gave an even more bit- terly ironical tiu'ii than usual to the season of promise and hope. Biit at Osier House Miss Chevening had other things to occupy her thoughts than the state of the weather ; her mother's marriage was to take place at the end of the month, and time was rushing on in a whirl of preparation in which she could not avoid being more or less involved, however she tried to keep aloof. Mrs. Chevening always resented the indifference her eldest daughter displayed in the arrangements that were being made in their future home. She would come home after having been absent all day, superintending the redecoration and furnishing which she had persuaded Chadwick were indispensable, and would find Margot provokingly uninterested. ' Really, the house looks quite a different i)lace already ! ' she would say. ' I've chosen the sv/eetest paper for yoicr room, dearest one, with a pattern of all willow leaves in blended tints of pale oUve — quite simple, but so pretty! ' ' Have you, dear ? ' Margot would answer ; ' thank you.' ' I wanted you to choose for yourself, you know, but you wouldn't, 122 THE PARIAH you idle child.' (It was not idleness, as her mother knew very well, tliougli she chose to consider it so.) ' Now do rouse yourself from that chair and come here and say what you think you would like to go with tlie paper — here are all the patterns.' ' I can't tell without having seen the paper.' ' I kept a piece on purpose — there, I'll save j^ou the trouble of coming, I'll bring the p)atterns to you. Am I not a good mother ? ' Margot would turn over the little books with listless white fingers for a few moments, and then give them back, saying, ' I really don't mind what it is, mother ; choose what you think best and I shall be quite satisfied.' ' That is not a very grateful retm-n for I\fr. Chadwick's kindness --he was particularly anxious that j-our tastes should be considered in every way.' ' Was he ? It is kind of him ; but really I've no preferences.' ' Then am I to tell the upholsterer's man he may put up what he pleases ? ' ' If you like, dear,' Miss Chevening would reply languidly ; and then, with more animation, ' Not the upholsterer's man, mother ! You choose for me ! ' ' Indeed, my dear, if yoiT do not think it worth taking some trouble about, yourself, I certainlj' shall not worry about it.' ' Well, I -ii^i/Z just look at the patterns and paper once more,' Miss Chevening was reduced to saying humbly, with a sense of being untrue to herself. Margot had resolved beforehand that, if she was compelled to enter the house of bondage, she would not at least be so compliant as to betray any interest in the appointments of her prison-chamber. Perhaps, however, she felt that she could place reliance upon her mother's taste ; whereas that not imskilful mention of the up- holsterer had shattered all her apathy at a blow. On one other point, too, she had been roused to disregard her personal dignity. Her mother had hinted at keeping Anne in her service as a maid for her daughters. This was more than Miss Chevening's philosophy could stand. ' Please, not Amie, dear ! ' she said. ' She seemed so anxious to come,' said her jiother ; ' &he's been with us eighteen months, and she's a very respectable girl. I thought you lilved her, dear.' ' Oh, I like her very well,' replied Margot, ' but I don't want a maid.' ' If you don't, Ida and Lottie will, as nurse is going.' ' Well, then,' said Margot, driven desperate, ' if we must have one, do let us have somebody about us who is nice and attractive to look at. I couldn't bear to let Anne toiich me ! Surely, noiv, we can have maids like other peoj^le ? ' ' Anne is a dreadful slattern, certainly. If I advertise, will you see the people when they come for the place '? ' ' No, dear, j-ou see them,' pleaded Margot ; ' I shouldn't know A :modus viVKXDi 123 ' in the least what to say to them, oi* ask them, I'm so helpless in all these things.' So she obtamed her own way, without having to undertake any personal exertion. She was weak after all ; even her opposition to the marriage was not so strong as it had been. She caught herself sometimes forming plans and anticipations for the new life with a fickleness which she despised. There were moments when she actually had to remind herself of the unparalleled indignity to which she would be constantly exposed, and the surest means of doing so was to think of Allen Chadwick, who little suspected his efficacy as a mental stimulant. And now the remaining daj's of ]\Irs. Chevening's widowhood had dwindled to very few indeed ; the banns had been twice read out in the chm'ch by the riverside. Margot had heard them announced once with downcast eyes and hot cheeks — ' between Joshua Smithson Chadwick, widower, of the parish of Gorsecombe, Pincshire, and Selina Letitia Chevening, widow, of this parish.' There was no just cause or impediment except to the mind of the girl who sat there with the vision before her of a neglected grave far away on a forgotten Asian battlefield. ' I suppose,' said Chadwick one evening, ' it isn't the right thing to have bridesmaids— eh, Selina ? ' ' Surely yoii know that ! ' was the answer. ' Well, I'm not up in these matters — the only time I went through it we got it done at a Registry office. But there's no harm in treating the two elder girls as bridesmaids in one respect, I dare say?' Margot, who, with Ida, was in the room at the time, looked up quickly. ' I don't in the least know what you mean,' said her mother. Chadwick was feeling in his pockets with a comfortable sort of chuckle. ' Why, I don't profess, as I said, to know about these things, but I understand it's iisual for the hai:»py man to give the brides- maids a small present, just to remember the occasion by. So,' here he tossed a packet into Margot's lap and another i:pon the Bofa where Ida was sitting, ' there's yours, and there's yours.' ' Joshua,' cried Mrs. Chevening, ' how kind you are to my poor girls — they haven't words to thank you just yet ... it is really too — too good of you to think of them ! ' Margot was opening the parcel with reluctant deliberation; inside was a morocco case, which she found to contain a locket. It was of immense size and soliditj^ and in the centre was a large carbmicle set in tm-quoises and an enamelled border. It was costly and it was undeniably hideous. She gazed at it in dismay. ' Handsome articles, aren't they ? ' said Chadwick compla- cently. 'They're both alike. I told the jeweller to make me a duplicate, so that you shouldn't say I made any distinctions 124 THE PAPJAH between you. I think your mother would like to have a look when you^'e done, young lady.' It is always embarrassing to express gratitude in words, but never more so, perhaps, than when we are called upon to thank someone we do not like for something we do not want. Margot would have given anything to be able to refuse this gift, especially as it was not an ornament she could bring herself to wear, but she knew that anything but acceptance was impossible. She crossed to where Chadwick was sitting and held out her hand meekly. ' I can only say " Thank you," ' she said. ' "Well, well,' he replied ; ' I know young ladies are fond of finery — mind, j'ou take care of it, that's all. But aren't you going to give me a kiss for it ? ' Margot cast an appealing glance at her mother, who judged it better to interpose. ' Margot never was a kissing person, Joshua, so I think you must excuse her. I'm sure she is very, very grateful for so — so handsome a present — aren't you, darling ? ' ' Yes, mother,' said Margot, escaping with relief. Ida, who had not been equally fortunate, joined her presently in a little sitting-room at the back. ' Aren't they dreadful, Margot ? ' she exclaimed, ' Hideous ! ' said Miss Chevening, opening the case containing her own locket, and regarding it with unconcealed distaste. ' WJiy must he give us anything, and why such things as these ? ' ' Shall you wear yours, Margot ? ' ' "Wear it ? ' exclaimed Miss Chevening. Wear this ! How could I ? I wish it wasn't wrong to want to throw it into the river. No, I shall have to keep it, but I will not — I simply will not wear it ! ' ' Is that the way you talk of presents when they're given you ? ' said a voice from the doorway. It was Allen's ; he had come up to the hotel again that week and had been in the drawing-room, a witness to the presentation scene, though the ghls had not noticed him at the time. Now he had followed them out with a hope of receiving some thanks for his own share in the transaction, which consisted in helping his father in the difficult work of selection. ' You were not intended to hear what we said,' said Miss Chevening loftily. ' You spoke loud enough,' he said, ' and the door was left open — but look here, what's the matter with the lockets ? ' ' Nothing,' said Margot, ' nothing is the matter with the lockets — they are very big and expensive and handsome.' ' That's what I should have said. "Why won't you wear them, then ? • ' You don't understand these things,' said Margot, feeling it use- less to deny her words. ' Girls of our — of our age, don't wear expensive jewels like these.' ' They're not so expensive as they look,' said the candid Allen, A MODUS VIVENDI 125 ' Expensive or not, they are not the sort of things that are worn • — that was all we meant.' ' Then I'll tell the governor, and get him to have them changed,' he proposed. ' If you wish to make mischief, do so ; but I warn you that, if you say a word of what you had no right to listen to at all, I will never speak to you again if I can help it. I ixiean it, Allen.' ' I didn't mean it for mischief, only to do you a good turn,' ho protested ; ' but if you don't want me to say anytliing, whj-, I won't, and there's an end of it. ^Yhy do you always try to mako out that I'm intending what never came in my head V ' ' Don't let it come into yoi;r head, then.' ' Well,' he said, ' whether you wear those lockets or not, they're worth something, you know. They aren't expensive, considering they look so showy ; but you could sell them each any day in the week for fifteen pounds a-piece at the very least — any jeweller 'd give you that for 'em ! ' ' It is a pity that so much money has been wasted upon us said Margot, lifting her chin, ' because, you see, we are not in the habit of selling om* jewellery, whether we are able to wear it or not.' ' Of coiurse, I know you wouldn't do it yourselves,' he said ; ' but you might want money on a sudden some day. I'd manage it aU for you. I've had to do it with things of my own now and then. It's useful to know — that's all I meant.' ' When I think proper to entrust you with any of my belongings to dispose of,' returned Miss Chevening, with freezing dignity, ' I shall let you know. I am not quite reduced to that just yet.' ' There's nothing to be offended at,' he said, between shame and sullenness : ' none was intended, I'm siu'e.' ' There is no use in being offended. If you could only under- stand that money is not the principal object in life, your conversa- tion would be BO much pleasanter to listen to, that's all.' ' I dare say, if all was known, I'm not more set on money than other people,' he retorted. ' I've known what it was to want it. Tell me what I can say that will be pleasant to listen to, and I'll try to oblige.' ' Then I will,' said Margot. ' It would be very pleasant to hear you say, well — something of this sort : " I'm afraid I am interrupt- ing you, so I'll leave you to finish your talk." ' 'Ah ! ' he said bitterly, 'jon don't try to make yojir conversa- tion over-pleasant, anyhow. I su^ipose that's a hint for me to go ? ' ' You are getting quite quick at seeing things, Allen,' remarked Ida. Margot began to be afraid she had said too much. ' No, but, Allen,' she said, more gently, ' don't think it unkind, but we really would rather be alone just now.' _ ' If you'd spoken Uke that at first,' he said, ' I wouldn't have minded. I don't wish to stay where I'm not wanted, only I like to be treated civil.' 12G THE PARIAH ' ^Ye will treat 3-011 " civil," then,' said Margot, holding ont her hand. ' There, good night, Allen . . . Oh, how rough you are, you have crushed mj' hand ! ' 'I — I didn't mean to. I can't doanythingright, I know. Good- night.' And one dull, bleak day in March, with a low grey-green sky from which a few small snowflakes fell occasionally and a dry lead- coloured haze that was more depressing than fog, Mrs. Chevening was united in holy wedlock to Joshua Chadwick in the church on the river-bank, and the tradesmen of Chiswick and Turnhana Green, though thej^ reh-ained fromanj' open manifestations, rejoiced inwardly with an exceeding great joy. Margot was in the church and heard her mother pronounce the word which assigned herself and them to a strange and unknown power. Lettice was there, and said afterwards that it would have been much more cheerful if they had only lighted the 'chanticleer.' Ida wept in torrents with the luxin-y of really having something to weep for. Allen was there in the lightest of his gloves and trousers, like a super at one of the interrupted weddings on the stage. Lord and Lady Yaverland honoured the ceremony with their presence and left early. That is all that need be said here of that wedding, important as the stage is which it marks in this history. Still a little later and the last farewell had been said to the dear old house of which the Chevening family had during their mother's hone^'moon — as that period must, however inappropriately, be called — been in undistm'bed possession. Thej' had arrived at theii' new home, Agra House. Even Miss Chevening was compelled to own in her private mind that it might have been much worse. It was big, and florid, and pretentious, but it had been designed with a view to comfort, and now the interior had been decorated and furnished according to her mother's directions, and contained nothing to offend the eye. The grounds too were large and well laid out. There was a surprise in store for i\Iiss Chevening. "When she rang for her maid, the girl her mother had engaged in place of cashiered homelj' Anne, the face of the person who answered her ring seemed strangely and not quite pleasantly familiar. At last she remembered. ' I think,' she observed carelessly, ' we last met on board the Littlchampton steamer, and you were extremely uncivil.' Susan, for it was the same girl whom she had heard abusing little Henri on the TrouviUe plage, reddened under her frecldes. ' Was I, miss ? ' she said. ' I beg your pardon, I'm sure, if I was ; but I'd just lost my place, miss, and my feelings was hurt. I wasn't answerable for what I said ; and seeing I'm here,' she went on, ' though little thinking to wait on you, miss, I hope you won't say anything to get uae turned away. I can truly say I'll do my best to give satisfaction.' A MODUS VIVENDI 127 Margot looked at the girl : she was neatly if coquettishly dressed ; she -was rather good-looking ; she seemed deft-handed and respectful ; she would do well enough. ' So long as j'on understand that you arc to treat Miss Lettio with proper respect,' she said, ' I shall not interfere. But you will kindly remember you are not in France, and that you are my Bisters' maid, not their nurse.' ' Yes, miss ; certainly, miss, thank j'ou ; and I'm sure I'm obliged to you,' said Susan. But outside the door she said : ' I thought my place was gone as soon as I saw her face. Well, I've . got round her this time, so I needn't bother. That pride o' yours may have a fall some fine daj-, young lady, and when it does I should like to be at hand looking on I " 123 THE PAKIAEi BOOK in. PRELIMINAEIES TO HANGING A DOG. CHAPTEE I. COMMENTS AFTER CHUKCII. Who marlvs in church time others' symmetry Makes all their beauty his deformity. — G. Hcrhcrt. On a certain bright April Simdaj'-, those of the inhabitants of Gorsecombe who had attended the parish church found themselves at the conclusion of the service provided with a more than com- monly exciting topic. Mr. Chadwick and his newly-acqviired family had made their first appearance there in public, causing the devotions of too many among the congregation to resemble those of Claudius, Iving of Denmark. In the churchyard and on the homeward ways tongues gener- ally were let loose in criticism, curiosity, and speci;lation. Mrs. Eddlestone, of Holly Bank, a widow with strong social inclinations and three plain but accomplished daughters, con- scientiously refrained from naentioning the subject until the lych- gate was cleared, when, without waiting for Miss Momber to finish laer strictures on the folly of keeping the church stove alight so late in the spring, she began forthwith : ' So the Agra House people have come back at last '? ' ' Oh, yes,' said Miss Momber. ' The governess and the girls arrived on Friday — they had the carriage to meet them and a cart for the luggage, and I suppose the bride and bridegroom must have come last night.' ' I wonder how it was we never heard of it — take care, my dear, or you'll be run over, that new coachman the Hothams have does drive so recklessly, someone reaUy ought to speak to them about it. Came last night, did they ? Well, they haven't lost any time in showing themselves. I must say she is rather better than I had ex- pected, and the daughters quite pretty — which makes it more of a pity, you know.' ' Why ? ' asked Miss Momber bluntly. ' How a pity ? ' COMMENTS AFTER CHURCH 1'29 ' Wei], I suppose we can't very well call on them — no one has, yet.' ' That was different — he was living alone then. I shall call as soon as they've had time to settle down.' ' Shall you, really ? ' (Mrs. Eddlestone was surprised, for Miss Momber had the reputation of being extremely exclusive.) ' I wouldn't mind for myself, but, with my girls to consider, I hardly lilve to risk it. The late man was not recognised by any one, to speak of, and no one seems to know this one. And I must say I tliought her manner in church this morning so unbecoming; such affectation to protend not to know that people were looking at her, and the daughters, too, dressed so conspicuously ! ' ' I thouglit they had on very pretty trocks.' (Here Miss Momber glanced at the backs of the three Miss Eddlestones in front, for whom a local dressmaker had too evidently done her very worst.) ' She's rather too fine for him — that's aU I see against her.' ' But we don't know who slie ivas.'' ' Weren't you there when Mr. Liversedge was telling me ? Oh no, you had left. She's the widow of a colonel who was killed in India some years ago, and she has a sister who is married to Lord Yaverland.' ' Oh,' said Mrs. Eddlestone. ' Well, I suppose we ought to make them feel as much at home as possible. Gorsecombe will be all the better for a little fi-esh blood. What day were you thinking of calling ? You might look in for me on your way up.' In the main street of the village were little knots of ' chapel folk ' who had l)een dismissed half an hour before, but still lingered at various doors in the spring sunshine. As Chadwick and his wife, followed by Allen and the three girls (Reggie was away at school), passed up the centre of the road many eyes regarded them. ' I should ha' thought,' said Mrs. Nutkins, a widow who kept a small sweetstuff and fruit shop, ' as he might ha' give the preference to Ebenezer, as was built by his own father, jiTst this first Sunday of all, go where he might afterwards. To think he's never set a foot in the chapel, and his father, poor old gentleman, fiUin' his pew reg'lar Smiday after Sunday and always a sovereign in the plate when it come round, and the curtain he had put up in his seat for the drafties, there to this day to testify to him.' ' They do saj',' said Mr. Spufford, the serious draper, ' that this one has been away out in India years and j'ears, nigger slave- driving. That may have set him against chapel going — there's no telling.' ' More likely it's this dressed-up fine madam of a wife of his, as thinks it beneath her to worship except it's along of the gentry. Not as he's one of them, by rights. I've heard tell as his father was only a big draper like, up at London, and began wonderful small, no bigger than yoiu'self, Mr. Spufford.' Mr. Spufford was a stout young man with a ]niffy white face, mutton-chop whiskers and small eyes. ' Small beginnings may be U 130 THE PAPJAH wonderfully blest,' he said, wdth pious hopefulness ; ' but it's sad to see a brothei" forsakinpr tlie faitli of his forefathers and taking to himself a wife from amongst the Philistines. Not but what there's this much to be thankful for, jNIrs. Xutkins, that we're spared from having the latest spring fashions entering into Ebenezer and causing the ej-es of oiu- young maidens to offend — look at it that way, ma'am ! ' ' Ah, j-ou're such a one for making the best o' things, but neither j'ou nor me nor many in Gorsecombe '11 be any the better off for them being here— they'll have everything sent down from London they can, and what citstom they give '11 go to chiu'ch folk over chapel, you see if it don't ! ' ' Well,' said Mr. Spufford, with a martyr's sigh. ' it will be all made up to us in another world, that is one comfort, Mrs. Kutkins. And now I must be going in to my dinner, if j'ou'll excuse me. Shall I see you at chapel this evening ? ' In the kitchen of the Seven Stars set old Mrs. Parkinjear, the landlady, waiting for her granddaughter's retm-n from chmTh. Mrs. Parkinjear was a stout old lady with a brown fi'ont and a velvet band across her forehead. At every sound fi'om the back- door she tm"ned in that dhection a pair of pale eyes as unspecu- lative in expression as a pair of glass marbles, for the poor old lady was sightless. At last there was the noise of the key raising the latch, and steps on the brick floor. ' I thought you was never coming, child ; leaving me all this time, and me sitting here in my lonely blindness, thinking of all that was and now is no more. You're never just back from church ? ' ' Yes, granny,' said Cassandra ; ' why, it's only twenty to one now, and we're never out much before the half hoiu'.' ' Then 'tis time that goes slower to me in my ending days. Did the Vicar preach, dear man ? Ah, time was I used to love to sit and hear his discourses, when I had my eyesight, but that's finished now — and I'm finished, too, A'ery near ! Who was at church, Cassandry ? ' ' Most everybody that's tisually tliere, granny — and oh ! some besides. Mr. Chadwick's new lady up at Agra House— him and her was there, with such beautiful-looking yoitng ladies, di'essed I couldn't tell you how nice ! And one, the littlest, had the loveliest hair, and the sun shone down on it so bright through the painted winder.' ' So there's a family, and pretty, j^oit .say ? Dear, dear, and me not able to see it ! The old gentleman that's gone used to look in for a chat with me, many's tiie time. I liked him, I did, though there wasn't many about these parts that had a good word for him, except it was the Ebenezer folk — which he built and erected it out of his own purse, so they had ought to it. I wasn't of his way of thinking, but he was fund of a talk with me. " I have a son oitt in COMMENTS AFTER CHURCH 131 Injia somewheros," he'd say to mo, when I was a-tcllin' hiui all about your uncle Joe and the trouble I'd had with Inm, " You'll be thnikinfj o' sending for him to be a comfort to your declining years ? " I'd say to him. " No, Mrs. Parkinjear, I shan't," he'd say to me. " I don't rightly know where to send for him, and maybe he wouldn't come if I ilid. I'ye treated him harsh in times gone by," he told mo, " and it's too late to put it right now ; but when I'm took for death he'll find out as I'ye done what I could to make it up to him." It was along of some marriage his son had made as the old man didn't hold with. And now here's the son in his place W"ith a boy of his ov/n, and married again to a widder with childi'en of her own ! And all of 'em in church together this very inorning. "Well, well ! we live in times, Cassandry, we do that ! All, dear, and this is a world of changes. The young gentleman, now — it'll make a sad difference to him, poor thing, his nose being so put out of j'int, vulgarly speaking; with a new mamma and a family when he'd been everybody. They say his father made a deal on him when they were just here alone together.' ' He looked not to mind it much, from his face.' said Cassandra. ' Didn't he, now ? Well, he'll have playmates now and com- panions, true enough. Postman used to tell me he'd meet him along the lanes, lookin' fit to yawn the head off his shoulders, and no one to go about with but that young Barchard, that isn't tit company for nobody, from all I hear.' Over the mid-daj^ dinner at the Vicarage, too, the new arrivals were being discussed : ' Mamma,' said MiUicent Orme, ' you wiU call on them now, won't you '? I'm siu'o they're nice ! ' MiUicent was short, and had none of her brother's good looks, but her plain and rather homelj' face was saved from being insig- nificant by its animation. In character she was a warin-hearted gii-1 with a large capacity for enthusiasm, and a strong sense of duty. ' I suppose we shall have to call,' said Mrs. Orme ; ' but I do hope, Millicent, j'ou will wait a little before you strike up one of your violent friendships.' ' But I know I shall like that eldest girl,' persisted MiUicent ; * she is such a lovely person, she came up the aisle like some kind of splendid princess. Papa, didn't you think she was lovely? ' ' Really, Millicent,' Mrs. Orme interposed, ' you seem to forget how your father was engaged this morning ! As if he could pos- sibly allow himself to notice such things during the service ! ' ' After that,' said the Vicar, with a twinkle of humour in his eye, ' I feel a little difficulty in admitting that I did notice them all. However, such is the ocandalous fact, my dear. The only defence I can offer is that they were a few feet in front of me, and that I have been constructed with eyes of average capacity.' ' And isn't the eldest girl lovely, papa ? ' * She — a — struck me as being a very beautiful creature, cer- tainly,' was the reply. ' I trembled for poor Fanshawe's peace of 132 THE PARIAH niind when I heard how he read the first lesson. He's a suscep- tible youth, even for a curate.' ' I don't at all approve of Mr. Fanshawe's proceedings,' said Mrs. Orme ; ' I wish he was a little more serious — he really be- haves just like an ordinary younj^man.' ' He is an ordinary young man,' said the A'icar. ' Sureh', my dear, you don't consider that the average curate is hedged by any divinity in particular? Fanshawe's divinity would make rather a scrappy hedge, I'm afraid. Some might say the same of his Vicar's, for that matter.' And the Eev. Cyprian gave a sigh, half comic, half genuine. He was a tall, portly man, very handsome still, with silvered hair, which contrasted well with his strong dark eyebrows and clear roseate complexion. He was a little conscious sometimes of not fulfilling the highest ideal of the priestly character, and he was apt to shock some of his parishioners by a manner which was unparsonical, not to say secular. He was clever, and had been cleverer still, indolent and easj'-going, with a sense of humour that was occasionally inconvenient. His wife, who was almost exempted from this complaint, was a little exercised at times bj'' his lapses irom clerical decorum, thoiigh she generally abstained from any direct reproof, preferring to convey it by implication. In appearance she was a bright-ej'ed anxious little woman, who had worried away any good looks she had originally possessed. ' I'm sure j'ou preach beautiful sermons, Cyprian,' she said ; ' you know how much all the people like them — they go straight home to them, they always say,' ' It must be down their throats then,' said the Vicar. ' I feel very much as if I were preaching to a congregation of fishes some- times.' ' But about this new Mrs. Chadwick, mamma ? ' said Millicent. ' Don't you think this marriage will be an excellent thing '? I do. I never saw am-one so changed as that son of Mr. Chadwick's. He used to look so dull and heavy and uninterested, and now, in church this mornmg, he seemed quite bright and happy. It made me like him ever so much better, because some onlj' sons would have taken their father's marriage so very differentlj-.' ' So you're making him out a phoenix, too, Millicent, eh '? ' inten-upted the Vicar. ' Only in that. I used to dislike him very much, and pitied poor Kugent for having to go abroad with him ; but I've got to like him better lately. AVhen you think how little education he has had, he might be so much worse than he is ! ' • He might be a little more picturesque with advantage,' said her father lazily. ' He's one of those young fellows who always strike one as incomplete without a pen behind his ear. Capital ear for a pen ! ' ' I think you are rather unkind, papa ! ' ' It was quite unintentional, my dear,' said the Vicar. ' I COMMENTS AFTER CHUnCII 133 assure you I have the highest respect for commerce and everybody connected with it. All I meant was that a boyhood passed in purely mechanical office-work is not, perhaps, the ideal preparation for the life of a country gentleman, which I should say was imdeni- able.' ' Are you sure that he was a clerk, papa ? ' The Vicar chuckled: ' No, Millie, I am not. I have sometimes had a dark suspicion that he was nearer the rank of office-boj\ As a matter of fact, I don't know what he was ; at all events it's not of vital importance. He is an addition, numerically', at all events, to Gorsccombe society now. His father isn"t a bad fellow in his own way. Sends me a cheque like a man when I appeal for any of my funds. I should say those young ladies will find him a very liberal stepfather, if they go the right way to manage him.' In the long oak di'awing-room at Hawleigh Court that after- noon, the Chadwick marriage was honoured by being made the subject of conversation. One or two privileged neighbours had dropped in about five o'clock ; Mr. Liversedge being among them. The long drawing- room was a very inviting place, particularly just now. The low ceiling with its groining and stalactite-like bosses was almost lost in shadow, and through the latticed and muUioned windows the formal j'ews, box-trees, and urns on the terrace took the colours of old tapestry against the delicate pink and primrose hues of a spring sunset. Joceline Hotham — a sunny-faced, yellow-haired girl, who just missed being pretty — was presiding at the small tea-table ; Lady Adela, her mother, a large, handsome, rather stupid-looking woman, occupied a couch near the fire, in which situation she could join in the conversation when she felt disposed, and shut her eyes in luxurious wakefulness in the interim. ' Tea ? ' Miss Hotham was saj'ing to Mr. Liversedge. ' I haven't given you any cream. Why weren't you at your parish church this morning, please ? ' ' Domestic anxiety ? ' he explained hypocritically ; ' work of necessity. You see, one of my sister's canary bu'ds wasn't at all the thing this morning, not at all the thing, and so I stayed at home to keep it company — fact, Miss Hotham, I assure you ! ' ' If j'ou are a heathen, you need not make a joke of it — it's serious. And to-daj' you reaUy missed something. All the good people of Gorsecombe exciting themselves tremendously — and what do you suppose about ? Just because that planter man who has the house with the Indian name just above the village happened to bring his new wife and famil3' to cliurch for the fir.st time. But you ought to have been there.' ' Yes, I see now that I have grossly neglected mj^ duties. 1 must go and pay my respects to her some time — charming woman ! ' ' Then you have seen her ? ' said Lady Adela. ' Oh ! I know her— know her well. Knew her first husband, 134 THE PAPJAH the Colonel, out in India ; fine fellow he ^\■as, too. Left her very fairly oft', but she must needs go and burn her fingers with stocks and shares and muddle most of it awaj'. But for that, she'd never have looked at this man.' ' What's Avrong with the man — is he an acquaintance of yours, too ? ' asked Lady Adela. ' He was in mj^ district at one time, and I came across him occasionally. Didn't like him. Some of the planters out there were pleasant fellows enough, but they couldn't stand him — he put their backs up when he first came, by siding with the missionaries.' 'A very right and proper thing to do in my opinion ! ' said the lady. " Ah, but that didn't last long, he soon quarrelled with them, and then he was out in the cold. He seemed to change his character altogether after he'd been out a little while; became a reckless, violent, overbearing sort of fellow who cared for nobody, went regularly to the bad for a time — quite a scandal he caused out there. Now he's come into this fortune he's reformed, sown his wild oats (or his wild indigo) and turned respectable.' ' And how did this new wife of his come to marry him ? ' ' Ah, I can tell you the whole story, as it happens, for I had the honour of bringing it about. If she hadn't known me and been perfectly sure it was all right about the money, she wouldn't have risked it. It was at Trouville — we were all at the same hotel there — and after what I told her, I saw she was trymg to catch either the son for her daughter, or the father for herself; it was much the same to her. And would you believe it, Lady Adela, that man, who owes his domestic fehcity to me, is actually huffy still about some I'idiculous ryots I found shut up in his factory and had to wig him for ? ' ' Who did 3'ou say she was ? ' inquired Lady Adela. ' She was a Mrs. Chevening.' ' Then that explains it ! ' cried Miss Hotham, starting up excitedly with a sparkle in her blue eyes. ' I was wondering all through the sermon whore it was I had seen that eldest girl's face before. She was at school with me. I used to admire her so awfully — all the girls did — but she's improved since then. Mother, couldn't you drive over there some day and take me '? I should so like to see her again ! ' ' I see no reason for calling there at all,' said Lady Adela. ' I don't approve of such marriages, and I shall certainly not go out of my way to countenance them.' ' And mayn't I ride over — just to see her ? ' ' Not on any account, Jocelinc ; you will probably meet her somewhere, and if you like to recognise her, of course you ra^y. Other people may do as they please about calling, but I shall be very careful not to set the example myself.' And so, at Hawleigh at least, it was settled that the Chadwicks were not to be taken up — a result to which Mr. Liversedge's small COMMENTS AFTER CHURCH 135 talk had largely contributed ; tliougli, to balance this, he had m other quarters supplied information which decided the lesser lights of Gorsecombe society that the new mistress of Agra House was not a person they could afford to turn their backs upon. To retiu-n to the subjects of all these conversations, whom we left walking home through the village in hapi)y ignorance of the discussion their appearance had provoked. 'Well, Selina,' said Chadwick grimly, * we've got tliat over; they'll know us next Sunday.' ' I thought you had lived in this place some months,' said Mrs. Chadwick, in rather a chagrined tone. ' So I have, off and on,' he replied. ' Why ? ' ' Only,' she said, ' that you don't seem to know any of the people yet.' ' Didn't you see little Prisk, the chemist, come up and speak to me as we went out ? ' he asked; ' and Jobson, the butcher, touched his hat in the churchyard.' ' The chemist ! the butcher ! ' she repeated with a touch of con- tempt ; ' I meant any of the good people. Who were the family who sat in the big pew next to the chancel ? ' ' Oh, I know them, of course— the Hothams, of Hawleigh, a few miles from here ; heavy swells, I can tell j'ou. He's a baronet, and she was an earl's daughter.' ' You know them ; then why didn't they come and speak to you?' ' I didn't mean know them in that way. I know who they arc, that's all. You didn't think they'd condescend to take any notice of .'He, did you ? Why, they're coH?i^// people ! ' And he laughed at so extra-vagant an idea. ' No doubt I was very absurd,' said his wife, and bit her lips. Perhaps she had never realised till then the descent she had made ; a horrible fear came upon her that she might find herself con- demned, after all, to a position outside the i^ale of this dull little village, or, worse still, visited by the least considerable of the in- habitants as a mark of condescension. Was not even the state of aristocratic pauperisiu in a shabby old house in a London suburb, where she at least enjoyed a certain amoimt of consideration, better than such a lot as this ? Why had she shut her ej'es to such a possibility ? Why had she persuaded herself that her poverty was so intolerable, and that she could both escape it by this marriage and retain all the social advantages that she had always valued ? She walked on by the side of the husband whose companionship became every day a greater burden to her. Was his to be the sole society she could expect henceforward ? She shivered at the thought. After all, she reflected this was not a very probable con- tingency ; coimty society might be exclusive, but in these daj-s even county society would hardly consider it a disqiialification to have been an indigo-planter — probably a fair proportion of their younger eons were out tea-planting or cattle-ranching now. If the indigo 13G THE PARIAH had been all — and then she glanced aside at her husband, with his jilebeian features burnt an indelible red bj^ Indian siins, and ren- dered even less distinguished than they might be from the shape and cut of his patchy beard. In his white hat with the black band, his aggressive white waistcoat, his fi-ock coat with the large swing- ing skirts, he seemed out of place m a village. She could not wonder if local magnates were to hold aloof, and j-et — no, she would not despair ; it was too earlj^ to do that at present, and she remembered, the movement of startled mvoluutary admiration of the congi-ega- tion as her children passed down the aisle. It was onlj^ a question of waitmg — she must conquer in the end. ' Hennie, dear,' said Ida to Miss Henderson, as they walked a few paces behind, ' I think I shall love going to church here ; shan't you ? ' For Miss Henderson had been induced to remain for the ju'esent at an increased salary, and Ida was overcome with gratitude for such devoted attachment. Miss Henderson sighed ; ' We shall at all events be able to look forward to one or two sweet peaceful hours in each week, when the stram will be relaxed for a time ; j'es, Ida, no one can rob us of that ! ' No one, it is true, had shown any intention of wishing to do so, but that triflmg fact did not in Ida's e3es affect the beauty of the sentiment. 'How brave you are, Hennie; I wonder what I sliould do without you ! ' ' Poor child ! it is harder for you than any of them ; you are such a sensitive darling. They may part us yet — but there, we won't meet troubles half way. It is a dear church, and what a nice voice that curate had who read the first lesson ! ' ' Yes ; he had nice eyes, too, Hennie, didn't you think ? and he read beautifully, if he hadn't lost the place so often.' And they continued the conversation in a confidential tone, jierhaps fi-om a fear lest it might reach Margot's ears, for Miss Chevening was apt to be rather contemptuous of this kind of talk. They were safe enough, however, for she was at a considerable distance in the rear with Lettice and Allen. ' Do you know, Margot,' said Lettice, ' I don't think they're at all polite people in this village — they stared so dreadiailj ! ' ' You should have stared at them back,' said Allen. ' Then I should have been rude, too. I did stare at the monu- ments, though. Such a lot of Hothams, Margot, did you notice ? ' Margot came out of her reverie with a start. ' The Hothams ! AYhat do you know about the Hothams, Lettie ? ' ' Nothmg — they seemed to be mostly dead, and they had all the biggest tablets, that's all ! ' ' Oh, are they though '? ' said Allen ; ' that was Sir Everard and Lady Adela, and their daughters, in that pew opposite — the big square one»' COMMENTS AFTER CHURCH 137 ' I should have thought they'd be m black — with so many deaths in the family,' said Lettice. ' Oh, look, Margot ! there they are in the carriage — it's a nicer one than Aunt Gwendolen's. Why don't you look, Margot ? You're turnmg your head the other way ! ' ' You're forgetting j^our own rule about it being rude to stare, darling,' said INIargot, with a faint smile. ' These swells are used to it,' said Allen ; ' they come out to be stared at^don't you know that ? ' ' You forget,' she said, w'ith a fine ironj'. ' How should I know what such peojjle are like '? ' 'Well, I don't know much about 'em myself,' he confessed. ' Then, if I were j-ou, I don't think I should talk about them.' ' Y"ou do come down on a chap,' he said, laughing. ' I can't open my mouth.' ' jTZ/rtf s a story!' said Lettice, looking up at him critically; 'you are opening it now — quite wide.' ' Little girls should be seen and no^ heard,' he said. ' Great boj-s,' retorted Lettice, ' shouldn't be heard or seen — when they're hke you. Margot and I want to talk, don't we dear ? We don't want yoii.' ' Oh, come,' he said, ' you're not going to make me walk by m^-- self? I didn't begin it ! ' Lettice had a great idea of fairness. ' I think I did begin it perhaps,' she admitted. ' I suppose you can't help laughing lUie that. I don't mind yoiu- staying, if Margot doesn't.' 'I may walk with you, Margot; you've no objection, have you?' Margot was in an absent mood again. ' Oh, no,' she said, re- calling her thoughts with an effort, ' of course you can walk with us if 3'ou want to — why not ? ' Her thoughts were a little bitter just then ; she had recognised Jocehne Hotham in chm-ch, and had believed that, in spite of the calm stare her old schoolfellow had given her, the recognition was mutual. Under other circumstances she would not have cared ; as it was, she was convmced that it was on account of her mother's change of name that Joceline did not come forward to speak to her, though she forgot that she had been careful to avoid giving her the opportunity. !She felt degraded in her own estimation, and shrank with an exaggerated unwillingness from facing one who had known her in the days when she had been serenely conscious of being the daughter of a gallant and distinguished officer, with no relations in the world of whom she had reason to be anj'thing but proud. That was her father, now — the coarsely-made, unpolished man walking up the street ahead. This mean-looking youth at her side was her brother ! How could she present them to Joceline ? ' It's not snobbish,' she thought, ' to be ashamed, for how can I be anything else ? ' 138 THE PARIAH CHAPTER II. ATTEMPTS TO MANUFACTURE A SILK PURSE, If doughty deeds my lady please, Right soon I'll mount my steed ; And strong his arm, and fast his seat That bears frae me the meed. Graham of Gartmore. Mrs. Chad'VN'ick's most dismal anticipations were not realised. Before she had been long at Gorsecombe, not only had the prmcipal residents either caUed or left cards, but she had been recognised by more than one of the county families in the neighbom-hood. IMrs. Orme and Milhcent were the hrst to set the example, as in duty bound. Mrs. Orme, who, as some clergj'men's wives wilj, considered the formal recognition of the Vicarage no ordinary mark of distinction in any case, and in this, a favour denotmg some liber- ality of views, was promptly made aware that the lady of Agra House had no intention of being patronised. She was impressed by the signs of taste and well-directed wealth in the room she was shown into : she had expected the interior to bo crude and barbaric, in harmony with the pompoiis ugliness withoiit. Mrs. Chadwick's manner, too, made her feel herself ahnost provincial ; involuntarily she found herself taking far more pains to establish an intimacy than she had ever intended to do on a first acquaintance. Millicent, left to make overtures of friendship to Miss Cheven- ing, thought her even more beautiful than she had on that first Sunday. How perfectly she was dressed, in that dark, close-fitting blue gown, with the loose folds of cool creamy stuff at her waist, and how lovely her hands were as they lay in her lap or hovered over the cups ! ' Like the hands of that portrait of Eomney's at Hawleigh Court,' thought Milhcent, admiring her quite unre- servedly and disinterestedly, as some girls — though by no means all — are capable of admiring beauty in their own sex. ' I hope,' she began, a little timidly, ' you beghi to like Gorse- combe a little ; we think it so pleasant.' C Mr. Orme's sister,' Margot was thinking ; ' not at all like him.') 'It is a pretty village,' she said, ' but of course we don't know any of the people J'et.' ' Would you like to know some of them ? ' said Millicent, won- dering whether she ought to bo so eager ; ' because — they will call, of course — but — but if you would come to the Vicarage next Satm'day you would meet some. Perhaps you don't care for tennis, though ? ' ' Oh, but I do,' said Margot ; 'I should like to come, very much. I suppose you are great players '? ' ATTEMPTS TO MANUFACTURE A SILK PURSE loU * I'm not much use at it, but my brother Nugent is thought rather good, I believe.' ' I think I have met yoiu* brother at Trouville,' said Margot ; • he was there Last autumn, was he not ? ' ' Yes ; how curious that you shoukl have met him ; I'm so glad ! ' cried Millicent, and feared she had been too gushing ; she was wondering what Miss Chevening had thought of her brother, and whether he had been able to help falling in love with her. ' 1 bhould, if I were he,' she told herself. The hazel eyes betraj^ed nothing more than a friendly interest as Miss Chevening asked, ' Is he staying with you now ? ' ' Oh, no, poor boy, he is up in town working hard — he so seldom gets away from his chambers ; he may take a few days at Whitsun- tide. I am very pi'oud of my brother,' added Millicent. At this moment the door opened roughly and a head was thrust in. 'I saj', Margot,' said Allen's voice, 'have you seen ' and then he turned red. ' Oh, I wasn't aware yoi; had company — ex- cuse me ! ' And the door shut again. ' I can quite understand your feelings, Miss Orme,' said Margot, as Allen vanished. ' That was my stepbrother ; he always has that quiet, distinguished manner.' She looked so innocently calm as she made this remark, that Millicent was almost afraid to accept it as ironical. * I know him a little,' she said ; ' he used to come to the Vicarage now and then. He found everything a little strange at first, and I'm afraid we made him feel rather shy. I am sorry— he is very good-natiu'ed.' ' You are verj' good-natured,' said Margot, a httle ashamed of herself. ' I wish I could be. I ought not to have spoken like that, but I can't help it alwaj's. You see,' she added, ' I am showing the worst of m.yself.' ' If that is your worst ! ' protested Milicent, ' I — I — am not much afraid. And, oh, I should like to have you for a friend so much — if you will let me ? ' There was an enthusiastic admiration in her eyes which quite won Miss Chevening's already yielding heart. ' I shall be very glad,' she said simply. ' I have no friends here.' And Millicent went back to the Vicarage enraptured with her new Mend and de- voted to her service heart and soul. Mrs. Eddlestone called, too, having stolen a march upon Miss Mombcr ; she appeared one afternoon with her three daiighters. ' We're such near neighbours,' she began in her high voice, ' I've been saying to my girls every day, " Now we really must go over and call on the Chadwicks 1 " but there are so many things to do in the country, and this is absolutely the first opportunity we've had. And how do you like Gorsecombe '? We're very cheery people here, I can assure you. These are my girls— Dottie, Pussie, and Fay — young people, you see, like your own, and ready for anythmg in tho way of amusement. I'm very often told that Gorsecombe would go quite to sleep if Holly Bank were to let, and there really is a 140 THE PARIAH little truth in it — we do contrive to keep onr spirits up. I some- times really have to beg for a little peace and quietness mj-self ! ' The Eddlestone girls were rather unfortunate instances of the inconveniences of retaining a superannuated pet name, Pussy being thin with large extremities, Dottie tall and gaunt, and Fay alone plump. They all thi'ee took i)ossession of Margot, and overwhelmed her with questions and descriptions, without requiring her to take any active part in the conversation, in which they gave evidence of strong animal spirits and the heartiest mutual admhation. ' Do you recite, dear Miss Chevening '? I hope you do. Ko ? really ! then you must come and hear Fay ; some people say they like her better than Clifford Harrison, and she never even heard hiiu ! ' ' You musn't believe all Pussie says, dear Miss Chevening,' said Fay. 'I know I recite abominably — now, Pussie is a poet. Mr. Callembore took a jjiece of hers for Tennyson once. Pussie's the genius of the family, though Dottie is a born artist : she sketches so quickly^such facility, j'ou know, and she never had any lessons! ' ' I'm sure j-ou paint,' said Dottie. ' I shall be ashamed to let you see my daubs ; but you must come out sketching with me as soon as it gets warmer.' ' Now,' said Fay, ' do tell me whom j-ou know as yet, and we'll tell you what everybody's like. Have the Callembores called ? They're going to, I know. He's considered so amusing, no one ever gives a dinner-party without askmg them : as for her, she sits and smiles, but she doesn't sparkle. Not like Mrs. Megginson ; she's great fun, with a husband just like a dissipated white mouse. Then there's the Admhal — do you know the dear Admiral ? You must know the Admu-al — such a delightful, noisy old love ! And Mr. Powles, haven't you noticed Mr. Powles ? with a face like a Death's head — when he wears a white tie, it looks exactl3'^ like the cross-bones,' and so on, and so on, until the roll of residents was exhausted. ' At all events,' said Margot, with a weary little shrug, when they had gone, ' we shall not be dull. Do they ever leave off talking, I wonder ? ' ' They are a little overpowering, certainly,' said her mother, ' but they will be useful people to know.' And through Hollj^ Bank and the Vicarage, and visits arising from meetings at these places, the Chadwicks gradually became admitted into Gorsecombe society, though Chadwick was rather tolerated on his wife's account than welcomed on his own. He did not seem to be aware of this, however. These Gorse- combe people were beginning to find out, he thought, that he was worth cultivating ; he could get along without them now, but if they liked to be civil to him, why, he was willing to meet tliem half way. Ho he came into the drawing-room at tinaes when callers were there and did his best to be agreeable, though his efforts made his wife shiver occasionally ; he drove with her to retm-n visits, and was visibly elated by invitations to dinner, ATTEMPTS TO MANUFACTURE A SILK TURSE 141 There was one point on which he occasionally showed himself a little intractable : he was disposed to resent the way in which his son was eclipsed by his step-daughters. ' Why do they leave Allen out of then- invites ? ' he would say to his wife ; ' there's little notes always coming in from the Vicarage or Holly Bank and such places, asking will Margot, or Margot and Ida, or all three and the gover- ness, come in for lawn tennis, or afternoon tea. or what not — but I never hear of then- asking Allen. What's he done to be left out ? • ' AVhy, my dear Joshua, the truth is Allen is just a little in- clined to keep himself in the backgi'ound — he doesn't seem quite at home with the people here, and they conclude, of course, that he would prefer not to be asked.' ' He must come out of the backgromid, then,' said his father ; 'he's a good lad enough, he only wants a little encouragement to hold his own M'ith the best of them.' ' I'm afraid,' sighed Mrs. Chadwick, 'he doesn't do himself quite ji;stice — that unfortunate manner of his ! ' 'AYhat's wrong with his manner? I don't see much amiss with it mj-self. Shy ? All young fellows who are not puppies are shy. You can't expect a J'oung fellow brought up as he's been to take to this sort of life all at once. If your girls chose, they could soon put him in the way of behaving like other people — they don't find any difficulty in it themselves, apparentl}'.' ' They have always been considered to have rather good man- ners,' said Mrs. Chadwick. ' It is not quite a new experience for them, you see.' ' Well,' concluded Chadwick, ' I must give him a talking to, that's all ; I can't have my son left out in the cold. He must do lilce other young fellows in his position.' But if Allen w-as left unnoticed by Gorsecombe, he was con- tented enough ; he was under the same roof with Margot, he saw her every daj', and could even address her by her Christian name without fearing a rebuke. She was not ungracious to him, too, in lier careless fashion ; habit was doing its usual work, and she sub- mitted to the necessity of listening and replying to his remarks without open imjjatience, even though her inward repulsion was as deep as ever, and she was not really more reconciled to being so nearly related to one at whom she even avoided looking unless absolutely compelled. And though Ida took far less trouble to hide her feelings, and Allen's sentiments for her were not cordial, he had succeeded at last in recommending himself to Lettice's favour. Yarrow had acted as the mediator between them. ' It's fiumy that Margot's dog should be so fond of you,' she told him candidly, and then added with a gleam of tact, ' at least, I mean liecause he doesn't generally make fi'iends with anybody all at once, you know ; but if he likes you, I suppose I must.' It was rather a patronising form of liking, it must be confessed, 1^2 THE I'ArJAH Bxich as Lcttice might have bestowed upon a gardener's boy, or a Btable-help, but Allen was not particular. He felt his own inferiority deeply, in spite of spasmodic and rather pathetic attempts to assert himself. Next to jMargot — who seemed to him a being infinitelj- far removed and to be worshipped in secret under jiain of arousing her displeasure — this little sister of hers held the next place in his heart, with her quaint alternations of dignity and fan, and her pretty chatter like the trilhng of some voluble small bird. He did her biddmg humblj-, although he ven- tured to adopt a more familiar and brotherly manner towards her, and Lettice occasionally criticised his shortcomings with a freedom W'hich he took in perfect good part. ' I suppose,' she said to him meditatively one day, when he was assistmg her in some gardening operations, ' you never had anj' governess when you were little '? ' ' Me ? ' said Allen, with his spluttering laugh, ' not much ; why ? ' ' Only because — j-ou won't mind my telling you, will J'ou? — she would have taught you how to eat differently'. You do make — well, rather a noise, you know, and then you eat so very fast. I had to be told how myself ! ' she added consideratelj'. ' I never thought how I eat before. I say, Lettie, does — does Margot ever say anything about it '? ' ' M argot ? — oh look, isn't that one of those horrid little green atheists on that stalk ? No, it's too early for them yet, isn't it ? — No, Margot doesn't ; mother does sometimes, so I thought I'd speak to j'OU myself. I was sure it was only because you didn't linow — there, that's enough water for those things ! I'll race you to the monkey-tree ! ' Unfortunately the result of these well-meant monitions was only to make him more self-conscious at meals than ever ; his step- mother's expression was very eloquent at times, but she made no remark mitil one day, when some gaucherie of his at luncheon had provoked even his father, whose watchfulness had been aroused by private complaints, to make a comment. ' I did not lilce to speak before,' she said, ' but really, with every disposition to make allow- ances, I think we might expect some regard to be shown to the ordinary rules of beha\-iour. It isn't much to ask from you, Allen ! ' ' I — I did it without thinking,' he said. ' I am sm-e I ask your pardon.' Mrs. Chevening gave a resigned little sigh; Margot kept her eyes on the table, and Lettice alone looked at the culprit with serious eyes, and her cheeks sympathetically flushed. 'If you can't iinderstand that you're sitting at a gentleman's table,' said his father, ' the best thing j'ou can do is to leave it.' His father had never before seen anj'thing amiss with his man- ners, thought Allen, as he rose with a vague impression that it was required of him. ' Don't send him away this time,' pleaded Let- tice, ' he does mean to behave nicely ! ' ' I don't want him to go so long as he minds his manners,' said ATTEMPTS TO MANUFACTURE A SILK PURSE 143 Cliadwick gruffly ; ' sit clown, Allen, antl don't make a fool of your- self — d'ye hear ? ' He sat down with a fiery face and a swelling of his heart. He felt disgi'aced in Margot's eyes as she sat therewith her air of being aloof from it all ; even Lettice's intercession had hurt him, some- how, though he was grateful for her good intentions. This incident, trivial as it was, had the effect of opening Chad- wick's eyes more clearly to his son's defects. His wife was careful to keep them before him without appearing to show more than a motherly solicitude, and they began to worry him at last. Still the fatherly instinct within him, which had slumbered so many years and had been quickened by his son's admiring and dutiful attitude on their first acquaintance, made him fertile in excuses and plans. ' People down here won't trouble about his being a bit rough, he would say ; ' and he'll soon get over that, with a little looking after. He'll do very well if he takes to sport, and he's j'oung enough still to make himself good at that sort of thing. I must see that he keeps up his riding.' And one day at breakfast he said suddenly : ' I suppose you feel pretty comfortable in the saddle now, eh, Allen ? ' ' I haven't ridden since we've all been here together,' said Allen. ' I know that ; I meant to ride with j'ou mj-self, but I've had other tilings to think about ; but when you did ride, you were all right, eh ? ' ' Pretty well,' said Allen, conscious of some exaggeration, even in this. ' Ah, you can't ride the new carriage horses, you know, and I want my own cob mj'self, so I shall have to see about getting a horse for vou — well, can't vou say somethhig ? ' ' Thanks, father.' ' And you must learn to stick on it. I want you to follow the liounds next season. I'm too old to take to it myself, so there's more reason you should do it for me — that's the way you'll have to make your fiiends.' AUen heard with a certain pleasm-able exciteinent ; he had ridden verj' seldom, and the sober old carriage-horse that carried him had spared him any unpleasant experiences. He thought it would be a fine thing to have a horse of his own and hunt when the winter came, as if he had been a country gentleman all his life — perhaps Margot would look on him then with greater respect ! Chadwick lost no time in fulfilling his promise by going up to Tattersall's and selecting a horse — a handsome, powerful beast with excellent manners, which could be trusted to carry Allen. After trying it himself he rode out daily with Allen, who did his best to perfect his horsemanship. Unfortunately, he might conceivably have had a better riding-master; for, though Chadwick had of necessity ridden constantly in India, and had a firm enough seat, he found it ditlicult to coimuvmicate his method, except by advising 144 THE PARIAU his son to stick on find not let his horse get the better of him — rules •which, after all, rather beg the question at issue. However, the new horse went well enough, and he was not observant enough to see tliat Allen had no real notion of controlling him, and was only tortitied by his father's presence. ' Plenty of action ! ' Chadwick would saj' complacently ; ' you're getting on terms with him already, and there are not many young fellows about here better mounted, I can tell j'ou — cost me a pretty penny, Hussar did. Steady, horse. Lost yoiu' stirrups, eh '? that's nothing ■ — 3-011 must learn to do without 'em, j-ou'll shake down right enough.' In a somewhat different sense, Allen thought this only too pro- bable ; but in his anxiety to satisfy his father he did not dare to betray by words how extremely precarious he felt his tenm-e of the saddle to be, and, thanks to the forbearance of Hussar, who was quite aware that he was under close supervision, he avoided any actual mischance. And Chadwick, naturally anxious to feel proud of his son, did not need much encouragement to make huu so ; he began to make little half-jocular, half-boasting allusions to Allen's riding to persons he happened to be talking with. ' Oh,' he would say, ' there aren't many places round here we don't know by this time, my son and I. We ride a good deal — every day, wet or tine. It's not so much on my own account as his, the young rascal — getting quite the jockey, ha, ha ! ' Or he would say to some member of the hunt after dinner : ' No, I shan't come out myself next autumn ; never went in for pig-sticking or polo or a run after jackal out in Bengal, had too much to do — all that has come in since my tune. But there's my son, he'll represent me ; and, between ourselves, I don't fancy I shall be ashamed of him across country by the time he's had a little more practice.' And his hearer, if he had chanced to observe Allen on horseback, would do his best to control his countenance and reply with a ci^'il hope that they would see J'oung Mr. Chad- wick in the hunting-field before very long. It flattered the father's vanity to dwell upon this event, which he chose to consider as in the near future. ' I've been telling Topham ' — (Topham was the coachman) — he said one day, 'that it's time he put up a hurdle or two in the paddock and saw j'ou take Hussar over them — do you more good than anything, you know, a few falls will. But Topham thinks we had better wait till the ground's a bit softer again. This hard, dry speU can't last long, unless I've forgotten what an English Mav is hke.' AUen was relieved at any postponement, and as his father was much occupied soon after with business affairs and Topham bj' no means cared to be responsible for his young master's safety across hurdles, the matter was allowed to di'op. One morning, when the stable-boy brought round the horses as usual, and Allen stood on the steps waiting for his father, Chadwick called to him h-om the window of his studv. ATTEMPTS TO MANUFACTURE A SILK PURSE 145 ' I can't go out this morning, uiy bo.y, too much to attend to, so you must manage on Hussar alone for to-day.' ' Maj'n't I liave Tophaai, or the boy, to go with me ? ' ' No, you mayn't ; your mother wants the carriage after hmch, and the boy's got his own work. You mxist learn to get on by yourself; gives you confidence. There, tumble up, and be off — j'ou'll be all right.' Allen did not dare to jirotest. He mounted, and Hussar went off down the di'ive with one or two puzzled glances behind for the cob, which he seemed to miss. Of course the horse was not long in realising the situation, and in taking advantage of it. He swung leisurely along, witli an otiensive assumption of not being obliged to hurry ; he stopped and looked over gates with new-born interest in scenery, and showed an eccentric preference for the side-path ; he pricked his ears in mock nervousness at every striking object in the road, and broke into capricious trots or sidelong ambles ; it was creditable to him that he did not do much more than this, but, as it was, he gave Allen quite enough trouble. It was a warm day, and he felt help- less and hot and miserable, at the mercy of this headstrong beast. But for his fear of his father, he would gladly have turned his head homeward ; but on he jogged jerkily over the road, which steamed and glittered under a May sun He could almost have wished himself back in the dingy city office again, as he was that time last year ; but no, that was the same as wishing that Margot and Lettice, and this new, luxm-ious, strangely troubling existence could be blotted out. He did not mean that, of course. He must keep up his pluck ; I\Iargot liked a chap to have a good pluck, he wasn't going to own himself a coward before her ; and he hit Hussar across the shoulders and jerked the ciu'b, which caused the animal to toss his head and snort indignantly. At that moment a farmer's cart turned sharp round the corner with something jingling under the seat, and Hussar, his nerves really fretted at last, broke into a canter which became a gallop, though not at any time an absolute bolt. Fortunately he was not difhcult to sit at any pace, or poor Allen would soon have been in the road ; but he had lost all control over him, and was just giving himself wp for lost, when the horse, having had enough of it, slackened of his own accord, until he returned to his former fidgety walk. Considerably exhausted and demoralised by all this, Allen sat liinply in his saddle with a dismal conviction that with one more such escapade on Hussar's part they would part company, and it would take little enough to startle him now. He could not make up his mind to dismount, especially as Hussar would not stand, and so he went on under the branching elms, through whose budding branches the sun struck in ii'idescent rays which seemed to iiTitate Hussar still further. Suddenly, at another turn of the road, he saw a figure he knew approaching. El 146 THE PARIAH ' Bob,' he called, ' Bob Barchard ! ' It was a young fellow about his own age, with sandy hair and a freckled white face, with something at once impudent and cunnuig in the smaU sunken ej-es. As he heard himself called, he quickened his step and came up. ' So, then, you are on yer cockhorse ! ' he said with a cool smile ; 'it's fine to be you ! ' ' Is it ? ' said Allen, with an oath. ' I've had a nice business of it with this beast, I can tell you. Bob ; he's run away with me once.' ' I thought it was queer-like, you stopping to speak to such as me,' said Bob, 'you've got among such fine folk now — but that accoimts for it. Fact is,' he said, looking at the horse, ' you ain't up to managing a horse like that ; he's a beauty, he is, but you never ought to come out alone on him. Why, I'd make that horse go as quiet ! ' 'I wish you were on him instead of me, then,' said AUen. ' Ca}i you ride. Bob ? ' ' Me ride ? ' said Bob, ' why, I've rode since I was that high. They let me exercise the animals up at Lane's farm when they're short of men — there ain't anything I'd mind getting on '? ' ' Would you like to try Hussar for a bit ? ' suggested Allen, with a sudden desperate hope. Barchard laughed in his face. 'We're uncommon good-natured this morning,' he said, ' you're sure j^ou can spare him ? No, thank 'ee, I won't deprive you ! ' ' Bob,' said Allen, 'this brute '11 have me off, I know he will. Do me a good turn, and lead him back till we get near the village.' ' Can't be bothered leading a horse,' said Bob ; ' it was ride him just now, I thought.' ' Eide him back, then — I can walk.' Bob grinned. ' You've been flustering him a bit,' he said, ' he'll take some riding, the way he is — likely he'll try it on with me. Howsoever, I'U oblige you, if I risk my own neck doing it. We were pals once ! ' Bob's indifference had been only feigned ; he would have given one of his fingers to be in the saddle on that mettlesome hunter, and only his inbred shrewdness had kept him from closing with the offer at once. He was the son of a local decorator and plmnber, a Avell-to-do man who allowed him to do much as he liked, and Bob's reputation in Gorsecombe and the surrounding villages was none of the best. He was about Allen's age, but the rustic j^outh was more than a match for the other in knowledge of the world, and durmg the months in which Allen had been left alone at Agra House, had managed to make his acquamtance, and obtain a certain ascendency over him. And the next moment he was on Hussar, and Allen, in whom an immense relief was struggling with a certain shame, was walking along the road at his side. ' Now, you see how he goes with me,' said young Barchard ; ' I'll come back.' And, striking his heel against Hussar's side, he cantered off. How easy it looked, ATTEMPTS TO MANUFACTURE A SILK PURSE 147 thought poor dismountecl Allen, why couldn't he make the horso obey him like that '? For Bob had not exaggerated ; he had a fair seat, and lirm if not very light hands, which Hussar appreciated the more by contrast. Presently he came back at a gallop, and reined \v^ with a lurking gi'in on his face. ' Here's a ^o,' he said, ' I saw your father's carriage coming along — oh, they ain't near yet. I thought I'd better give you the friendly tip '? ' Allen turned pale. ' Did they see you ? ' he said. ' Here, Bob, I must get on again — there's no help for it.' But Bob did not mean to yield possession just yet. ' No time for that ! ' he said. ' We're about the same size and colour, I reckon — chuck me that cap of yours and take mine — quick ! thej^'U be round the bend — that's it ; now you slip down by the bridge, and lay low till they're by, and I'll trot on smart and tm-n my head t'other way — they won't notice ! ' The road made a sharp bend to the left just there, crossing a bridge over the railway ; to the right was a lane as wide as the road which sloped down to the level of the line. Bob was off on Hussar as he spoke, and Allen had no choice but to follow his advice : he got behind the brick parapet and waited with a beating heart. He was ashamed of his weakness ; and yet, as he told himself sullenly, it was aU very weU — was it his fault that he could not manage the horse ? "Was he bound to let his neck be broken, as it might have been, but for Bob ? Only what would be thought of him, if it was known ? Perhajis, even now, his step-mother was stopping the carriage, misled by appearances ! What a time the wheels were in coming ! — at last, that was the carriage ! and from the upper level he heard the trot of horses and the soft splutter of wheels on tho muddy road pass and die away in the distance towards Closeborougli — the danger was past ! He came out and soon rejoined Barchard. ' All right,' he heard him shout , ' I went by in a flash like, and shoved the cap well down over my eyes — they never sjootted 'twarn't you, I'll go bail ! ' And so they went on till they were near the gates, ' I've taken the freshness out of him for you,' said the disinterested Bob, ' you'll be equal to sitting hiin up the drive. You'd never ha' got him home without you'd met me. If you're going out this way again, you'd better let me know.' ' I shan't go out this way again, if I know it ! ' said AUen, and he meant it. ' Why,' said his father, as he met him on his return, ' you are late, old boy ! I began to think something was the matter ; but then, I might have known you could be trusted to look after yom'self. Whj^ you've had a good hard ride, I can see. Famous \ Did you meet the carriage ? Your mother had lunch early and drove over to Closeborough.' ' I know,' said Allen, ' they passed us.' l2 148 THE TARIAH ' Aiid you've had a good tittup, ch ? ' ' Yes,' said the miserable Allen, ' I've had a good tittup.' If he could but have owned the real truth — but he was afraid ; next time his father would go out with him. Hussar would behave better, he could never again place himself in such a predicament ; why should he expose himself unnecessarily ? It was so easy to say nothing, and make good resolutions for the futm'e. CHAPTER III. CARE AND THE HORSEMAN. He knows a baseness in Ms blood At such strange war with something good ; He cannot do the thing he would ! The Two Voices It was the evening of the day which witnessed Allen's humiliating experience on Hussar, and, after lingering as long over di'essing as he could — for he shrank from meeting his step-mother, who might for all he could tell have seen through Bob's disguise — he entered the drawing-room. He was always a little awed on these occasions; the softened light, the delicate fragrance of the azaleas, the luxury of the room were still new and strange to him, and produced a cer- tain sense of being an intruder — the old painful feeling of inferiority to the others, who seemed to harmonise so well with their surround- ings. They were all there : Ida and Miss Henderson playing ' lieversi ' under the lamp by one of the windows ; Margot acting as consulting milliner to Lettice, who was dressing a doll ; Mrs. Chad- wick in a low chah by the fire-place, where Chadwick stood in expansive i;ngainliness. ' Come in,' he cried with his great harsh laugh ; ' don't stand there, looking like a dog in a chapel. We've been hearing about you, master, your ears ought to have been tingling ! ' ' Did they tingle, Allen ? ' inquired Lettice with interest ; ' is that why they're so red ? ' ' About me ? ' he replied to his father, giving himself up for denounced, but yet relieved, too, that Chadwick seemed far from angi-y. ' Ah, your mother ' (he sometimes spoke of her in this manner) ' has been saying how well you were riding this afternoon when you passed the carriage.' Allen looked at her half unploringly ; but there was no malice or irony in her bland smile. Then he remembered that Bob was wearing a suit of about the same hue as his own, and, with the change of headgear, might easily pass a casual inspection. ' I shouldn't have known it was you, but for Hussar,' Lettice chimed in, ' and you never looked at us once, Allen ! ' CARE AND THE HORSEMAN 149 * Don't tease, Lettice,' said her motlicr ; ' but another time, clear boj', I must just liint that even relations expect a how in iDassinpj hke that — ymi didn't think of it, and really, Joshua, I was quite pleased to see how well he sat his horse ; yon must have taken great pains with him ! ' ' I thought you were riding very well, Allen,' added Margot, quite sincerely, from an impulse — rare, it must be owned, with her — to conquer her own prejudices when he deserved credit. His father appeared to resent lier remai'k for some reason. ' Rides well,' he said, glowering at her. ' Of course he rides well ! I wouldn't give much for him if he coukin't stick on a horse like Hussar by this time ; but what you know about it, one way or the other, is beyond me, yoimg lady ! ' ' I should have thought,' said Miss Chevening, with a touch of haughtiness, ' that it was easy enough to tell, even in a passing glimpse, whether a person has a good seat or not. I do claim so much.' ' Margot really has some right to an opinion, Joshua,' put in her mother. ' She rides extremely well herself; her father taught her when she was quite small, and, as long as I could afford it, she rode constantly.' ' Ah, well,' said Chadwick, ' ]\Iargot can do everything, it appears. I suppose the next thing will be that I shall have to get a lady's mount for her.' ' I never asked such a thing, that I am aware of,' said Mrs. Chadwick. ' Nor I,' added Margot, with hot cheeks. ' There — there — don't fly out ! ' he said, recovering his good liuraour. ' I don't say I maj-n't do that — when I've time to look romid me a bit and see where I am. There's the gong ! Now, Allen, where's your manners? Come off that high horse of yours, and give j'our arm to your sister.' So the four elder members of the family went in to dinner, at which Chadwick's pride and satisfaction in his son's equestrian promise broke out afresh from time to time, though in the form of a clumsy description of chaff. He drank to his coming successes in the hunting-field, and there was a distinctlj' kindlier look in his rather bloodshot eyes when he looked at the young man. It might be fanc}', but Allen thought that another pair of eyes which met his across the table had a more friendly shine in their fringed hazel depths. He did not feel quite so much on sufferance as iisual ; he gathered confidence gradually, and courage too, and began to take another view of his conduct. He could have ridden the horse quite well, only he chose to lend it to Barchard. AYhat harm was there in that ? He would not do it again ; to be sure, as his father would ride out as usual with him on the morrow, that would be unnecessary ; he must learn to manage Hussar as soon as he can, and these compliments would be deserved some day. That evening, as Chadwick walked round the billiard tabic, 150 THE PAPJAH which had never been used in his father's hfe-time, he limped sUghtly, and from time to time gave vent to a sharp whistle. ' Only the gout, my boy,' he said ; ' my poor father suffered from it all his life, and it's beginning to find me out at last. If I'm not better to- morrow, I'll have to give up riding for a bit, but that needn't make any diti'erence to you, of comse.' ' Oh, of course,' said Allen. But his heart sank again. And the next day his father's foot was worse, and orders were given that Hussar alone was to be saddled for the morning ride. There was no escape. Allen went round to the stables, and looked at Hussar, who eyed him with a backward glance of depreciatory distrust. ' You 'ad him out a goodish while yesterday, sir,' said Topham, ' but he ain't none the worse to-day. Don't ride him too much on the curb, if j^ou'U excuse me tellin' of you, and he'll go like a lamb.' Alas for Allen's good resolves ! He walked straight down to the village, to a certain house with a large board above the door, ' Barchard, Plumber and Decorator.' There was a yard, with a shed or workshop behind, and outside this he found Bob loimging. ' Bob,' he said, with a pitiful attempt to seem careless, ' I shall be going out for a ride in half an hour. Could you be outside our gates by then, do you think ? ' ' Diinno aboiit that,' said young Barchard, with the air of the Industrious Apprentice. ' I promised father I'd see to the stacking of some drain-pipes as are coming in.' ' Oh, go on ! ' exclaimed Allen, ' you told me you never did any work except when you cared. You can come, if you like ; and, I say. Bob, I don't feel safe alone.' ' Well,' said Bob, ' I'm blowed if you are safe alone, and that's true enough ; but if I come and see arter j'ou, j'ou'll have to pay me for loss o' time ; that's on'y fair, you know.' So an arrangement was arrived at ; Allen being careful to walk Hussar down the drive and along the road until he saw Bob. He made a faint attempt to preserve something more of his self-respect than the day before. ' I only want you just to tell me how to manage him,' he said. ' I shan't get off to-day.' ' Well, you've got your near sterrup wrong waj', to start with,' said Bob. ' Woa, hoss ! why, you'i'e like a babby on him, you are — quiet, then — he's wonderful fresh this mornmg; he'll be off with ye, if ye don't give him his head a bit.' ' lie's more likely to be off with mo if I (7o ! ' said the unfor- tunate Allen. ' Either way,' was the unsympathetic reply, ' I can't be of much use to you on this sidewallj, so I'll be off home and see to those drain-pipes.' ' No ; but look here. Bob,' protested Allen, ' I can't go back yet. I know I'm not equal to managmg him. What the dickena am I to do if you go and leave me ? ' ' Do ? ' said Bob, with a grin. ' Get off and lead him ; for, as CARE AND THE HORSEMAN 151 Bnre as the Lord matle small apples, if yon don't get down of your own accord, he'll help you ! Haw-haw ! to thinli of you walking about all the morning with that great horse on your arm ! Follis '11 laugh to see such doings ! ' ' It's very fine for you to chaff,' said Allen. ' You've been used to a horse — I haven't — what else am I to do '? ' 'What you did yesterday. I'll take him off your hands for an horn" or so; I'll make time for that, to oblige you, and if I don't bring him back as quiet as a lamb, my name isn't Barchard. There, off you get, and take a little stroll through the wood and that, till you hear me whistling.' ' But you'll be known if you're seen ! ' ' What if I am ? I've nought to be ashamed of. I shan't split on you, don't you be feared. And I tell you, without lying, it ain't safe for you to ride him yourself — no, that it ain't! ' So the transfer was effected, not only for that, but many subse- quent mornings, for Chadwick's gout made it difficult for him to ride at first, and he seemed to lose any wish to do so even when he might. 'I don't care much for it,' he would say; ' I only rode as much as I did to put Allen in the way of it, and now that he's getting such a crack — how many miles did you go this morning, hey ? That's right, get as much out of your horse as you can, he'll be none the worse for it ! ' Every day Allen vowed either to overcome his fears and let Hussar do his worst, or to tell his father fi-ankly that he was unable to ride the horse ; and every day either course became more impos- sible. Chadwick only saw him mount and dismomit occasionally, and, Allen bemg able to avoid any open exhibition of incapacity, aroused no suspicions of the real truth, and had to listen again and again to his father's boastful references to the admirable manner in which he had mounted his son, and the unexpected talent the boy had revealed as an equestrian. Some of his hearers would receive these remarks with a covert smile, thinking, no doubt, that the amount of skill required to ride a well-bred hunter along country roads was not excessive enough to justify these paternal pteans ; but Chadwick saw nothing. It is possible, however, that they knew or suspected enough to make Chadwick's complacency seem even more ridiculous. Gorsecombe was not more incurious than the average English village in the affairs of its neighbours, and a plumber's son, however much above his business, could not ride a horse like Hussar in public long with- out giving rise to comment. ' That young chap of Barchard's come into a fortun' seemin'ly,' observed the postman one evening, as he refreshed liimself after his labours in the kitchen of the Seven Stars. ' Lor,' now, has he though ? ' said Mrs. Parkinjear ; ' on'y to think o' that ! 'Twill be a load off his poor father and mother's minds, for he's not one, by all I hear, to make one for himself. But who was it told ve, Postv ? ' 152 THE PARIAH ' Why, I've seen him about lately, c'reerin' along as grand as you please on a bright chestnut oss, as looks a thoroughbred 'un, and no mistake.' ' Barchard ain't got on"y that old oss as he drives in the cart,' said the corn-dealer, ' and he an't no thoroughbred, I'll lay ! ' ' All I know is,' said the postman, ' as he's been ridin' a chest- nut as Sir Everard hisself wouldn't be 'shamed to be seen on. He may ha' stole it for what I can say — he's rip enough.' ' Mister Chadwick up at Agra' 'Ouse bouglit a chestnut 'unter for his son to ride, that's the on'y oss o' that colour I know of 'bout yere.' 'And that'll be the one,' said Mrs. Parkinjear, 'for him and that young Barchard was quite friendly together, so my dear darter tells me, though, being a gentleman, he should ha' kep' his proper place with friends in his own rank accordin' — another mug. Post- man ? ' (Here Mrs. Parkinjear, after much fumbling, produced the cellar kej's fi'om her pocket.) ' Run down, Cassanchw, my dear, and draw it. Depend upon it that young Barchard will have talked him into lendin' the hoss to cut a dash on, which, if my opinion was asked, I call bein' good-natured to them as little deserves such kindness.' And some rumour must have reached Miss Momber's ears, for, having on one of her calls, which she made rather frequently, found Mrs. Chadwick alone, she began almost immediatelj'. ' Now I do hope you'll not think me officious if I mention something I think it's right you should know ! — it's about your son.' ' My step-son, I think you must mean ; my son is away at school.' ' Exactly — your step-son. Well, there's a young fellow in the village, the son of Barchard the plumber, not a very steady J'oung man, we fear, and that makes him all the more likely to be un- settled by being taken wp by those superior to him. We can't help thinking it sucJi a mistake for young Mr. Chadwick to lend this lad his horse, as he constantly does — we have seen him on it so many times ! ' ' Is that all, dear Miss Momber ? I was afraid it was something very dreadful indeed. If Allen likes to be good-natured, I have no right in the world to prevent him, or to dictate to him about the friendships he forms, though I may wish he showed better taste. I am only liis step-mother, you know, and he pays no attention to me ; you must speak to Mr. Chadwick about it ; but thank you so much for thinking of telling me.' That evening at dinner she said suddenly : Joshua, do you know there is something wrong with the pipes in the conservatory ? I siippose there's somebody in the village who could come up and see what's wrong with them. Who was it that told me that the son of that man — Barchard, isn't it ? — was so clever ; why, isn't he a friend of yours, Allen ? ' ' I know him to speak to,' said Allen. CAP.E AND THE HORSEMAN 153 'Oh, you needn't blush, you silly boy; one can have friends in every class of life ; and at all events, I should like this youn<^ Barchard to look at those pipes. Are you going to ride to-morrow ? ' ' I — I don't know,' said Allen ; ' Hussar has to be shod in the morning.' ' Then you will go out in the afternoon, so I want you to look ;n at Barchard's as you go by, and tell the young man — not the father, I'm sure he is a stupid old thing — the young man to come up and see me at once. You won't forget ? ' ' I'll fetch him back with me.' ' Do,' said Mrs. Chadwick blandlj-, ' if you don't thmk it will take too long, because I am going to ask you to ride over to Close- borough for me as well to-morrow.' ' To Closeborough ! ' stammered Allen. She might as well ask him to ride to Khiva ! ' Why not ? ' she said smiling. ' Surely that's nothing to such an accomplished horseman; it's about those ices for next Thursday. I want you to go to Tarrant's, and leave a message for me.' ' Perhaps you'd like him to bring the ices back in his pockets, eh, Allen ? ' said his father ; ' but you'll have plenty of time to go there and back before dark, if you don't start till the afternoon. You can put up for half an hour at the Crown, you know. I dare say I shall think of some things I want you to order by-and-by.' AUen lay awake that night, racking his brains to think how he might evade this difficulty ; he was not fertile of resources, poor fellow, and was paralysed by this sudden emergency. He could only think of being taken conveniently ill, and an tuieasy conscience made him apprehensive that this, taken in conjunction with Bob's engagement, might only provoke his father's suspicions. So he decided that things must take their course. Perhaps Hussar might not be fit to go out next day ; upon one point he was determined, he would not ride him to Closeborough alone. He had entered into an arrangement with Bob by which the time and place of meetmg were signified by a scrap of paper placed under a particu- lar stone outside the gates, and he did this as usual in the mornmg. In the afternoon Hussar was brought round, tossing his head and pawing the gravel impatiently. His father came out to see him mount. ' Call at that ironmonger's in the Market Place,' he said, ' and ask 'em why the deuce they're so long about those gar- dening tools, and stop at the saddler's and tell him he can send for that harness now. Kemember your mother's commissions — young Barchard to come up at once (not that I see what use he'll be) and the ices — that's all.' ' He's ridmg devilish loose to-day,' he said to himself, as he watched him down the drive. ' Why don't he make Hussar go straight ? Hasn't settled down in his saddle yet.' ' That wasn't Allen I heard just now ? ' said his wife, as he entered her sitting-room later in the afternoon, ' he — he hasn't started, siu-ely ! ' 154 THE PARIAH ' Just this minute — why, did j-ou want him to do anything else for you ? it's too late now.' ' I didn't think he would really go, Joshua ! ' she said ; ' 1 meant to have told him that, if he would at all rather not ' 'He may just as well ride to Closeborough as anywhere else,' said her husband. ' What's the matter with you to-day, Selina ? You seem put out about something ! ' ' I was onlj' wondering,' she said, ' whj' that young Barchard does not come.' ' Oh, I told Allen to be sm'e and send him up — he won't forget, though why you send for a young fellow like that, I don't under- stand ! ' He left his wife to her own meditations, which were just then none of the most agi-eeable. Careful as she was to hide it, she dis- liked this step-son of hers intensely ; in secret she more than sympathised with her daughters for having to accept him as a com- panion and equal. He affected her nerves ; she regarded him as an eyesore, a glarirg incongruity, and never saw him with her chil- dren without an inward revolt. She had tried to ojien her husband's eyes to his son's deficiencies, hv.l gentlj' and cautiously as she, insinuated her detraction, it made no way, and she was clever enough to see that she would only defeat her own aim bj' persisting. And soon she was able to hope that Allen would requu-e no exter- nal aid in forfeiting his father's good opinion. Upon that afternoon when Hussar passed the carriage on the Closeborough Eoad, her eye at least had not been deceived for an instant, and Allen's sub- sequent demeanour had enabled her to guess pretty accu.rately what had passed. All that she need do was to wait, to make a few inquiries, to encourage her husband in his confidence as much as possible, and leave it to Time and Chance to bring about an exposure. If it was really true that Allen never ventured to ride Hussar himself, and habitually transferred him to a hunable acquaintance, there could be no doubt that this woiild injure him seriously in his father's opinion. But, except on that first occasion, she had no positive evidence, only her suspicions, to go upon, until Miss Member supplied the necessary confirmation. How could she expose him best without seeming to do so intentionally ? Might she not, by engaging him to ride at a time when he knew that hia friend's services were otherwise secured, force him to refuse in such a manner as to betray his deception ? It was worth the trial ; she had expected confidently that he would shufHe out of it at the last moment — but he had started after all. She smiled as she thought that, if he got this young Barchard to be liis substitute this time, she would have ample means of discovering it, and allowing the fact to become clear in the most natural of ways. Then suddenly an ugly thought occurred to her. Suppose she had gone too far '? Suppose he was on his guard, or had accidentally missed Barchard, or for any other reason v.-as foolhardy enough to go to Closeborough alone ? She had not reckoned this as possible before, but if it CARE AND THE HORSEMAN 155 were. What chance would such a rider as Allen have upon a powerful hunter which he had not had the nerve to ride alone "? If — if anything were to happen to him ! Mrs. Chadvvick was not strong-minded enough to regard such a possibility as this with equanimity ; she had never intended it ; she was frightened now to think that she might have rendered it possible. She took up a novel and tried to forget her anxietj^ by reading, till the fast fading light made it first difficult, then impossible, and she sat thinking, unable to summon up coiu-age to ring for lights. At last she did so, and when the butler brought in the lamp, was astonished to find how late it was. ' Has Mr. Allen come back yet, Masterman ? ' she asked. ' Not to my knowledge, ma'am.' ' It — it's rather a dark evening, isn't it, Masterman ? ' ' It is, ma'am, very dark ; I don't know when I've seen it como on so dark, indeed, for the time of year. Seems a sort of blight, like, ma'am.' ' It does seem so ; where are the yoimg ladies ? ' ' In the schoolroom, ma'am, with the governess. Miss Margot and Miss Lettice came in some time ago — been out walking, ma'am. Did you wish to see them ? ' ' No, no, don't disturb them. It is gettmg so late. I must go up to dress soon ; and, IMasterman, as soon as Mr. Allen comes in from Ills ride let me laiow at once.' ' Very good, ma'am.' So Masterman withdi-ew, and Mrs. Chad- wick again tried to absorb her thoughts in her author, and with no better success. It was past the usual dinner horn- when Mrs. Chadwick, who had gone up to her room, heard sounds outside of a strange voice in the hall below, a sort of subdued bustle, her husband's tones raised— was it in alarm? She listened with her hand on her heart till the sounds died away, then she rang violently. Susan appeared with a white face : ' Oh, ma'am,' she began, ' I knew there'd be something 'appen ! Topham said only this after- noon that Mr. Allen didn't ought to be allowed out alone on Hussar. And now it's come true — isn't it dreadful, mum ? ' ' Just tell me as quietly as you can what has happened,' said Mrs. Chadwick, controlling her voice by an effort ; ' remember, I know nothing.' ' It was the men in the signal-box by the cutting between Gorsecombe and Closeborough ; they saw a horse with someone on him galloping along the line ; it was too daik to tell, but they thought he was running away. That was an hour ago, mum. And the station-master came vip just now and asked to see master. They've foiind something on the line, mum — a body, I believe. Master went off to see about it. He was like someone out of hia mind, mum ! ' ' Have you heard whether Barchard — voung Barchard, the son —is — is at home or not '? ' 156 THE PABIAH Susan stared, naturally failing to understand the relevancy of the question at such a time. ' Young Barchard, nimn ? Masterman was passing there a few minutes back, before this awful news come, mimi, and, knowing you wanted someone to come about the hot-water pipes, he went in to speak about it.' ' Yes — 3-es,' gasped Mrs. Chadwick. 'Barchard said his son was onlyjnst in, mum, but he'd send him up as soon as he could.' ' That will do, Susan, Tell Miss Margot to come to me instantly.' CHAPTEE IV. DISMOUNTED. II y a des gens destines k etre sots. n n'y a guere de poltrons qui connoissent toujours toute leur peur. La Bochefoucaiild ' "What are you looking back like that for, Lettie ? ' asked Margot, as they walked along the high road together on the afternoon which their mother was spending as we have alreadj- seen. ' Y'arrow is ahead.' ' I know,' said Lettice. ' I was only thinking that perhaps Allen would come by.' ' And can't you be happy without seeing Allen for an hour or two ? ' said Margot, with a little accent of jealous reproach. 'Ah, but I've never seen him on Hussar, except just that one time, and he went by so fast then. I wish I could ride like Allen — he does ride well, Margot ; you know you said so yourself. I shall ask Allen to let me ride Hussar some day. I rode that donlcey (the nice one) at Littlehampton qiiite easily. Wouldn't you like to ride Hussar, Margot ? ' ' Very much, dear.' ' I'm sure he Avoiild let youif you asked him. Shall Jaskhim ? I'm a regular pal of his now, Margot. I didn't cotton to him at ah, at tirst, you know, but he's awfully good-natiu'ed.' ' Lettie, you will get to talk just like a little common girl soon — you don't know how ugly it sounds. I wish you wouldn't be quite so much with Allen.' ' He likes to have me with him. At least, I asked him if he minded once, and he said no.' ' I was thinking of tjou — you mustn't copy his expressions or his manners, darling, they are not pretty.' ' Oh, bitt I'm curuag him of them, ]\Iargot. Haven't you noticed he hardly ever speaks with his mouth full now, and I've taught him DISMOUNTED - 1,'57 no gentleman ever slioots bread pills. And I've heard you talk slanf^, Margot.' ' I'm not a pattern person, darling, bnt at least I'm a better example for you than he is. There, I don't want to run him down — he has his good points, but j'ou mustn't borrow your expressions from him ; you used to be so particular, Lettice ! ' ' I'm tired of being particular — it's better fun being the other thing.' Margot laughed ; she knew very well that her hint had told. ' Haven't you had enough of this tiresome road ? ' she said. ' Sup- pose we go back through the wood and across the field.' ' Eight you are ! ' said Lettice cheerfuUj' ; ' I knew I'd catch you that time, Margot! That doesn't come from Allen at all — but Mr. Fanshawe, who's a clergyman. Just saying it the wrong side up can't be vulgar, you know. Why, it sounds twice as well as " you are right ! " ' Margot wisely declined to contest this statement. ' Call Yarrow to heel,' she said, ' or he may do some mischief in these woods.' They had entered the pine wood which bordered the road, and passed up the soft tan-coloured lane with moss-grown ruts. The bracken was springing up in little green croziers on the raised banks, the new gi'owth on young fir trees spiced the an, cuckoos were calling from the distant fields, a solemn gloom reigned under the sad green branches. ' It's evening in here,' said Lettice, ' and I don't see Yarrow anywhere — listen, that's his bark, he's found something he likes — he always barks Like that when he's pleased, let's go and see what it is.' They struck through the wood obliquely, and presently saw the coUie leaping and dancing delightedly aroimd something unseen : he came boimding to them, barked, and ran off again, looking over his shoulder as an intimation that they were to follow. 'It isn't something, Margot, it's somebody,' whispered Lettice ; ' and he is trying to make Yarrow be quiet and go awaj' — why, it's Allen's voice ! ' She ran forward, and Allen, seeing farther concealment was useless, came out from behind the big pine trmrk, which, but for Yarrow's well-meant amiabilitj-, would have screened him effectually.' ' Have you come back already ? ' asked Lettice innocently ; • how fast you must have ridden ! Was it all right about the ices, Allen ? ' _' Oh, don't bother me,' he said roughl3^ ' I suppose you'll go telling everj'body where you've seen me now ! ' _ Lettice drew herself up : ' I'm not a tell-tale,' she said, ' and I think you're very unkind.' Here Margot joined them. ' You can't possibly have been over to Clcseborough and returned already,' she said; 'it is quite eight miles from here. What has become of the horse, too ? ' 158 THE PARIAH Embarrassment made him brutal : ' You mind j'our business,' he said, ' and I'll do the same.' Margot's flexible lips ciu'led in disgust : ' By all means,' she said ; ' I have no ciu'iosity in anything that concerns you. Come, Lettice, we will leave him.' ' No,' he cried, ' don't go yet. I — I don't know what it is I do say, or I should never speak that way — to you. If I was to tell you, you'd see how it was.' ' Kun on, Lettice, and wait by the stile at the edge of the wood till I come. Now, Allen,' she continued presently, ' what is all this mystery about ? Have you had a fall from j^our horse ? What of it '? There's no disgrace in that. Is Hussar lamed ? ' ' No,' he said, ' I haven't had a fall. I wish I had. Hussar's right enough. If I thought you'd keep it a secret ' ' I shall certainly not promise till I know what it is ; but I don't wish to hear it imless j-ou would rather tell me.' ' I — I think I would rather,' said the poor fellow. ' I may as well out with it now as later, and I know you won't split on me.' So, in a halting, sheepish fashion, he told his humiliating storj', of which the reader is already in possession except the concluding stage. He had found Hussar more ixnmanageable than ever that afternoon, it seemed, and, on meeting Bob outside as usual, the temptation not to deliver his step-mother's message, and induce Bob to ride to Closeborough and execute the various commissions there in his stead, had proved irresistible — and now he was waiting here for Barchard to return. From time to time his narrative was interrupted by Margot's irrepressible laughter — laughter in which there was a ringmg under- tone of a deeper contempt than she had ever felt for him before. He was divesting himself of the one quality and the single accomplish- ment that had been leading her to tolerate him of late. She could make no allowances for him. The very awkwardness and seriousness with which he made his confession rendered it the more fatally ludicrous in her eyes. ' Oh, Allen ! ' she said, as he ended, ' it really is too comic ! To be afraid of poor dear Hussar — why, Lettie could ride him ! ' ' Likely enough,' he retoi-ted sullenly ; ' I can't anyway. Bob says he could do what he lilces with me.' ' Bob is so very disinterested,' said Margot. ' You foolish fellow, can't you see that Bob did everything he could to frighten you mto giving him up ? And this has been going on every day. And, oh ! the stories j'ou have told ! And yoiu* father thinking you were getting on so well ! ^Vliy, you will be the laughing-stock of the whole place — and I'm sm-e you deserve it.' ' Are you going to tell them ? ' * As if I should give myself the trouble ! ' said Margot con- temptuously ; ' but do you really expect to go on like this for ever ? It is sm'e to come out some day, and if you are wise you wiU not leave your father to hear it from others. If you haven't nerve DISMOUNTED 159 enough to ride, own it, and don't make yourself more ridiculous — if that is possible — than you are ah•ead3^ Go back and tell your father that you feel much safer on two legs than four, and that it was a mistaken kindness of him to give you a horse for a present.' He writhed. ' You come down pretty hard on me,' he said. ' Oh, I don't pretend to pity you a bit, AUen ; it is too con- temptible fi'om beginning to end.' ' Well,' he returned, ' you won't be the worse for it, at all events. I shall get father to let you have Hussar.' If he hoped to conciliate her thus he was disappointed. Margot's merciless laughter rang out afresh. ' How generous of you I Are you quite sure you can make such a sacrifice '? I am afraid — unfor- tunately for me — your father will not be very likely to be guided by your wishes on that point after this.' But through her mind the thought flashed eagerly. It was quite possible that she might be aUowed to ride Hussar. Oh, the joy of being on a horse once more ! Would there be any loss of dignity in accepting the mere use of him ? Her eyes danced at the pro- spect, in spite of her words. ' Now, will you go back with Lettice and me — or what ? ' she said. ' I must stop about here till Bob comes back,' he replied mi- easily. ' So you ivill play out your little comedy ? And are you really ventm'esome enough to ride Hussar all the way back — nearly half a mile ! — or will Bob hold you on '? Pray don't run any risks.' In spite of her merciless mockery he could not hate her ; she looked so bewitching m the sombre half light under those gloomy pines, he would have given his life just then to win back her respect. She stood there a moment, and then, with a ciirt little nod, she turned away amongst the red pine stems. He followed her with his eyes till the last glimpse of her dreL-3 had disappeared, and then, with a dull acquiescence in his own humiliation, he resumed his waitmg. The sky was no longer visible through the trees, the gloom grew more intense, the silence deeper, only broken by the sharp cracking and rustling of branches and the iBysterious minute stir of invisible life. "Why did not Bob return ? He should have done so before this — at was pitch dark in the wood. He groped his way to the high road, which now showed only as a grey glimmer under a low starless heaven — there was nothing to be heard. Could Bob have passed aheady unnoticed ? He waited about in gi'owing uneasiness, walking a few yards now in one direction, now in the other, hoping against hope that all was right. He could not present himself at home without knowing what had become of Hussar, but at length it occurred to him as jvist possible that Bob might have brought him back to the stables iiimself, and he decided to go back and see if this were so. 160 THE PARIAH Bob Barcliartl had passed an hour or two very agreeably at the bar of the Crown Hotel at Closeborough, thanks to the combmed attrac- tions of gin and water and a good-looking barmaid. It was some- what late before he gave orders for ' his horse ' to be brought round, and movmted xuider the admiring inspection of the barmaid, who came to the stej)s to see him depart, evidently taking him, as he felt with much satisfaction, for some young gentleman-farmer. He did not trouble himself about the various commissions which Allen had delegated to him — in fact, he had forgotten them— so he started back on the Gorsecombe road at a brisk pace till he reached a part where the road was lined on either side with tall elms. Here the darkness, which, even in the ojien was unusual at so advanced a season, was intense, and he walked his horse, guiding himself by the hedge he could just make out i;pon his right hand. He was a little drowsy and careless, and felt nothing but a muddled surprise that the road, which he had believed to be level, should decline as it did. He put it down to a symptom of his condition. Presently he thought he must have turned off the track in some way he could not account for, or how was it that the road seemed to be running alongside at a gradually rising level ? He must get back — ho roused Hussar and made him scramble back somehow ; but the road he Avas on was not the same as that he had left — softer, with shmy ruts that gleamed dully as if it were winter. Stop — ivere they ruts ? AVhat was Hussar stumbling at '? He held him up and brought him to a standstill, and as his eyes became accustomed to the darkness, he began to recognise where he was. In some way he did not understand he had got iipon the line ; those were the metals which he had taken for ruts. Well, he must get off again as soon as he could. He turned Hussar's head and urged him to return the waj'he had come ; but the horse, confused by the strange feel of the gi'ound, the darkness and the faint vibrating hum which was borne down the line, pricked his ears and refused to stir. Bob grew impatient ; he had no spurs, but he dug him in the ribs with his right heel, and then struck him smartly with the little stick he carried. Hussar became restive, and his rider began to see that he would require all his coolness if he was to induce him to obey. He coaxed him gradually to step across the rails, which he evi- dently regarded with distrust, and was on the point of succeeding when a long harsh scream in the distance upset the horse's already strained nerves. Bob himself was scarcely less startled ; he knew what it must be — the express! There was not much time to lose, and in his hurry and alarm he pulled the curb sharply. Hussar plunged a little ; the scream rose again, this time accompanied by a sullen roar, and the next moment the horse had swerved away from the quarter whence the noise proceeded, and was galloping at full speed down the line. The ballast had been freshly laid, and formed a better track than might have been exi^ected, but at any moment an imcovered sleeper might cause a stumble, and then — Bob shivered to think of it ! DISMOUNTED 161 Faster and faster they went ; Ke was as powerless as Allen might have been to stop the terrified animal now, and the roar and rumble behind were coming nearer and nearer. They were not on the same line of raOs, but he knew he would not be able to control his course much longer ; even if he could, the effect of an express passing at fiill speed upon a horse aheady frantic would bring their career to the inevitable end. Louder and louder grew the roar, and Hussar was flying more and more madly along the ballast. Bob was per- fectly sober now ; the shock had cleared his brain. He clung to the saddle instinctively, though he knew that his case was desperate and the end must be soon. He was even impatient for it all to be over now, and, as they tore along, he suddenly thought of the pretty barmaid at Closeborough, and wondered what she would say when she heard. They were passing a signal-cabin now; the men in it shouted at him from the lighted windows, and he thought bit- terly what fools they were if they supposed he was riding like this for pleasure. All this took scarcely an instant ; the express was close behind him now. He could hear it bounding fiercely along the track, and now he saw two glaring lights and a trail of flame- touched steam ahead — the up-train had just left Gorsecombe station. He was directly in its track, and, if he kept his seat now, nothing could save him. There was only one chance, and he took it ; he shook his feet out of the stirrups, put his hands on the front of his saddle, shut his eyes, and, letting go the reins, threw himself off before the engme passed him. When he recovered his senses, he was lying on his back in a bed of soft rushes below the railway baixk ; the roar and rattle were still m his head, but he staggered to his feet and found himself un- hurt, though bruised and giddy and shaken. He clambered up to the line again ; the metals were still warm, but the two trains had vanished, and of the horse he could find no trace. It was characteristic of Bob that the first use he made of his recovered faculties was to swear at his ill-luck. When he had relieved his feelings to some extent in this fashion, he limped along to a level crossmg which brought him mto the high road again at a point within an easy distance fi-om the village. Margot, hastily summoned by Susan, foimd her mother in an almost distracted state. ' Tell me what you know,' she whispered. ' Allen has not come home. What is it that happened to him ? ' Margot, who had heard nothing, was struck with wonder at this sudden solicitude on Allen's account. ' Hajjpened to Allen ? ' she Baid. ' Why — nothing, mother ! ' 'You are keeping something from me; that horse has killed him — I know it, Margot ; and all through me. My God ! what shall I do ? ' ' No, no,' said Margot, throwing her arms around her mother 162 THE PARIAH with a retiu'ii of her old a£fectiou. ' You poor darling, it is a shame that you should be frightened like this. The horse cannot have hurt him, because he took care not to give it the oj)portunity. There, I half promised not to tell, but I can't see you in such a state and Bay nothing.' So she related her interview with Allen in the wood. ' He has not come home because he was ashamed to ; and no wonder ! Noio are you satisfied ? And how could it be through you, in any case ? ' I\Irs. Chadwick began to recover her self-control. ' Did I say so ? ' she asked. ' I was so horribly anxious, Margot, and — and it was I who asked him to ride over to Closeborough for me, that was all. Ah, here is your father. Joshua, tell me — was there nothing really the matter after all ? ' He was stiU pale, and his face wore a heavy scowl. ' If you call a two-hundred-guinea horse cut to pieces on the railway nothing,' he said — ' I don't myself.' ' Cut to pieces ! Oh, poor Hussar ! ' cried Margot, turning pale. ' And — and young Barchard — he was not — not killed ? ' ' So you knew of it, too ! ' he said. ' I suppose I was the only one in the dark. lulled ! I wish he had been ! A nice fellow he is to be trusted with a horse like that. And Allen — there's a son to be proud of ! Why, I've been half mad with thmking he'd broken his neck, or worse. I might have spared myself ! And you two were in this precious secret, were you, helping him to make a fool of me, eh ? ' ' You are quite wrong,' said lilargot. ' I only knew this after- noon when we met him in the woods, and he told me he was afraid to ride the horse, and mother did not know till this very minute. I don't think you have any right to accuse us of such things.' ' I was wrong — there ! Can't you see I'm not my own master ? Where is that boy ? I must have this out with him, and he'll hear some things he won't forget in a hurrj'. Have dinner without me, it's cold by this time. I can't touch anything ! ' ' How you are trembling, dear ! ' said Margot to her mother, when he had left the room ; ' you are not frightened now, surely ? ' ' I — I have been a little upset by all this,' was the reply. ' That wretched boy ! — let us be thankful it is no worse.' ' It is bad enough,' said Margot, ' to think of that beautiful horse being killed in this terrible way, and all because he was such a coward ; it makes me hate him, mother ! ' ' I had been hoping to see you ride Hussar some day,' said Mrs. Chadwick. ' Don't talk about it,' entreated Margot. ' What does aU that matter now '? But, oh, I hope he will be made to feel ashamed of himself! ' ' I think,' replied her mother rather grlmlj^ * that his father wUl take care of that.' Allen had gone guiltily in by the stable-yard, but the stables DISMOUNTED 163 were dark and closed, the coachman was probably at his meals in- doors ; he stole into the house and was met by Masterman. ' I was to say,' said that functionary, ' that master wished to see you the minute you come in, Mr. Allen, in the study.' ' Is — is anythinj? up '? ' asked Allen ; he did not dare to inquire whether Hussar had returned. ' I can't give you any information, sir, really,' was the answer, in a tone of lofty disapproval, for Topham had been bitter in his laments just before. Allen went into the study. ' So here you are at last, sir,' was his father's gi'eeting. ' And what have ijow got to say for yourself? ' ' I — I iaaow I haven't been acting quite — quite straight, guv'nor,' said Allen ; ' but it's no use, I can't ride that horse any more.' Chadwick gave a short, furious laugh. ' Well, no,' he said, ' you've taken care of that — do you know where he is now ? ' ' N — no,' said Allen. ' Well, the friend you were so good as to lend him to took him for a gallop along the line, and they foimd all that was left of the poor beast in the six-foot way an hour ago — that's good news for you, I dare say ! ' Allen felt cold and sick. ' And Bob ? ' he said ; ' what of Bob ? ' ' Oh, don't be alarmed ; Bob's not bom for that sort of end. He wasn't even scratched. I've just had a talk with him, and heard how you'A'e been taking your horse-exercise lately. A nice story i\ was, too ! ' Allen was too much relieved to mind anything else just then ; his father broke into a torrent of abiise, stimulated rather than disarmed by his silence ; shame, wounded vanity, resentment at having been duped, anger at the loss of a valuable horse — all contributed to lend variety and force to Chadwick's expressions. ' There,' he said at last, ' I've tried to make a man of you, and this is all I've got for it. I'm damned if your fit for anything but counter -jumping. It's enough to make a man wish he'd never had a son, all this shirking and skulking and lying. Tchah ! get out of my sight ; be off to bed, and stay there for all I care ! ' Allen was glad enough to go ; he was worn out and stunned to a sort of indifference, and yet, as he went up to his room, he had a forlorn feeling that henceforth his life would be changed, that the place he had so lately occupied in his father's affections was, through his own miserable folly and cowardice, lost to him for ever. tia 164 THE PAEIAH CHAPTER V. A SOJOURN IN COVENTRY. Le ridicule deshonore plus que le deshonneur. — La Bochefoucauld. It was natiu-al that such conduct as Allen's should cause some change in his father's feelings towards him, but Mrs. Chadwick her- self could not have desired a more complete alteration than that which followed. He had alwaj-s persuaded himself that the defi- ciencies of his son's early education would not hinder him from becommg a fairly creditable country gentleman now that he was given opportunities. In this way he had salved his conscience for the neglect of many years, diu-ing which, with a little less self- indulgence, he might have done more for his son. Forced as he was now to recognise that the results of that neglect could never be effaced, if he felt his own responsibility at all, the only effect it had was to put a keener edge upon his anger and infuse into his contempt a bitterer flavour. For some time after Hussar's catastrophe, Chadwick led his son a wretched life, never losing an opportunity of indulging in some caustic allusion. ' Wilkins was asking me to-day ' (Wilkins was the Gorsecombe station-master) ' whether he should send up Hussar's saddle and bridle,' he said on one occasion, when they were all at luncheon. ' They're not fit for anything now, but I suppose he thought ' (he was addi-essing Allen) ' that you might like to keep 'em as a souvenir or somethmg of that sort. Perhaps you would ? ' Allen flinched and changed colour, as he declined these ghastly relics. ' Well, I dare say you're right,' was the retort, given with a short rasping laugh ; ' j'ou had precious little connection with 'em. I forgot that. Your friend. Bob Barchard, is the man they ought to go to ; he's fairly earned 'em.' His anger, which was nourished for some time by the curiosity and condolences of all Gorsecombe, abated at length, and lapsed into a contemptuous indifference with an occasional sarcastic out- burst, bi;t his confidence had gone for ever. Fate had seen fit to aftlict him with a son who was an incorrigible cub, an abject cockney. He must put up with it, he supposed, but he coiold not forget how he had been deceived, or overcome his disgust at Allen's ingi-atitude and cowardice. This change of attitude could not fail to have a certain effect upon the behaviour of the other members of his familj^ as it re- moved all necessity for keeping up an appearance of cordial rela- tions with Allen. They did not attack him after his fother's fashion, though Miss Henderson and Ida permitted themselves occasionally a languidly malicious innuendo, which generally missed its mark. A SOJOURN IN COVENTRY 165 Mrs. Chadwick, indeed, was a model of frigid forbearance, while IMargot spared his feelings from some latent instinct of generosity, and still more from a sense of his insignificance. But, though he took a long time to find it out, there was no longer any attempt to disguise that his presence in the drawing- room of an evenmg was not a source of unmixed delight. He could not wander now, as he liked to do, fi'oin one to the other, making blundering attempts to join the conversation or game, or amusing himself by teasing Lettice and Ida, without being continually re- pulsed. It was : ' Allen, do you mind moving somewhere else '? you are horribly in my light ; ' or, ' Allen, we do hate to have any- body looking on at us so ; ' or, * Please let me alone, Allen, it teases ; ' and then his step-mother would remark, ' If you could only sit down quietlj', and amuse yourself with a book or something, instead of being a perfect nuisance to everybody, it would be such a comfort ! ' and his father would bring up the rear by adjurmg him, for God's sake, to do as he was asked, or leave the room. "Whereupon he would sit down and perhaps pretend to be engaged in a book, though he passed most of the time in furtively regarding Margot from behind it. He fancied sometimes that, when his father indulged in his heavy gibes at his expense, she wore a look of discomfort, which he took for sympathy, and the belief made him able to endure many an unpleasant hour, for his was one of those natures which are capable of di'awing a certain morbid pleasure from ill-treatment, if only they can feel that their wrongs excite compassion in the onlooker. One onlooker at least did not conceal her sympathy, and that was the Miss Chevenings' maid, Susan, who found an opportunity one day to let him know that she considered him shamefully treated. Susan was not, perhaps, the person best entitled in the world to express abhoiTence of domestic oppression, but it is not 80 very unusual for tyrants, large or small, to be moved with very sincere pity for theii- neighbour's victims. Susan was of a contradictory turn of mind ; she was tired of hearing her fellow-servants abusing the son of the house, particu- larly when they contrasted him unfavoiu-ably with his step-sisters. She exhorted him to stick up for himself, to show a spirit, and let certain people that thought themselves everybody understand that he wasn't to be treated like the dirt under their feet, with many other counsels as outsi^oken as she thought prudent. Allen had no dignity to be offended ; he was rather touched and grateful than otherwise, and had not experience to see that it was not altogether becoming or safe to encourage clandestine demonstrations of sympathy fi-om a domestic who was far from ill-favoured. Indeed, with Margot's face constantly before him, he did not so much as notice whether Susan was good-looking or not. He had not so many friends in that household that he could aftord to 166 THE PARIAH reject this one. and so, without any intention on his side, a sort of aUiance was establislied between them. Perhaps Susan had motives of her o^^^l. He would be well-off some day, he would not be the first young man who had been indttced to make an unequal marriage ; and then what a triumph it would be to find herself a sort of step sister-in-law to Miss Margot, especially if she were to hold the purse-strings ! But if she were ever to secure such a prize, she must, she knew, proceed with the greatest caution — the slightest indiscretion, or appearance of haste would be fatal. So she was careful to avoid exciting remark in any wa^", encotintering him now and then apparently by accident, at times when they were unlikely to be disturbed, and adopting a tone of sympathy tempered bj' I'espect. She was not without hopes that the evident gratitude he showed would develop into something more, though for the present she was obliged to confess to herself that he gave no sign of anything like admiration. However, it was fortunate for him in one way that he was less at home than formerly. It is true that the advantage was only relative, as he spent most of the time in the company of young Barchard. Ko breach had occurred between Allen and Bob. That young gentleman had contrived to make it appear that he had narrowly escaped becoming the victim of his own self-sacrifice. He was magnanimous and forgiving; for, setting aside the distinction of being on friendly terms with one in Allen's position, the advantages in having a companion with the double recommendation of being always flush of money and readily' induced to spend it were not to be hghtly thrown away. He had proposed to teach Allen to drive as a respectable substitute fur horse-exercise, and the offer was gratefally accepted. There was a light trap which Bob had persuaded his father to buy, a vehicle which, though not showy, had nothing in its exterior to betray the shop, and the mare, if not much to look at, went well. Allen accompanied him in the business errands which formed the only work Bob consented to tuidertake, and, under Bob's guidance, he did become a very tolerable whip. This was better in some v/ays than loafing about the Agra House grounds, or wandering aimlessly along country roads to kill the time, and no one cared or asked questions about the manner in which he employed his mornings and afternoons. There was nothing in Barchard's appearance to be ashamed of. He dressed well in a sporting style, for he cultivated the raannera and amusements of a higher station, if his tongue betrayed him occasionally. He ' knew his way about,' as he was accustomed to boast, and certainly had a considerable familiarity with such dissi- pation as Closeborough afforded. All this had its effect upon Allen, who was no gi'eat jtidge of character or breeding ; he decidedly preferred Bob's society to his own, and it was generally his only A SO.TOrRN IN COYENTPA' 167 alternative. Bi;t liitlicrto he had spent his evenings at home, and M-hile in Barchard's company had -u-ithstood all temptation to take more di'ink than was good for him. His chief restraint was the fear of disgi'acing himself irretrievably in Margot's eyes. For Jsome time Allen had been troubled by a suspicion that Lattice was kept out of his way ; an excuse was always ready — she had her lessons, or her music to do, she was engaged to play a ' single ' at tennis with Ida, she was going out to walk or drive with somebody else — tlie result being that he had never once been alone with her since that afternoon in the pine wood. He was in the drawing-room after lunch one day with a linger- ing hope that Margot might condescend to play a game or two of lawn-tennis with him, bad player as he was. The Agra House drawmg-room was divided into two by the wall in which the lire- place stood, and on either side of the fireplace was an arch con- necting one room with the other, so that, practically, the two rooms were one. Allen was in the further room, and his step- mother was at her WTiting-table in the other. Presently he heard Lattice come in, evidently much excited. ' Mummy,' she said, ' may I go fishing ? "William has found a lot of worms under the manure by the stables. And may he come to put them on for me ? They're such leggy worms, mother ! ' Mrs. Chadwick consented, and Lcttice was off. Here Avas Allen's chance ; he had bought Lettice the fishing-rod himself — she would not refuse to let him accompany her, he thought. So he slipped out, and intercepted her on her way to the stables. ' Going fishing, Lettie ? ' he said. ' Yes, Allen,' said Lettice shortlj'. ' You'll want someone to put the worms on,' he said. ' I'll come and do all that for you.' ' Thank yoii,' said Lettice, ' but I may take William.' ' They won't mind me going with you instead of William.' Lettice looked down, and spoke in a muffled little voice : ' I would rather AVilliam went,' she said. ' I don't want you to come.' ' Someone's put you up to saying that,' he retorted. ' It isn't likelv you'd say so of your own accord — such pals as we used to be, Lettie ! ' ' I'm not pals, which is a very vulgar word, Allen, any longer.' ' Oh, you aren't ? Well, look here^ust tell me this, what have I done ? ' ' You let poor dear Hussar be taken on the railway and killed, and Ida says she believes you wanted him to be, because you were afraid to ride him ; and you told stories about it. I don't care to go fishing with people who do such things.' ' You don't seem to mind going fishing with the rod I gave you ! ' He intended this rather as an appeal than a sneer, but Lettie flushed at the reminder, and then, not without an evident struggle, said, ' Did you give it to me ? I'd forgotten. Then you may have it back again. I don't want it.' She held it towards him heroicallv. ' All right,' he said, as he 168 THE PARlAfl took it. ' I didn't think vou'd turn against me, but please yourself. I'll give you one more chance,' he added, with the hope of con- quering her. ' If you won't take this thing back and let lis two be friends again, I'll smash it— it's no use to me. Are you going to take it, or not ? ' He might have known that this was the very last way to attempt to move Lettice. ' I have told you once,' she replied ; ' I shan't tell you again.' ' Then, there ! ' he said, and broke it into several pieces ; ' that's aU you get by that ! ' The moment he had done it he was ashamed of the impulse, esi3ecially as Lettice, her fortitude at an end, burst into tears. He caught her hands roughly. ' Don't cry, Lettie,' he said, ' I — I didn't mean it. I'll buy you another — a better one, only be friends again! ' She struggled to free herself. ' Let me go, you are hurting my WTists I ' she said. ' I hate you— you're a bully ; cowards always are ! ' He dropped her hands as if they had burnt him. He laughed bitterly. ' Go it ! ' he said — it was his misfortune that he had no more dignified phrase at command — ' don't mind me. You haven't a good word for me now, it seems. Make me out as bad as you can. If you hate me, I can do without you — I'm not so hard up for company as all that ! ' Lettice had gone while he was speaking, and he turned away with a lump rising in his throat ; he had loved this child ; he loved her stiU ; the discovery that she too had ^\'ithdrawn her friendship had come upon him with a suddenness that had made him forget himself for the moment. And now he had offended her beyond all hope of forgiveness ! How he wished now that he had not been so foolish as to threaten to reclaim his gift. Perhaps if he had not done that — well, it was too late to think of that now. He tried to persuade himself that it did not matter, and went down into the village to find Barchard. ' Has Lettie come back from her fishing yet ? ' Mrs. Chadwick asked Ida, as she came in to afternoon tea from the tennis-court. ' I don't like her to be down by the streaixi too long.' There was a little stream at the bottom of the grounds, covered with water- lilies, and inhabited by a few minute dace or roach, upon which Lettice had proposed to try her skill. ' She never went,' said Ida. ' Mother, what do you think Allen did ? I was at the schoolroom window and saw everything. He actually met Lettie and took her rod away and broke it ! Poor Lettie came in crying dreadfully', but she wouldn't tell me anj-- thing about it.' ' He is getting worse and worse ! ' said Mrs. Chadwick. ' He is a perfect plague to everj-one in the house. And to be brutal to poor dear little Lettie, who has always been so sweet to him. I shall certainly ask his father to interfere. I will not have the child terrified like this ! ' She spoke to some purjjose, for when Allen entered the room A SOJOtPiN IN COVENTRY 1()9 in his usual shamefaced manner before dinner, Chadwiek tm-ned savagely upon him before them all. ' This drawing-room's no place for you, sir,' he said. ' You'll not be allowed to play the rough here. Just walk out of it, and don't let me hear of your ill-treating a child again ! ' ' He didn't ill-treat me ! ' declared Lettice. ' Ida, I didn't want you to tell.' Yan-ow had walked up to Allen, and was tlu-usting his long nose into his hand as he stood there. ' If I'm not to come into the drawing-room,' he said, ' where am I to go ? ' ' That's your affair,' said his father. ' There's plenty of other rooms in the house without coming here to be an annoyance to everybody.' ' Then I'm not wanted at dmner either, I suppose ? ' he said, with a sinking heart. ' If you choose to behave decently while you are there, no one wants to prevent you from dining that I know of, but you'll keep out of this place till you have learnt to behave like a gentleman to your sistei-s.' Allen went, Y^'arrow walking with him, much puzzled, as far as the door. He waited in the library till the gong sounded, and then hesitated. If he stayed away from dinner, he would gain nothing by it ; he could not give up the pleasure, shot as it was with pain, of sitting opposite to Margot as usual. He pocketed his pride and went in. Nothing was said to him throughout the meal, and when ^Irs. Chadwiek and Margot had risen, his father addressed him for the first time. ' If you like to go into the biUiard-room,' he re- marked, ' it's lighted.' ' Ai-e — are you coming ? ' ' I ? No. I am gomg into the drawing-room presently. But, as I told you before dinner, the less they see of you in thei'e the better they're pleased. If you will behave like a blackguard, j'ou have yourself to thank for it. Y''ou needn't expect me to take your part, after the way you've treated me ; it serves me right for thinking I could ever make a gentleman of you ! ' Perhaps Chadwiek spoke as he did with some jxirpose of pro- voking his son to make some jn-ofession of sorrow and amendment, but Allen sat silent, afraid, if he spoke, of drawing down a fresh storm upon his head. Chadwiek sat moodily smoking his cigar a little while, and then rose abruptly, leaving his son to follow his own devices. Allen did not go up to the billiard-room ; he put on a rough coat and took his pipe, and left the house for the inn in the village, where Bob had often said he spent his evenings. He would infinitely rather have sat in the drawing-room, coldly as he might be received there, but they would not have him, and at least he would be welcome at the White Lion. 170 THE PARIAH It was "Whitsuntide, and Nugent Orme had manaj;^ed to get away from chambers for a few days and come down to the Vicarage. It was always a delight to return to the old home, but never before had he come back with this excited anticipation. For was it not as certain as anytliing could be that he would meet the girl whose face had never ceased to trouble hiin for nearly a year now ? Whose personality — good or evil, or, like most personalities, a subtle compound of both — fascinated him so powerfully. He heard much about her from his sister Millicent on the evening of his arrival, as they paced the Vicarage lawn together in the dusk after dinner. Very little diplomacy was required to bring Millicent to enlarge upon the subject. She was full of Miss Chevenmg's praises; her wonderful beauty and the admiration she excited everywhere, her devotion to her sisters, and the sweetness with which she bore home-trials. Nugent was out soon after breakfast the next day — a lovely morning, with a light breeze and small silver clouds scudding across a sky of the deepest blue. He walked along the broad street, past the familiar little shops whose striped awnings were fluttering gaily ; as he neared the infant school, he heard the monotonous rise and fall of rustic voices chanting, ' twice eleven are twentj'-two, twice twelve are twenty-fom-,' with the solemn devotion of persons making a profession of faith. After the roar of London, it seemed verj' peaceful here, where the only person he met was the old I)ostman in his smximer white ducks. At the Seven Stars he turned in to have a talk with ]Mrs. Parkinjear, an old friend of his. ' Ah, I knew the old lady would be the first you'd come to see, Mr. Nugent,' she told him, ' thougli the poor old lady can't see you, and a sad deprivation it is to lose one"s sight. I step out o' nights sometimes and try if I can see the beautiful moon and the bright stars that in their courses roll, but it's all o' no iise — I can't see nothin' ; so here I sit in the sunshine and trj' to be content with the warmth, for we in the morning here, you see, gets it very beautiful, Mr. Nugent, don't us ? And how hev you been getting along, sir ? Ah, we've felt the want of you here, su-, in the place of your early bu'th. That Mr. Fanshawe, he don't keep up the cricket club as you used to, and as to the arthritic sports, why, sir, they tell me m the tug-o'-war as Gorsecombe was pulled right over the line first go off by a team like Tadford ! I sez when I heard of it, '• Ah, they ought to hev had Mr. Nugent there — he'd never ha' bm jiuUed over the line if they tried till now." There's bin changes since last you were here, sir. No doubt you've heard as Mr. Chadwick's married a widow lad}'. It's a sad pity as his son shouldn't behave hunself more suitable ; it looks so bad for a j'oung gentleman to be always about with such as that young Barchard ; and to be seen in the bar of the AVhite Lion every evening almost, with those whose company wouldn't do nobody any good. I'm glad they don't come to my house, and so I am sincerely. Ah, dear ! it's time indeed a friendly word was spoken to him.' A SOJOURN IN COVENTRY 171 Nugent was disappointed at such a report ; he had hoped better things of Allen. However, he expected to find out more in the course of the afternoon, when he was, he knew, to meet the Agra House party at a tennis tournament at Holly Bank. But the chief person in his thoughts just then was certainly not Allen. He had not been at home in time to put down his name as a player, so he was reduced to look on at the toiu'nament. There was a large gathering, for most of the people in the neighboiu'hood had come over. The question of partners had been settled in the morning by di-awing lots, and the results gave as much satisfaction as they ever do on these occasions, young ladies who had been drawn with indifferent players not alwa3's troublmg themselves to feign resignation. Mr. Fanshawe arrived late and breathless, in hybrid costume of black upper garments and white flannel trousers. ' So awfully sorry ! ' he exclaimed to Miss Eddlestone. ' Had a funeral over at Lingmere ; you can fancy how ghastly it was for me, thinking all the time you'd be plaj-ing without me ! ' which caused Mr. Liversedge to litter the prediction that that young man would end his career as a bishop. And so the tom-nament l^roceeded, with the features characteristic of these social com- petitions : the talkative 3'oung lady who explained exactly why she had or had not taken or missed or left each ball ; the humble young man who bungled everything and apologised profusely to a partner who hstened with chilling magnanimity and said it really did not matter ; there was the casual player, the vicious player, the jocular player (represented on this occcasion by Mr. Callembore, who was in great form, enacting an uproarious cockney). ' Another wegetarian ! ' he would j-ell, as a ball disappeared in a flower-bed. 'It's the young lady's turn to 'it the ball. Oh, it's astronomy this time ! ' as the ball soared into the skj-. ' I hate letting these affairs get too stiff,' he remarked later, in self-justification, ' and I do flatter myself that if I am noticing else I am rather a good buffoon.' Nugent had no opportunity as yet of speaking to Margot, who was playing on one of the courts. He had to be contented with watching her as she moved in her pretty cream-tmted tennis costume, and admiring the grace and decision with which she jilaced her balls. She seemed to have got back her old light- heartedness and animation, and to be the girl he had met on the Trouville shore last summer. "Whatever cares she had were sitting lightly on her just now. Her adversaries were Joceline Hotham and young Stannion, the Admiral's son, whose red and white ' blazer ' with the army button showed that he was not long fi-om Sandhm-st. The contest was close, as the sides were nearly equal, though Margot's partner, Fanshawe, was not always to be depended iipon ; she had set her heart on winning, being, perhaps, further incited by the calm manner in which Miss Hotham ignored her existence. For a long time the victory wavered, but at last a skilfully delivered serve of Margot's de-cided game and set in her favour. Then, to her sur- 172 THE PARIAH prise, Miss Hotham showed herself disposed to be gracious, and came to meet her conqueror. ' I've been wondering,' she said, ' whether you ever meant to know me again or not, because, unless I'm mistaken, we were at school together.' ' I thought you had forgotten,' said Margot. ' All, well,' said Joceline, ' I suppose neither of us liked to bathe first. I'm coming over to see you some day, and have a talk over old times. How well you play tennis I I get so little practice at home now, with a brother at Oxford. That's the boring part of having a brother at a University, you know — one never sees him.' ' Doesn't one ? ' said Margot. ' I thought they had vacations and all that.' ' Oh, they do — but then they're always away on reading parties, or " stopping up," as they call it, or visiting, or something. I know I don't see Guy — oh, not once in six months, and then only for a few days ! Here, little i:)ink girl, just run and get me my gloves and sunshade, will you ? My mother has them.' ' I don't know your mother, or your gloves, or your sunshade,' said Lettice, who was deeply offended at this allusion to her frock. ' Oh, I thought everyone about here knew mamma — never mind, I'll go myself,' and Miss Joceline fluttered across, leaving Margot to her reflections. She was not ill-pleased that Miss Hotham's liauteur had turned out to be more or less imaginary, but it was not that which occupied her mind just then. She was thinking still, when she turned and saw Nugent Orme standing before her. CHAPTER VI. MARGOT ASKS ADVICE AND RECEIVES IT. Till then her lovely eyes maintain Their pure, unwavering, deep disdain. Matthew Arnold. ]\Iargot had known beforehand that Nugent Orme would be at Holly Bank that afternoon, and was aware of his presence almost as soon as he appeared on the lawn. For the pleastire it gave her she was less prepared ; she was consciotis of looking her best just then, glad that he should find her holding her own in Gorsecombe society; but that did not entirely account for the happiness she felt when they acttially met. She had forgotten — or had she never really noticed till then ? — the mingled jjower and gentleness of his face, with its smiling grey eyes and square chin ; even in the sound of his voice there was something pleasantly familiar. She was flattered and touched by the satisfaction it was not difficult to read in his expression. They MARGOT ASKS ADVICE AND RECEIVES IT 173 were alone for the moment. Lettice had rmi off, and the general attention was concentrated on an excitmg rally which was in progress on the more distant court. There was a garden-bench in a secluded angle of the shrubbery, and they could talk there without fear of being interrupted. 'And so,' said Margot, as she took her seat with a little sigh of luxurious relief, 'we have turned out to be near neighbours — it seemed unlikely enough at Trouville, didn't it '? Do you know that your sister and I have sworn undying friendship already ? ' ' She was teUing me so last night. I a.m very glad. I hoped you would be friends. And you don't regret Chiswick too bitterly ? ' ' It is no use regretting — though I do sometimes ; you know home never can be quite the same thing now.' ' I know,' he said simply. ' Of course one gets used to most things. I don't want you to think I am complaining, but you can understand it is — well, a little trymg sometimes. I make the best of it. I do indeed.' ' I am sure you do. I have not seen my old pupil, Allen, here this afternoon.' Her lip took its old disdainful curve. ' Allen ? ' she said, raising her eyebrows. ' Oh, no, he would be rather out of his element here ; he prefers very different company. He has no taste for civiUsed society, though that is fortunate, perhaps.' ' I am sorry,' he said slowlj'. ' I had hoped that he would improve under^under better influences.' ' You were always rather an optimist about him. If there are better influences I'm afi^aid he doesn't appreciate them.' She was silent for a while, and sat spreading and shutting her hand in the restless manner he remembered ; then she turned to him suddenly. ' I've been thinking,' she said slowly. ' Wouldn't it be a good thing for him if he went to college ? He is not too old ? ' ' Too old ? No, I have seen grey-headed undergraduates with a wife and family, for that matter — but I am not at all sm'e that AUen would be the better for going to a University.' ' ^Yhy'? ' she said a little shortly. ' I thought you would be sure to agree ! ' ' Well, you see, he's not naturally clever ; he's had next to no education ; he isn't athletic — he might get into a bad set there.' ' It couldn't possibly be worse than the set he has in the village,' she rej^lied ; ' I should have thought even the worse kind of undergraduates would be better for him than village boors who are not gentlemen in any sense of the word. And why should he not make some friends who would do him good — isn't college a place for that ? ' ' There is one objection at the outset,' he said. ' Most colleges, if not all, have an entrance examination — matriculation it is called — before you can join them ; it is not diflicult, to be sure, in most cases, but, simple as it is, I doubt whether he could pass it now.' 174 THE PAEIAH ' If it is simple,' she said, ' he could be coached for it — no on© is too dull to be coached; you are making difficulties, Mr. Orme ! Oh, how I wish I could make you see that it is the best thing for him — he really can't be allowed to go on like this, it is too dreadful to see it ! ' She spoke eagerly, almost passiona,tely, from the desire she felt to escape from the constant burden of her step-brother's presence, which had begun to react upon her nerves. It was not that he was actively aggressive or offensive — he was not even in the house for the greater part of the day ; but stories, often exaggerated, reached her of the habits he had fallen into — of his driving, drinking, and betting with low associates — which increased her original repulsion. ^Vhen he was at home she was troubled by the sight of him sitting, mute for the most part, and unnoticed, excejjt when his father made him the butt of some savage satire. She resented the stolid misery and abasement in his face, and it oppressed her to feel that his eyes were constantly following her movements. She felt him, in short, as an embodied reproach, protesting dumbly against an aversion which she could not and did not wish to overcome. Margot was a little provoked at Orme's opposition ; she had counted upon his assistance to her scheme, which, suggested within the last few minutes by Joceline Hotham's remark, had ah'eady matured until she was firmly convinced of its advantages. Orme naturally saw nothing but the eagerness, which, as he put it down to the best and pvn-est motives, only increased his admira- tion for her ; but he knew Allen too well to beheve that he would gain anything but harm from a University career, and not even Margot's pretty impetuousness could lead him to take her view. ' So you won't speak to my step-father ? ' she said at last, after exhausting her argmnents. ' I know he has a great respect for your opinion.' ' If I spoke I should advise him against it,' he said ; ' it would only end in fresh disappointment. It is so good and kind of you to be so anxious that he should have a chance of doing better, but I can't honestly approve of your plan, and it's better to tell you so at once.' Margot was absently tracing the network of her racket with one supple forefinger ; her eyes had a touch of compmiction in them as she raised them at last. 'You think me better than I am,' she said a little defiantly, in spite of her eyes. ' I don't ]3retend to be a quite unselfish person, Mr. Orme. I still believe Allen would be better at college, but it is not entirely on his own account that I want him to go. It would be such a relief if he were to be away sometimes ! He is only tmcomfortable at home, and he makes us all uncomfortable too. "Well, I must bear it, I suppose, as you are evidently against me. Please don't mention my poor plan to anybody. I want you to promise me that ? ' ' Certainly,' he said, ' There is no necessity to say anything about it now that it is given up.' MARGOT ASKS ADVICE AND DECEIVES IT 175 'Of course not,' she said hastih', and just then their iete-a-tete was broken in upon by Mrs. Eddlestone with the news that Margot was wanted to play off the final set at once, and that Mr. Fanshawe was looking for her everywhere. ' Isn't she a dear ? ' exclaimed Mrs. Eddlestone, as if she quite expected Orme to assent. ' Dottie and Pussie and Fay perfectly rave about her. Such a sweet disposition ! Now do come and be introduced to her mother, she's quite somebody to know.' Orme was led up to Mrs. Chadwick, who was on the lawn, and disposed to be more gracious than on their first acquaintance, for she had observed that the vicar's son was not a person to be snubbed. ' We are having a few friends to dinner to-morrow,' she said in the course of the conversation, ' could you forgi^•e such a very shoi't notice and come too '? "We shall be so delighted to see someone who recalls dear Trouville — do say " Yes," if you possibly can ! ' Oniie said ' Yes ' with some alaci-ity, and the remainder of the afternoon passed without his being able to gain more than a word or two at parting from Miss Chevening. He walked home in a sort of glamour, possessed by the thought of her. In spite of her disclaimer, he believed that there was little of real selfishness in her nature. She was sorry at heart, he felt certain, for that im- happy Allen — anxious for his improvement ; and how submissively she had renounced her plan when he had shown her the objections to it ! Perhaps, after all, he had been wrong in opposing it ; perhaps — but here his speculations were cut short by meeting the subject of them. Allen was certainly altered for the worse ; there was a sullen bravado in his manner ; he avoided meeting Nugent's eyes, and seemed in a hui'ry to escape. Orme was involuntarily repelled for the moment, but pity prevailed ; if the poor fellow was taking to bad com'ses he might still be saved ; there was a look of vmhappiness about him that touched Nugent. ' No,' said Allen, in answer to his question, ' you didn't see me at HoUy Bank, not likely. I keep clear of that kind of start, I do. And another thing, I wasn't asked.' ' Well, look here — come home with me now and have some dinner. I can send up to Agra House and let them know where you are. My people will be delighted.' ' A lot they'll care at home where I am ! ' said Allen ; ' but I won't come, all the same, Orme. I — I promised some chaps I'd look in some time.' ' That's nonsense ! ' said Orme. ' Come, you won't refuse to give me an evening. I shan't let you off.' Allen submitted at last to be carried off to the Vicarage, where MiUicent at least luiderstood her brother's motives, and did her best to make the visitor feel that he was welcome and at home. The dinner passed off rather stiffly at first. Allen was shy and suspicious, and the vicar was lazily and rather condescendingly kind; his wife put on her stateliest airs, and the chief burden of the conversation was borne by the brother and sister, as Allen 176 THE PARIAH could not be induced to utter more than monosj-llables. Bafc gradually he got over his mauvaise honte, and after dinner, when Millicent was taking him round the garden, he showed signs of recognising her efforts to win his confidence. He made her feel uncomfortable indeed at last by his almost abject gratitude. She sought in her embarrassment to interest him in the village concert that was to come off shortly, and even appealed to him for the name of anyone he might know who would be likely to help— an innocent piece of flattery which gave him an unfamihar sense of importance. It was the happiest evening he had passed for some time, and he was pressed at leaving to come again, with a sincerity that sent him away with a feeling that there was at least one place besides the White Lion or the Barchards' abode where he coiJd count upon a friendly reception. Nugent walked up to the house with him, and took the opportunity to ask him if there was any truth in the rumours he had heard. Allen admitted that he had been in the habit of passing his evenings lately in one of the village inns, and even that he had dropi^ed money at betting. ' Only in a small way, Orme,' he said, 'and the guv'nor paj's my allowance regular enough, so I keep right. And the company aro quite respectable — they always treat me like a gentleman. You may say what you like, but I must have some sort of society ! ' ' I'm not going to preach, my dear fellow,' said Orme, 'but you heard what the mother and Millicent said just now. You've alwaj's the Vicarage to come to. Eemember that. I shall see you to-morrow at dinner, if not before — Mrs. Chadwick asked me this afternoon.' ' I suppose I shall be dining too,' said Allen; 'and, Orme, if you get a chance, say a good word for me to — to her. TeU her I'm not such a downright bad chap as she thinks.' ' I don't believe she does think anything of the sort,' said Orme. ' I do know she's distressed by knowing that you are in such indifferent company — let her see you mean to drop it.' ' She don't care much,' said Allen ; ' at least, I wish I was surer she did — but I'll keep steadier, Orme.' And so they parted — Orme to walk back, feeling more hopeful of Allen's future. Allen found the house locked up for the night, and the door was unfastened by his father, who was fuming. ' I'm not going to have my servants kept up late to let you in from whatever pot-house you've giveji the honour of your company to. Another time I'm hanged if I'll sit tip myself — mind that ! ' ' I didn't know it was late,' said Allen. ' I've only been ' ' Don't tell me where you've been ! I want no more lying. I've got my eyes pretty well open by this time. Hold your tongue now, and be off to your bedroom.' Allen obeyed. His father would not believe him if he spoke, and, after all, it did not matter^he was growing accustomed now to being stormed at. When Nugent entered the drawing-room at Agra House tho Mahgot asks advice and receives it 177 next evening he found the other f^uests assembled, mostly people he knew, and the few minntes before dinner were taken up in exchanging greetings and recognitions. He had jnst a careless word and a smile from Margot, and was sent in with one of the latest arrivals, whom he had not met before, an immature young lady whose conversation was restricted to replj'ing 'Yes,' ' No,' and ' Fancy ! ' alternately, with the air of a startled rabbit, which reduced him at last to studying the company. There was old Eear-Admiral Stannion, bluff, outspoken, and kindly, with liis wife; Mv. and Mrs. Calbmbore; j'oung Maltby, the brewer's son ; the leaduig doctor and his wife, and others — not a very formidable gathering in any way, though Chadwick did not seem at ease in his place at the head of the table, it seemed to Nugent. Such efforts as he made to entertain his guests on either hand cliiefly took the form of cross-questioning them on local subjects. ' Now, how far do you call it from where you live to Gorsecombe ? "What distance do you make it from your place to Closeborough ? "Who's got that big place before you come to the cross-roads on Frogley Heath ? How long have they had it ? ' Orme heard him inquiring, without apparently paj'ing much attention to the answers he received. Margot was seated some distance down on the opposite side ; she wore a di-ess of some delicate shimmering material of palest green, against which the full white throat and slender neck seemed fairer still as she inclined her head with her usual air of stately submission to the conversation of her neighbour, a stout little man who was holding forth on the number of milet farms in the district, and the ditticulty of satisfying tenants. Allen, Nugent observed, was absent after all, though no one else took any notice of that circumstance. Only the sight of Margot kept that dinner from being a weari- ness to Nugent, who had to divide himself between the duties of following Mrs. Callembore's limp commonplaces and endeavouring in vain to get the startled-rabbit J'oung lady to depart from her little formula. When the men were left alone, Chadwick moved to the other end, next to the Admiral, who at once began to tackle him on the question of some barbed wire he had put up along his boundaries, wherevipon Chadwick showed symptoms of losing his temper. ' They're all at me about it,' he was saying. ' Hang it all, Admiral, what business is it of anybody's ? Cruel to children and dogs I Let 'em keep out of my land, then — it's mt much to ask. I've had that wire put up, and it shall stay up ! ' ' Well,' said the Admiral, ' all I can tell you is that if you insist on keeping such an abominable invention — an infernal thing that'll kill all sport if it's allowed to spread — you'll make yourself devilish unpopular with the county, that's all.' 'Do you think I don't know,' said Chadwick, who had had N 178 THE I'AraAH quite enough wine, ' that if it wasn't for my wife it would be long enough before I saw the inside of any house but my own '? Popu- larity's her busmess. I mean to manage my own property my own waj', and if anybody don't like it they must do the other thing — no offence to you, Admiral ! ' The Admiral was only restrained by his disgust from very plain speaking indeed, and the proposition to adjourn to the drawing- room came as a relief to all. It was some time before Nugent could find any opportunity of approaching Margot. She was the centre of a small group in the further drawing-room, and he had to exercise patience for some time ; but the people who had some distance to go began to take their leave first, and in the general move that followed he found himself near her. ' Are you going too ? ' she said. ' You have not a long drive before you.' ' I am not going until I have had a few minutes' talk with j'ou —if you will let me.' ' Why, of com'se, there has been no opportunity till now, has there ? Sit down there, it is quite early ! ' He took the seat she indicated, and she sat down on a couch under a lamp, looking at him with unsuspicious and innocent ej^es, which made it difficult for him to begin. ' I wanted to speak to vou,' he said at last, ' about — about Allen.' She made a little piteous grimace. 'Must we really speak about Allen ? ' she said. ' If you only knew how I want to be amused just now ! ' ' I hope what I am going to say will not amuse j-ou. Since we met yesterday, I have seen him, and learnt a good deal about his position in this house. I thought I should have seen him here to-night.' ' I'm sorry you were disappointed. There was no room for him at the table, I suppose, biit I can assm'e you that the conversation did not suffer very much from his absence.' ' Yesterday afternoon you seemed anxious to keep him from bad company — yoii speak indifferently enough now.' ' You would have nothing to say to my plan, and it is hopeless to keep him out of mischief while he is living here. "Why. should I trouble myself with what he does and where he goes ? I wish he could manage to tear himself away from his favourite haunts a little earlier, that is all, and tlien there would not be a scene when he comes in, as there was last night.' ' You tliink he was at his favourite haunts last night ? ' ' He Avas at some horrid place, or he would not have been so late.' ' I hope you don't consider the Vicarage comes under that description, because that is where he really was — I walked up with htm to the gates.' MARGOT ASKS ADVICE AND RECEIVES IT 179 ' Oh ! ' said Margot. ' Then I suppose I ought to apologise. How noble of yon to liave him ! ' 'From wliat he Paid, I'm afraid he is not mnch encouraged to spend his evenings at liome.' ' ^Yell, no ; but it is (piite his own fault. His father would not have forl)idden him to come into tlie drawing-room if he liad not behaved roughly to my little sister Lettice, though he was thoroughly disgusted with him long before that. And, as for Allen, I really think he is happier left to his own devices. He does not care to be with us — in fact, I almost believe he dislikes us all for being here, as if we could help it ! ' ' You are mistaken,' said Orme earnestly ; ' you are indeed — you would not say so if you had any idea how deeply he feels being practically excluded and kept at a distance.' ' I so much prefer hun at a distance.' ' And, provided that he is kept out of .your way, you are careless what pain it may cause him, what temptations ho may be exposed to ? Miss Chevening, you do not really mean that ? ' 'I don't want him to be pained or tempted,' she said uneasilj'^; ' but how can I helj? it ? ' ' Surely you could interfere if you would ? You could use yoiu* influence to have him re-admitted to this room, you could show him a little encom-agement, a little sympathy, now and then ? If he is cut off from any real association witJa hoine life, can you wonder if he is driven to find amusement when he can, or if he loses all self-respect and grows reckless ? Things are not very bad as yet : a very little sacrifice of your private prejudices will save him — and j'ou will not even make an effort ! ' She was listening with lowered eyes, her chin resting in her l^alm, a certain lingering rebelliousness (for, as we laiow. Miss Chevening was not inclined to be very submissive while her faults were being pointed out) in the corners of her mouth. She made no answer. ' I have offended you ? ' he said. ' I dare say j'ou think I have no business to say all this. Perhaps I am only boring you. I can't help it — one must be a bore sometimes when one is in earnest about a thing. I'm in earnest now. I want this poor fellow to have a fair chance of keeping straight in futm'e. Think whatever yon choose about me, only try to make things easier for him— j'ou will never rcgi'et it ! ' She shot a swift glance under lier lashes at him as he sat there, forgetftil of everything just then but the cause he was pleading; she was not angi'y, only troubled now by a dim sense of the mastery which, evidently without suspecting it, he was beginning to exert over her will. She disliked Allen as deeply as ever, she did not wish him to frequent the di'awing-room as before; she felt little real sympathy for him — but she was anxious to make even this sacrifice rather than lose Nugent's good opinion. ' I don't think you are a bore at all,' she said. 'I think you 180 THE PARIAIl make a good advocate. And — and I will try to treat liim dif- ferently. I will speak to mother about it — does that make you any happier ? ' * Much,' he said, his face brightening. ' You will be better than youi- word, I am sm-e.' ' Don't be too sure I ' she said gi-avely. ' My good fits never last very long. But 1 ain sorry if I have been imjust to him. I will try to be kinder, only I don't think you at all know what an effort it will be ! ' ' So long as yoii make it I ' he said as he rose. * And — you do forgive mo for speaking like this ? ' he added. ' I felt I must.' ' Not for the first time ! ' she said, smiling ; ' but I forgive you. I don't like being scolded, but I suppose I deserve it — you see what a state of meekness you have reduced me to ! ' 'I knew she was not really hard-hearted,' he was thinking as he went away that evening. ' She feels more than she cares to show. I made no mistake in appealing to her. How lovely she looked imder that lamp ! It's just as well I have only a few daj-s to be here, or else — pshaw I What is the use of being a humbug about it — I am in love with her, have been ever since I met her first, but I might as well cry for the moon. Long before I have made money enough to think of telling her, she will have married some fellow in the coimty. Not that she would be likely to care for me in any case. Well, I've done Allen a good tiu'n at any rate ! ' CHAPTER VII. CARELESS CLEMENCY. She 18 too kind to be cruel, and too liaiiglity not to pardon Such a man as I — 'twere something to be level to her hate. Lady Geraldine's Courtship, After having invited Nugent Orme to dinner, Mrs. Chadwick had made the discovery that it would ' quite put out her table ' if Allen were to be one of the party, and to conciliate this fastidious piece of furniture he was given to understand that he was expected to absent himself. So, while the dinner party was in progi-ess, he had his dinner brought in to him in the study by Susan, more ostentatiously sympathetic than ever, and ate it alone, to the sound of distant laughter and talk from the dining-room. But, to tell the truth, he was far from thinking this a hardship — he hated dinner parties, never knowing either what to talk about or how to eat at them, and now there was the fresh terror that his father might attack him publicly and expose him to general derision. • I made Masterman give me some champagne for you, Mr, CARELESS CLEMENCY 181 Allen,' said Susan ; ' all he could spare, and he didn't let me have ihat without a grumble. I do call it a shame and a scandal, if I was to lose my place the next minute — you to be sent out to dine alone, as if you wasn't good enough for the rest of them ! ' ' I don't care, Susan. I'd rather eat here than witli all those people, for that matter. I don't have to think every minute how I'm behaving.' ' Ah,' said Susan, ' you're one of the soft-shelled kind — you let yourself be put upon, so it's no wonder you're took advantage of. But before I'd see myself stood aside to please that high and mighty Miss Margot ' ' She had nothing to do with it, so you're mistaken there, Susan I ' ' P'raps I don't know what I'm talking about, but it so happens that I do. She's as artful as a cockatress, for all her big, innocent eyes, and her face as she thinks so pretty. You'd ha' bin back in the droring-room long ago if it hadn't been for her — it's her as don't think you fit to enter her gracious comp'ny, so make no mistake ! ' After Susan had gone, Allen sat pondering — was it true ? He coiildn't believe it, and yet, if it should be ! He had clung so long to the hope that, in a way, she was not ill-disposed towards him, that in time they would become friends— what if he had to contend with a concealed, deep-rooted dislike that nothing he could do would ever soften ? For the moment he felt inclined to give up all his good resolutions, to go out and seek the only solace open to him, but the thought of Millicent and the Vicarage prevailed. He would stay quietly at home that evening, and give no handle for fresh complamt. So he lit his pipe and, finding a volume of an illustrated weekly paper, he turned over the pages until he gradually dropped off to sleep. He opened his eyes to find Margot standing before him in the radius of the lamplight, and stared stupidly at first, under the im- pression he was dreaming still, such a resplendent and visionary being did she seem just then in her dainty evening frock. She had to conquer a rising disgust ; his appearance just then, in his old tweed coat and dishevelled drowsiness, was not inviting ; the dinner had not been removed, and the room was heavy with the fumes of food and stale tobacco, which offended her senses — • she drew her own conclusions from the empty champagne bottle on the traj'. ' This is the interesting penitent Mr. Orme is so anxious I should help ! ' she thought to herself, with a bitter little smile. All this gave a little severity to her tone when she spoke. ' Allen, do you know that it is quite late ? All the people have gone.' ' Have they ? ' he said ; he was awake now, and Susan's words had returned to him. ' Well, Margot, I've kept out of their way, and yours — j'ou ought to be satisfied 1 ' She saw that his brain was clear enough, and spoke uaore 182 THE PARIAH gently. ' Have I ever said that I wished you to keep oiit of my way ? It was about that very thing that I came to find you. I have been speakmg to your father just now, and he saj's he never meant to banish you from the drawing-room altogether, and — and mother hopes j^ou will come in every evening as yoii used to do.' ' Margot,' he said huskilj', ' you've done all this for me — and when Id been fancying — oh, I'll never forget this, ask me to do anything for you — I don't care what, and I'll do it, I will ! I'm not an ungi'ateful chap ! ' He tried to seize the pendent hand which was near him, but she drew back instinctively. ' Ask you to do something ? ' she said lightly, ' well, then, I ask you not to sit up any longer just now.' He went to his room with a heart swelling with adoring grati- tude. Never again would he believe Susan's insinuations ; so far from hating him and wishing to keep him away, Margot had actually condescended to intercede for him, to get him permission to be more often in her scciet}^ ! How could he ever do enough for her ? On the following Sunday Orme met Margot in the churchyard after service and walked home bj^ her side. ' Allen has told me hoAv good you have been,' he said. ' It was lil^e you ! ' The evident ajiproval and admiration in his face gave her a thrill of pleasure ; she liked him to believe in her in this waj-, it almost reconciled her to Allen. ' Yoii seem to forget,' she said, ' that it was your own sugges- tion.' ' You were the only person able to carry it out, and now, thanks to you, he is put on his feet again. I don't think you will ever regret what you did.' ' Oh, bi;t I do,' she said with her light laugh. ' Don't look dis- gusted ; I only meant that effusive gi-atitude is rather a bore. I never was meant to be a patron saint, and it makes me feel so very absm'd.' ' You take a delight in pretending to have no sympathy,' he said. ' I know you better now.' ' Do you ■? ' she replied a little sadly. ' Ah, I wish I knew myself!' Nugent, in the course of a second visit to Agra House, was able to see that Allen's position in the family was very much improved already. M^irgot's example had had its influence even on Chad- wick. There waa a spice of mockery, perhaps, in her complaisant acceptance of Allen's crude attempts to join in the conversation, but it was not ill-natured, and on several occasions he noticed that she interposed on his behalf —it touched him to see the evident gratitude Allen felt for her protection, and the increase it made in his self-respect. He was more convinced than ever of the sweetness and goodness that i;nderlay Miss C'hevening's surface pride and waywardness. CARELESS CLEMENCY 183 And Mni-f^ot was ti-ying hard to conquer her deep-seated prejudices, though, perhaps without her knowledge, she was im- pelled by Orme's presence to conform for the time to the ideal she knew he had of her, as we sometimes unconsciously do when in the company of those who, as we may be aware, take us to be better or worse than we really are. So Allen had no excuse and no desire now for epending his evenmgs in Barchard's society ; he was often at the Vicarage, where he had a firm friend in Millicent, who employed him, to his delight, in helping in the preparations for the village concert now close at hand. He came over on the morning of the day to inform her complacently that he had engaged a friend of his at Closeboroixgh to come over and sing — a rattling clever chap — and Allen himself would accompany- him on the banjo. Millicent did not like to decline this offer, for fear of hurting his feelings, as he was evi- dently much in earnest about it. ' I've told the schoolmaster ' (who was in charge of the entertainment), 'and he says it'll be all right; and I say, Miss Orme, don't tell Margot, she don't know I can play the banjo, and I want to surprise her, you see ? ' Privately, Millicent doubted whether this accomplishment would excite any raptm'ous amount of astonishment in Miss Chevening, but she was glad to see this young man interested in anything, and was too kindly in nature to discourage him. The Ormes were popular in the neighbourhood, which caused a number of people to drive in for the concert who woiald much rather have stayed away. There were others who grumbled at having to dine early, and others still who, professing to think the whole affair a horrid bore, looked forward to it secretly as a social event. At this time of the year life in the country, especially for those who are pining for the London season, is not so full of incident as to prevent even a village concert from being a dissipation in its way, and the pretty Gorsecombe school-rooms were crowded that evening with an audience, afterwards described by the Pinesliirc Tclcgrapli, with an emphasis intended to be complimentary, as ' one to which, iu point both of brilliancy and fashion, we can recall none inferior.' In the front seats were ' the gentry ' : Sir Everard and Lady Adela — he in a grumpy condition fi'om his early dinner and drive, she with a set determination on her face to be pleased with every- thing beforehand; Miss Hotham, exchanging little handshakes over backs of chairs and across benches, and peering about through a pair of ej^e-glasses she put up from time to time ; the old Admiral and his party ; Liversedge, rendered more caustic than usual by dj^speptic conditions ; the Eddlestones, the Chadwicks, and, in short, le tout Gorsecombe, as a young man who had spent his last Easter in Paris remai-ked at the time. Behind came the farmers, the local miller, the chemist, and representatives of village trado generally ; then the cottagers and the laboiirers ; and at the ex- treme back, on raised seats, pot-hatted, red-faced, brilliant in green and orange neckties, and emphatic in the matter of boots, tho 184 THE PARIAH hobble-de-hoydom of that village and one or two adjoining it had assembled. In sj^ite of the mottoes and decorations, the interior had the severity, partly scholastic, partly ecclesiastical, character- istic of such places, with the drab walls, the educational diagrams, the black, glistening squares of the windows. The atmosphere was somewhat strongly agi-icultiu'al, though dominated by the paraffin lamps. The programme was as varied as usual. The choir children huddled together on the platform with wondering round eyes, and sang nursery quadrilles under Millicent's direction. Then the village butcher roared a bass song in praise of cricket, with no discoverable tune in it, after which Miss Pussie Eddlestone recited ' Maud Muller ' as young ladies generally do recite this favourite piece — that is, with a lingermg tenderness on all the least important words. The amount of pathos she threw into the ' small tin cup ' was remarkable as an instance of misdirected energy, and she did considerably more than justice to the ' innocent surprise ' of Miss Muller's eyes. As a second piece, she gave a piece of anonymous American sentiment called ' Pappa's Letter,' and the more impres- sionable part of Gorsecombe wept profusely over the little boy whose mother pasted a stamp in sport amid the waves of golden light on her little boy's forehead, and who was run over by a waggon and killed in consequence. ' She has so much feeling ! ' Mrs. Eddlestone whispered, beaming with complacency. ' Dear Pussie, she will be dreadfully knocked up to-morrow ! ' As a cor- rective there came a comic conjuring entertainment by Mr. Cal- lembore, and after that Mr. Fanshawe sang a Bedouin love-song, the effect of which was a little marred by his accompanist handing him between the verses one of the candles from the piano to be re -lighted. The poor curate, too iliu-ried to understand this, stood clasping the candlestick throughout the next verse, thereby destroying much of the effect of its passionate refrain — Till the stars grow o-old ! And the moon is co-old ! However, Gorsecombe saw nothing ridiculous about it, so it was of no consequence. Then Margot's tm-n came ; she had chosen the pretty old ballad of ' Barbara Allen.' Her clear sweet voice made every line tell. She might have been Barbara herself, care- less, perverse, incredulous, as she came to the scene by the death- bed, with such brilliant heartlessness did the cruel little speeches fall from her lips. One at least of her hearers felt a strange pain as he listened, as if it were real, and he compelled to witness her cruelty. For the moment, as she stood there in her proud young beauty, her face partly in shadow, and the light from the rather smoky little metal lamps behind falling softly on the outline of her dusky crown, Nugent Orme was wondering if this strangely be- witching girl belied her real nature as much as he had tried to believe. But she sang the last verses with a tenderness that re- CARELESS CLEMENCY 185 assured him, that for the rest of the aiidience turned the current of sympathy back again to remorseful Barbara dying of her tardily awakened passion. There was a little hush as her voice died away at the end, and then came a storm of applause. She had to sing again before she could return to her seat at her mother's side, and soon a little folded paper was passed to her. It was from Joceline Hothani. * Don't run away before the end,' she read, * Mamma is so anxious to know you. How delightfully you sing ! ' Mrs. Chadwick read the note too, and with an elation she foimd it hard to repress. The Hotliams were the people she had most desired to know, the only people who had taken no notice of her. Lady Adela was evidently attracted by Margot ; this introduction could hardly fail to lead to an acquaintance sooner or later. With Hawleigh Com-t open to her, Mrs. Chadwick felt that she could more easily bear all that she found disagreeable in her home life. She handed the note back 'J,o her daughter. ' I've no doubt we shall meet them as we come out,' she said, with a voice that tried to be unconcerned. The entertainment proceeded with a reading by a literary young carpenter, who selected the chapter on the condemned cell from ' Sketches by Boz,' a work which he had recently discovered at the Book Club. He read with much power, dwelling with harrowing force upon the ' h ' in each hour that remained to the unhappy convict. Then the schoolmaster, who conducted the proceedings, announced ' A comic song by Mr. Bilkins, accompanied by Mr. Allen Chadwick — }tot on the programme.' Mrs. Chadwick glanced interrogatively at Margot, who returned the look by one of ainused disclaimer. But amusement tiu'ned to dismay when Allen and his friend appeared on the platform arrayed in the costume of what used to be known as ' Ethiopian serenaders.' Poor Allen sneaked in, looking miserable under his lamp-black, and began to try the strings of his banjo with hot, limp fingers, evi- dently unaware that it was out of tune. ]\Ir. Bilkins was a rather rowdy young solicitor's clerk from Closeborough, whose acquaint- ance Allen had made at the bar of the ' Cro vn ' in that city ; he swaggered on with perfect ease, and began a dialogue in the dialect of the stage nigger with Allen, who supported him very indifferently'. The dialogue and the little mannerisms in which Bilkms indulged were by no means in the best taste, and a kind of shiver began to run through the fi'ont benches before many sentences were ex- changed. Tlie fact was that Bilkins had been stimulated bj- Bob Barchard (who was actuated partly by love of mischief and partly by finding Allen less disposed for his society) ■' not to mind the swells and make it as lively as he could.' Allen's own part was confined to thrumming a simple accompaniment and walking round his chair between the verses, and, though his own taste was none of the most refined, he was struck himself by the unsuitability of some of the verses to that audience — they had never sounded quite so vulgar before. He felt more and more uncomfortable, ia 186 THE PARIAH spite of the frantic applause from the back benches, but he could not back out of it now. It -was fortunate for him that he could see no one m the audience at all distinctly, or the kind of scandaUsed bristle observable in some quarters would not have rendered him more at his ease. Chadwick alone in the fr-ont seats was amused by the performance; he was delighted, even with Allen. 'He's really not bad,' he chuckled to his wife, ' not bad at all. I never thought the fellow had it in him.' Mrs. Chadwick made no reply — she was too angi-y. That her husband should actually be blind to the enormity of this last outrage was only a fresh proof, if that were needed, of the disparity between them. Margot accepted the exhibition with resigned contempt, she tried to feel that she was not involved in it personally; what was it to her if this wretched boy chose to make a fool of himself publicly ? The poor vicar was, after all, the greatest sufferer ; a lazy, shy, and kind-hearted man, he did not like to stop the performance imless it became absolutely necessary, and so he sat fidgeting nervously until it was over, and a repetition was being demanded vociferously from the rear. Then he could stand no more, and rose, holding up his hand for silence. ' I think,' he said, ' as oiu- progi-amme is already long, it had better not be interrupted by — by anything that this is hardly a fitting place for. I don't wish to say more, if I am imderstood.' ' Set o' muffs ! ' said Bilkins in the retiring-room. ' Why, I had the patter straight fr-om the original nigger who came down to the ' Accordion ' starring, and, as for the song, yoi; could sing it to a Sunday-school almost. Well, we made 'em sit up, old fellow ! ' ' I 'wish I'd known you were going to sing that one,' said Allen gloomily', ' I could have told you they wouldn't see the jokes in it.' ' It will not be very pleasant,' Margot was saying at the same time to her mother, 'to have to go up and speak to Lady Adela — after this ! ' Mrs. Chadwick glanced towards the seats occupied by the Hotham party— they were empty. ' You are. spared the ordeal, my dear,' she said, and her face showed how difhcidt she found it to control her rage and disappointment. ' As I expected, the refined humour of that last performance has been too much for them.' As Nugent said good-bye to Margot, for he was going up to chambers the next morning, she remarked, ' I suppose even you were surprised at my gifted step-brother's triiunph this evening- are you not going to congi-atulate us ? ' ' I can't think what possessed him,' he replied with a disgust he could not hide; 'it was a silly, vulgar business. I wish I had known of it beforehand.' ' He is a pleasant person,' she said gi-avely, ' so full of hidden talents ; this evening quite repays me for trying to be good-natured, does it not ? Ought I not to feel encouraged to persevere ? ' Orme felt rather foolish, and chafed under it. ' I won't say anything — I can't,' he said ; ' only I am sorry for him and — and others. Good-bye, Miss Chevening.' CARELESS CLEMENCY 187 Margofc was driving with her mother two or three daj-s after the concert, and the conversation fell, as it often did now, on the intolerable gene of Allen's presence in the drawing-room night after night. ' I don't want to reproach yon, sweetest,' said Mrs. Chad- wick, ' but I qiiite counted upon having our evenings at least free from him, and suddenlj', for no conceivable reason that I can see, you pleaded for him to come back again. I couldn't oppose it very well, but it was a mistake.' ' It was, dear,' said Margot wearily ; ' I admit it. I will never do a disinterested thing again. Oh, that concert ! ' ' Don't talk of it. I should not be surprised — no, I should not — if people were to suppose ivc were in the secret of that terrible performance of those two creatures ! ' ' He actually proposed to bring Mr. Billiins up and introduce him, burnt cork and all, at the end,' said Margot. ' I told him that I might astonish ]Mr. Bilkins if he dared to do anythmg of the kind. But surel.y people will not make us accountable for Allen's behavioiu' '? ' ' You saw how the Hothams behaved ; depend upon it, this will go all over the coimty ; no one will spoil the story by being too precise about his relationship to us ; we shall be fortunate if we are not represented as dancing a family breakdown with blackened faces ! And as long as he lives here we shall be in constant dread of being disgraced and hmniliated fi'om time to time. How can we expect people to keep up any relations with us ? We shall be cut, I know we shall bo cut before very long ! If his father could only have been induced to send him out just for a year or two, to gain experience on that plantation of his in Bengal, ivhat a good thing it would have been ! ' ' But can't he ? ' ' I did suggest it. I am sure, for Allen's sake, it would be so wise, but 3'our step-father wouldn't hear of it ; he means to sell the plantation, or "concern," as he calls it, as soon as he can; he doesn't care about Allen being a planter, he saj-s. I saw it was useless.' ' Would he send him to college, mother ? That would be better than nothmg.' Margot recalled, as she spoke, Nugent's strong disapproval of such a course ; she knew that she had allowed him to think her convinced by his arguments. But her patience was at an end. Nugent might be mistaken ; he had almost acknow- ledged as much ; he could not blame her now for suggesting a plan which most people would consider an admirable arrangement for all concerned. Not that she intended to take any prominent part in the affair ; she might leave that to others. ' If your step-father does not mind the expense, that really might be managed. I'm afraid he would not listen to me, though. r must take the vicar into our confidence and coax him to suggest it; it will come so much better fi'om him.' And, on the lirst opportunity, Mrs. Chadwick consulted the Rev. 188 THE TAniAn Cyprian Orme on the pain it gave her to see her step-son so iinlike other young men. It was not long before the vicar, much to his own surprise, found that he had hit upon the sovereign remedy. ' A University ! ' Mrs, Chadwick had never thought of that. ^Vhy, it was the verj' thing; how very, ver^- clever of dear Mr. Orme! How she wished she had asked his advice earlier ! And would he speak to her husband about it ? He would — how could she thank him ! The good-hiimom"ed, easy-going vicar assented readily enough ; he thought that if anything could put a little polish on that highly objectionable young man, a course of University life was the most likely to succeed. He was a University man himself, as was his son, and had a strong belief in the value of the training. He was agreeably surprised by Mrs. Chadwick's interest in her step-son ; he thought her a very charming and warm-hearted woman. "Whether Allen was a fit person to succeed or even hold his own in college society, he did not trouble himself to reflect ; in fact, he was soon enamoured of an idea which he was already firmly persuaded was his own. When he broached the subject to Chadwick, he found him not indisposed to consider it, for Mrs. Chadwick had carefully paved the way beforehand. Chadwick was rather attracted by the idea of sending his son to a University ; it went some way to soothe him for past disappointment. ' I thought they had to be sent up young '? ' he said. ' Alien's not far off his twentj'-second birthday ; but, if you say it can be managed, why, it might be worth thinking about. How am I to set about it ? Can they take him now, and when had he better go ? ' This was a point that the ^ icar declared himself less competent to decide; his own college, Balliol, was unsuitable for obvious reasons. Allen must, he thought, go somewhere where the stan- dard of admission was less exacting. He had lost touch with his Alma Mater of late, and knew little of the present regulations at other colleges. ' I teU you what,' he said, ' I'll get Fanshawe to find out for yotx ; he's not long from Cambridge, and he's siure to know all about it — yes, I'll speak to Fanshawe.' Having spoken to his curate and transferred the whole respou- sibility to him, the vicar dismissed the affair from his mind with a good conscience. Fanshawe warmly recommended his own college. It was small and snug, and stood high in pubFic estimation ; he took the oppor- tunity of mentioning some titled and distinguished members, all, it appeared, personal friends of his own, who were up with him. He undertook to make all necessary inquiries at once. ' As for entrance,' he said, ' it isn't much of an exam. They don't make a l)oint of your being a classical or mathematical swell. Of course, if your son has got a trifle rusty in his subjects, he might read up for them between this and October. I know a man who would read with him — ripping clever fellow he W'as — he'll take care your Bon gets through.' CAREtESS CLEMENCY 189 Chadwick by this time was bent on making an nndergraduate of Allen. He was necessarily dependent on the advice of these who were better acquainted than he with college formalities. The preliminaries were arranged by Fanshawe, who also, with some natural satisfaction at benig able to do an old friend a good turn inexpensively, communicated with a Mr. Melladew, a man of his own year and college. Mr. Melladew, having no better engagement just then, readily accepted the post of resident coach to Allen Chadwick, who saw all these arrangements made for him with bewilderment, and yet a secret expansion. If he really were to go to Cambridge to be a member of an ancient college, like Nugent, would not Margot think more of him when he came back '? He was not clever, he knew, but he might succeed at Cambridge ;• was not Cambridge mathe- matical, and had he not always had a turn for arithmetic ? Buoyed up by hopes of this vague kind, he reh-ained from raising objections, to which, indeed, his father would have been in no mood to listen with patience. CHAPTER VIII. PPaVATE TUITION. Les pevsonnes faiblea ne peuvent etre sinceres. — La Mochefoucauld. ' Hennie,' sa/id Ida suddenly, a day or two after the an-ival of the new tutor, ' will Mr. Melladew stay here long, do you think ? ' She and INIiss Henderson were alone in the schoolroom together, and Ida was supposed to be occupied in translating Moliere. ' I'm sure I can't tell you,' said the governess. ' We have been at least an hoiu* over this one scene, Ida ! ' 'It is such nonsense!' declared Ida ; 'now isn't it, Hennie? Listen to this : " The Mui:ihti " (chanting and dancing) " Ha la ba, ba la chou, ba la ba, ba la da ! " I do think the " Bourgeois Gentil- homme " is the silliest rubbish ! ' ' I should not say it was silly, exactlj-,' pronounced the gover- ness, with the enlightenment of a superior mind ; ' it is certainly peculiar in parts, but we must alwaj's remember, Ida, that popular taste was very different in those days. Every properly-educated girl is expected to have read at least one comedy of Moliere's ! ' ' If such stuff as this is education ! ' said Ida, disgustedlj'. ' But don't let's begin ha-la-ba-ing again just yet, Hennie ; we've lots of time. I'm in a talking humour this afternoon. \Yeren't you saying something about Mr. Melladew ? I think he's awfully nice, Hennie, don't you ? ' ' He seems to have agreeable manners,' said the governess. ' I wonder what his history is,' pursued Ida, resting her chin 190 THE I'AKIAH coiufortably ou her folded hands ; I'm sure he has one. His eyes have such a monrnfnl look in them sometimes. Perhaps he has lost all his mone}-, Ilennie, and has had to come down to teaching ? ' 'I am sorry yon seem to consider teachini^ snch a degrading occupation.' 'Teacliing tliat horrid Allen is — yon poor dear sensitive iTennie. Did j'ou really think I meant anything else ? How Mr. Melladew must hate it ! He looked so tired when he came into the di'awing- room last night ; did j'ou notice how white his hands are ? I like that lazy way he has, as if it was not worth while to take much trouble aboiit anything. He was talking to you quite a long time ; did he tell you much ? ' 'Eeally, my dear child, you are very cm-ious to-day — what should he tell me ? ' ' I mean, did he seem to think he should like being here ? ' ' It is rather early for him to form any opinion, and he could hardly tell me in any case.' ' No,' said Ida. ' I dare say he has made up his mind not to stop already, though. Did he say anything about — about any of us — about me ? ' ' Good heavens ! no. How coiild he ? ' 'He must have thought me a perfect idiot. I said such stupid things when he spoke to me — he made me feel so shy, Hennie. Oh, well, I am going on with this old Molly.' And Ida began to translate monotonoiisly — ' " The Mupliti comes back, covered tvith liis turban of ceremony, which is of an unmcasurable grossness — size, then— a?ifZ garnished with candles lighted in four or five ranhs " — What r-o-t it all is. Fancj^ candles in a turban ! Sup- pose Mr. Melladew were to fall desperately in love with — with Margot ? ' ' Or with you ? ' suggested Miss Henderson ; ' it is quite as likely ! ' ' With me ! ' said Ida. ' Why, I'm only a school-girl to him, Hennie ; he won't take any notice of me. I shoiild look quite gi'own-ui), though, if I only had mj' hair done up like Margot's, instead of this stupid i^igtail.' And Ida went to the glass and began to unplait her hair and to twist it up in imitation of Margot's. ' See, Hennie, no one would think me a school-girl if he saw me like this- -oh, couldn't you get mother to let me keep it up? It's ever so much more becoining, isn't it now ? ' Vain child ! ' said INIiss Henderson, her light-lashed eyes scru- tinising Ida's pretty self-conscious face with a growing interest. ' Do you know that I shall really begin to suspect ' Ida was upon her in a moment, stopping her mouth with kisses. ' You absurd old Hennie — as if I should be such a goose I W^hy, of course, I know that's all ridiculous. I should like to know how it feels to have somebody madly in love with one. Isn't it rather amitsing— no, not that— romantic, Hennie ? ' PRIVATE TUITION 11)1 'I cau"t give any opinion, really,' was tlie reply, delivered with luuch primness. ' How proper we are ! ' langhod Ida. ' As if we liavon'l talked it over ever so often. "SVhj', you told me yourself you were engaged once, and Lroke it off.' ' Did I ■? You pee even a poor little go\erness has moments wlien she longs for some sympathy. I have known wliat it is to ho loved, Ida, but that is all over now. My heart,' declared Miss Henderson with a sentimental little sigh, ' is a waste ; love will never bloom there for me agam ! ' ' You poor darling ! But tell me all abont it ; you never have, you know. ^Yhat was he called ? "\Yas he handsome, was he very inirch in love ? He must have been — you are so pretty, though you are twentj'-three ! ' ' You remind me,' said Miss Henderson, ' that, whatever my age is, you at least are too young to understand or to be told about these things.' ' AVhy, Hennie,' exclaimed Ida, looking aggrieved, ' I'm seven- teen, and — and I'm sure we've talked about being in love often enough for me to x;nderstand — you are unkind to me to-day ! ' But although Miss Henderson did not insist upon confining the conversation to Moliere, nor even discoiu-age a vein of sentiment ■which both were pretty well accustomed to pursue, she was not to be drawn into particulars. AYhile governess and pupil were speculating on love in the abstract, varied, as conscience pricked them fi'om time to time, by spasmodic returns to the classical French comedy, which thej^ were less fitted to appreciate, Mr. Melladew was strolling leisurely down the village on his way to his fi'iend Fanshawe's lodgings. Adrian Melladew was the kind of young man who might natu- rally be expected to excite at least a flutter of interest in a romantic school-girl. He was about twenty-four, tall and slim, with dark ej'es which he knew how to make expressive, and a mouth that, well- shaped as it was, was not remarkable for firmness. He wore liis hair rather long and joarted in the middle. He had a pleasant voice and a languid, rather negligent manner. At Cambridge he had played heroines at the A. D. 0. with signal success. He had not distinguished himself in any other way, affecting a certain gentle contempt for men who found amusement in violent exercise, and contenting himself with a low second class in the History Tripos. He was popular with the men of his set, played and sang a little, collected blue china, and entertamed at his afternoon teas as well as any London hostess. After leavmg Cambridge, he had gone up for the Home Civil Service and been appointed to a not over- remunerated post in the Revenue Department, eking out his salary by taking pupils. The monotony and hopelessness of the office had proved too much for him at last ; he had thrown up his appoint- ment in despair, and lived as he could by editing school-books, and acting as deputy lecturer for a friend at a ladies' college. The 192 TliD PARIAH friend had returned, and, his engagement terminated, Mellade\^ had written to Fanshawe to ask if he knew of anytliing that would suit him, and this the curate had borno in mind when appealed to by his vicar. Melladew found oiit the cui'ate's abode, which was in lodgings in one of the little red-brick, semi-detached villas that even Gorse- combe had not escaped fi'om enth'elj'. There were iron raihngs in front, and a rheumatic rustic porch, with a bed of scarlet geraniums, calceolaria, and lobelia neatly enclosed with flints befoi'e the little bay-window. He discovered the curate stretched on a sofa with a novel, in a room whose decorative shortcomings were disguised as much as possible by sitndry articles that belonged to his undergraduate exist- ence — the well-known photographic groups, with the college arms and names of members emblazoned below, carved work, shields, and so on. The shabby little sham-marble mantelpiece was di'aped Avitli embroidered cloth, and college pewters stood on brackets here and there. Altogether the effect was not unlike the cheaper sort of out-college lodgings. ' I could fancy we were back in dear old Cambridge again,' murmured Melladew, as his eye wandered round the room. ' I never expected, though, when we both put on white ties to take our degrees in, that yours would become chronic. You were more coloured than plain in those days, my dear Fanshawe.' ' Had to be a curate, or starve,' was the nonchalant answer. 'Felt rather out of it at first. Never forget my first meeting with old Liversedge. I was crossing his land, and, seeing him, I thought it best to apologise. " Don't apologise," he said, lookmg like some sort of old goat, "I'm one of yoiu- lambs, you know! " I felt a fearfitl fool. But I'm getting itsed to it now. Thej^'re beginning to see I can sink the parson. And my vicar's a good sort. Now let's hear how you're getting on with these new people.' Melladew looked slightly troubled as he passed his hand through his hair : ' Why, that's rather A\hat I came to talk to j'ou about. I'm afi'aid it won't do. I mitst give it up.' ' Why ? You knew what you were letting yourself in for. I told you your pup was rather a bounder, and old Chadwick quite the bear — now didn't I ? ' 'He is a bear, and the boy's a cub,' said Melladew. 'I can't drive anything into his tliick head. He's forgotten all he ever knew, except simple arithmetic, and I'm supposed to teach him algebra, and Latin prose and Greek, and trigonometry, all between tliis and October — it's hopeless, and I'd better tell them so and go.' ' liindles, my dear fellow ! ' was the ciu'ate's inelegant comment. 'Sheer bindles.' If he can't learn, that's his affair— all the less work for you ! Whj' shotild you tlu'ow away a chance like this ? You won't get such a fee everywhere. Don't teU me you're going to do 9,nythang so idiotic ! ' TRIVATE TUITION 103 ' There's another reason,' confessed Melladew. ' Personally I should rather like to stay. Mrs. Chadwick's very civil, and the daughters, as far as I have seen, pretty and agreeable and all that ' ' Then, if j'ou'd rather like to stay, what's the objection ? Hang me if I can see it ! ' ' Well,' he said rehictantly, ' did I ever tell j'ou that I was once engaged ? It was in my last vac, three years ago now, and there was a girl who vised to come and teach my young sister the piano, and I saw a good deal of her, and we corresj^onded and so on, and I suppose we considered ourselves engaged. Then my people found it out — that was after I came down, and they didn't take to her at all. So the governor put his foot down, and said if I married without his consent he wouldn't give mc a penny.' ' A penny would not have gone far,' interjected the curate. ' He had the pull over me, because I owed a lot up at Cambridge. I owe some of it still, and I meant to get him to pay the more pressing fellows. What was I to do, 3'ou know ? I couldn't marry then, anyhow, so I wrote and broke it olf, putting it as gently as I could, and heard no more of it.' ' Well out of it, I should say ; but I don't see how ' ' Of course you don't till I come to it. Well, my dear Fan- shawe, this gu'l is the governess to the younger Chevening girls.' ' Whew ! That's awkward. "What did she do when you met ■? ' ' She didn't do mvich ; she was prepared for it. We met as strangers, but I can see that she hasn't forgotten it, and — and it's not very pleasant for me ! ' he concluded plaintivel3% ' Well, as long as she understands that it's all over ' ' But I'ln not sure that I want it to be all over, and — and I'm afraid she does. We had a long talk the other evening ; we had to be verj' guarded, of com-se, but she let me see that she thought I'd behaved like a brute, and so I have. She's twice as pretty as she used to be when I knew her, Fanshawe.' ' Why don't you make up to her again, then ? ' suggested the Eev. Mr. Fanshawe. ' I — I don't like to,' said Melladew, with a slight shiver at the curate's phrase, which seemed to jar on his refined senses. ' She wouldn't stand that sort of thing now, and besides, look at me. Unless anything happens to the governor, and he's good for any number of years, I'm dependent pretty much on what I can make. He'd cut me otf, I know he would, if I married without his consent. And she's fond of dress and extravagance even now. I daren't run the risk of making a fool of myself again.' ' Then do as yoi; propose— throw up the pup and bolt,' said the curate yaw*ning. ' I don't propose that,' was the replj', somewhat irritably spoken. ' I don't leant to go if she doesn't make a point of it.' : ' Stay, then ; you needn't see any more of her than you can 194 THE PAKIAH help ; there's room enongh for both of yon. It's nonsense to throw away a good thing unless you're olthgcd to.' 'So it is,' said Melladew. ' I think you're right, Fanshawe, it wonld be a pity. And — and I can keep oi;t of her way. I don't want to get her into troi^ble, poor httle girh' Perhaps Melladew did not really require much inducement to remain r;nder the roof that sheltered Camilla Henderson. He was fond of confidences, and from his undergraduate days had been in the habit of considting Fanshawe in affairs of difficulty, often of his own manufacture. So he remained at Agi-a House, a course which Miss Henderson seemed very far h-om resenting. The situation gratified her taste for intrigue and mystery. As far as her shallow nature allowed, she had cared for him, and deeply felt his defection ; she had a sense of triumph now, in knowing that she might re- establish her power over him if she chose. She intended to punish him a little first, and treated him, when they met, with the most complete indifference, ignoring all his overtures for a reconciliation. By these tactics, however, she effected rather more than she in- tended. Melladew acquiesced, and began to avoid her, considering this, as he was as powerless to marry as ever, the wiser course. It was ; but it did not suit Miss Henderson, who required the excite- ment of piquing and baffling him, and enjoj'ing his penitent misery. If he would not trust himself near her, the situation would become too stupid ; she might forgive him, biit she meant him to piu'ge his offence first. He evidently feared to make the first advances, and, owing to her position in the house, she dared not give him any open encouragement to seek her society. But there was Ida, who was already powerfully attracted by the good-looking young tutor she was ready to accept as an ideal hero of romance. Ida, who had shown such a suspicious interest in the French novel Miss Hender- son had selected as a suitable means of improving her accent, ' Le Roman d'un jeune homme pauvre ' — not the work, though im- objectionable in itself, which a most discreet person would have chosen under the circumstances. Ida's ill-regulated mind was quite precociously sentimental enough without a stimulant of this kind. Miss Henderson was not troubled with scruples. Slio meant no harm, but she worked upon and used Ida's school-girl admiration to further her own p^^rposes. She encouraged her to talk constantly about this interesting young man, to pity his hard lot, his melancholy, while she was careful not to betray any senti- ments of her own. ' He looks as if he would be so grateful to bo taken more notice of,' she said ; ' he watches you so wistfully sometimes when you're playing tennis, dear. Of course I can't interfere, but I don't think j-our mother would object if you asked him to take more part in our amusements — it woiUd be a real kindness to him.' Ida needed no pressing; on the first opportunity she timidly and wi'.h a beating heart asked Melladew if he would join them at PRIVATE TUITION 195 tennis, and it soon bpcame an ordinary thing for him to meet and accompany them on various expeditions, or in their outdoor occupa- tions, though always in a more or less unpremeditated manner. Ida generally went out alone with the governess, and, as they did not think it necessary to tell Mrs. Cliadwick how often a third person formed one of the party, she saw no reason for retracting her confidence in Miss Henderson. For Ida these meetings were full of a perilous bliss. Melladew treated her with a deference that increased her infatuation. She was only a child in his eyes, but he exerted himself to please and interest her by all his arts. It was all meant for Miss Henderson, who was still maintaining her demure reserve, but the poor child did not know that. He talked to her fi'eely — always about himself, and the trials he had had, and the great things he meant to do some day, dropping hints, when he saw that they were not likely to oft'end, of the burden he found his present pupil. ' I can't tell you what terribly exhausting worlc it is,' he would say in his pathetic voice. ' I could not possibly endm'e it but for intervals of peace and rest like these.' And Ida felt a deeper indignation against Allen for vexing her hero's soul by his crass stupidity. ' Hennie,' she said one day, ' you don't mind Mr. Melladew's coming with us like this, do you ? You were so very stand-off-ish with him this afternoon.' . * I don't mind if it gives you pleasure, darling.' ' You dear, unselfish Hennie ! it does give me pleasure. He talks so delightfully, and— do you think it is any pleasure to him to come ? ' ' I think,' said the governess archly, ' yoii don't require me to tell you that. Where are your ejes, dear ? ' ' Pie does seem glad when he meets us.' Ida flushed with a shy pleasure. ' Oh, Hennie ! he is so clever and handsome — he can't be glad to see me— and yet, what else can it be '? ' ' Vain little fool ! ' was the governess's inward comment, but what she said was: 'I must leave you to draw your own conclu- sions, darling. He does not honour me with much of his notice, does he ? ' ' That's becaiTse you are not very nice to him, Hennie,' said the unsuspecting Ida. ' I'm sure he has a gi-eat respect for you ; it's only that he finds it easier to talk to me, I suppose. He does talk to you sometimes, too.' ' I must be grateful for small mercies, mj'' dear,' was the answer, with a rather hard little laugh. ' I am perfectly contented.' ' Don't be bitter, Hennie. Y''ou don't believe in — in anj-ono being sincere now, do you ? But I'm sure Mr. Melladew would be ; he wouldn't say things he didn't mean, like that horrid wretch who treated you so badly ! ' ' If you have any love for your poor Hennie,' that young lady entreated qiiickly, ' don't talk to me of — of him. I hope Mr, ]Melladew will turn out a very different kind of person I ' 19() THE PARUa Upon the whole Allen was becoming reconciled to entering University life, though at first he had been very decidedly averse to leaving" home. He did not want to go away from where Margot was, especially now that she was beginning to be less distant and abrupt with him. If Cambridge men were like ]\Ielladew (whom lie loathed), he thought he should not be verj' happy at college. But he saw that he stood a little higher in his father's estimation than since his disgrace. Chadwick had caught eagerly enough at the idea of making his son an undergraduate ; he had exaggerated notions of the social importance it would bring him to be able to talk of 'his boy at college,' and what it cost him to keep liim there, and then his conscience was eased by repairing his early neglect. He even came to believe that, in some unformulated way, Allen would distinguish hunself and be a credit to him 3-et. So, though he never completely recovered his former confidence, he was more genial in his manner to the boy. . ■' . ■ In fact, the prospect of being shortlj^ relieved from his presence had worked a wonderful improvement in the family attitud-e to him ; -pafticularlj' as he was closeted for several hours in the day with the tutor, who gave a favom-able report of his industry." -^ ' How is he getting on, hey ? ' Chadwick would ask at luncheon. * Making a scliolar out of him ? ' ■ . » ' I think,' Melladew would answer, ' he ought to have no diffi- ' culty in passing in, sh.' •■ ' Pa'ss in — no. • Whj', they tell me that's a mere nothing at most colleges; but j-ou'll have to work when you are in, Allen, mind that ! ' But the subjects, though presenting no difficulty to anyone who had passed tlu'ough the ordinary routine of a public school, seemed to Allen as impossible as the tasks set by some wicked witch in the fairy tales. How was he, with an education of the plainest com- mercial order, and a very imperfect recollection of that, to acquire in four months a working knowledge of two ancient languages, to construe Tacitus and Aristophanes, and turn passages of colloquial English into' neat and elegant Greek or Latin prose ? He tried in vain to grai:)ple with the mj-steries of the Eton Latm Primer and the Greek Grammar ; his brain was dulled by hopeless attempts to master the simplest propositions of Euclid, or even the meaning and value of the algebraic signs. ' It's no use, Mr. Melladew,' he said one day ; ' it's all a muddle to me, and so I tell you straight, I shall never learn all this rot.' ' I'm doing all I can for you,' was the careless answer ; ' you must get as much into that head of yours as you can in the tune, that's all. And, luckily for your chances, they're not as strict as they might be at Margaret Hall. They let in some pretty thick men in my time. Don't you worry yourself, and, look here, I'm going out for a stroll. You read over this chapter on the uses of ov and fxi] while I'm gone, and see what you make of it. I shan't PRIVATE TUITION 197 be away more than an hour or so.' So saying, he leaped hghtly out of the window, and disappeared for the rest of the afternoon. Much of his teaching was conducted on this principle, but his presence was of very little actual assistance to Allen, who much preferred him away. Mutual concessions were arrived at between them during the hours they had to pass shut up alone together. Allen found his tasks reduced to cojiying and re-copying certain indispensable mnemonic outlines of Melladew's own invention — tips, figures of propositions, arithmetical recipes, and so on, while the tutor smoked and polished triolets. He was loth to leave his present quarters, and consoled his conscience (for he had one, in a rather debilitated condition) by the reflection that, if ho was not doing his pupil much good, he was keeping him out of mischief at all events. It was quite possible that he might be received without reference to his attainments at easy-going Margaret Hall ; in any case, Fanshawe was right, there was no sense in quarrelling with one's bread and butter, a form of disagreement which, even in the most contentious breasts, is harder to px'ovoke and easier to recon- cile than most misunderstandings. It seemed that the Hothams' hurried departure on the night of the concert was not, after all, caused by anything on the platform. Joceline fluttered up to Margot after clmrch on the following Sunday and explained. ' Hope you didn't think me a wretch the other evening ; but we had to run away, the atmosphere was too dreadful ; poor mamma has not been out since. I hear your brother sang or did something after we left. I didn't know he was clever in that way.' ' Nor we,' said Margot, wondering whether this ignorance could be real. ' It's so nice to meet people who can do things,' said Joceline ; ' you sing so exquisitely. Mamma has raved about it ever since. She is coming over to call some day this week.' And, what was more, Lady Adela not only did call but actually sent over a groom some days afterwards with an invitation to dine at Hawleigh. Allen was included, but Mrs. Chadwick made excuses for him on the ground that he was studying hard for Cambridge. ' I simply coiild not enter a room with that dreadful boy behind me,' she told her daughter. ' No, dear,' said Margot, ' if we must have our family skeleton, at least we won't drag it out to dinner with us. Thank goodness, he will be at Cambridge very soon now, and perhaps he will be more presentable.' At the end of July, Eeggie came home from school, greatly to the delight of Lettice, who was sadly in want of a playmate. ' I get on awfully well with the fellows, Lettie,' he informed her com- placently; 'they know directly whether a chap's a cad or not. What do you think I heard Bigg Major say about me ? — he's head of our house, and no end of a swell — he really said it, I heard it mj'self.' ' What did be say, Eeggie ? ' 198 THE PARIAH ' "Well, it was lite this — he was with another sixth fellow, and I was passing, and ho said, quite out loud, " Do j'ou know who that fellow is ? " And the other fellow said " No" ; and then he said, "It's young Chevening, /(c's not half a bad little squit," ' and Beggie looked as if he exi^ectcd her to be overwhelmed by this magnificent tribute. 'But why aren't you half a bad little squit ? I don't imder- stand, Eeggie.' ' Oh, it's no use telling girls anything ! ' said Eeggie disgustedly. ' I thought you'd like to know. Who's that long-haired chap stay- ing here '? ' ' Mr. Melladew— he's Allen's tutor. Did you know Allen was going to Cambridge '? ' ' What's the good of sending Jiim to Cambridge. He'll be a regular smug there — that's the word for a cad at Cambridge, you know, I suppose you think he isn't a cad, but then you don't know anything about it, you see.' ' I don't like him as much as I did,' Lettice confessed. ' He was not at all kind to me, and I haven't made friends with him yet ; I don't think I shall.' October came, and Melladew took Allen up to Cambridge for his matriculation, having been charged to see him through it and pro- vide him with all a newly-fledged undergraduate reqiiires. Ida drew a sigh of profound relief. It was not her last parting with Melladew — he was to retm-n when Allen was comfortably settled, Chadwick having prudently left the question of fees until he knew the result. ' Hennie,' said Ida, ' he will be back to-day. Oh, do you think he will go away again without ever telling me that he likes me a little ? I care for him so awfully ! ' Miss Henderson felt a certain uneasiness at the sight of the pale face and wistfiil ej'es. She wished she could have broken the truth, but, to prevent Ida from conceiving a dangerous jealousy, it had been necessary to encourage her in her delusion. She herself was still in doubt whether her own schemes would succeed — it was too ridiculous that this little chit of a girl should pose as a rival. ' You are very young, darling girl,' she said. ' You must be patient and wait, that is all I can say at present.' ' He has come ! ' cried Ida springing up. ' I hear wheels on the drive — yes, there is the old fly from the station, and he is getting out, and — and, oh, Hennie ! what can have happened ? Allen has just got out too ! What does it mean ? ' ' It means,' was the answer, ' that Mr. Allen has failed in his examination. How very disagreeable for poor Mr. Melladew 1 ' DIFFERING CODES 199 CHAPTEE IX. DIFFERING CODES. Now I thought she was kind Only because she was cold. — Maud. Melladew on his arrival had gone at once to the Hbrary, where he found Chadwick engaged in examining a report from his agent in Behar. ' So you've got bach, hey ? Well, and did you leave him comfortable — get him everything ho wanted ? ' Cliadwick inquired, which made it all the more awkward for Melladew to explain that the tutor of Margaret Hall had declined to receive Allen as a member, and that the luckless youth was under the paternal roof at that moment. The ostensible reason for his rejection had been his failure to make anything of the matriculation papers, biit the tutors of small colleges are not always inexorable in tlie matter of scholarship if the candidate seems at all likely to distinguish himself and the college in other fields. It is to be feared that Allen's fate was really decided in the course of a private interview. ' When I engaged you,' said Chadwick, ' I looked to you to keep anything of this sort from happening.' ' It is very unfortunate, of course,' said Melladew airily. ' I only know I did my best for him.' ' Do you mean to say he wouldn't work ? ' Melladew shrugged his shoulders. ' I would rather put it down to natural incapacity,' he replied. ' Oh, you would ? Just send him in here, will you— and come back yourself.' When Allen had appeared in all the consciousness of faihu'e, his father began stormily : ' So they've kicked you out, sir ; you can't even pass a trumpery entrance examination that Fanshawe says any schoolboy could go throiigh easily ! It's your infernal iinprin- cipled idleness ; you know that it is ! Mr. Melladew, here, tells me he did all he could for you, only you wouldn't work ! ' Allen had had a great deal to bear for the last two days : he was smarting under the sense of deception and injustice, which fomid utterance at this. ' He says that ? ' he broke out thicklj'. ' He knows better ! I told him again and again it was no use, and I couldn't make head or tail of the beastly things, and he said I needn't try, I should get through all right without troubling. He never took the slightest pains to help me ; he never gave me a civil answer when I asked him to — he was always busy with his own writing ! ' ' That's the way you perform your duties, is it, Mr. Melladew ? What have you to say to that ? ' 200 THE PARIAH ' Only that I undertook what I did not know till later was im- possible.' ' And, sooner than give up and lose yoiu* money, j'on went on, and let me believe everythiug was going on well, and left him to take his chance ? Thought you'd pocket your money all the same, did you ? Vt'eW, you'U find yom* mistake out, that's all ! You won't get a farthing out of me, Mr. Melladew, without suing for it; and I shall give my reasons for refusing to pay, too, so you'd better think twice before you go into court. And j-ou'll please to leave this house at once, there's an afternoon train you can just catch.' ' I will leave the house certainly,' said IMelladew, with as much dignity as he could command, ' and as to the words you are pleased to use, I suppose I must make what allowances I can for a very natural disappointment.' He did not take the train, however, hut sought shelter with his friend the curate, who consented to put him up for a day or two. ' As for you, sir,' said Chadwick to liis son when they were alone, * I begin to see it's no use my takmg any pains or going to any expense for you. You're a bad egg ! I've tried to make a gentle- man of you, hut you'U never be anything but what I found you. You're a lazy, cowardly hound, that's what you are, and I'll leave you in future to go your own way. I just warn you of this — that if I have any more trouble with you, I'll pack you off to India, where you'll be looked after and made to earn your own Hving. Now you can go ! ' Allen was not long in obejdng this fatherly admonition ; he was profoundly miserable at his failui'e for the first day or two, but by- and-by he began to find a consolatory side to his situation. His brief experience of Cambridge had rather a^\■ed him ; the glmipses of manners and pursuits seemed so totally strange to him, the boys with an ease and manliness in their bearing that made him feel en\-iously inferior, the awakening stir of undergraduate life, with all its contrasts of placid study and active exercise, bewildered rather than attracted him ; he was depressed by the gloom and silence of the stately old colleges, and saw no place for him in either the work or play of the great University. Save for the first sharp sting, when the college tutor with a grave kindliness had made him understand that it was not possible for Margaret Hall to admit him, he felt little regret at his exclusion. Kow, at least, he would not be separated from Margot ; he even comforted himself with tlie idea that she would pity his mishap. Chadwick soon made his household aware of his latest disap- pointment ; his wife indulged in a few sub-acid comments ; Margot kept silence, though inwardly raging at the defeat of her plan at the moment when it bid fair to succeed. Now she must resign herself as best she could to the constant iiTitation Allen was to her nerves — she had taken little indeed by disregarding Nupfent Orme's advice. Ida shed bitter tears when she was alone with the governess. ' He DIFFERING CODES 201 has gone awaj- without a word to me ! Oh, Hennie, he — he must mean to write, tell me you think ho will ! ' she repeated agam and again, and Miss Henderson had to calm her by giving the required assurance. The morning after his return, Allen, with no impossible tasks to occupy him now, was wandering listlessly about the house, and presently came upon Margot and Ida, who were filling some vases with autumn foliage, great amber fans of chestnut, and sprays of ruddy beech and crimson bramble, which they were arranging on a table in the hall. ' Let me help,' he said, glad of the opportunity to be near Margot, 'I've nothing particular to do.' ' You have done quite enough, I think,' said Ida, her pale cheeks reddening with anger ; ' and we don't want your help, do we, Margot ? ' ' It's bad enough to have the governor always jawing at me,' ho remonstrated, ' without 2/0 2n for her in time ; he would take no dismissal but hers. And just then she saw him, and her sweet eyes shone with the old frank pleasure. She was still his friend. The room was thinning now, and he was able to come forward and speak to her. ' So you have actually come,' she said. ' I fancied you would probably despise such vanities.' ' I didn't know I was such a Diogenes as all that,' he answered. ' Oh, but it does seem an absurd practice, when you come to think of it, this solemn inviting of all one's friends to come and gaze on people for no better reason than that they have jiist been presented to then- Sovereign. Confess that is what you have been thinking.' ' My conscience is quite clear.' ' You say that quite nicely ; but it doesn't make me feel less barbaric all the same. And now do you think you can get me a cui") of coffee and something to eat. I can't possibly hold out any longer.' So presently they were standing side by side before the usual long table, and he was delightfully occupied in ministering to her requirements. As they stood there, his eyes -fell on one of the two neat maids in attendance, and he speculated idly in passing why it was that her face seemed familiar to him, though he not lumaturally failed to identify Susan with the termagant mu'semaid at Trouville, who had been the means of iirst directing his attention to Miss 284 THE PARIAH Chevening. Susan knew him, however, though she stood there, demure and prim, as if her whole attention was concentrated on her duties. Margot was describing her day's experiences. 'And the blocks were so tiresome,' she said ; ' and the ugly common faces that came up and flattened themselves against the glass, gasping like the fish in an aquariiim, only, unfortunately for us, they were not dumb. Some of the rougher people seemed quite injured at oiu* having the insolence to go to Court, I felt so inclined to tell them that I wished they were going instead of me, and that they would be more con- tented if they knew how fearfully uncomfortable we were inside ! ' ' I suppose it was all right when you were once at the palace '? ' ' Not at all. It was so cold in those corridors and antechambers, and the frightful responsibility' of one's train — never wear a train, Mr. Orme,' she counselled him gravely in parenthesis. ' As for the ceremony, I am very vague about it already. I remember our names being called out, and that I kissed the Queen's hand, and got through all my curtseying somehow without a mishap. I'd prac- tised, you see. One girl that came after us was not so lucky, at least she came ovit in tears. I don't know what had happened to her, poor thing ! I think she suddenly lost her head and bolted at the critical moment, and the Queen had her fetched back to do it properly. How wretched she must be feeling now, mustn't she? I should have been very disappointed if her Majesty had not stayed imtil om- turn came ; there is nothing Eepublican about me. You are not a Radical, I hope ? ' ' It would evidently be rash to admit it just now if I were,' he said, ' but I should be very sorry to see our Eoyalty represented by King Demos.' ' Should you ? I am so glad,' she said ; ' so should I. Fancy having to go to kiss Ids hand ! ' She made her pretty grimace at the idea. ' I should run away then. But tell me what you have been doing since I saw you last ; have you been working very hard, and addressing British juries — isn't that what you do ? ' ' Juries are not in my department,' he explained ; ' but the other day I had to face three Lords Justices of Appeal, which was a fear- ful ordeal.' ' Pieally ; why I met one of them out at dinner last week, and he was delightful — so amusing and pleasant 1 ' ' They are not quite like that on the bench,' he said. * I assm'e you I passed a most uncomfortable morning. I made sure they were all against me ; they put such tremendous posers, one after another.' ' Three against one doesn't sound very fair,' she said ; ' and so, I suppose, you lost your — what do you call it — verdict ? No, case.' ' Oh, I won my appeal,' he answered (he might have mentioned, had he chosen, that he had even been complimented fi'om the bench on the ability he had shown), ' but won't you tell me about your own doings now ? ' A PARTIAL SOLUTION 285 ' There is so little to teU. Life in Gorsecombe is not exactly fertile in incident, as you know. The chief thing is sad, and that has happened since I have been away. Did you ever see Yarrow, my collie ?— he is ill, and 1 am very much afraid I shall never see him again.' He could almost have wished himself her dog, to be spoken of in that tone of loving regret, to call that sudden shadow to her bright eyes. ' I haven't dared to tell Lettice yet,' she added ; ' she will be heartbroken, she has always been his favourite. I shall never forget how wretched he was one day when she was quite small and he tripped her up by accident in playing with her, and hurt her knee. Nothing would content him but being allowed to come into her room, and he remained there with his head on the counterpane, trying to make her understand how grieved he was. I can't bear to think he may have to be killed.' How he loved her for the feeling she showed — how doubly dear she seemed for this touch of tenderness and sympathy — and yet with her usual perversity she contrived to destroy the effect almost immediately'. There was a slight pause after she had spoken last, and then Orme asked a question which caused her to become frigid and in- different as if by some blighting spell. 'By the way,' he inquii-ed, 'have you heard from your step- brother Allen lately ? ' Somehow his former pupil had rather fallen out of his recollec- tion of late, as persons do who take no means of recalling them- selves to our minds ; in his visits to Gorsecombe he had not chanced to hear the result of the indigo-planting scheme, and he asked about Allen now with a sense of shame at his own forgetfulness. ' From Allen ? ' she said carelessly — too carelessly almost. ' Oh, no, he does not write to me, you know.' ' But his father has had news of him, I suppose ? ' said Orme. 'I hope he is doing well out in India ? ' ' Oh, I believe so. I — I really do not know exactly. Shall we go upstairs now '? ' He saw that she did not mean to pursue the subject ; indeed, the mention of that name had raised a sudden constraint between them ; she led the way to the drawing-room and he followed, but no more was said on either side. Once more he had to be content with looking on, for Miss Chevening was instantly surrounded as before. Lady Yaverland, who had presented her nieces, was upstairs with the Miss Bradings, whose first Drawing-room dated from a season further back than they cared to remember, and poor Lord Yaverland, consciol^s of not appearing to advantage in white knee-breeches and stockings (he had once filled a minor post in a short-lived Administration), kept himself and his fringed cocked-hat as much in the background as possible and looked acutelj' miserable. Guy Hotham was hovering about Ida, and though there were 286 THE PARIAH several people in the room Orme knew, he did not feel inclined to make any fiu'ther conversational openings just then. But presently Lettice came up and shook hands with him. ' I wonder how the Queen holds her Drawing-room ?' she remarked. ' Should you think she walked ahout and talked to all the people just as mother is doing now ? I should like to talk to the Queen — wouldn't yovL ? ' Nugent feared he might have a difficulty in finding something to talk to her about. ' I shouldn't,' said Lettice ; ' there's quite a lot of things I should like to ask her.' ' I believe it isn't considered proper to ask Royalty questions.' ' Oh, but I should ask only polite ones — and I shoiild tell her she needn't answer unless she liked. That wasn't what I came to talk to you about, though ; there's something I want to know so dreadfully, but I can't ask you here. Would you mind comiug down into the conservatory, where no one will hear us ? ' Orme followed her obediently outside and down a few steps to a small tiled alcove hung with Persian tapestries. ' You were Allen's tutor once, weren't you ? ' began Lettice, ' long ago — before we knew him.' ' Yes,' said Nugent ; ' for a short time I was.' ' He liked you,' she said ; ' he often told me so. And what I want you to tell me is, if he has ever written to you to say what lias become of him, and how he is. I do want to know so very much ! ' ' He has not written to me, Lettice,' said Orme ; ' but won't your sister tell you all you want to know — or Mr. Chadwick ? ' ' Margot never likes talking about him,' said Lettice, • not even here. And I daren't ask papa. I should be sent to school if I mentioned Allen's name even ; he said so. It's so dreadful, though, to think of poor Allen wandering about with no one to care about him, and no home to come back to ! ' Orme started. ' AVhat do you mean, Lettice ? — wandering about • — and no home to come back to ? I thought Allen was settled in India, and doing well ! ' ' Oh, no,' she said sadly, ' we don't know where he is. I don't beheve anj^body at home cares, except me. And you haven't heard — you can't tell me about him ? ' ' I wish I could,' he said, with a painful sense of bewilderment ; ' but — but all this is new to me. I have been taking it for granted that he was all right.' ' I'm sorry,' said Lettice, with a Uttle sigh. ' I suppose we had better go back again now — you don't mind my bringing you down here all for nothing, do you ? ' Orme returned to the drawing-room, where the people were be- ginning to make a move. Mrs. Antrobus stopped in passing to give him the invitation to come and see her, which would have meant BO much to him a short time ago. Just then it seemed a mockery ; A PARTIAL SOLUTION 287 for it was, perhaps, pardonable in him, that Lettice's revelation should affect him most powerfully in connection with Margot. He had believed her to be frankness itself, he had hoped that she put some confidence in him, and yet she knew that Allen was an out- cast and a wanderer upon the face of the earth, and she had sup- pressed this knowledge, and answered smoothlj^, carelessly, as if — though it concerned her not — all were well with him ! And, such is the egotism of a lover, it was the attempt at con- cealment, the withdrawal of confidence in relation to himself, that struck him most painfull^', coming near to disenchanting him for the moment. The deception seemed so wanton, so cynically reck- less, that he was staggered. He felt iinable to stay there ; the sight of her, all loveliness and animation, oppressed him now, and yet he could not go without taking leave of her. He joined her as she stood at one of the windows, looking out on the blue-grey dusk and the lines of lighted lanijis across the Park. ' Good-bye, Miss Chevening,' he said. She turned to him. ' Are you going '? ' she said, and then her notichalajice \eit her. 'Don't go just yet. There is something I want to tell you first — about Allen,' she added. He held his breath ; if he could have spoken he would have tried to prevent her — he was in terror of some further insinceritJ^ ' I left you to suppose downstairs,' she began, in a rapid, breath- less manner, with a glance back into the room beyond to make sure that she was not overheard, ' I let you siij)pose that there was nothing to tell about him. There was a great deal — only,' and she smiled faintly, ' when there are two maid-servants on the other side of a table listening %vith all their ears, it is not quite the most convenient time for unlocking the family skeleton.' He felt his doubts giving way with every word she spoke — in what a hiu-ry he had been to judge her ! ' It was indiscreet of me to ask as I did,' he admitted. ' I ought to have known better.' ' Oh, I don't know — how were you to anticipate "? Even I — but I had better tell you. My unha,ppy step-brother has destroyed his last chance ; he never even gave the indigo factory a trial, he ran away on the voyage out, and his father has refused to have anything more to do with him. We have heard nothing since. Now you know all that there is to know,' she concluded. He drew a deep breath of relief; his chief sensation was an intense thankfulness that she had told him this herself, and shown his suspicions of her candour to be so monstrously imjust. In the revulsion of feelmg he was not inclined to dwell, as he might have done at some other time, upon the tone in which her announcement was made. ' I had hoped for better news,' he said gravely ; ' I am more sorry than I can say.' Orme was smcerely sorry, and yet, to himself, the words sounded hollow and conventional — for it was not of Allen that he was thinking most just then. 288 THE TAKIAH 'I knew you would be,' she said; ' j'ou always had a great belief in him.' ' I don't understand it,' he answered slowly ; ' it seems so strange that he should have thrown up a plan without a trial — when it was his own idea, after persuading you to obtain his father's consent. "What do you suppose his object could have been ? ' ' I have not tried to suppose,' she replied, ' and, Mr. Orme, you will imderstand, I am sm-e, that after what has happened, it is — is not a very pleasant subject to me. It would be a great rehef for me to feel that it is not to be revived between us again. He has chosen to cut himself adrift from us all. It can do no possible good to be for ever discussing the whole miserable business over and over again, whenever we meet — can it ? ' She said this with a certain feverish impetuosity, and evident weariness of the subject. ' I suppose not,' he agreed. ' 1 will not distress you like this again. Miss Chevening.' ' You will not '? Thank you so much ! Is it very hard-hearted of me to say this '? I can't help it, and you must not suppose that I am not sorry for him, or that I don't think of all this sometimes, and wish it could have been different — only I haie talking about it so — you do understand, don't you? ' A man must have been much less in love than Orme was to resist her just then, so wiuningly did she make that appeal, so wist- fully anxious was she to retain his good opinion. He went away more subjugated than ever. If the contrast between her, in her luxury and gaiety, and her step-brother, the son of the house, in exile, no one knew where, struck his imagina- tion, he did not reproach her in his thoughts. She was not respon- sible for it ; he believed that her heart was more touched by it than she chose to acknowledge. And if he could have wished to see more signs of this, if she was really incapable of feeling all the compassion for Allen that might be wished, were there not many excuses for her '? Was it not to her credit that she made no pretences ? So he argued with himself — and never had he been more easy to convince. CHAPTER III. WARNED. Can I part her from herself, and love her, as I knew her, kmd ? Lock shy Hall. Whitsuntide had come, and Nugent Orme was spending it at the Vicarage. This time one powerful element of attraction was want- ing, for Miss Chevening was not in Gorsecombe. But she was not in town either, as he happened to know, for Mrs. Chadwick and her two eldest daughters were away on a short visit, so that Orme's k WARNED 289 appreciation of home life was not troubled by thoughts of any sacri- fices entailed. Thanks, too, to Guy Hotham and Mrs. Antrobus, he now enjoyed frequent opportunities of seeing Margot Chevening, and every meeting since the afternoon of the Drawing-room had left him more deeply in love, more determined to speak to her at tlie first propitious moment. The moment had not come as yet ; indeed, of late her former fi-ank friendliness had given place to a constraint, almost a coldness, which he took as a discom'aging symptom. Here in the peaceful Vicarage he found a temporary relief from the distracting alternations of hope and despair he had been going through, in addition to the heavy work of his profession during the past term. His mind was as full of her as ever, but insensibly his thoughts took a more hopeful cast. More than once he felt tempted to confide in Millicent, in order to find out how his prospects looked in her eyes, but he could not bring himself to do so. It not unfrequently happens that a man's sister is the person whom he finds it most difficult to consult in matters of the heart. A sister is apt occasionally to see her brother's tender passion in a frivolous or even a comic light, espe- cially when she happens to be acquainted with the object of it. Not that Millicent was a girl to do this, or that Orme feared any want of sympathy on her part ; there had always been a complete understanding between them, in spite of the difference in their characters. But a feeling he could not accoimt for made him guard his secret even from her for some days after his arrival, and then it was Millicent who first approached the subject. It was a lovely evening in early June, and they were pacing the lawn together after dinner, as the first star came softly out in the apple-gi'een sky over the common, and a sad, subdued tone deadened without confusmg all the form and colour around them. ' I forgot to ask you whether you saw Mr. Chadwick when you went up there this afternoon ? ' said Millicent. 'Oh, yes, he was at home,' he answered; 'he struck me as having altered, Millie. He talked rather -wildly once or twice. Does he drink, do you know ? ' ' They say so,' she admitted rather reluctantly. ' He never goes anywhere now. But what made you go and call upon him ? I did not know you were particularly fond of him.' ' I'm not, and I felt less fond of him than ever this afternoon ; he did nothing but abuse fashion and extravagance and women, and was altogether so incoherent and generally impleasant that I was glad to get away.' ' But why did you go to see him at all, dear ? It wasn't at all necessary, siurely.' ' Oh ! ' said Orme, ' I went to get some pieces of music Miss Chevening asked me to find for her.' To his sister's fine ear he betrayed himself by the almost im- U 290 THE rAEIAII perceptible lingering over the surname, as if he found (as he did) a subtle pleasm-e in merely pronouncing it. ' Then yoii have seen Margot lately — often, Nugent ? ' ' Pretty often— yes,' he replied ; he was not unwilling to speak of her just then, he was almost ready to pour all his doubts and fears, his hope and ambition, into Millicent's ear ; it was the place and hour for such confidences. ' ^Vhy do you ask ? ' he added. ' I was wondering,' said Millicont, as she halted in the deeper dusk under the great cedar. ' Will you tell me something if I ask you ? ' she continued after a pause. ' I iised to fancy you would come to me first, if you — had news. Is there anything between you and Margot ? ' ' No, Millie, not yet.' ' I am so glad ! ' she said. ' I was afraid it was too late to speak.' ' Why should you be afraid, Millie ? — you know her. Is there someone else — someone about here ? — I must know if there is.' * No — no ; not that I have heard of— it isn't that, Nugent.' ' Then I don't care,' he said. ' You have really fallen in love with her ? ' she asked anxiously. ' Is it serious, Nugent ? ' ' As serious as it can be,' he said. ' You seem to have a very poor opinion of mj^ prospects, Millie.' ' Niigent, believe me it will be better for you to forget her if you can — you will be happier in the end ! ' ' Excellent advice, but not very practical, Millicent. I can't forget her. I don't want happiness if that's to be the price of it. I may have no chance, as you seem to think, but I'm not exactly going to give up in advance.' ' Tell me why you love her. Because she is beautiful — or because you beheve she is good? ' ' What questions ! I love her because she is herself — that is enough for me, Millicent.' ' But if you were mistaken in her, if she were not what you think her ? — oh, I know I shall make you angry with me — but indeed, indeed she is not worthy of you ; she is not — not good, Nugent ! ' ' And this is yoiu* idea of friendship ! ' he cried scornfully. ' I was her fi-iend once — not now. Dear Nugent, be patient with me. I would not sj^eak now if it were too late to be of any use. But I cannot stand by and let my only brother throw, his heart away like this — I cannot. I want to save you from doing what you will repent of some daj'. No — wait, listen. I know how sweet she can be, how lovely she is to look at. There was a time when I should have been glad to have her for my sister. That was before I knew how cruel she really was, how merciless she can be under all that sweetness.' Hideous doubts, reviving and clutching his heart as he listened, kept him a listener still. WARNED 291 ' What have you to say against her ? ' he said. * Let us have it out.' . ' You cannot know the part she took in sending that poor step- brother of hers away ! ' ' I do know it,' he said. * I know that in what she did she was anxious only for his benefit. He represented that he was longing to go out and shift for himself on this Bengal plantation — he begged her to help him and get his father's consent. She did. Was it her fault that it turned out badly or that his fancy did not last, or was a sham to start with ? She disliked him, I know ; she owned it from the first ; but then, at least, she was honestly trying to do her best for him ; — and you make that a reproach against her ! As if she can be made responsible for results no one could foresee at the time. Do you call that religion and charity ? ' ' Did she tell you that he was anxious to go out ? It is not true, Nugent. Listen to me — you must. I never meant to let this pass my lips, but j'ou are inore to me than she is, and I mx;st say what I know. Allen Chadwick did not\wa.nt to go. So far h-om that, he begged and prayed to stay at home, and it was Margot — for what reason I don't know — who was allowed to decide whether he should be sent away or not. She insisted, in spite of his entreaties, that he must go. She and no one else is to blame for all that followed.' ' That is enough, Millicent,' he interrupted roughly. ' Do you suppose I can't see what it is that embitters you against her ? You can't forgive her for being beautiful. If you were able to judge fairly, you would not condescend to repeat this silly village gossip— you would feel as I feel, that it disproves itself! ' ' Nugent,' said Millicent gravely, ' it is not village gossip. Be more just to me. Should I tell you all this imless I knew it to be true ? Poor AUen Chadwick told me himself how he dreaded the idea of being sent away ; the last time I met him he was more hopeful — it was left to Margot to decide. The next thing I heard was that he had gone. I taxed Margot with it — and, Nugent, she admitted everything! She knew how reluctant he was to go out and how unlikely to prosper there, but she wislied to be relieved of him and decided for his being banished. She did not even seem to see that she had done anything to be ashamed of. He was in Eng- land still at the time, and I implored her to get him recalled even then ; I pointed out that he would almost certainly be driven to despair and ruin — but she would not yield. Nugent, can you hear that a girl you love has done this and not feel some change towards her '? If you can, it is a beautiful face and nothing else that you love, and such love as that must end in certain misery.' Nugent sat down on the bencli under the cedar and covered his face. Millicent's words, spoken without animus, with such intense earnestness, dropped conviction into his soul like a corrosive acid. It was impossible to disbelieve her, strive as he might. Various chcumstances which had puzzled and pained him at the time came u2 292 THE PArjAH Lack now with terrible corroborative force. For the first time he saw their significance. Those indications of remorse on Margot's part, which he had thought the effect of a generous heart and an over- sensitive conscience, were miserably inadequate for such a wrong as hers. He no longer wondered that she should have attempted to keep him in ignorance of what had become of Allen, or that she should order the subject to be di'opped between them in future. The revolution this wrought in his conceptions of her can hardly be over-stated. He had seen, of course, and not without a certain comprehension, her strong antipathy to Allen. But he had pictured her as overcoming it, setting herself to see and encourage what was good in him, acting as his confidant and ally in carrying out his rash project of trying his fortune in India; she had seemed the more lovable and sweet for this condescension. And all that it seemed had never been ! He had been deluded by his love and by her own skill in distorting facts. The project was hers — not Allen's : what she had done was only in furtherance of her own selfish aims; she had forced him into exile, careless what became of him so long as she gained her end ; she had done this in spite of entreaties and reproaches, in the full knowledge of what must follow. And now, when the natural end had come, and this poor unloved, mioffending Allen was swallowed up by the quicksand into which her hand had thrust him, she looked as sweet and fair and innocent as ever ; her laugh was as true, her gaiety as real, as if no thought of what she had done ever seriously troubled her peace ! The girl, whose heart all his hopes had long been set on winning, was capable, then, of such cruelty and callousness as this ? Would his love survive this disenchantment ? Had it already received its deathblow ? His brain was too bruised and stmmed as j'et for any self-examination of this sort. For anything he could tell, he might be unable to conquer his love for her, in spite of everything, but all that was best and highest in that love would have departed from it for ever. Already he foresaw the misery of a passion which judgment condemned ! He sat there silent so long that Millicent could not forbear from some expression of compassion. ' Poor boy,' she said, laymg her hand upon his shoulder, ' I know how hard it is for you — but isn't it better to know this now than afterwards — when it might be too late ! ' He shook off her hand impatiently. ' For God's sake, don't try to console me,' he said. ' I'm not in the mood to stand that just yet!' ' I only want to be quite sure that 3'ou are not angry with me, dear,' she pleaded ; ' and — and, Nugent, you won't go on caring for her after this, will you ? ' She was too anxious to discover the precise effect of what she had told him to exercise the little tact she possessed. WARNED 293 • How do I know ? ' he said, looking up with a white face. ' One doesn't get over these things all at once, Millicent.' ' But 3'ou do believe what I say ? ' she persisted. ' You wiU not take her word against mme ? ' Till that moment it had not occurred to hini to dispute the substantial accuracy of her account, but her injudicious insistence had the effect she least intended. ' You may be perfectly right,' he said, ' but why should you be afraid of my asking her for her version ? ' ' Oh, Nugent,' she cried, ' don't do that ; be content with mine. Try not to see her again ; it is wiser, believe me ! ' ' Wise or foolish, I shall see her again. I shall ask her myself about this. I will not judge her without knowing more than I do now — I don't doubt what you have told me, but — but there may be other circumstances which you have not heard of, which would explain everything.' ' She will persuade you so, no doubt,' said Millicent bitterly. ' She is not likely to care to take the trouble,' he replied. ' Yoa will probably have the satisfaction of se^jarating us, whatever the real facts may be. You have not wasted your evening, Millicent.' ' Ah, Nugent,' she said tearfully, ' don't speak like that to me ; have I any other object but your happiness ? ' He was too sore to be just or rational just then. ' If that is so,' he retorted, ' I'm afraid yoiu* etforts are a little xmfortunate. You had better go in now — the mother has come to the window to look for us.' ' Are you coming in too, Nugent ? ' ' Y''ou think a cup of tea will be a remedy ? No, thank j'ou, Millicent. I'm better left alone just now. Go — and for heaven's sake don't let them see you've been crying!' He turned abruptly down the path to the garden gate and out upon the road, leaving Millicent to make what excuses she could for him. ' I thought you were never coming in,' said Mrs. Orme. ' What have j^ou and Nugent been gossiping about all this time ? ' ' Oh, I don't know,' said Millicent vacantly ; ' there were so many things to talk about — may I put the shade on that lamp, dear, it dazzles my eyes so ? ' Meanwhile Nugent was hurrjdng aimlessly on through the warm dark night. As he set out, the upper windows in the village street were gleaming yellow under their black gables. When he passed them again on his return, they reflected the livid grey-green of a new dawn, and the air had grown chill, and the birds in the Vicarage garden were beginning to utter their first sleepy and tentative chirps. Where he had been in the meantime he hardly knew, beyond a vague impression of striding on along the grey high road, under black arching elms, past woods faint with wild hyacinths, through shuttered villages, his mind the whole time painiully striving with the problem of his future relations with Margot. 294 THE PARIAH If what lie had heard was true, it was impossible that he could ever think of her in the same way again. Was it true ? The longer he thought of it the gi-eater grew the improbability that MiUicent could have invented or been seriously mistaken in her facts. He had declared that he woiUd appeal to Margot herself, but in his cooler state he began to see how difficult this would be, how un- likely to end in any satisfactory solution. She had already forbidden the subject : she would probably refuse to admit his right to re- open it. Even if she denied the charge ever so indignantly and haugh- tily, woidd he believe her ? He knew in his heart that he would not. And with all this, he felt that his love w^as not killed ; in the midst of his fiercest indignation her vivid face came before him like a challenge to turn away from her and forget her if he could. He despised himself for this bondage of the reason to the senses, but he was powerless to effect his liberty. There was even a time in the course of that night's walk in which he felt the temptation to do and say nothing, to acquiesce in the lowering of his ideal and shut his eyes to all that would revolt him in any other person. What if she were unscrupulous, selfish, pitiless to another, was he so immaculate himself as to condemn her ? What mattered anj^thing so long as he could gain her love. AYhy should he make Allen's cause his own, now that he cotdd do him no good by it. But this mood did not last. Some men might have taken this cynical view and acted upon it — but not Orme. His detestation of conduct such as he believed hers to liave been was too thorough ; he wordd have pardoned almost anything else — certainly any wrong to himself —but he felt it would be weakness here — weakness that would bring its own punishment. And yet, if they met, if he were again under the spell of her eyes and her voice, could he be sure of his power to resist ? No, he de- cided ; he might yield, if she chose to persuade him, but he had strength at least to keep out of temptation. He would avoid her, he woidd go nowhere where he had any reason to expect to find her. Should he meet her, it would be in some crowd where nothing but ordinary civilities would be requhed of him. It was not an heroic course, but it was better than an ignominious surrender. With this resolution, wrmig from hun after a long and wearying struggle, he came home with a feeling that the crisis had passed. THE TORTURES OF INDECISION 29^ CHAPTER IV. THE TORTURES OF INDECISION. Les violences qu'on se fait pour s'empecher d'aiiaer sont soiivent plus cruelles que les rigueurs de ce qu'on aime. — La Rochefoucauld. Orme came back to town strong in his new resolve ; he declined one or two invitations to houses where there was a distinct proba- bility that he would meet Miss Chevening ; he called at the Hyde Park house and left the miisic she had asked him to get for her, but went away without having inquu-ed whether Mrs. Chadwick was at home. He took up his work with desperate energy; he had several cases on his hands just then which called for all his attention, and for a time they served as a sutticient distraction from his private cares ; he even began to beheve that he was cured, and that his hurt had been less deep than he had fancied. But when the press of work subsided and he was comparatively unoccupied, he awoke to the blank dreariness of the life he had set himself to lead ; the noveltj' and exciting sense of effort which lend a certain interest to the first stage of most self-denying ordinances had akeady disappeared. He gi'oaned at his own inconsistency, at being able neither to feel as before towards Margot, nor to cast her wholly out of his thoughts. He was thinking of aU this one night when Hotham came up to his room. Orme had seen little of him of late, though they occupied the same house ; for the younger man spent few of his evenings at home, and besides, being no early riser, had not shown himself in chambers for a considerable time. So Nugent was glad to see him enter now. Guy's cheery talk was a welcome relief to his own gloomy meditations. ' Knew you wouldn't have turned in just yet,' said Guy as he came in, buttoning an elaborately braided smoking coat over his evening dress, ' so I thought I'd come in and have a chat. Haven't had one for an age.' ' You're not in as early as this as a rule,' remarked Orme, • which accounts for it.' ' Been dining with Mrs. Chadwick. Didn't care about going on anywhere afterwards. I tell you what, Orme, I'm getting awfully hard hit over that second daughter, Ida, and I don't believe,' he added plaintively, ' she cares a single blow about me ! She's so young, you see. She don't understand what love and all that sort of thing means. Not that I'd have her different, that's the gi-eat charm of her to me. Think of knowing that one would be the very 296 THE PARIAH first in a girl's heart. When a girl's been through two or three seasons, you caii't feel that. I don't know if jon are like me, but I couldn't bear the idea that a girl had cared for any other fellow before me.' ' What does it matter ? ' said Orme, ' so long as she has left off caring for him. You're too exacting. Could you fulfil the same condition yourself? ' ' That's different,' said Guy. ' Call it absui'd if you like, that's the feeling I have about it.' And then he went off into a rhapsodj', expatiating on Ida's perfections. Orme heard him patiently ; he was not particularly interested in Ida, who struck him as unformed and somewhat characterless, but she was Margot's sister — Guy had probably met Margot herself that evening — he longed, in spite of his resolves, to hear her name. ' I tell you everything about my love affair,' said Guy, when he had exhausted the subject, 'but you never tell me how things are going between you and the fair Miss Margot ! She was saying this evening that she never saw you now. You could have met her at several places lately if you had taken the trouble.' ' I've been busy,' said Orme. ' You would have managed to go aU the same, if you had cared about it. I don't want to be indiscreet, old fellow, but have you quarrelled ? ' 'No.' ' Then why are you fighting shy of her like this ? ' ' Because I've come to the conclusion t's the wisest thing to do, if you want to know.' ' Well, you know best, but j'ou're not likely to get her if you never go near her, you know — are you ? ' ' Look here, Guy, it's as well to have this understood. I was mistaken in what I told you about Miss Chevening some time ago — 3'Ou must forget it.' ' Mistaken ? Not j-ou — I know better. Do you think I didn't see how you brightened up at her very name '? ' said Guy, with a simple boyish pride in his own penetration. ' Come, don't you be an old ass, Orme. I doubt if it's anj-thing like so hopeless as you seem to think — anyway, where's the sense of throwing away all your chances to gratify your precious pride ? ' ' You don't understand.' ' Don't I ? Well, you don't deserve it, but I'm going to give you one more chance. If you let this go, I shan't take any more trouble about it. I've induced my amit to get up a water-party next Saturday — she has a mortal fimk of a boat, but that's neither here nor there. The Chevening ghls are going — I settled aU that this evening — I've undertaken to find some men to come and row. Will you come ? ' ' I don't see how I could get away in time,' said Orme irreso- lutely. 'Ah, there you are I But you ought to know, if you don't, that THE TOETUKES OF INDECISION 297 the Courts won't sit at all on Saturday. I saw it in the paper to-tlay, there's a meeting of the Judges, or something; now what excuse liave you got ? ' Ornie sat reflecting ; he was a little ashamed of his own cow- ardice, he must meet Margot at some time, why not get it over ? Might not the effect of meeting her face to face after what he knew be to break the spell ? He caught even at so flimsy a pretext as this. ' Very well,' he said at last, ' I'll come.' But if he had not ah-eady felt, the hollow- ness of this philosophy, the load that was lifted from his spirits, the sense he had of recovered interest in life, should have sufficed to undeceive him. Yet, when Saturday came, and, as the party assembled on the Paddington platform, he saw her once more, he felt a sudden fear of himself. Why could he not restrain his heart fi-om beating faster at the sight of her ? Why did the mere touch of her gloved hand send the old thrill through him ? He was far indeed from a ciu'e as yet, as he acknowledged to himself in humiliation. But he must harden his heart agamst her, and he would remember that this same girl, who stood there with her exquisite face and sparkling eyes in almost childlike anticipation of enjoj-ment, was utterly without heart, capable of sacrificing anyone who stood in her path with the most consummate selfishness. The thought of Allen — what he might have been, and what, owing to her,he was — came to Nugeut's aid now. ' I thought we should have met before this,' she was saying, ' or I should have written to thank you for getting those songs for me.' ' It was not worth it,' he repHed with a guilty consciousness of the treasui-e her letter would have been to him. ' You might have spared time to come in ! ' she said ; ' we were all at home that afternoon.' ' Thank you ; I was not able to come in, imfortunately.' ' Really ? But no doubt your time is very much occupied.' She spoke lightly enough, and jet there was a suspicion of pain in the mockery that lit her eyes. ' It is,' he said ; he felt that he was going to the other extreme in his efforts to withstand her, and that she saw and resented his brusqueness, but he could not help it. ' And yet you are going to give up a whole day ! Isn't that rather imwise ? ' ' Possibly — but I will take the risk.' She made no answer, a coldness was established between them as they stood there, and presently she turned and walked on with the others towards the train, Orme followed without keeping at her side. They were too many for all to travel in the same compart- ment, and he deliberately chose the one in which she was not. His reflections during the short journey to Taplow were sombre enough. He called himself a fool for coming — doubly a fool for 298 THE PARIAH I'cing unable to commaml himself better. "Why could he not trust liiuiself to look at her, to speak to her : what would she care A\hether he kejit away or not ? All the way down he was picturing her in the adjoming compartment, straining his ears to catch her voice, her clear low laugh, and still he knew that, in avoiding her, he would be sparing himself much distress of mind in the future. He had been impatient for the train to stop and give him the opportunity of seeing her again, but when this happened and they were all walking down to the landing-stage, he could not bring himself to approach her. He sought a safeguard in the society of one of his fellow-travellers — a young lady who had come in high- heeled shoes, and a dust cloak as a usefid precaution on the river. Her remarks were neither many nor particiUai'ly entertaining, but he tried to give his whole attention to listening and rejilying — ani^-thing to prevent his thoughts from straying to the graceful figure in front. ^^Tiere had all his indignation departed to ? She had sunk infinitely below his ideal of her, forfeited her title to true and ten- der womanhood : what she had done was utterly repellent to him — yet, now that he saw her, he could not feel this repulsion. Was his love imaltered, then, in spite of all ? He knew that this could not be, that what remained was a passion robbed of all the spirituality that lifts love above the common earth. Should he descend to such a level — love without trust, without respect ? Never, he swore to himself; he saw his danger, he knew his weak- ness, he would be on his guard for this one day, and be wiser in future. So, during the inevitable discussion that took place on the Maidenhead landing-stage — for, like most water-parties, they had started with no very definite plan — Orme did not go near Miss Chevening or join more than was absolutely necessary in the rather protracted debate. At last the arrangements got themselves settled in some way : it was decided to row as far up the river as time allowed, have afternoon tea in some river-side inn garden, and return to dinner at the hotel. ' Now about boats ? ' said Guy Hotham. ' We'd better take three, I think. Miss Chevening, are you going to row ? ' ' If I may,' said Margot, who was stripping off her gloves. ' I haven't rowed for ever so long. I want to see if I have forgotten.' She was charming in her splendid physical health and joyous ^■itality. Orme could not help allowing his eyes to dwell on her with something of the old wondering delight. ' All right, then,' he heard Hotham answer ; ' then will you take bow in this first boat ? Your sister and I will look after the steering, and Orme will stroke — he's a swell at it, rowed in his College boat up at Oxford. Where has he got to ? ' Before Orme's resolutions could be exposed to this fresh test, Miss Chevening had calmly interposed : ' Not Mr. Orme, please,' THE TORTURES OF INDECISION 299 fehe said ; ' my rowing is not up to the College standard. I would much rather not spoil his pleasure — and mine. Find me someone not quite so — superior.' Gu3' did not, of course, permit himself to show an j' astonishment at this. ' Poor old Oriiie ! ' was his inward comment ; ' not much cliance there, I'm afraid. Girls are rum things — I thought she rather liked him than not.' Whether Margot had intended Orme to hear her reply or not, he did hear it, and, inconsistently enough, was mortified. But the next moment he experienced a sardonic amusement of this revela- tion of his own lurking -vanity and insincerity. What a miserable huml)ug, what a conceited prig he was, after all, he thought wrath- I'liUy ; had he not determined to keep away from her ? She had seen his intention and very naturally forestalled him. What else could he expect — what else in the name of common sense did he want ? He had no right to l)e there at all if he could not avoid ridiculous Byronics ; whatever he felt and must feel, he would for- swear posing. So he did liis best to throw off all imhealthy sentiment, and devote himself to entertaining Mrs. Antrobus and the young lady of the dust-cloak as they sat in front of him, expressing their ad- miration of river scenery with the ghastly smiles of nervous persons who are carrying their lives in their hands. And in course of time he succeeded in removing their worst terrors and convincing them that they might feel tolerably safe under his care and that of his companion. Mrs. Antrobus became more and more gracious as her alarnr vanished, and, being a chatty and lively old lady on terra finmi, v^as gradually drawn into dis- playing almost her normal powers of conversation. Orme, some- , what to his surprise, found himself able to talk and laugh, even to feel a growing pleasure in all his surroundings, in the scent of the late hawthorn and meadowsweet on the banks, the cool shade of the noble woods as they glided past, the deep-blue sky, veined and streaked like marble with pure white, and in the musical plash of the sculls as they struck the water. The boats kept together as much as possible, and sometimes Margot's was near enough to allow him to notice the grace and ease with which she managed her sculls, the unsuspected capacity of those soft and shapely hands of hers ; her voice reached him across the water — such a clear, sweet voice, with that delicate in- flection of haughtiness. Now and then they came to a lock, with its pretty rustic cottage and gay little garden of rose-trees, stocks, and marigolds ; and here, though he had to give his attention to keeping his boat away from posts and chains while the water rose, not one of Miss Chevening's looks or words escaped him as she sat close by. But he was able to take note of her almost dispassionately now. She might look as distractingly lovely as ever, turn the head, as she seemed in a fair way to do, of the good-looking youth in the stroke 300 THE PARIAH seat, Orme felt no jealousy ; he had resigned all his own pretensions ; what harm was there iu studj'ing her, so long as he remembered that he must beware of anything more ? When they landed for afternoon tea at a river- side inn garden, she made some indifferent little remark to him, as if she did not choose to allow anything so pronounced as a mutual avoidance, and he was glad to take the way of escape offered him from the straits into which his own want of self-command had brought theiu. But although they talked for some little time, he could see that she did so for form's sake, and perfectly understood and was satisfied that the friendship between them was at an end. He did not sit near her when tea was brought out under the trees ou the lawn, but he observed that she was amongst the most lighthearted of the party ; her laughter had a painful sound to his ear. Yet why should she not laugh '? She was giving up nothing. Well, thank Heaven, the worst was over now ! There was not much more of this day to get through ; they would be rowing home soon, and he would be out of sight of her dear face. He felt that his attitude of dispassionate studiy was not tenable after all. But when the time came for re-embarking, Mrs. Antrobus took it into her head to rearrange the crews, with the result that Orme had to give up his sculls to a yoimg man who had not been rowing as yet. ' Miss Chevening, will you come in my boat, please ? ' she said ; ' I am sm-e you must want some rest.' 'I'm not a. bit tired!' said Margot eagerly. ' Indeed I would rather row — if you don't mind I ' ' Then you shall. Mr. Orme, will go up to that little seat in the end, and you can take the place next to it.' The other boats were akeady occupied, and Margot had nothing to do but consent, though she would perhaps have preferred to ex- cuse herself. She was obliged to accept Orme's hand in stepping into the boat, which she did without looking at him. After all, it was Orme who had least cause to welcome an arrangement which broke through all his resolutions, and j'et he was disagreeably conscious of a secret satisfaction m being in her near neighbourhood. He need not speak to her, only lie there in a sort of dream, hstening to the tinkle and miu*mur of the water at the bows, and lazily watching the flakes of liquid light contracting, expanding, and interlacing over the olive-green ripples, while his eyes returned again and again to the figure iminediately before him. Her face was hidden from him, except that, as she turned her head now and then, he had a glimpse of the pure oval of her cheek, touched by the mellow light. How could she look so innocent of all that was cold and cruel, and yet be what she was ? — what she must be, if Millicent had spoken truth? "Wliat if he carried out his first intention after all, and asked Margot to tell him her story ? Oh, it was too late for that ! This afternoon had sundered them too far to make it ever THE TORTUEES OF INDECISION 301 possible to ask for any explanation with the slightest hope that she would deign to give it. Then he came to himself with a start. How much longer would he vacillate like this ? Had he not realised long ago that no expla- nation she could give would alter tlie impression of MiUicent's words ? Let him be thankful, then, that he was saved from the temptation of ignobly condoning what he knew should steel his heart against her for ever. In the meantime it was sweet, subtly, poisonouslj' sweet, to lie there and fancy what might have been. But here something happened which put an end to all idle dreaming of this kind. As he lay there in the bows he was startled by the sound of oars seemingly close behind them, and turned to see a racing ship bearing down on them at a good rate. ' Oh, dear ! ' cried Mrs. Antrobus helplessly, ' there's a boat right in front of us ; what ought I to do now ? ' For the good lady, owing to the incapacity of her young friend in the dust-cloak, had been holding the nadder-lines, with the management of which she was scarcely more familiar. Being requested to ' jmll to the right — hard,' she naturally hauled at the left with all the energy of complete flurry, and Orme, shouting to warn the approaching oarsmen, who had no coxswain, leaned forward with outstretched hand to break the shock of the collision which was now inevitable. Unfortunately for him, he had not calculated for the way on the other boat — the iron -tipped prow of the light ship caught his hand, and crushed it against the gunwale of the boat he was in, wedging it in the cleft it made in the upper plank. Neither boat, however, possibly owing to his interi^osition, was injured seriously ; there was the usual confusion and exchange of slightly recriminatory apologies, and then both boats went on their way. ' What stupid people ! ' Mrs. Antrobus remarked placidly, ' not to look where they were going to. I quite expected we should all be upset. You are sure no water can come through that crack, Mr. Orme ? ' ' It's all right,' he called to her. ' Well above the water ! ' ' I'm very glad it was no worse,' she said. ' I do wish people wouldn't be so careless ! ' ' I think,' remarked Margot over her shoulder, ' that you might have kept a more careful look-out, Mr. Orme,— you had nothing else to do ! ' He was setting his teeth hard to repress a groan ; trivial as the accident sounds, it caused him the most exquisite pain ; his thumb was laid open to the bone, and was bleeding copiously ; he tried to hold it in the water, but that only increased the burning throb which turned him sick and faint. And in the midst of all this came Miss Chevening's little gibe which sounded imfeeling enough just then. ' You are rather hard on me ! ' he managed to say in a low voice. 302 THE PARIAH ' Ain I ? ' she returned. ' I think people should not come out on these expeditions unless they intend to make themselves either useful or agreeable. I can't compliment you on having exliibited either quality at present.' ' I did not ask for compliments.' ' You do not give yourself the trouble to deserve them,' she answered, feeling seciure in the knowledge that then* conversation was inaudible to anj'one else in the boat. A pause, during which he was endeavouring to ptaunch the blood with his handkerchief. ' I do not see,' observed Miss Chevenmg at last, ' why two per- sons who have been on tolerably good terms for some time should suddenly behave with absolute incivility to one another.' ' Are we uncivil ? ' ' Are we ! Are we not ? Have you made a solitary remark of your own free will since we started an hour ago '? ' ' I might reply,' he said grimly — he was almost beside himself with physical pain — ' that yom- own efforts were not exactly con- ciUatory.' ' Perhaps not. Why should I concihate '? Why do you need conciliating ? ' He was silent ; the present was no time for explaining, even if he had felt equal to it just then ; as it was, this unexpected attack of hers in the state he was in tried his nerves and temper almost past endurance. ' You don't seem to have any answer to give me,' she continued remorselessly. ' Forgive me,' he said faintly ; ' I — I am really not quite myself just now — don't thinli me ungi-acious if I ask you to spare me all these questions.' She laughed. ' I have brought that on myself,' she said. ' I shall be careful how I invite such a hint agaui. Let me recommend you to smoke. I shall not mind in the least, and you are evidently in want of a sedative.' He did not answer. The pain he was in was so great as to make him almost unconscious, but through it all he felt the injustice of her speech. Should he tell her '? "What would she care ? A pinched thumb was not an accident to make a fuss about ; he did not want to make Mrs. Antrobus uncomfortable, or spoil the plea- sm-e of the party ; he could bear the pain — only, it must be in silence. It was not until they were m Boulter's lock that Miss Chevening addressed him again. ' I don't pretend to be useful in a lock,' she said. ' Surely you might exert yom'self to that slight extent, Mr. Orine ! ' ' I beg yom- pardon,' he said, stretchmg out his left hand for the boathook. ' I thought stroke was doing all that was necessary.' ' Wouldn't you on the whole be more successful in hookuig that chain if you used your right hand '? ' she suggested. THE TOKTURES OP INDECISION 303 He had been keeping it behind him as far as possible. ' No doubt,' he rephed wearily ; ' but it's shghtly disabled for the mo- ment.' Her eyes lost their mockery in an mstant as she read the Buflfering in his fece. ' How did 3-011 do it ? ' she asked. ' Let me see it, please ; I may be of some use ! ' ' You had better not ; it is not a pleasant sight. Never mind about it now. Miss Chevening, I don't want Mrs. Antrobus to know.' ' Show it to me at once,' she said. ' Oh, how dreadful ! — and how it is bleeding ! Why did you not tell me ? Let me bind it up for you. Yes, you must ! ' She took her own handkerchief and bound it round the wound with slim lingers which were gentle and firm, though her face was pale and her lips quivex'ing a little. Orme felt too weak to pro- test ; a moment before, and he had been thinking bitterly that she was indeed incapable of any tenderness, yet her whole expression now was softened by the sweetest compassion. When would he succeed in forgetting the touch of her hands as they ministered to him ? He tried to thank her, but she stopped him : ' I have only done what I should do for anybody,' she said hurriedly. ' This is a truce, you know. Dkectly you land you must go and see a sur- geon. We won't frighten dear Mrs. Antrobus by telling her till it is all over, will we ? But I wish you had let me know before.' As soon as they were at Maidenhead again, Margot found Hotham and made him take Orme in search of a surgeon, and after one or two fruitless visits they foimd an old gentleman who did all that was necessary. Orme came back with the pam considerably relieved, and found the rest of the party already at dinner, a vacant seat had been left for him next to Margot's, and he took it with a secret gratification. By this time his hostess had heard about the accident, and he was able to assm-e her that it was trifling enough. ' You don't think you'll have lockjaw ? ' she said anxiouslj\ ' I've known of it coming on when the thumb was injured. You are sure you feel able to eat? Lockjaw's such a di'eadt'ul thing to have ! And so you hurt yoiu: hand in that last lock '? I detest locks ! I can't think why they have them on the river at all — dangerous hindrances I call them ! ' She had no suspicion that her own erratic steering had contri- buted to Nugent's accident, for which he was thankful. His hand was bandaged in a manner ^v•hich made it difficult to use his linife, as Miss Chevening presently discovered. ' If you are not too independent,' she said, with a touch of shyness, ' you had better let me cut up your food for you.' He protested, laughing, that he would not trouble her, and per- severed. ' Why are you so obstinate ? ' she said at last, after watchmg his unavailing efforts. ' You know you are perfectly heli^less I It is, 304 THE PAKIAH not a very overwhelming obligation, I slionld have thought,' she added, a little wistfully. He had to yield and allow her to render him this prosaic service, which she performed with a serious dignity that lent it a mj^sterious charm. It was pleasant — that dinner in the hotel room, with the French windows opening on the lawn and its rose trees, r.'^ "' the river, where the passing boats left a sparkling white trail as they glided by in the dusk. How could he help being sensible of the dangerous attractiveness of his lovely neighbour ? Was it wonderful that the yearning returned to believe her all he had once imagined, the insidious desperate hope that, if he had com-age to appeal to her, the shadow that stood between them might by some inexplicable means be made to disappear ? But he saw no real i:)rospect of it ; she would not even give him the opportunity of speaking now, supposing he were willing. This was only a truce, as she seemed constantly to be reminding him ; very soon they would be on their way to town, and he would see her no more. She had far too much spirit not to accept the total estrangement he had suggested. Be it so, then — it brought him back to his original position. Nothing could be done ; the barrier between them was not to be removed wdthout ignormg her conduct to Allen. He could not ignore it — he should despise himself if he could. And unless he could do this, the less he saw of her in future the better for his own honour and happiness. So when they adjourned to the lawn for coffee, he devoted him- self to Mrs. Antrobus with a thankful sense that his term of probation was nearly at an end. The young lady in the dust-cloak, which nothing had induced her to remove throughout the day, had betrayed one constant anxiety, the fear that she would not retm'n to town in time for a certain dance, and Mrs. Antrobus had accordingly arranged to go back by an earlier train for her sake. And now the waiter appeared with the announcement that the flies were at the door and, if they wished to catch the earlier train, they must go at once. There was some amount of bustle and confusion before they could get off, and Orme found himself, without any contrivance on his own part, in the same open carriage as Margot, with Guy and Ida as the other occupants. As they approached the station, a train passed along the high embankment in sharp relief against the green sky. The driver whipped his horse into a gallop. ' We shall miss it ! ' cried Guy. ' Our young friend in the dust-cloak will lose her dance, which will be a pity, for I believe she had dressed for it before she came out ! ' ' And that was why she kept the cloak on — to hide her ball- dress ! ' said Ida. ' She talked of nothing but dancing the whole day. It was aU " Had we been to such a ball ? Were we going to Mrs. So-and-So's dance ? " So silly— as if it mattered ! ' THE TORTURES OP INDECISION 305 The train had stopped ; as the fly rolled up to the end of the steps, they heard the whisile ; they reached the platforna to find it empty. 'They've gone on without us!' said Guy, without exhibiting any inconsolable depression. ' I daresay they thought we had got in somewhere. Well, tve can't help it, can we ? ' Since for that early train we're late, We will not make our woes the text Of sermons to the Times^but wait On for the next ! ' he quoted, adapting Calvcrley to his own purposes. Margot had said nothing ; she was already walking slowly towards the end of the platform. Ida, declaring that she was tired, had sat down, and Guy had followed her example. Orme stood for a moment irresolute — he could hardly allow Miss Chevening to promenade the platform alone ; he would at least leave it to her to decline his escort if she chose, as she probably would choose. She had turned and was coming towards him, looking subdued and sad, and a little weary, and he waited for her with a heart that began to beat faster. It might be that the opportunity he had half longed for, half dreaded, had come at last. If only he could feel sure what he would say or leave unsaid ! CHAPTER V. MISS chevening's candour. L'envie de faire voir nos defauts du cote que nous voulons Lien les montrer fait une grande partie de notre sincerite. — La, Rochefoucauld. ' Is your hand still painful ? ' was Miss Chevening's first question, put after a moment of embarrassed silence and with a touch of very imiisual timidity. ' A little,' he replied ; ' nothing worth speaking of — it will be all right in a day or two.' ' It looked such a dreadful wound,' she said, closing her eyes light, like a child, at the recollection. ' You must have thought I was very unfeeling in the boat,' she went on ; ' but I had no idea that you were hurt at all until we were in that lock.' ' I quite understood,' he said heartily. ' Pray don't say any- thing more about it.' She stood at the edge of the platform looking down on the rails and ballast for some time, and then she suddenly raised her eyes and turned to him : ' I wish,' she said impetuously, ' I wish you would tell me what I have done that displeases you.' It was precisely the question he had been determined to avoid, 306 THE PArjAH and jet, now that it had come, the temptation to appeal to her was very strong. He put it by for the time liowever — ' How have I shown that I was displeased ? ' he said. ' How ? By your behaviour all through the day — j'oii liave not once spoken to me except when you could not possibly help your- self. If we had never met before, instead of being, as I thought only a little time ago, quite old friends, you could not have been more stiff and formal. It is useless to deny it, and, if you please, I am rather curious to know what it all means.' She was trying to speak lightlj' and unconcernedlj', but there was a real anxiety in her eyes — a wistful desire to know whether something she seemed to fear was true. Orme was moved in spite of himself; there was something frank and natural in this direct challenge which seemed inspired by a consciousness of innocence. If, after all, he had been too hasty to judge her ; if — but he dared not indulge such a supposition — she could not be innocent. 'I cannot tell you,' he said, ' without going into matters that you have forbidden me to speak about.' 'Ah, then I can guess — it is something to do with Allen ! There, I knew I was right — it is always Allen. I did ask you not to men tion his name to me again, I remember ; never mind, I give you leave to mention it now as much as you please — so long as you tell me what you have heard that seems to have given you such a bad opinion of me.' ' I will tell you, then,' he said bluntly. ' I have heard that it was you who obliged him to leave home, against his will. Do you deny it ? ' ' I was sure that Millicent had told you,' she said. ' No, why should I deny it ? It is true.' It was over. She had admitted it. His last feeble spark of hope had died. ' And you made me believe he had gone out of his own free will ; that it was his own plan which you had helped him to carry out ! ' Margot coloured. ' You assumed that it was so, and I did not choose to undeceive you. Was that very wicked of me ? ' ' You had the right to refuse me your confidence if you thought fit. No — the wickedness (you used the word first) was not towards me.' ' Y^'ou do think I acted wickedly then ? ' she said. ' May I ask where you consider my wickedness lay ? ' ' Where ? ' he cried, all his indignation roused afresh by her in- sensibility. ' Is it possible you need me to point it out to you ? Ask yourself what harm that poor fellow had done to J'ou, that you could not be content until he was sent out of your sight '? Oh, I know all you would say. He irritated your nerves, offended j'our fastidiousness, made you ashamed of him in a hundred ways. Granted all that, was it any reason why you should use all j-our influence to have him sent away from his home, where he was lionestly trying to improve, where his only chance of improvement MISS C'lIEVENINCr's CANDOUR P>07 was ? Yon knew, because you were warned, that the life you meant liim to lead was one that he had no liking for, and as little fitness. You might have had some pity on him, and declined to condemn him, untrained, ill-regulated, friendless as he was, to exile ; but you would not listen ; you cai'ried your point, and yoii cannot even see at what a cost to another you have purchased yom* own com- fort ! I am not good at hiding my thoughts. Knowing all this, I can't behave as if — as if it made no difference. It does make a difference — all the difference in the world, as far as I am concerned. Of course, I know very well that you can dispense easily enough with my friendship — I wish it was as easy for me to withdraw — as I must.' ' You are certainly outspoken,' she said haughtil}' ; ' even Millicent was not more candid. It seems that I must resign my- self to lose your friendship, too, then '? I don't jiretend not to feel a little sorry ; I even think ^'ou are rather hard on me.' She turned away her head for a moment. ' If j'ou knew inore j'oii might inake some allowances for me, you might come to believe that I am not such a monster of hard-heartedness as you imagine ; but I don't know — very likely I am as wicked as j^ou say ; it is not worth discussing my precise shade of iniquity ! ' She paused, and then resumed more gently: 'It is silly of me to care,' she said; ' but after all, I do care. I don't choose that you should go away with a worse impression than I deserve. I have a right to be heard in my own defence. I am going to tell you what nobody knows outside my own family; perhaps it is wrong, imdignified, to speak at all after what j'ou have said — but you will not misunder- stand my motives. I am not begging for your friendship, I only wish you to know my side of the story. ' You don't know all I had to bear. You speak of Allen as harmless, as if roughness and want of manners were his worst faults. If that had been all — but — but there are things I can't tell you. One thing I must. He was bad, reallij bad. Even at TrouviUe I saw that. He was— dishonest. Ah, you don't believe it; 5'ou think it is all prejudice, and you have made up your mind that he was ill-used — a poor, harmless, well-meaning creature ! What will you say when I tell you that he was caught in the very act of stealing '? He was — he stole a locket ; a valuable locket belonging to me. It was his father — not I — who deteruiined that the only course to take after that was to send him abroad. And then Allen begged to have his conduct passed over ; to be allowed to live at home just as before, and, as I was the person he had — had robbed, they left it to me to say whether he should be sent away or not. Put yourself in my position for a moment. I dis- liked him (I have never disguised that — we all disliked him). I was afraid of him. I — I had reasons. After the way he had behaved, it was simply impossible to live on in the same house together. And — though of course you may not choose to believe me— I did honestly think that India was the best place for him; 308 THE PARIAH that he would like his new life when he was once there ; be kept from falling again into bad habits. j\Iy step-father himself took that view. What other answer conld I give ? If I could have foreseen — but how could I ? So I said — what you know, and if I had to go through it all over again I should do exactly the same. I can't help it if it horrifies j-ou — I know I should.' To estimate the effect of her words upon Orme, it must be re- membered how strong her personal fascination had been over him from the first ; how imjiossible it had been to liim, even when he most condemned what she had done, to feel harshly towards her. He had spoken sternly, but it was the crime, not the crimmal, that excited his indignation, and some of his sternness was due perhaps to a secret consciousness that he was only too much dis- posed to leniencj'. And now he had heard her account — and he could hold out against her no longer. He never doubted that she was speaking the truth ; her manner was too entirely convincing to admit of that, and her story gave him the excuse he had longed for and despaired of for acquitting her of all that had seemed most cold- blooded and miscrupulous. Thank God, she was less to blame than he could ever have hoped to find her ! If the part she had played was not the most merciful, at least it had been forced upon her ; she had not acted without provocation — how great provocation and for how long, who could say ? Faulty as she might be, he knew the worst : it gave him no right to judge her, it made it no shame to love her still. Oh, the inexpressible relief of knowing that ! ^Yhat should he say to her ? how retract the accusation he had presumed, in his self-righteous folly, to bring against her ? He was saved from the necessity of speaking immediately by the deafening rush and roar of an express througli the station. Wlien the long line of rocking carriages, with the comfortable pro- files at the lighted windows, had passed, leaving a whirlwind of cold air in its wake, Margot came forward from the palings to which she had retreated. ' I am waiting for you to say something,' she said. ' I want to know what you thmk of all this — now I have told you ? ' ' What am I to say to you ? ' he said. ' If I had known aU this I would have cut my tongue out sooner than say what I did ! Why did you not tell MiUicent what you have just told me ? ' ' Why ? Because I did not choose. Do you think it is so easy and pleasant to expose one's familj^ secrets ? Besides, MiUicent woidd not have listened — she would not have beheved me, very likely. Are you quite sure that you believe me yom-self ? ' ' You can't forgive me ! ' he cried. ' I don't wonder. But, in- deed, I had no idea before that that poor fellow had any actual harm in him — it never entered my head that he was a scoundi'el— wiss chevening's candour 309 that any temptation could have made him a thief ! I was mistaken in him, it seems. If that liad been my worst mistake — ' ' And you don't think I was wrong in having him sent away ? ' ' Wrong ? I don't know : I have no right to judge. Perhaps, if— bad as he was— you could have given him one more chance — But you say there are circumstances j'ou can't tell me. I suppose there was no other course to take. And I ought to have known that you would not act lightly, or without compunction or pity for him. I ought to have felt that. "Will you ever forgive me, Miss Chevening, for saying such things as I did to you ? Are we still friends ? ' She had recovered her ascendency over him, but the victory seemed to have aroused the sense of injm-y — she could not bring herself to overlook his offence. Having humbled herself to make a particular statement to avoid forfeiting his regard, and, having succeeded, she could not yet forgive him for forcing such an ex- planation from her. ' Then you really do propose to honour me with your fi-iendship after all ! ' she exclaimed. ' Had you not better reflect a little before you commit yourself again ? ' ' Now 3'ou are cruel ! ' he said in a low voice. ' No, I am not. Bemember how solemnly you renounced any further acquaintance with me a few minutes ago. You oughtn't to be surprised if I feel a little doubt about our futm-e relations. Naturall}^ I should like to be spared any repetition of to-day's — uncertainty ! ' ' Our future relations must depend on you — not me,' he said. ' Must they ? Then I will try not to decide hastily. I will think over it ; there will be plenty of time to do that before we meet again, and then I shall jirobably know better than I do now what I really feel about it. Don't let us say any more about it just now, and I think we had better go back to my sister and Mr. Hotham — our train must be almost due by this time.' He obeyed gloomily enough. Clearly there was nothing to be gained by pressmg her for an answer while she was in her present mood. He had offended her, and if she chose to treat him coldly in the future, or even drop him altogether, it would only be what he deserved. And, as he thought of this, he felt a bitterness rising in his heart against the absent and missing Allen, in whose un- worthy cause he had incurred the crushing burden of his lady's displeasure. On returning to the sheltered part of the station, where by this time a considerable crowd had collected, thej^ found Guy Hotham and Ida still on the seat where they had been left. Ida rose and came to naeet her sister ; drawing her apart, ' Margot,' she said hurriedly, her face looking white and frightened under the gaslight, • do you know who is here — on the platform ? ' A certain apprehension was visible in the elder sister's face, ' Not — not Allc7i ? ' she exclaimed under her breath, 310 THE PARIAH ' No, no — Mr. Melladew.' Margot's expression relaxed. ' Is that all, dear ? ' she said, with a laugh. ' ^Yhat if he is ? ' ' Nothing,' said Ida nervously. ' Only I thought I would tell you — in case . . . Margot, ,you won't recognise him, will you ? ' ' I have no particular wish to speak to Mr. Melladew, dear ; why are you so anxious that I should cut him dead ? ' ' Because I am,' said Ida impatiently. ' You will do as I ask you, Margot, won't you? ' ' Certainly, dear. I should have done so in any case, for that matter. I don't suppose he is at all anxious for a recognition.' The train came up just tlien, and the four had just secured an empty compartnaent when a fifth person entei'ed. It was Melladew, somewhat altered from the slim and elegant tutor of two years ago ; he had gi'own stouter and flabbier, he was less carefully dressed, he had evidently not been to Maidenhead for boating purposes. He took the middle seat between Orme and Ida, opposite to Margot. Ida had shrixnk back, with a deep flush, and turned her face to the window, which seemed to disconcert him. Poor Melladew bore it as long as he could. He had apparently counted upon being recognised, and Margot's eyes showed no con- sciousness of having seen him before ; he seemed half inclined to recall himself to her recollection, but his courage failed him, as well it might. Finally, after growing more and more ill at ease, he left the carriage at the next station with a pathetic little sigh as he let dow'n the glass. ' That fellow looked as if he fancied he knew you. Miss Cheven- ing,' said Guy, after he had gone. ' He opened his mouth to speak once or twice, and then thought better of it.' ' He fomid out his mistake in time, I suppose,' said Margot in- differently. ' I hate having to tell people I don't know them, don't you ? ' And this led Guy to recount his own experiences of a similar kind, which had the desired effect of diverting the conver- sation from its original subject. But the conversation soon Hagged and became spasmodic ; Ida took no part in it, and sat gazing abstractedly out into the darkness, while Guy was watching her with a cloud on his face ; Margot lay back with her eyes closed, and Orme was silently reproaching him- self for his own precipitate folly in speaking as he had done. How could he have taken up the cause of such a worthless being as Allen against a girl like this one opposite — a girl who, as his instinct sliould have told him, was sweet and noble and good ? It was natural that she should shrink from her step-brother, natural that she should resent having to associate with him. Ought she to have borne with him, to have pleaded for him ? No doubt a creature who was all angelic lueekness would have done so — Margot Chevening was not meek : she was no angel, and he loved her the better for it. Allen had forfeited all his sympathy : he saw him now as an irreclaimably vicioiis young scamp, for whom exile was MISS chevening's candouu 311 probably a better fate than he deserved. And what had Margot done but dechned to intervene ? Orine grew hot as he thought of aU his heroics. How coukl she pardon the things he had said to her '? How couhl he pardon himself such sentimental quixotry '? And yet, in truth, he need not have been ashamed of his indig- nation — it was the effect of a generous sympathy with the unfortu- nate and oppressed ; he had spoken mider pressure, sacrificing his love to his sense of honour and justice ; it was not his fault that he had not been more fully informed. Some would have held that, even on the facts, she had not cleared lierself entirely from the charges that had been brought against her. But with Orme the reaction was too complete ; he loved her too well to have any reservations or self-justifications now. He was only too thankful to have it demonstrated to him that his love need not be renounced, that his divinity was not to be dethroned. And yet, as he realised bitterly, he had lost her again in the very act of regaining her ! Ah, if only he had never listened to Millicent — if only he had had more confidence : but it was too late now for regi'ets of this sort, he must wait the course of events. And at last^t seemed an interminable journey to more than one of the party — they were at Paddington, standing together under the bluish glare of the electric lights. While a hansom was being called for the two sisters, Orme found an opportunity to make one last appeal to Margot. ' I don't ask you to forgive me,' he said — ' at least, not now, but think as kindly of me as you can. You don't know how severe a punislunent it would be to me to feel I had lost your fi'iendship past all recovery ! ' Such humility was almost a j)rovocation to trample upon it. * Shall I tell you how yoit may make your punishment easier ? ' she asked. ' If you ^^•ill ! ' he said, more hopefully. ' It is quite simple : you have only to forget our last conversa- tion — then my friendship will be as undesirable as you seem to have been considering it all day. Good-night, Mr. Orme.' She gave him her hand without looking at him, and he stood by helplessly while Guy Hotham put her into the hansom. Orme had a glimpse of her pale, proud profile as the cab passed him ; she did not appear to notice his bow — she was mortally offended ; he gazed after the hansom with a sigh. Just then his feeUng towards Millicent was hardly brotherlj-. ' What have you done to poor Mr. Hotham, Ida ? ' asked Margot, as they drove home — ' he seemed quite depressed ; you haven't been quan-elling, have you ? ' ' No,' said Ida ; ' at least, I don't know how it was. He was very pleasant while we were at Taplow — imtil that hateful Mr. Meiladew came up and sat down quite close by us, and somehow it — it worried me so, Margot, and I couldn't go on talking, and I'm afraid Guy — Mr. Hotham — noticed it, for he changed directly.' ' But why should seeing Mr. Meiladew worry you ? You made 312 THE PARIAH a perfect goose of yourself when he followed tis into the carriage, do 3'ou know ? ' ' Did I ? Do you think Mr. Hotham saw it ? I couldn't help it, Margot. Seeing him again like that made me remember things. And I want to forget them — I thought I had forgotten! ' ' It is rather foolish, don't j^ou think, to feel so strongly about poor Camilla, after all these years ? I know she treated you very badly in going away without a word as she did, but I don't see that Mr. Melladew was so much to blame,' said Margot, innocently enough. ' Really, when I saw him silting there, with that taU- beiween-the-legs expression, begging to be noticed, I was half- inclined to speak to him — perhaps it was better not.' ' Much, better ! ' declared Ida. ' I'm so glad j-ou didn't. If yoii had, I would not have stayed in the carriage. Wasn't he look- ing fat and horrid ? ' she added vindictively. ' I wish I had not seen him — he quite spoilt my day ! ' ' Something always does hajipen sooner or later to spoU a day when you come out expressly for pleasure,' said Margot wearily ; ' however, this one is over, thank goodness ! ' Orme and Hotham were walking back to their rooms through the hot streets now shuttered and silent. Neither Guy nor Nugent was inclined for conversation. ' We don't seem particularly lively to-night,' observed the younger man at length. ' What is it you want to do ? ' inquired Orme — ' dance home ? ' ' I feel about as much like dancing as you do just now, I can tell you,' remarked Guy gloomily. ' I've had a beastly day.' ' If it's any comfort to you to know it,' said Oi"me, with a short laugh, ' so have I. But I should have thought you had no reason to complain, at all events.' ' That's all you know ! Not that I had, till just at the end. We were getting on together like — like bricks, and then, all at once, something I said didn't please her. I'm sure I don't know wh}', I don't remember saying anything she could take offence at — but she did ; she turned perfectly silent, would hardly speak to me, let me see as plainly as possible that I was boring her ■ — so at last I gave it up. It's hard lines, Orme, I can tell you,' continued Guy, with a suspicious break in his voice, ' when you care -for a girl as I do for Ida, to feel you — j'ou only bore her ! ' Orme laughed — it is Avonderful how wretched one can be and yet laugh. ' How can you possibly tell if she was bored ? She probably had a headache or something ; you don't mean to say j-ou've been constructing a tragedy out of that ! My dear Guy, yoti must be desperately bent on being miserable ! ' ' Then you don't think — ? But I don't know, I'm not clever, Orme — you are, you know! ' ' Am I ? ' said Orme bitterly. ' I have been very clever to-day -^I've done for myself with Miss Chevenirig ! ' MISS chevening's candour 313 'I'm sorry, old chaii,' said Hotham, witli sufficient sympathy. • Perhaps if —if you try your hick again later— don't you think ? ' ' It wasn't tiiat — never mind what it was — but I shall never have the chance of trying my luck at all now.' ' Well, you know,' said Guy, with a mistaken attempt at conso- lation, ' between ourselves, she's a deuced pretty girl and all that — but I never took to her myself; I'm not sure you're not well out of it on the ' Orme threw off his friend's arm. ' You mean well, I dare say,' he said giinilj- ; ' but if you have any more comfort of that peculiar kind to offer me, I shall walk home on the other side of the street. If you mnst talk, talk of something j^ou rmderstand, for Heaven's sake ! ' Guy whistled and walked on in silence, rather offended, thoiigli he ended by making alloAvances for his friend's state of mind. ' And, by gad ! ' he reflected, ' he may say what he likes — but I'm not so far wrong ! I shouldn't like to marry that girl, I know ; now Ida ' And here he became reabsorbed in an attempt to convince him- self that his self-distrust was after all without sufficient foundation. ' She wasn't bored all the time, any way ! ' he told himself, with reviving sphits. CHAPTER VL IN A BALCONY. On pardonne tant que Ton aime. — La Bochefoucauld, The Sunday which followed seemed to Orme the most miserable day he had ever sj^ent in his life. He did not, as he had done on one or two occasions of late, accompany Guy to the fashionable chm-ch on the other side of the Park which Mrs. Chadwick and her daughters attended, nor did he appear at the ' Parade ' afterwards. It was a fine hot June Sunday, the parks and main thoroughfares were crowded, but Orme carefully kept away from any places where there was any prospect of seeing Miss Chevening — he had good reason for his avoidance now, whatever had been the case before. Instead, he wandered, without caring where, down airless back streets where tired women sat listlessly behind their dusty window, panes, through decorous squares, and along roads alive with Sunday traffic, Salvationists, street preachers. Socialists, pleasure-seekers^ all of whom he found himself regarding with a sick hatred. And ever at the bottom of his thoughts was the maddening recollection of yesterday ; his speech — that priggish, self-righteous speech — ■ never to be recalled — what red-hot twinges of impatient misery he felt at the memory of it ! And Margot, {is she defended herself, 314 THE PARIAH woiUcl he never forget the strange loveUness of her pale indignant face as he had seen it there against the green and sat'h'on ^iiy ? AYhat an incredible fool he had been ! Would it be ui any use to write to her — to put before her all that the withdrawal of her fii-iendship would mean to him '? His worldly wisdom saved him from 3'ielding to such an impulse as that. He must wait, that was all, mitil he met her again and knew whether her resentment was really incapable of being appeased. But it was this forced inaction, this sensation of utter f)owerlessness to do anything to help his own cause that was so tormenting. And so all that brilliant Sunday his mind revolved in the same dreary round, like a caged squirrel. Fortunately for him, this extreme dejection could not endure beyond that one day ; with the morning came the distraction of his ordinary professional cares, to which even Miss Chevening and her just displeasiu'e had temporarily to give place. And in a shorter time than he could have anticipated he had brought himself to a philosophical — though very far from cheerful — resignation. If he could not hope for her love — and that, he was now convinced, had never been anything but the wildest dream — did it matter so much that he must go without her friendship ? "What was her friendship for him but a mockery, if she could never give him more ? He had only wrecked his chances of happiness a little prematurely — it must have come at some time. All of which philosophy was of course instantly vanquished by a note which came to him from Mrs. Antrobus before many days had gone by. It was merely an invitation to an imjpromptib cUnner — ' a very small party,' apologies for short notice, and so forth. Should he go '? There was more than a chance that that small party would turn out to include ]\Iiss Chevening. If so, she would assm-edly find the means of settling all his doubts one way or the other. But if she proved implacable — what a protracted ordeal that dumer would be, to be close to her and meet only subdued hostility in her eyes — was it Avise to submit himself to that ? AVise or unwise, he would risk it — perhaps she would not be there after all : he discovered tliat Guj- had received no invitation, which was some gi'ound for inferring that Ida Chevening, at least, was not to be one of his aunt's guests on that particular occasion. It was hardly lilielj^ that the elder sister had been asked alone — no, he might go in perfect security that he would not be called upon to endure the ordeal of meeting her that evening. Havmg arrived at these conclusions, it was strange, perhaps, that his heart should beat so much more quickly than usual, and that he should have that curious sensation that was neither hope nor apprehension, but something compounded of both, as he was taken up in the lift to the floor in Albert Hall Mansions on which was Mrs. Antrobus's fiat. He was a little before his time, which happened to be an earlier hour than usual, and he found his hostess alone when he entered the drawing-room. 'That's right,' she said approvingly; 'I like IN A I3ALC0NY 315 my young men to be punctual. I hope you understand I have scarcely anyone to meet you ? So difficult to get people at short notice ji;st now ! I've had two disappointments as it is.' (Orme was wondering whether Margot was one of them, and whether he was more glad or sorry.) ' Now I'll tell j'ou who are coming. There's a Mrs. Maberly, she's a widow, and rather an invalid — and likes it. I met her abroad, she's a great traveller, I believe, never settles anywhere. Then there's her brother, a Mr. Langrish, he has some appointment in Japan — Yokohama, I think it is — but he's home on leave just now. Accordmg to his sister, he's every- thmg that's delightful, though I confess I've not discovered it for myself as yet. Oh, and there's one other — Miss Chevening. I found out quite by accident that she was going to be all alone this evening, so I wrote off and seciu'ed her. Mr. Langrish is by way of being a gi'cat admirer of pretty faces,' said the old lady, as if this were a somewhat eccentric and unusual taste, ' and I thought I'd show him quite the loveliest person of my acquaintance. Don't you agi-ee \\ ith me ? — but I needn't ask you that. By the way, I quite thought you were all in the train somewhere that Saturday till we got to Paddington and I couldn't see j^ou anywhere. I'd promised that girl solemnly she should be back m time for her party, and I was so flurried I couldn't think about anything else. But of course I didn't worry myself — I knew those two young ladies would be all right under your care, and I daresay,' she added, with a twmkle in her eye, ' that neither of you yoiing men objected to w'aiting a Httle. But mind, I can't allow you to monopolise pretty Miss Margot to-night — do you hear ? ' Orme smiled ruefully enough. He was thinking that there was email danger of that. But at least he would see her again. At any moment she might enter. He could picture exactly how she would come in with her small, stately head held well up, and her clear eyes shinmg — and presently she would see him, and what would she do then '? There his second-sight was at fault, and indeed it seenis sometimes as if Fate had the same dislike as a stammerer to being anticii^ated even in the most obvioiis conclusion, and will go out of her way to avoid accepting a hint. At all events that mental picture of Orme's, which it seemed so absolutely safe to draw, was not realised that evening. The electric beU sounded outside, and Bent an absolutely sttperflttous thrill through him, for it proved to be only Mrs. Maberly and her brother who were annomiced. She was tall and drooping, with the mannered sweetness and plaintive languor of a person who wishes it understood that it is nothing but i^rmciple which keeps her from expiring. ' How do you do, dear Mrs. Aiatrobus ? ' she said mournfully. ' I quite de sjiaired of coming to you — such a fatiguing morning ; I've been positively fit for nothing ever since — I've been helping a friend to choose an umbrella ! ' ' My sister,' explained Mr. Langrish, ' attacks these problems in a conscientious spirit.' 316 THE PARIAH 'Oh, she begged me to go -with her, poor thing!' said Mrs. Maberly ; ' not that I was of much use — for they opened such hosts of them that I got quite confused at last.' Mr. Langrish was some years older than his sister, and looked about forty-five ; like her, lie had good featiures, but his faded eyes and the sardonic lines about his mouth gave Orme a disagi-eeable impression. They stood there for some little time, exchanging the makeshift conversation that precedes the announcement of dinner, and grad- Tially Orme began to have an ominous conviction that Margot was not coming. It was long past the hour, but she failed to make that entrance he had pictured, and at last the hostess lost patience. ' I was expectmg somebody else,' she said, as she rang the bell, ' but it's really no use waiting any longer — she won't come now ! Some- thing must have prevented her, or she forgot, or made a mistake in the day — it's really very naughty of her.' Mr. Langrish seemed indifferent on the subject so long as dinner was not to be delayed, but Orme took Mrs. Maberly in with a hea^y heart. She would not come. Mrs. Antrobus's acceptance of the fact seemed to have made it final, and he thought he knew why Miss Chevening preferred to break her engagement — she had found out or suspected that he was to be there ! So he crumbled the bread of affliction as he sat there, opposite the empty chair where she should have been, and soup, fish, and wine had all the same tastelessness. And then suddenly the bell rang at last ; he tried to keep do'wn the rising hope — it was the servant with the note of apology — and yet no, it was no manservant's voice he heard in the anteroom. ' Why, there she is after all ! ' cried Mrs. Antrobus, and rose to upbraid and bring in the dehnquent. And then Margot's clear voice could be heard — she had mistaken the hour, that was the very commonplace explanation of what his egotism had construed as fatal. Angry or indifferent — what mattered now she had come ? And presently Miss Chevening entered, looking meeker under the sense of wrongdoing, but with her usual air of pretty composm-e. 'And you and IMr. Orme already know one another,' Mrs. Antrobus had added, after mentioning the names of the other guests. ' We have — met before,' she had replied, with a smile which told him nothing, though, as he might have known, she was not likely to betray her feehngs in any consi^icuous manner just then. She seemed to have brought new life and animation into the party, which had decidedly been in need of some stimulus. Mr. Langrisli's pale eyes lighted up, and he exerted himself as her neighbour to be worthy of his unexpected good luck. He could be amusing in his cool, cj'nical way when he thought it worth the trouble, as he evidently did now, and Miss Chevening was willing to be pleased. Orme observed her furtively as she sat opposite ; she was wearing black that evening, some soft gauzy material with half pleeves of dehcatc lace ; there was a spray of scarlet flowers at her IN A BALCON-? 817 breast, a small diamond star scintillated in her hair, as she turned her head to listen to Lanf3rrish's somewhat acrid pleasantries. Once more Orme could look upon her and admire and love her with a love that had no tormenting misgivings — but it was too late ; he had wronged her past all hope of forgiveness, and it was a greater distance that separated them now than that daintily ar- ranged table. With so small a party the conversation was necessarily more or less general, and she could hardly have avoided speaking to him from time to time without making it obvious. And as she clearly had no intention of this, he had to bear his part — to reply to the careless remarks she made to him, and address her on occasions, without betraying to anyone but her that he was not misled by the unreality of it all. For of course he knew that she had not forgotten, even if it suited her to appear to do so for the present ; she would show him how far she was from forgetting when her opportunity came, unless she intended to adopt this indifferent treatment of him always in the future. That he would not endure — it would be too maddening; it should be either all or nothing — he would tell her so and leave it to her to decide. All this was passing in his mind while he was listening to Mrs, Maberlj', who was confiding to him her difficulties in engaging suitable companions. ' I must have a cheerful person about me,' she was sajdng mournfully ; ' I am so fond of cheerfulness, and that is such a rare thing in these daj^s. It's quite delightful to me to meet anyone fresh and bright — like your opposite neighbour, for instance,' she went on, lowermg her voice — ' and such a lovely face, too ! I don't suppose she has ever known what care and suffering are, and it's so good for one to come across young people like that now and then. I'm so glad for my brother to have seen her — I assure you I can scarcely believe he's the same person ! — But I was tellmg yow about companions : you wouldn't believe what trouble I've had with them ! I alwaj-s make a pomt of engaging some one in — in one's own position m life, you know, and treating her as a personal friend ; but they are so tiresome, always fancying themselves slighted or something ridiculous of the sort, and in travelling they're worse than useless ; the last one I had expected vie to take the tickets, and keep the seats, and do everj-- thmg. And when we were at Homburg, if I met any friends I knew and she was with me, she never thought of walliing on, she would hang about, and then sulk because I didn't introduce her ! I suppose you don't happen to know any nice cheerful girl w^ho is willing to go out as a companion ? My iDresent companion mopes all day long, and I really can not bear it, my nerves are not strong enough — as I said before, cheerfulness is absolutely a ne- cessity to me ! ' Orme had to confess his inability to recommend any candidate 018 THE rARIAII for what he privately' thought might prove a somewhat exacting post, and so i\Irs. Maberly meanderod on in a description of her Continental wanderings, from which it appeared that she had been at the point of death at every hcaUh resort in Europe, and had been carried insensible through all the finest scenery. He liad only to listen and commiserate at the proper moments, while at the same time not one of Margot's words or gestin-es escaped him, as she tallied to Langrish and Mrs. Antrobus, with a gaiety that seemed spontaneous enough and was certainh' charming. The ladies rose, and Orme and Langrish were left to improve their acquaintance. ' As we've got leave to smoke,' said Langrish, ' I'm going to take Mrs. Antrobus at her word, and have a cigarette. Worst of women's dinners is, they will 7iot keep cigars — though perhaps that's just as well. If thej' gave you one it would be sure to be the sort of brand you get for knocking down a cocoa-mit ! It's something to be al- lowed to smoke at all. You do smoke '? Try one of these. Yon won't be tempted, eh ? Just as you please — I shall.' Orme declined, thoiigh he was very far from despising that solace at other times ; a cigarette is not a very crushing obUgation, and yet he did not wish to be indebted, even to this trifling extent, to this man. Besides, he felt that Miss Chevening's fastidiousness might lead her to question the smcerity of a penitence flavoured with recent tobacco. ' I suppose,' said Langi'ish, lazil}' adapting hunself to his chair, ' yon come here pretty often, eh '? ' ' I have only known Mrs. Antrobus a few months,' said Orme. ' I have dined here before, yes.' ' And, if I heard rightly, this is not the first time you've met that extremely charming j'oung lady who seems to have somewhat vague notions of time.' ' No, it's not,' Orme said, feeling unreasonably averse to hearing Margot discussed by this sallow and blase stranger, ' I've been away from England so long, I'm out of it all. "Who is the lady ? — for as usual I didn't succeed in catching her name.' Orme informed him shortly. ' And I suppose she's one of the great catches this season — an heiress, and so on.' 'I've no reason to believe so— but I really know nothing about it.' ' Heiress or no heiress, she won't be allowed to remain Miss Chevening long with that face, I should say.' He was watching Orme'sface narrowly as he made this supposition with an overdone carelessness. ' Most probably not,' Orme agreed, in no very encovu'aging tone. ' Ah,' said Langi-ish, with a certain air of relief, ' yon feel no interest in the question, or you wouldn't speak like that. "When a man comes to my age,' and he gave an awkward little laugh which seemed to invite a protest, 'he finds himself a looker-on by ne- IN A PALCONY 319 cessity as well as choice. I used to hold, as very likely you do now, that no woman was worth sacrificing one's liberty for. I don't say I was wrong now, and yet if I had had the luck to meet — well, a girl like this Miss AVhat's-her-name, when I was younger, I fancy I should have been tempted to alter my opinion. I don't know — any way, it's too late to speculate about it now. It's some fellow of her own generation that she's destined to make happy— or con- foundedly miserable, as the case may be — and she looks as if she Avas capable of doing both, probably has done both already more than once ! It would be interesting to follow the career of a girl like that as a dispassionate observer, and see Avhat she makes of it. I pity tlie man who mp.rries her without mastering her — she'd lead him a dog's life ; and yet, after all, I dare say she would be kind to her dog if he behaved himself ! ' He was meditating aloud as he regarded his half-smoked cig- arette with lack-lustre eyes. When a professed cynic does indulge in sentiment, he seldom does it by halves, and Langrish was at once a pathetic as well as a slightly absurd spectacle in his evident inability to conceal the impicssion Miss Chevening had made upon his experienced heart. AVliether it was fellow-feeling or a con- sciousness that, desperate as his own case was, his companion's was even more hopeless, Orme foi;nd himself disliking him less, though he did not allow himself on that account to be drawn into any specu- lations concerning Miss Chevening's future. And soon, after a few desultory remarks on other subjects, Langrish threw down his cigarette, and, nmch to Orme's relief, pro- posed til at tliey should go into the drawing-room. The last Hush of simset had died out as they sat at table, and the lamps were being lighted as they came in. Both men's ejes explored the shadows beyond in search of the same figure, and both faces fell the next moment — tliere was no Miss Chevening there. Orme felt that his ill-luck had pursued him ; she had gone on to some other party no doubt, perhaps she had even invented another engagement ; she must have slii)ped away while Langrish was dis- cussing her over that eternal cigarette of his ! 'Oswald, dear,' said Mrs. Maberly, 'come here a moment — I want you. I've been having such a long talk with that Miss Cheve- ning, and she tells me'— the name had the effect of rousing Langrish to an ultra-fraternal promptness of attention ; the next best tiling to talking to his late neighbour was hearing all about her, which he settled himself to do accordingly. Mrs. Antrobus came up to Orme, who made a really gallant effort to appear as if he was unconscious that anyone was missing. ' It won't do ! ' she said ; ' I know whom you are looking round for — now ; don't protest in that hypocritical manner ; you're think- ing what a silly old woman I must be to let my pretty guest run away at the beginning of the evening. It's hard on you, I must saj', because you were really very good at dinner. I noticed. And now you shall have your reward. Will you take this shawl and ask 320 THE PArJAH Miss Chevening to be good enough to put it on — to please me ? If you step through that winclow on to the Lalcouy, you will find her there. Don't trouble to entertain me, I've my other guests to look alter — get away with you.' She dismissed him with a nod full of good-humoured intelligence, though she reallj- knew nothing of the real case. She had been told by her nejihew that Orme was an admirer of Miss Chevening ; she liked them both, and liked match-making even better, so, as she could atford to be unworldly in other people's affairs, she had made up her mind that the young man should have his chance at all events, though she was completely in the dark as to Margot's own sentiments. Whatever came of it, Mrs. Antrobns would have something romantic to think of. and it would be particularly interesting if the affair should be settled, in either sense, on her own balcony. How Margot's mother might regard such an engagement — sup- posing that were to be the result — was not a matter which gave Mrs. Antrobus any concern whatever. ]\Irs. Chadwick was doing her best to secure Guy for her younger daughter, and, though the old lady had rather helped than hindered this end it was because she had been talked over by her nephew, and not because she regarded Ida as an ideal match for him in any respect. So she felt the more at liberty to treat any projects the mother might have for Margot with indifference. And thus it came about that Nugent was, after all, afforded the opportunity he sought — though with a very different object from that his hostess attributed to him, for he stepped out upon the balcony, knowing well that a lover's character would be the very last in which Miss Chevening would tolerate him, and determined to force her to declare the scorn and hatred she must be feeling. She was sitting at an angle of the balcony, looking down upon a spectacle that had not had time as yet to lose the attraction of novelty. It was the year of one of the most popular and successful of the short-lived series of Exhibitions that formed the delight of all Londoners who were not inhabitants of South Kensington. The Metropolis was just discovering, with a pleased surprise, that it was as capable as others of enjoying itself in the open air, and the Biunmer, for once, permitted this to be demonstrated night after night with impunity. On a lovely evening such as this was, the scene, from a height at which its least pleasing featmes were blurred or lost, had a strange and almost magical beauty. Immediately below was the gi-eat conservatory, filled with mild pearly radiance and outlined without in points of ruddier flame ; colom-ed stars twinkled amidst the dusky foliage of the poplars and plane-trees ; painted lanterns swayed, like strings of Aladdm's jewels, in the night air; behmd the black trees, a coltunn of sparkling water shot up, changing hue every instant in the ray of electric light which travelled at times over a portion of the vast Hall hard by, bringing its decorated frieze IN A BALCONY 821 Mid the ridged glass of its dome into startling prominence. And from below, as an imdercm'rent to the strains of dance-music from the kiosks, came up the confused tramping stir of humanity, that densely packed mass of black and grey, wliich from the incessant pil^e-lighting, resembled burning tinder. Over it all, against a warm greenish sky, the moon hmig in a mellow haze, serenely unconscious of its scientific substitute — the monster electric light that poured down crude insistent beams from its ugly iron mast. Viewed at close quarters, the gathering was commonplace and vulgar enough, no doubt, but at a distance only very superior persons would deny its picturesque effect. Not that Margot was thinking of that at the moment, though the view from the balcony had been her avowed motive of coming out. She wanted to be alone and think, and the subject of her reflections was Nugent Orme. She was angry with him — of course she was angry with him — for daring to speak as he did ; she did not want to forgive him just yet — but something in his manner during that dinner had given her a new uneasiness. What if he had changed his mind once more '? — what if he no longer wanted to be forgiven "? She had been observing him, even when she seemed most attentive to her neighbour's remarks, and she had seen no signs of anxiety or penitence ; he had answered her no further than was inevitable when she spoke, but quite fi-eely and naturally, as if he were alike indifferent whether she was gracious or not, and towards the end there had been something stern and determined in the way in which he had concentrated his whole attention on Mrs. Maberly. The idea that he — her friend, the one man she knew whose opinion she respected — was content to drift away from her for good and all was insupportable, and j-et, if he did not come to seek her now, she would know that this was so — he had reconsidered, and he condemned her ! And then, as she was trying to make herself accept this, she became aware that some one had come out upon the balcony — she would not look round, lest it should not be he. It was Nugent — at least he was not indifferent, then ! Though she would not let him see the satisfaction she felt, perhaps she was perverse enough to feel a revival of her original displeasure. ' Is it you ? ' she exclaimed, with an accent of cool surprise. ' I was sent by Mrs. Antrobus,' he exclaimed. ' She wished you to piit on this.' He had not come of his own accord, then — he had been sent I ' I detest shawls ! ' she said petulantly. ' I mean, it is very kind of Mrs. Antrobus, but I am perfectly warm here.' ' Then I am to take it back ? ' Immediately after saying this he regretted it, but it was too late. ' If you will.' For a moment Orme was tempted to take her at her word and go, but he could not leave her until he had said what was in his mind. 322 THE TArjAlI ' I -will take it back presently,' he said, ' not now.' ' AVhy not ? — I thought tliat was what you came for.' ' It was not all I came for — I came to say something to you.' Her heart sank at his tone. ' I don't want to hear,' she said faintly. ' I will be as short as I can, but you must hear me. "When we last met, I asked you to give me some assurance that I might still consider myself your friend. Yo'.i refused to answer me at the time, you remember ? ' ' Yes,' she said. ' Well ? ' ' It is unnecessary now,' he continued. ' I know that any real fi-icndship between us is impossible. I Avill save you the trouble of saying so yourself. And I am not content, if yoii are, to go tlirough the mockery of friendship you chose to adopt this evening. I dare say it was at least as disagreeable to you — very likely j'ou thought it best under the circumstances ; I only know that I will never, if I can heli^ it, put you to such a necessity' again. I would rather that jou. cut me whenever we met than suffer again as I have to- night ! Anything is better than keeping up a form that is dead^ I ask you to spare me that punishment in future.' He spoke wildly, imreasonably, liardly knowing what he wanted or meaning what he said, in his despairing impatience to anticipate the worst. Margot sat silent, looking down witli un- seeing eyes on the liglits and the moving throng below. At last she said in a strangely subdued and even anxious way, ' AVlien you say our friendship is dead, impossible — is it because of any- thing i have done ? ' ' Did yoiT not make it clear enough just now that you could not forgive me ? ' ' And you were not thinking about — about Allen when you said that?' ' Allen ! — what is Allen to me now, except that — Is it possible,' he cried, ' that I have not offended you beyond all hope ? — can you honestly, freely, forgive me ? ' ' I was angry that you shovild believe I was quite so bad as that,' she said in a low voice ; ' but I think I was even more hurt— you were so severe, j-ou did not even wait to hear my version ! ' ' I know,' he said remorsefully. ' Do you think I don't hate myself for it all ? I was blind to believe that you could possibly be capable of crueltj'.' She looked at him with great serioiis eyes. ' But if I jcas cruel, a little cruel ? ' she said. ' AVhat you did was not cruel — justice is not cruelty — and you acted, as far as j^ou could tell then, for the best for all— even for him. No, you are right to be angry ; right, even if j-ou can't brmg yourself to pardon me. It was a monstrous charge to think of bringing against you, and yet I brought it. But somehow I ask you now, though I did not dare a few minutes ago, to have more IN A BALCONY 323 charity than I showed— to beUeve how deeply ashamed I feel of having wronged yon, and forgive nre.' ' Forgive you '? ' she repeated softly ; ' and some day you will say the same things to me again — is it worth while ? ' ' Now 3'ou are reallj' cruel ! ' he exclaimed. She rose and stood there facing him, with eyes half resentful, half reproachful. ' But it is true,' she said. ' You can't chango your nature all at once. Have I ever done right in your eyes since we first knew one another ? You have always found fault and scolded me for what I did or did not do. "When you said nothing I knew you were disapproving of me still. Is that friendship ? Ought not one's friends to be a little blind to one's faults, to — to believe in one a little — even thougli one may do wrong things ? I think so.' He could not answer for the moment ; she looked so fair and spirited and innocent, her loveliness gaining a mysterious glamour in the strange glow of reflected light that reached the balcony where they two were alone, high above and apart from the ordinary world. A dreamy waltz refrain floated iip to the balcony, filling lip the pause. ' No,' she continued, in a tone of conviction that was touched with sadness ; ' you don't really believe in me — you never will ! ' Then he found words — words that came from him in spite of himself, and that he had not thought of uttering till that instant. ' I not believe in j-ou ! ' he cried ; ' is it possible that you think that — that j'ou have not guessed — not seen '? Y"ou won't trust me even as a friend, and yet — I must say it now, though you will send me away when I have done — it is more than that I would be if I could ! Margot, I love you. I know it is mad — worse than mad — to tell you so now, but I must. I must ! . . . I will not have you mijust to me ! ' He caught the fan* hand which rested on the balcony and which she did not withdraw, even though he was hurting it iinconsciously in the energj' of his strong grasp. ' Speak to me ! ' he pleaded eagerly. ' Y"ou are not angiy ! Tell me you are not angry ! ' She turned her face to him again ; her eyes were very bright, and a tremulous smile plaj-ed about her lips. ' I — I don't think I am angi'y,' she said slowly. Even then he could not iinderstand that this great happinesn could really be his. ' Margot— tell me,' he said, ' is it true — you don't hate me ? ' ' I never hated you,' she replied, almost in a whisper. ' But do you love me ? Enough to be my wife ? ' She let him draw her towards him till her proud head was nest- ling against his shoulder. ' If you care to take me,' she said with a little low laugh full of content — and he understood at last. Neither had spoken for some little time ; he was still wondering if this were not a dream. ' How pretty it all looks down there, y2 324 trilE PAPJAH doesn't it ? ' said Margot at last (when she first came out she hail found it all gai-ish and bustling). ' I wonder if there are people in that crowd as happy as we are ! Somehow I feel as if it was a good omen, having all that brightness about us.' While she spoke the scene suddenly changed, the lights died out ever\-where, leaving the glass halls gi'ey and cold and the trees mere shadowy masses of black ; a great bell began to clang harshly ; shrieks and screams and boisterous calls came up from the crowd of pleasure-seekers as they hustled towards the exits. Margot gave a little shiver. ' I wish they had not done that just then ! ' she said. ' How foDlish of me to mind ! Onlj-, Nugent, I want you to promise me something. I know I am not good — (no, don't interrupt, I know best) — only j^romisc not to think horrid things of me again — be satisfied with me as I am ! ' ' I shall not promise,' he said, ' because there is no need for it now. If I did not know it before, I know now that you are far too lovely and good for a poor fellow like me ! ' She smiled. ' If you will only think so always. And now, hadn't we better take Mrs. Antrobus's shawl back ? I shall like Indian shawls after to-night.' CHAPTEB VII. MRS. AXTROBUS AS A DIPLOMATIST. Even Margot felt a little diffidence in facing those three pair of eyes in the drawing-room, after the change in her Life that had taken place during the short absence on the balcony. There was nothing awkward or self-conscious in her manner, however, as she came in, though, to an observer of any penetration, the glory of sudden happiness which had not had time to fade out of her eyes, and the dreamy gentleness of her smUe, would have told a tale. In Orme's bearing, as he followed, the position of affairs was less poetically perceptible ; the least demonstrative of men can scarcely disguise the fact of being a recently accejited lover, and avoid a certain indescribable air of shamefaced triumph ; if he does, he is apt to err on the side of an unconsciousness fatally overdone. One glance was sufficient for Mrs. Antrobus, though she con- tented herself with saying, ' So you haven't rejected the shawl, my dear ? I hoped Mr. Orme would succeed in persuading you.' ' He did,' replied Margot demurely. ' Thank you so much for sending it out to me.' MRS. ANTROBUS AS A DIPLOMATIST 325 Mrs. Maberly, who would hardly have noticed anythin]f^, if it had all occurred under her very eyes, remarked upon the protection an Indian shawl was, and the danger of trusting oneself at any season on a balcony without one. ' Ah, well,' said Mrs. Antrobus, ' I hope that, thanks to my foresight. Miss Chevening will not regret having trusted herself on my balcony,' Private reasons made Langrish keener of sight than his sister ; after such a brilliant beginning, his evening, poor man, had had a dismal ending. He had been in torments for the last three-quarters of an hour, and it is to be feared his hostess was not incapable of enjoying his sufferings. Too late, he had discovered that Miss Chevening had not left after all ; she was outside — and that yoimg fellow with the square saturnine face was boring her with his con- versation. The ingenious arts he used to induce Mrs. Antrobus to brave the night air, his perseverance in speaking of the view there must be from her windows, his industriously laboured allusions to the Exhibition, were almost pathetic — but the old lady proved in- credibly dull of comprehension. She sat liliC a rock, and gave him no excuse for leaving his seat for a moment, while his sister, who might have helped him, was too indolent and too much afraid of neuralgia to second his manoeuvres. And now, though he did not guess the truth, he did begin to have a dim suspicion that this re- served young barrister fellow might possibly not be such a deter- mined misogamist. He did his best to make up for lost time by enjoying what he could of Miss Chevening's conversation, and he found her more charming and delightful than ever, more disposed to agree with him, easier to amuse. There was a new sweetness in her smile, an added sparkle in her eyes, which, when his sister signified an untimely desire to go, sent the poor man away with a dull pain in a heart that had been long a stranger to such symptoms, and a wonder whether, after all, women were particular about a man's age. Mrs. Maberly had been pouring out her sorrows to Margot, to whom she had taken a languid fancy, much in the same strain as Nugent had been treated to at dinner ; she left her wiih an urgent invitation to come and see her at the Langham, where she would be until she went abroad in August, an invitation, however, of wliich Margot had the smallest possible intention of avaihng herself. ' You are not going to desert me too ? ' said Mrs. Antrobus to Margot, who was holding out her hand in farewell. ' I was hopmg for a little chat, now those tiresome people are gone.' But Margot had an intuition of what the old lady was dying to hear, and not even gratitude could bring her to talk of it so soon. ' Another day,' she murmured witli a pretty, caressing, pleading gesture ; ' my maid must be waiting. I i)romised not to be late — please let me go now.' ' Very well,' was the reply. ' I dare say Mr. Orme will see you to your carriage.' Jn the anteroom was Susan, on a chair, with that pleasing air 325 THE TARIAH of undeserved ui\ it yrdom which she was wont to adopt on such occasions. Orme noticed that her mistress's gracious i'riendhness had absolutely no etfect upon the girl. As thej' went down the stairs (for he did not feel called upon to suggest the lift), Susan following, he whispered, ' Shall I see you to-morrow when I come to s])eak to Mrs. Chadwick ? ' Margot started. ' We shall have to tell mother ! ' she said (liow dear the ' we ' was to him). ' I — I had forgotten that — and what will she say ? ' Orme himself had a very uncomfortable prevision of what Mrs. Chadwick would say. ' Whatever she says,' he replied, ' promise me, Margot, you won't let yourself be talked into— into giving me up.' ' You want me to promise that ? ' she said in a hm't tone. ' Already ! I told you you didn't believe in me. "Whatever I am — I can be true — Xugent.' ' I do beUeve in you, darling,' he said passionately. ' I am afraid of nothing your mother can do — we shall be happy some day, in spite of her.' ' I thought we were happy now,' she answered softly, and Oi-me accepted the rebuke, not without a passing u-ritation at the remem- brance of the presence of Susan a few steps behind ; he thought she might have had the sense to go down by the lift ! As it was, he had to control his raptm-e, and put Margot and her maid into the hansom, with as naatter-of-fact an air as he could assume, though he did not succeed, even thus, in disarming Miss Susan's suspicions. ' To-morrow ! ' she repeated to herself as they drove away — ' and what is there about to-morrow so particular that he should look like that ? All, you deceiving cat ! I can see you a-smilmg to yoiu-self in the corner there. I know what's up between you and him — and a deal too good he is for a heartless piece like you. But, if / know missis, you'll smile the other side of yoiur face to-morrow, and I shan't be sorry for one ! ' ' I 'ope 3"ou've 'ad a pleasant evenin', miss ? ' she said aloud. Margot came out of her reverie. ' Did jou speak, Susan ? Oh, thank you — yes, it was pleasant,' she said gently, without anj-^ of the hauteur which she could not always repress in speakmg to Susan, her dislike to whom she tried in vain to overcome. The girl had given no cause for complaint since she had been with them ; she was not unkind to Lettice, she was a clever and attentive maid, biit it was always an effort to Margot, until that evening, to submit to her services ; she had a constant sense that she would be impertinent if she dared. To-night, however, Miss Che^•ening was in charity with all the world. Whsit were Orme's thoughts as he walked home alone under Uie stars ? His heart was full of a passion of wondering gratitude — a happiness bo intense as to terrify him into some approach to Jins. AXTllOBUS AS A DIPLO.MATIST 327 soLernoss, with that odd Imt iiniversal impression that it is not safe to be so liappy. She loved him — after all, in spite of all ! How strange and far away now seemed all the hopes and fears with which he had gone to that dinner, with only a suspicion that she might be there ! And how little could he have hoped for this ! — a reconciliation, a half-hearted readmittance to friendship, had seemed an impossible piece of good-fortune then. How wonderful it all was ! How he loved even his past misery for the sake of its sequel ! He knew Margot so little still — but he felt now that there were no discoveries in her nature that could make her less lovable in his eyes. She was perfect, more perfect for her very imperfections, which he had once in his folly and presumption so grossly exagger- ated. When he thought now that he had been suspecting her of au act of cold-blooded cruelty — But why should he think of it ? she had explained everything — there was an implied disloyalty in the very recollection of it. Was there another motive beneath this resolve to forget ? had he a secret disinclination to examine her denial too closely — an un- easy fear of the doubts which might, for all he could tell, be in a state of suspended animation ? If he had, he was not aware of it ; he had done with doubt for ever ; he believed in her implicitly, in her essential womanliness and sweetness, her truthfulness and candoiu" ; to that faith he would cling — for what remained for him now if he lost hold for an instant ? There was no conscious effort in this belief; but, if it is true that a really robust faith shrinks from no inquiry, dreads no self- questioning, then Orme's belief in Margot fell short of the standard uf perfect soundness, passionately as — had it been suggested to him — he would have denied the imputation. Early the next afternoon Mrs. Antrobus received a visit from Mrs. Chadwick ; she came alone, and her expression as she sat down showed that she considered herself an aggrieved x;)erson. • No,' she said, in reply to tlie conventional inquiries, ' I am not well — how could I be, after such a shock as I received last night '? ' ' Dear me ! not a carriage accident, I hope ? ' said Mrs. Antrobus. ' London coachmen are so shockingly intemperate ! I remember having to discharge one because he drew i;p solemnly at eleven o'clock at night at the Marble Arch, which he insisted was my fi'ont door.' ' My coachman is a blue-ribbonist,' returned Mrs. Chadwick stiffly, ' and I have had no accident of that kind — I wish it had been no worse than that. The shock came from my eldest daughter, who came into my room the moment I got home last night, and told me something which grieved and surprised me more than I can say. It seems that Mr. Orme took advantage of meeting her under your protection to — actually to propose to her, and, what is 328 THE PARIAH worse, I fear, from all I can gather, that she did not discourage him as unmistakaljly as she ought to have done ! ' ' That sounds very shocking and immoral,' said Mrs. Antrobus, ' at least, if, as I suppose. Miss Margot hai)pens to be already en- gaged to somebody else ? ' Mrs. Chadwicic was in a state of polite fury at not being able to make the old lady understand her feelings. ' Surely,' she said sharply, ' it is bad enough as it is, without any complications of that kind ! My daughter has had more than one exceptionally good offer, down at Gorsecombe and since we came to town, but she has persistently refused to listen to one of them.' ' Then I fail to see why she should not listen to my young friend, if she likes him.' ' Oh, you must see — I'm sure you do see in your own heart ! — • a young man like this Mr. Orme — the son of the vicar in our own village at home ' ' Hoity-toity ! ' was the exjiression Mrs. Antrobus would have liked to use just then, only one cannot say 'hoity-toity' without some infringement of the strict etiquette of afternoon calls. So she said instead, ' I was not aware that to be the son of even a country vicar is to be outside the pale of society.' ' It is not a question of the pale of society at all. ^fr. Orme, the father, is an excellent man and much respected in the parish. As far as I know, his son is a worthy young man enough, but not a match for my daughter Margot ; with her beauty and the oppor- tunities I am now in a position to give her, she might marry any- body ! ' ' Then why not Mr. Orme ? — but I understand you. And yet, for the life of me, my dear, I don't know in what his inferiority consists — if you'll pardon my plain-speaking. A man can but be a gentleman, and you'll hardly deny that he is that, while your pretty Margot, charming as she is (and no one can admire her more than I do), is a colonel's daughter. "\Miere is the glaring inequality ? ' ' Where '? ' exclaimed Mrs. Chadwick ; ' you must have very extraordinarj- views to ask such a question. In his means, in his prospects, in the position he could give her ! ' ' Of course — 7iow 1 understand. Your daughters are heiresses,' said Mrs. Antrobus, perfectly aware they were nothing of the kind. ' I did not say so,' retorted Mrs. Chadwick ; ' they have nothing of their own, poor girls, though I have no doubt that, provided they made suitable matches, their step-father would behave generously towards them.' ' Then we come back in a circle again,' persisted the old lady ; 'why isn't Mr. Orme a suitable match '? He's a gentleman, as we both agree, clever, good-looking enough, though he isn't a beauty- man — for which you may thank the Lord. As to his means, I've taken the trouble to make inquiries, and I can assure you that he is making a fine income already for a young man of his standing, MRS. ANTROBUS AS A DIPLOMATIST 329 anil, from all I can hear, he's likely to be rich and famous enough to satisfy any reasonable ambition in a few j-ears. Upon my word, I don't know what more jou want. Is it so easy to make a really brilliant match for a girl who has nothing biit good looks and good birth and breeding ? Young men are shy enough of marriage in an}'' case in my experience. I must say that, if you take my advice, you will be satisfied with things as they are — I'm svare they might be very much worse.' ' It is so easy to talk in that way ! ' said Mrs. Chadwick ; ' but 3'ou are not a mother — you don't see things with a mother's eyes ! If you did, I think — yes,' she added, iinable to restrain her sense of injury, ' I do think you would have been more careful, you would not have allowed things to go on without so much as warning me. I am not reproaching you, dear Mrs. Antrobiis — but I viust feel that you have not been quite — quite considerate to me ! ' ' Well, I'm not going to defend myself there — I did allow it to go on. I'm a sentimental old woman, though you wouldn't think it, to look at me, and I hold that the only true marriages are those of affection. I'd rather see a girl I was fond of in her grave than married to a man for his title or his money. But that's my eccen- tricity ; and, after all, you have not told me what you mean to do in this case. As one who takes a decided interest in both parties, I think I've some right to be informed. I si;ppose j'ou have seen Mr. Orme ? ' ' No, indeed,' said Mrs. Chadwick, drawing herself up ; ' he called to see me this morning at such a ridiculously early hour — nearly eleven — that it was quite impossible to receive him.' ' So you told him to call again, like a tradesman — very civil treatment, I must say, considering that he probably had to make some sacrifice to call at all just then; but I suppose you will con- descend to see him some time, and what wiU you say to him when you do see him ? ' ' What can I say ? I shall tell him that it is out of the question, utterly out of the question — that I can't hear of any sort of an en- gagement between them — that I trust to him as a gentleman to give up all idea of it.' ' Very pretty ! Poor Mr. Orme ! he has not lost much by not seeing you this morning, it seems. But now, my dear Mrs. Chad- wick, before j^ou quite make iip your mind, suppose you listen to me for a little. I don't think you were at all unwilling to let your daughters come to me whenever I asked them. And I fancy you must have had some suspicion that my nephew Gviy was, shall we say, attracted by your daughter Ida ? ' ' If yoii mean ! ' began Mrs. Chadwick, flushing angrily. 'Of com-se I don't— bi;t listen. I have done what I could to encourage it, to give Ida an opportunity of seeing if she cares for Guy, who is a dear good fellow, and deserves to be happj-. I think that, through me, they have met at more places this season than they could have done if I had not chosen to interfere. I don't 330 THE TARIAII know, by the way, how far you approve of my proceedings in that respect ? ' ' How can j-ou ask ! ' cried her visitor. ' "We are all fond of Guj', and, though I should not dream of dictating to a daughter of mine, and, of course, I don't know what dear Ida's feehiigs for him may be ' ' Exactly,' inteiTupted the old ladj' unceremoniously, ' 30U would offer no obstacles ; you are fond of GU3-, and Guy will have Haw- leigh some day, and Ida may be Lady Hotham. Well, I see no particular objection to all that, if it happens, I'm peculiar, as I said, and though Guy is my nephew, I'd rather see him settled and happy with a nice girl he was fond of, even if he never got a penny vith her, than turning into a mere man about town — a selfish, ex- travagant rake, who beheves in nothing, and cares for nobody but his precious self.' ' Oh, so would I ! ' put in Mrs. Chadwick emotionally — ' far, far rather ! ' * We are two such unworldly people, j-ou see ; but you inustn't be offended by what I'm going to say : You might offer no obstacles, but I'm afraid you would find that they would be less reasonable at Hawleigh. My sister-m-law has an idea that Guy ought to make a very good marriage indeed. I'm afraid that even a commoner's daughter, imless she was extremely rich, would hardly satisfj' her — Oh, of course it's verj' ridiculous and narrow- minded and all that sort of thing, but some mothers are like that, my dear Mrs. Chadwick, and we must be prepared for it.' Mrs. Chadwick sighed and said she found it difficult to believe that axij mother would oppose the happiness of her own child from mere ambition. ' Ah, but it is so, I assure you ; Lady Adela would look at it very much as you look at Mr. Orme's proposal. But, as to " opposing a son's happiness," why, she would tell herself that Guy was too young to know his own mind, that he would soon get over the disappointment, as vei'y likely he would, for even now I am by no means certain it's more than a passing fancy, or that, without constant opportunities of meeting, it would ever come to anything serious, ^^'ell, she would say all that— and, what's more, she would reproach me bitterly for allowing and encouraging it. I dare say I should survive it ; and I've some influence with my brother, and even my sister-in-law would not care to quarrel with me — she didn't make me Guy's godmother for nothing. So in time I should get my way, I don't doubt ; but, to tell you the truth, I am cured of interfering in other people's concerns.' ' You will not ? Oh, my dear Mrs. Antrobus, whv do vou say 60 ? ' ' Because I am unlucky. Aren't you here now to reproacli me, because I don't look at marriages with a mother's eyes ? I had no Ijusiness to interfere, and that's the truth of it. I give u]) Mr. Orme : send him away if you like— j'ou won't offend me, or, I dare MRS. ANTROBUS AS A DIPLOMATIST 831 say, break uaughty Margot's heart past mending. Only, I must be consistent ; if it's impertinent to interfere in one case, it's as baj in the other. I shall keep on the safe side in futiu'e, and give my dear sister-in-law a hint that a trip round the world would do Master Guy no harm. I think he'd go, too.' ' I'm siu'e,' said Mrs. Chadwick with stateliness, ' that you know me too well to think I am a designing or^or a harsh mother with my daughters ; I only want to do the best for them I can. And what j'ou tell me about Mr. Orme docs make a difference. I'd no idea you took so much interest in him, and he really is nice — I always felt that about him.' ' Does that mean that you can put up with hun as a son-in-law after all ? ' Mrs. Chadwick saw no way out of it ; an engagement was highly undesirable, but still there need be no question of marriage for some time yet— it was not as if it was necessarily final. And she could not afford to quarrel with Mrs. Antrobus, for she knew ver}' well that, devoted as Guy seemed to be, he was by no means secure at present, and, without his aunt's countenance, might easily slip through their fingers altogether. !So she said, with a very creditable show of cordiality, ' How can you talk of it in such a way ? Of course I shall be delighted, though I may not be altogether pleased, in some respects, to welcome Mr. Orme as one of the family. One thing I must .stipulate for — they must not think of marrying at present.' ' They can both wait a little while for that,' said Mrs. Antrobus. ' Well, I'm very glad you take so sensible a view of it, my dear. Lut I was siu'e you would.' ' And about dear Guy — for he is really such a favourite of mine ! '—began Mrs. Chadwick, as she was rising to go. ' A greater favourite than even Mr. Orme ? ' put in the old lady grimly. ' Well, what about dear Guy ? ' ' I was only going to say — I don't thinli a trip round the world would be — would be very ' ' Don't you ? no more do I, my dear ; make your mind easy — he isn't going — he shall stay and make love to little Miss Ida to both their hearts' content.' And, comforted by that assurance, Mrs. Chadwick was able to take her departure, leaving Guy's affectionate aimt to enjoy the Buccess of her diplomacy. 332 THE PARIAH CHAPTER VIII. AUTUMN MANOEUVRES. Wait a little, wait a little, You shall fix a day. — The Window. On his second visit Orme found a more gi'acious reception than his first abortive attempt to ask Mrs. Chadwick's consent had led him to hope for. She was not particularly cordial even then — there was a resignation in her manner that was scarcely flattering, but she did not oppose an engagement, provided that there should be no mention of marriage at present. Nugent, not having contem- plated an immediate man-iage, was perfectly content to accept the proviso ; it was happiness enough for him to see his love from tune to time and enjoy all the privileges of an accepted lover. IMargot either was or pretended to be disapjwinted at so matter-of- fact an ending. 'I thought from mother's manner last night that it was going to be much more exciting than this,' she said playfully ; ' all my determination not to give way is quite wasted ! I had made up my mind to encounter every kind of opposition, and to prove to yon how constant I could be — and now — well, you must admit it is a little tame, Nugent.' ' I can do without the excitement,' he said ; ' I can't do without you.' She shook her head. ' You won't appreciate my society nearly so much now j'ou can have it every daj* — you will soon begin to disapprove of me again.' ' Margot, you don't really believe that ? Won't you ever under- stand what you are to me ? ' ' I do think you are fond of me,' she said ; ' 3-011 think me so much better than I am or ever can be. I believe I am just a little afraid of what you will feel when — when you begin to find me out.' 'Afraid of me ! ' he cried. ' There are very few people I have ever been afraid of,' she said, ' but I think I might be of you. If you -were reaUj' angry you would be very severe. After all,' she added, ' I am not sure that that is not one of the things I like best in you, only you must try not to be too severe with me, Nugent. Make up your mind now to be disappointed a little — I wish you would.' Nugent's protest was practical rather than argimientative, and Lettice, by ai'riving in the middle of it, caused a certain embarrass- ment. ' I did startle you,' she said. ' Does being engaged always make people as nervous as that ? — it must be rather stupid if it does, I should think. May I stop ? I'll be vei-y quiet, Margot.' ' You needn't be quiet, Lettice,' said her sister ; ' I want you to come and speak to your new brother,' AUTUMN JIANdlUVRES 333 *I don't want any new brother instead of Allen, thank jou,' eaitl Lettice. ' Wherever Allen is, I've not left off having him for iny brotlicr.' ' Nugent is qnitc a different kind of hrotlicr from poor Allen, Lattice,' said ]\Iargot, with a faint line of displeasm-e showing itself upon her forehead. ' You never did like Allen, did you ? I liked him. Shall you like Mr. Orme, do you think ? ' ' I am going to try,' said Margot. ' Margot is going to marry me some day, Lettice,' said Nugent, ' .'^o you see you and I ought to be friends.' ' If you marry her, you'll take her away from us all — we want her most ! If you would let her stay here, I don't mind being friends, I'll be yoiu' sister even — yes, I will reallj' — if j-ou'll promise nie you'll never want to marry her. You can be engaged quite well without that, j'ou know — lots of people are.' ' It will be a long time before I leave you, Lettie, so you mustn't begin to worry about that now. And you like Nugent, you know.' ' I like him as a now-and-theu visitor,' Lettice admitted, ' if he'll only go on being that.' But, in spite of this guarded appioval, she gradually relaxed imder Nugent's advances until she even condescended at parting to invite him, entirely on her own account, to come again soon. ' If you come early in the afternoon,' she said encouragingly, ' you're nearlj' sure to find ?»e at home ! ' Ida was ne^•er weary of congratulating, wondering, and ques- tioning. ' "When did you first begin to fancy you liked him, Margot ? "What first made you think he was in love with yoii ? Ai'e you very, very happy ? AVhat does it all feel like '? I never thought you would care for anybody, somehow. And you do care for him ? you are quite certain ? I am sure he is very nice — Giti/ is so fond of him ! ' — and she sighed, ' I wonder if Guy and I will ever be like that. He is so strange now, so changed, Margot. He was at that fete last night (I never thanked you for letting mother take me instead of you — thanks, awfully, now, dear), but he hardly spoke to me ; do you think he doesn't care for me after all ? — he did once, I know ! Margot, if he went away now, and nothing ever put things right between us, I think it would kill me. But you are so happy — you have no time to feel for me any more ! ' And Margot had to answer and console her as best she might ; it made her anxious to see the intensity of Ida's attachment for Guy Hotham, and she dreaded to think of the consequences, should he prove to have had no serious intentions. Orme, at all events, was perfectly happj-- — if he had not been, he would have been hard to please indeed. He had won the prize — beautiful, proud Margot was his ; scarcely a day passed withoiit their meeting, if only for a few minutes, and the prospect of seeing her when his work was over made him less rather than moro pensible of the wearisome monotony of much of his labours — the 034 THE TAPJAn waiting in a stlfllnp; court for his case to come on, the conference and consultations, the drafting of conipHcated instruments wliicli taxed his in^^enuity witliout exciting his enthusiasm — all this in Bome way had ceased to be irksome. And when any occasion came for displaying higher abilities, it seemed to him that he had never been in fuller command of all his powers. He had now a double incentive to ambition, and, so far from distracting or ener- vating, the thought of Margot inspired and fortified him to do his utmost. Nor did she fulfil her prediction that she should disenchant him as he came to know her better. Had she been ever so exacting and unreasonable, he would still have found her charming, but she made no attempt to abuse her power ; she had impressed him Dnce as self-willed and intolerant of anything that interfered with her good pleasure — he found her devoted to Ida, trying as her peevishness was at times. To him, Margot showed a sweet docility which, commg from her, was strangely touching : it seemed as if she found a new and piquant pleasure in submitting her will to another's, and there was a touch of playful exaggeration about this hunnlity of hers that prevented it from being spiritless. It was happiness that had worked this change in her, for she had never been so happy before ; alwaj's, till now, a secret discontent with herself and her life had coloured all she did and said. Now that she knew that Nugent loved her, troubles and uneasy recol- lections were forgotten, he would never call her in question about Allen again — she had silenced all his objections on that score, she had his approval of the course she had taken. The only thought that disturbed her sometimes was that he might come to condemn her once more some daj'. "What if Allen camo back and was repulsed by his father — But why meet evil half way ? he had not come back, perhaps he never would come back — at least not until Nugent and she were married ; he might come then for aught she cared. It will be seen that Miss Chevening's conscience, in spite of all the arguinents she employed to qaiet it, still disturbed her for the share she had taken in Allen's banishment. It slumbered mostly, it did not seriously affect her ; but time, which softened her step- brother's offences, made her conduct towards him the less excusable in her own eyes, and curiously enough, perhaps, she had never felt this more strongly than after she had vanquished Nugent's con- demnation. However, conscience, as some character in a Hesto- ration drama observes, ' is a tender babe,' and certainly has tha recommendation of being more easily lulled than most babes. Possibly Margot's self-reproaches did no more than supply a zest to the bliss of loving and bemg loved, and she was far enough from any real regret that Allen was conveniently lost sight of, if she was not actually capable of hoping that he was no longer alive. Nugent had, of course, to write and announce his engagement to Millicent, a task which not even his feelings as a lover could make AUTU5IN JtANCEUVRES 335 jileasant. He hail not quite forgiven her for so nearly cominpf between them, and he was conscious, too, that his news would seem to her a confirmation of her fears that he would disref:;ard the warning. Something of these feelings, though he abstained alike from either reproach or apology, crept into his letter in spite of himself. ' I suppose I must not expect congi-atulations from you,' he wrote ; 'if you choose to consider that this is weakness and infatuation, and that I could ever have spoken of love to INIargot without having good reason to trust and honour her — why, then you must, and I am sorry, biit can't help it. But I think you know me better. She has told me everything— little as I deserved it ; arid ^\hen j'ou have heard the real facts, which I have persuaded her (very much against her will) to let me tell you, I think your sense of fairness will lead you to own that you have been in too great a hurry to be quite charitable ' (and licre he told her shortly Allen's character and offence, as he had learnt them from Margot's own lips). 'I can't believe, Milhcent, that j'ou will be so preju- diced as not to feel some compunction for having misjudged her ; now that you know all the circumstances, I won't think, until j'ou oblige me, that you will persist in continuing this estrangement with Margot or show any coldness in receiving her. But if you do, the loss will be yours, not hers, and I need hardly say that any remonstrances or laments you may think fit to make will not havo the slightest effect upon me.' It was not a very politic production, but he was too proud a lover to adopt a more conciliatory tone — it would have been an indignity to his love had he imphed that Margot stood in any need of his pleading. Millicent read the letter at breakfast one brilliant Jiily morning, while the bees were humming over the flower-beds outside the open windows ; she had time to master the contents of the letter un- observed, for her mother was not yet down, and the Vicar had not come in from his before-breakfast stroll round the lawn. She was wounded rather than angered, as some sisters might have been, by Nugent's tone ; he wrote as if he expected to find her unsympathetic, if not hostile, and, what was worse, as if he did not particularly care whether she were so or not, except on Margot's account — he did not even pretend that Margot herself was anxious for a reconciliation. Was Millicent hostile ? He had disregarded her warning, he was going to marry this girl ; was it such a mistake ? If she had been in Margot's place, and had knov;n Allen to be a dangerous hypocrite, a thief, might she not have determined to have him sent away before he brought some open and indelible disgrace upon the family ? No ; Millicent felt that she herself would not have had the heart— she would have yielded, have given him, however worth- less, one more trial. But she could see that another might act differently, and yet deserve no condemnation. \Yhy iiad not Margot told her all this ? Poor Millicent could 336 THE PARIAH only conclude that she had not thought her friendship worth retairt- ing ; or wtvs slie too generous to defend herself by blaming another until she was forced to do so ? The light way in which she had treated the matter seemed less heartless now — yes, Millicent had been unjust, and her injustice had nearly wrecked her brother's hajipiness ; was it wonderful that he wrote coldly to her ? yhe could not think him infatuated or weak, she recognised the strength of his character — he would not have yielded to this love if it cost him respect for himself and her. If Nugent acquitted Margot, she could not deserve blame. And the conviction of this, humbling as it was, had redeeming points for Millicent. She had admired and loved and looked up to Margot so much, it had gone to her heart to separate from her, to feel that she could not be her friend. And the discovery that she had been ^vl•ong was not made grudgingly, as is apt to be the case with less generous natures. MiUicent actually bore no resentment against Margot for having been misjudged by her, she was not even jealous of her for having won Nugent's love. She was proud, for his sake ; ]\Iargot was so lovelj', so captivating, it was natural that Nugent should be attracted by her ; she was glad now, whatever she had been before, that she was to have such a sister-in-law. If only they would both forgive her and take her into their hearts as before, she was ready to make any sacrifice of her personal dignity ; she owed full reparation, and she would pay it. So, by the time Mrs. Orme had taken her place behind the silver presentation urn, and tlie Vicar had decided that he was entitled to come indoors, Millicent was able to tell her news with every sign of satisfaction. ' Miss Chevening, is it ? ' said her father. ' Well, I admire his audacity — one of the loveliest girls I've ever seen. Lucky fellow ! ' ' I don't see that the luck is all on Ni;gent's side, really, Cyprian,' said Mrs. Orme. 'I'm not at all sure that Margot Chevening is the girl I sliould have chosen for Nugent.' ' We have never had an oi)portimity of meeting that ideal young woman yet, my love ; and, really, in the meantime Miss Chevening is a very attractive and charming girl. Nugent can put up with her till the other lady appears.' 'I only wish,' sighed Mrs. Orme, ' thather step-father wasn't such a dreadful person.' ' Chadwick ? Yes ; I can't say I care about being more inti- mate with Chadwick than I can help, particularly if he sticks to his present way of life,' said the Vicar; ' but, after all, he's only her step-father ; there's no reason why we should see much more of him. Does Nugent say when he intends to set up house, Millie ? Shouldn't advise him to do so jiist yet. I've a notion Miss Margot would be an expensive young lady for a struggling young barrister to start housekeeping with.' ' I don't think Nugent has thought of all that as j'et,' said IMillicent ; ' and indeed, papa, I don't believe Margot's a bit extravagant ; you only say so because she always wears such AUTUMN MAN(EUVRES 337 lovely frocks, but they're quite simple ones, really, only so perfectly made ! ' 'Are they, Millie? I dare say you may not believe it, but I never gave her frocks a thought. I was only doubting whctlier, well as Nugent is getting on, he can afford to give her the luxuries she is used to; however, that's his affair,' said the vicar, with his mouth full of dry toast, ' so long as she will wait for him. Give them both my love and my — ah — blessing when you write, and ask when we're to see them down here.' ' I hope and trust that Nugent has been guided to make a right choice,' said his mother. ' Oh, I dare say she'll have a little money ; Chadwick ought to do something for her,' said the more secular-minded vicar, as he cracked an egg, ' he's rich enough.' ' That was not at all what I meant,' said his wife in a superior manner ; 'the money is neither here nor there.' 'It is certainly not here, my dear,' retor-ted the vicar, who was in reality far more indifferent to snch considerations than his wife ; ' but, for Nugent's sake, I should not be sorry to hear there was a little there. The angel in the house isn't always quite such an angel in furnished apartments — she'll soon moult — can't keep love- birds long on chickweed, you know ! ' 'Cyprian, I wish you would not joke on such subjects. I don't like to hear a clergyman making jokes about angels livmg in lodg- ings, it doesn't sound reverent or consistent — to me ! ' ' You didn't vmderstand the allusion, my love ; I was referring to Coventry Patmore's Angel,' said the vicar mildly. ' 1 don't want to hear about anybody's angel moulting and being kept on chickweed,' said Mrs. Orme. ' I call it profanity.' Ho the vicar contented himself by a comic elevation of his ej-e- brows in silent appeal to his daughter, and no furthar reference was made at the time to the engagement. Millicent wrote a penitent and at the same time gently reproachful letter to Nugent, protesting against his assumption that she would be unwilling to acknowledge her mistake, and assuring him that she fully recognised that she had been wrong. He must forgive her and believe that she had only spoken out of love for him and under a sincere conviction that her statements were true. No one rejoiced more than she did to be able to think that Margot was as lovable as she was lovel3% and her only regi'et was that Margot could not feel enough confidence in her to dis- abuse her at the time ; she ended with warm congratulations and earnest wishes for his happiness. ' So Millicent has written,' said Margot to him ; ' I liave heard from her too. I didn't know you would tell her all about Allen, Nugent ! ' ' You gave me leave,' he said. ' Then it was foolish of me. Everybody will know it now. I 7. 338 THE PAEIAH do hope Millieont won't think it necessary to say any more about it — to nie or anybody else.' ' You can trust MilUccnt — she is not a gossip ; but ivhy don't you ■wish her to mention it to j-ou ? ' 'Because I don't,' she said, with one of her wayward frowns. ' I hate the whole subject. I don't want to hear any more about it. Did I say that very crossly ? I can't help it, there has been so much fuss made about it already. You will tell INIillicent that I would rather she didn't mention it when we meet, won't you ? I can't very well say so myself.' ' But you are going to write to her ? ' he suggested, ' she is longing to be friends with you again.' ' Of course I shall -wi-ite — soon. But you know, Nugent, though she is your sister, she did very nearly make mischief between you and me.' ' Surely you will forget all that now ? ' ' I'm not sure that I can forget quite so easily. Millicent is so Very good, she makes me imcomfortable sometimes. Still, I am very glad she doesn't disapprove of me so much as she did. I shall try to keep her good opinion as long as possible.' He had to be content with that for the present, though he wished she could have met poor Millicent's overtures with more responsiveness, but evidently the misconstruction still rankled. Even this toiich of p)etulant resentment, however, lost any touch of hardness under the charm of the expression which accom- panied it, and seemed to indicate that she was less seriously dis- pleased than she chose to represent. And there is no doubt that in her heart Margot was relieved by Millicent's unequivocal surrender, and had no intention of rejecting the proffered ohve-branch. July was drawing to an cud, and the turf in the Parks was burnt and cracked, and the trees were turning a darker and deader gi'een ; in the streets the miisical old cry of ' Sweet laven — dar ! ' sounded like a lament for the expiring season. Day by day the block of carriages grew less complicated, the list of social arrange- ments in the daily papers shorter and less exclusive. Parliament was talking hopefully about rising. Goodwood was near, Society was arranging its plans for yacht, or moor, or foreign health resorts. It was a welcome time for most who had been born to or achieved the right of revolving in some one of the rings of the social whirlpool ; for Mrs. Chadwick the day when the whh-lpool would subside and its prisoners be released seemed anything but a day of deliverance. On that day she would have to go — not to Cowes, nor Yorkshire, nor the Continent — but to Gorsecombe, to a life she detested, and a husband who declined to be ignored. And her season had not been a success ; her sister. Lady Yaverland, had not asked her tc her best parties. Margot, just when people were beginning to rave AUTUMN MANCEU-VRES 339 about her, had thrown all her chances away b^- j^etthig enga,;?ed to a penniless barrister, and Ida was no nearer being engaged than before. "Whether Guy or Ida was more in faxilt for this slie could not discover; she might have contrived to ascertain the j'oung man's feelings from himself, if only she could get a private talli with him, but unluckily all her efforts to get him to the house of late had fallen through, whether by pure accident (for he was a youth of many engagements) or intention on his part, she could not determine. And Ida certainly did not manage well ; she was shy and constrained when she met him, and every interview seemed to leave them less likely to come to an understanding. Her mother could not even be certain that Ida had not some romantic scruple which might account for this provoking behaviour, and the fear of this helped to restrain her li'om precipitating matters by some coup. She could not ask Guy down to Agi-a House, it was too near Hawleigh, and besides she knew that he was to accompanj' his aunt to Hombm-g at the end of the season. After his return home of course he would be staying away at various places for the shoot- ing, and even if he came to Hawleigh to hunt, he would probably have got over his fancy by that time. Mrs. Chadwick felt quite helpless, unless — there was just one chance — unless she could persuade her husband to see that she and Ida required a coui'se of tlae Homburg waters. Once there, with Mrs. Antrobus as a benevolent neutral, if not an ally, she felt cer- tain that the event she desired would be brought about. Chadwick came up to town just then, as he had done occasion- ally throughout the summer, though he made his visits as short as possible. He was more sulliy and m-itable than usual, and his wife, as he fidgeted restlesslj' about the drawing-room, compar- ing it to its disadvantage with that at Agra House, began to feel doubtful as to the wisdom of broaching her scheme just tlien. ' How you can have lived all the summer in a hole like this I don't imderstand ! Is it fashionable to keep your rooms as dark as if you were in mourning fur someone ? It makes me feel fit to cut my throat ! ' ' One must have the rooms cool,' said his wife, ' and that awn- mg makes it possible to sit outside in the balcony.' ' It keeps out all the air here, at any rate ; however, you won't stay here much longer now ; your time's up next week, isn't it ? and then, I presume, I shall have the pleasure of your society at home again ? ' ' I— I don't think quite just yet, Joshua,' she said nervously ; ' I was thinking of taking Ida and Reggie over to Homburg for a few weeks,' ' And who was going to find the money ? ' ' You are always so liberal about that,' she faltered. ' Oh, I am, am I ? But it's beginning to strike me that I don't get value for my money ; they're beginning to look shy on me z2 340 THE PART An down at Gorsecombe. I've do doubt they're sayiiig I'm a felloAV whose own wife won't live with him, and, putting my own feelings aside, I don't see why I should spend money to have that said of me ! ' ' But I should come back very soon.' ' To tell you the plain truth,' he said brutally, ' I shouldn't care a damn if you didn't come back at all. I've got on very comfort- ably without you aU this time, but it's the look of the thing I mind.' 'It is very unkind of you to saj' such things to me ! ' said his wife, from under a handkerchief. ' You know I asked you to como here with us, and you wouldn't ! And Ida has been ordered to take the waters, and I'm sin-e I've tried to be a good wife to you, Joshua, and — and you wouldn't be alone at Gorsecombe either. Margot and Lettice will be at home. How can people talk then — and what do you care if they do ? * ' I don't care ; it isn't that. So I'm to have Margot and Lettice, eh? Well, that's better certainly, but they'll find some way of backing out of it. They're too fine to come and live all alone with me. Margot is at any rate.' ' "What am I at any rate ? ' inquired Margot, who had entered the room in time to catch the last sentence. ' Your mother wants to go to Homburg with your sister and the boy,' he said, softened in sj^ite of himself by the girl's bright beauty as she stood there, smiling interrogatively, ' and she was proposing to send you and the youngest girl down to keep me company at home. I was saying that wouldn't suit j'our ideas, after the excite- ment you've been going in for here.' ' Oh, but it would ! ' said Margot gaily. ' I — I like Gorsecombe. And it would do Lettie more good than the seaside ; she is always asking when we are going back. "We will both come — unless you don't want us ? ' ' "Very well then, that's settled,' he said. ' And I may take Ida and Keggie to Homburg ? ' his wife asked. ' Take them to Timbuctoo if you like ! I can do very well without Ida ; she's no favourite of mine,' he said. ' Thank you, Joshua,' said Mrs. Chadwick meekly ; ' and — I'm afraid I shall have to ask you for a cheque — I haven't nearly enough.' ' Then you ought to have ! ' he retorted. ' "Wliy, you had enough to have lasted you a year when you came up ! ' Mrs. Chadwick murmured something about ' everything being BO dear in town ; ' she did not think it advisable to mention that she had left most of her bills unpaid — he would discover that quite soon enough. ' Well,' he said, ' tell me what's the smallest sum you can do with and I'll give you a cheque. I must have no more of this ex- travagance — remember, or I shall put my foot down in a way you won't like ! ' AUTUMN MANCEUVRES 341 Margot was too accustomed to scenes of this kind to feel any keen distress ; but what did pain and alarm her was her step- father's contemptuous reference to Ida, for whom Chadwick never concealed his dislike. However, it was settled that Mrs. Chadwick should have her way this time, and Margot was well content to f^o down to rest and quiet at Gorsecombe, where Nugent would probably find time to be. Even the prospect of her step-father's society did not damp her spirits — she was not afraid of him, and he behaved with more consideration to her than he showed for most other members of his family. Margot thought that she would be very far from unhappy. 3-12 TEE PARIAH -BOOK VI NEMESIS CHAPTER I LOVERS AND A EENDEZYOUS Margot never did write in reply to Millicent's letter ; she should see her so soon that it really was hardly worth while, she said ; and it was not until they actually met at Gorsecombe that Millicent knew how far her overtures had succeeded. As soon as they were alone together, she caught Margot's hands and looked up into her face. ' Margot,' she said, ' can't you forgive me ? Mayn't we be friends as we used to be ? ' Miss Chevening bent down and kissed her on the forehead. ' You ridiculous Millicent ! ' she said. ' Of course we may.' ' But say you forgive me ! ' insisted MiUicent. ' Forgive you '? ' repeated Margot ; and in spite of her smile there was a touch of impatient displeasiu-e in her voice. ' Oh, yes, yes ! — if I have anything to forgive you for — there, let all that be understood ; there's not the least necessity to go over it all again !' So MiUicent had to submit to be taken back into favour in this high-handed fashion, which even she found a little trying to her temper. But she was soon completely subjugated, as were all at the Vicarage, by Margot's acceptance of her i^osition as one of the household. The Vicar was charmed by her playful deference to him ; Mrs. Orme wished she showed more mterest in village work and topics generally', but admitted that she had a wonderful gift of bi-ightening any place she entered. 'And it brings Kugent down here,' she would conclude ; ' we shall see more of him than we used to. I really think this engagement is a good thing.' Nugent had come down at the same time as Margot and Lettice, having no vacation work to detam him in town, and being deter- mmed to set aside any professional considerations rather than break the spell of these long, happy days, few hours of which were spent away h'om his love. LOVERS AND A RENDEZVOUS 343 Constantly as he saw her, they were seldom absolutely alone together. Gorsecombe society considered that their behaviour to one another in public was not lover-liko enough ; and even in private he was sensible of a certain fastidiousness in her which made him critical of his own utterances. Bi;t she let him see, too, with a pride that scorned any shallow coquetry, how thorough was her content to be with him, how completely her heart was his. She was the dearer for the reverence she knew how to inspire in him, and their intimacy was invested with a delicate charm that kept it from all danger of palling. Margot was very happy in those days ; she broke into little snatches of song from pure ligliincss of heart ; she found it an effort sometimes to control herself to walk sedately, as she went about the house or grounds ; everything and everj'body, with hardly an exception, had become interesting and dehghtful in the Gorsecombe she had once found so dull. And yet, at home, there was a cloud which, much as she would have liked to disregard it, cast a shadow on this joyousness ! Her old involuntary dislike and repulsion to her step-father had begun to revive of late, heightened this time by an undefined terror. Ho was away most of the day, driving or riding about the countrj', and retui'ning to dinner in the evening in a condition varying between two extremes — sodden taciturnity and boisterous hilarity. He took wine fifeely at dinner, and she could see that he was in the liabit of drinkmg heavily* dimng the day. In everj- respect he had greatly deteriorated ; he was less careful of what he said before her ; there was an extravagance in his genialitj^ a wild light in his eye at times, that made her dread some violent outburst. She was glad when she could rise from the dmner table and join Lettice in the drawing- room, where he never followed. The fact was that his sentiments towards his beautiful step- daughter were rather complicated. He admired her ; he would have been fond of her had she shown any sign of affection for him ; as it was, he was quite able to see that her dutifulness was a matter of expediency, and that in her heart she did not respect him, in spite of his blustering attempts at authority or his clumsy efforts to in- dulge her. The engagement with Nugent roused a dull resentment ; he had not been consulted, had been left out of the matter ; he would have been ready enough (if for no other reason than that his wife was opposed to the matcli) to behave handsomely had his assistance been asked ; but Margot had chosen to dispense with it, for which he bore her a secret grvidge. He was glad to have her there, nevertheless ; it suited his humour — when he was in a fit state for such amusement— to try to provoke her proud spirit. He enjoyed seeing her eyes sparkle with anger, as she bit her lip to keep from retorting to his allusions to her family. At the same time, he was careful not to go too far ; in his worst moments hitherto, he had never entirely lost an involuntary awe of this girl, which protected her against attacks 344 THE PARIAH that she might not have found it possible to ignore or over- look. She was willing to bear much rather than that he shoiild expend his ill-humour upon its legitimate objects— her mother and Ida. Their absence abroad was the grievance which seemed to arouse his chief displeasure. He spoke of it, the expense, the uselessness, with a smouldering ferocity that might break out mto a sudden blaze at the slightest pretext. Margot knew what hopes were asso- ciated with that stay at Homburg. For Ida's sake, she dreaded a disappointment ; she had been charged by her mother to keep Chadwick in good humour at all hazards, but the strain on her nerves and temper was very severe at times. As before, however, her natural buoj'ancy and perfect health carried her through. She could not mmd anything much — not even the almost nightly penance of bearing with the humours of a half-dnmken man ; not even the prospect of renewed dissensions when her mother relieved her from her duties — now that she had Nugent's love to sustain her. She was silent even to him, concerning such disagreeables as she had to bear ; she scarcely remembered them in fact, after they had once passed ; and much of the indifference with which she met her step-father's provocations was due to the fact that her mind Avas happily engaged in recalling what had passed during the day. She rejoiced in the assurances every day brought her of the depth of Nugent's love, the supreme power she could exercise over him at will ; she felt herself surrounded by an atmosphere of uni- versal adoration which she had never appreciated before. At the Vicarage they made much of her; the Eddlestone girls were her devoted slaves and admirers. Her romantic choice of Orme, when it was rumoiired that some of the oldest names and finest estates in the country had met with rejection at her hands, disarmed the jealousy of the most envious rivals ; all spoke well of her, even in her absence ; she won interest, sj-mpathy, hearts, wherever she went. And it was only natural that the consciousness of all this should produce a pleasant sense of self-approval that consoled her for the less agreeable side of her life. It made her view her behaviour to her step-father — her patient submission to his perversities — her en- deavoiu's to put as good a face as possible upon her home life before the prymg eyes of Gorsecombe gossij)s, in something of an heroic spirit. Heroine or not, there came a time when her stock of forbearance was exhausted. She was sitting over the dessert with her step- father, who had been glowering and growling during the whole of the meal with even less than his usual regard to the presence of the servants. Margot was feeling tired and dispirited ; Nugent had been called suddenly to chambers, and this time on a matter he must attend to. It had been hot and close all day, and she had gone to tea with the Eddlestone girls, and come back with a headache. The evening post had just come in, and Chadwick was reading LOVERS AND A RENDEZVOUS 845 the letters that had been brought him, when he flung two of thorn across the fruit to Margot. ' Perhaps you'll be kind enough to explain what these dannied things are about '? ' he said. ' They seem to be bills,' replied Margot calmly. ' One is the jobmaster's and the other the dressmaker's.' ' I am able to see that for myself. ^Vhy hasn't your mother paid them ? AVhat the are they sent in to me for '? ' ' I really can't tell you,' she said wuth a weary disdain. ' No doubt mother will be able to exj^lain all about it.' ' I shall take good care that she does explain ! Perhaps you don't know that she had an allowance which was enough to settle twenty such bills as these '? Do yon suppose I should have been fool enough to give her more if I had known she had left any accoimts unpaid ? She distinctlj^ gave me to miderstand when I gave her a cheque for this German bath nonsense that she owed nothmg anywhere ! ' ' Isn't it possible that j'ou misunderstood her ? ' said Margot ; not, however, feeling much confidence in her suggestion. ' No, it's not. I tell you your mother got that last cheqixe out of me by false pretences — by what was nothing more nor less than downright lying swindling ! ' Margot rose. ' You can't expect nie to listen to this ! ' she said haughtily. ' Stay where j'ou are, do you hear ! ' He looked so savage, with his eyes glaring at her out of the gloom, that she stood by her chair without attempting to leave. ' Do you think I married to let myself be ruined in this way ? Have you any idea what your mother with her fine ideas and her smart h'iends has cost me ah-eady ? How do I know what bills she's rmi up since you've been away '? I'll not be made a fool of any longer. She shaU come back at once, or I'U go out and fetch her myself! ' ' If you do that,' said INIargot, ' you will do more harm than you have any idea of. You will most probably ruin — yes, rum — Ida's health and her happiness too ! ' ' "What the devil do I care for Ida ? If the truth was known, she's had the greatest share m all this extravagance. I'm not blind. I know your mother is settmg her heart on a grand match for her. She don't deserve it — a whining, puling, affected thing like that. If it was you now ! But j'ou've chosen to take up with that barrister fellow. And just mind this : I'm not going to stand by and let my money be flmiginto the gutter to please your mother-, or Ida, or anybody else. Why d n it all, I turned my only son away for not much more ! ' ' I wish you had tm^ned ns away instead ! ' she said passion- ately. ' I may come to that yet, with some of you," he retorted. ' I'm near the end of my tether.' 'If you ai'e near the end, I am nearer,' she said. 'How dare 34G THE rARIAH yoii talk as if yoii were ill-nsetl and cheated by us ? Why did yon marrv my mother ? You did not exen pretend it was for love — you wanted someone who would helj) you to make a position liere. "Would anybody come here — would the peojile about here even speak to you now, if it was not for us ? You know they would not ! And now — now you have got your position, you are doing all you can to disgi-ace it, and us. You insult our fi-iends when they come, you refuse to pay the slightest attention to ordinary civilities, and you wonder that mother is willing to go away anywhere, to be away from you a short tinae ! Y'ou ought to be grateful that she does not refuse to live in your house at all. I wish she would and take us all — anything would be better than this ! You are rich — how ricli I don't know, but you are rich — and it is mean and cowardly and tj'rannoiis to complain of expenses which can be nothing to you. Y'ou expected certain things fi'om us ; how have we disappointed you ? ^Yhat have I done, what has any of us done, that you should say such things of us ? ' He sat there with open mouth, listening to this tirade ; she looked so superb in her rage that his own fury, which was mostly worked up by the action of drink on an inflamed brain, exhaled in sullen admiration. ' I wasn't speaking of you,' he said ; ' you're perfect, I know,' he added, with what was only a perfunctory sneer. ' Y'^ou're not very flattermg to me, I must saA'. I never said I wanted to get rid of you, or gi'udged you anything, did I '? ' ' I will be treated as the others are,' she said. ' Well,' he went on, ' I got excited. I didn't mean to blame you about those infernal bills — damn the bills ! — but, for all you say, I think I've got some right on my side, and I don't mean to stand this sort of thing for ever. However, I dare say I said things I'd better have left unsaid, though, by God ! it wouldn't take nnich more to make me as good as my words, too. The bills can wait till your mother comes back . . . and— and shake hands, like a sensible girl, and say no more about it.' He held out a gi-eat hand, and Margot, feeling that she should infallibly break down if she remained there any longer, just touched it with her own and hurried away. Chadwick helped himself from the spii-it-decanter, after which he sat musing. ' Damn it ! ' he said half aloud, ' I like her pluck ; she tm-ned on me like a little queen. . . . Pretty things for a man to hear from his step-daughter. If the other ghl had said half that I should have killed her, I believe ! ' If Margot had come away victorioias, she was in no mood to exult over her success. She was a little ashamed of it ; she hated these sordid quarrels. By reminding him of what he owed to his marriage, she felt that she had descended to his own level. And yet she had avei'ted a real danger; he was capable just then of carrying out his threat if her sudden blaze of indignation had not LOVEPtS AND A RENDEZVOUS 347 sobered him in a waj^ that coiilcl not have been expected. She thouglit of her mother, with her feeble stratagems and imnecessary deceptions, and trembled for the future. As to her own, she had less uneasiness ; soon she would be away from all this — safe with Nugent. But Ida '? If Ida missed making this marriage by any chance, what a life would be hers, under her step-father's sneering banter, varied by such threats as he had just used, without her own power of self-protection ! No ; that should never be ! Ida should live with her ; she should not be left to wither under a blighting sense of dislike. Biit Margot felt too shaken and unstrung by that evening's encounter to write to Nugent, as she had intended ; she could not have written without betraying her distress and anxiety in some way, so she preferred to be silent. The next morning she had letters which brought back her gaiety — one fi-om Nugent, the first he had ever wi-itten since their engagement, full of his misery at his absence from her and announcing his return that evening — the other from Ida, written in the highest sj^irits from Homburg. She was ' happier than she had ever had any idea of; Guy had spoken at last ; they had both been very silly in not understanding one another sooner ; it seemed that he had actually' taken it into his head that she did not care for him. Not care for Guy ! As if ' and here followed raptures in Ida's usual hyperbolical strain. But Margot felt all her fears of the previous evening disperse. Ida was safe now, — safe and happy, and Nugent was coming back ! what did anything else matter ? '\Yhj% Margot, you kissed me on hoth cheeks!' exclaimed Lettice, after releasing herself. ' Is — is anything the matter '? ' ' Nothing, you uncomplimentary child ! ' said Margot ; ' only you look so nice in that pretty pink frock, I couldn't help it.' ' I think my blue is nicer, but it isn't the week for that,' observed Lettice. ' Margot, papa's gone out for aU day, he won't be home to dinner. Aren't you glad ? Now J can have dinner with you ! ' 'You shall, pet; and do you know what we will do this morn- ing ? You shall get Susan to help you with your habit, and we will have a long ride together, just you and I.' ' And take Yarrow ? ' said Lettice, with dancing ej-es. ' Not Yarrow — he's not strong enough for a long run, poor dear ! ' It has been mentioned already that Margot was now able to gratify her love for riding ; Lettice had begim to learn in town, and the Vicarage pony, a quiet animal, was, as to-day, generally at her disposal. Lettice acknowledged the wisdom of leaving Yarrow at home, the pony was brought round from the Vicarage stables, the boy saddled Margot's mare, and she and Lettice set off in high spirits. They had no one in attendance, as the coachman had gone with Chadwick and the dog-cart. Lettice chattered all the way through 848 THE PARIAH the villaj?e and along the road to the downs ; she had akeady regauied much of her health in Gorsecombe air. ' "We must be turning home now,' said Margot at the end of a delicious canter over the springy turf, along the back of a ridge commanding a great expanse of rich country lying bathed in a shimmering haze of August sunshine ; ' we mustn't be late for lunch; the Eddlestones are coming to tennis afterwards. Have you enjoyed it, Lettice ? ' 'K — not quite so much as the pony ! ' said Lettice, conscienti- ously. ' Don't j-ou think your horse would like to look at the view a little now, Margot ? ' 'Oh, Lettie ! ' said Margot, laughing, 'we won't canter any more, if that is what you mean, but I thought you were going to be such a horsewoman.' ' I'm not a horsewoman yet. If I'm anything, I'm a ponygirl, I suppose. And I like galloping fast very much, if it wouldn't take my breath away so.' So, seeing that Lettice was not yet completely at home in the saddle, Margot went quietly home by the road which led past the ■\ illage green. ' What a lot of people ! ' said Lettice. ' See, Margot, they're putting up swings and a steam-circus and tents; there's going to be a fair there this evening.' There certainly were more people about the village than usual, and it was necessary to be careful in threadmg their way through. ^Vllen they were entering the gates Lettice said : ' Margot, am I sitting very crooked ? ' ' You sit very nicely, Lettice,' said Margot. ' Why ? ' ' Because there was a man who stared at me so— in such a queer way, so I stared at him. And he was like — like somebody, and I can't thinli who, — somebody I know; it was only just the eyes, you know. I wish I could remember ! ' ' It was rude of him to stare,' said Margot, ' but it's not very likely he was criticising your seat, dear. I shouldn't trouble my head about him.' But as Lettice was running upstau-s to change, she stopped and said softly to herself, ' I know now who had eyes like that — Allen 1 But the rest of the face wasn't like him at all.' And she did not mention it to Margot, who, she perhaps divined, would not be pleased at the introduction of his name. The Eddlestones came to tennis, and left late, after making arrangements for a picnic expedition the next day. ' What will you wear to-night, miss ? ' asked Susan, as Margot came up to her room to dress. ' Oh, anything,' said Margot ; ' there are only Miss Lettice and I, you know ; it's absvu'd to dress.' ' Yes, miss. Oh, there was a message I was to give j-ou — to ask you most particular to be down at the summer-house, the stone one, by half-past nine to-night.' LOVERS AND A RENDEZVOUS 349 ' Then -is ]\Ir. Ormc back, Susan ? have yoii seen him ? ' Susan smiled demurely. ' I wasn't to mention no names,' she Baid ; ' he seemed to think you'd know who it was.' ' I didn't know Nugent was so romantic,' thought Margot; but all she said was : ' On second thoughts, Susan, you can put out my dress as usual.' ' Very well, miss,' said the handmaid. Lettice usually went to bed about nine, though she pleaded for a little license this evening. At length Margot was able to induce her to say good-night and go uj^stairs, bi;t it was a little past tho half-hour when, throwing a light shawl over her head, she went with a light step across the lawn and along the path to the place of rendezvous. ' I shall have to scold Nugent for sending me a verbal message,' she was thinking ; but she knew that her rebuke would not be very severe. Someone was waiting there in the shadow by the Indian fir. But surely that was not Nugent's figure ? It came forward in a hesitating, slouching way into the moonlight, and, starting with an irrepressible gesture of dismay, she recognised the face — changed but unmistakable — of Allen Chadwick ! CHAPTER II A RETROSPECT Sick in the world's regard, wretched and low, A poor unminded outlaw sneaking home. Hen. IV. PL 1, a. 4, After an absence and silence of nearly two years, Allen Chadwick was once more returned to the home where his presence was so little desired. ^Vhat had been his history during all those months '? Had he made good his promise of returning with wealth that should justify his disobedience ? Whj' had ho come home at this particular time, and what was his object in seeking to see Margot alone and in secret ? These are points as to which it may be presumed that some at least who have followed this history so far will require to be in- formed, and, this being the most appropriate and convenient place for such information, it shall be given with as little tediousness as possible. We left him, it may be remembered, going out to Bombay, as a saloon passenger, on the P. & 0. steamer ' Cliusan.* Aniongsi tha 350 THE PARIAH passengers was a man named Denham. the onlj' person on board with whom Allen formed any real intimacy. Denham was a communicative man,b3' no means exacting as to his acquaintances; he found Allen a good listener, and took a sort of fancy to him dm-ing the voj-age, which was not many days old before Allen had been told most that there was to tell of the other's affairs. Denham, it appeared, had been a coffee -planter in the Wynaad district in Southern India, and, in a part of the estate not yet under cultivation, accident had discovered what there seemed every reason to believe was a valuable reef of gold-bearing quartz. Ho kept the discovery to himself for a time, got rid of part of his property, and, having bought up all that he could get of the land under which the reef was estimated to lie, formed a company to open lip and work the mine. He had been to England for the purpose of getting this company properly floated, and superintend- ing the construction of the necessary mining-plant. In a short time the mine would be at work, and in the opinion of all the experts he had consulted would yield a fabulous retiu-n. Southern India, it was confidently believed, was to prove a second California. All this, and mucli more, he told Allen, as indeed most people with whom he fell into conversation. To Allen the very name of gold-mine was enough : he was going out against his wiU to a business he detested in advance, in which he would bo under the supervision of a man who had been expressly cautioned against trustmg him, in which no efforts of his could advance him materi- ally. He confided to Denham his distaste to what lay before him, and his longing to escape from it if possible. Denham commended his spirit, and in a moment of expansion proposed one day that Allen should accompany him to the scene of action — they would find something for him to do by-and-by in the accountant's office, as he had some acquaintance with figm-es. Allen caught eagerly at the idea, but he was anxious to have a more personal connection with the venture. He had money, more money than he would need now, he explained, "Was it possible to get shares still, and would Denham help him to do so '? Denham, after a little demur' rmg, undertook to manage this, and he did so out of sheer good nature. He was a thorough believer in the mine himself, he was pleased with Allen's enthusiasm, the shares were certain to go up, the deposit amount was small, he would take care that the young fellow, M-ho evidently had no harm in him and only wanted looking after, incurred no loss by them ; and so the greater part of the money which Chadwick, in a fit of compunction, had given his son at parting was laid out in this manner. AiTived at Bombay, it was not difficult to get his baggage and be safe in the Madras train with Denham, before Chadwick's manager, who had no means of identifying him, had discovered that he had been given the slip. Five days later, Allen was at the Mattaputty mine from which so much was expected. His notions had been of the vaguest kind. A RETROSPECT 851 hai'dly going beyond a vision of men in red shirts washing immense nng;^ets out of cradles. And the reahty was a disappointment at first. There was plenty of activity, but not of the liind he had imaj^ined ; coolies were cutting down trees, making roads, and building sheds, huts, and bungalows. Along the face of the bare and rugged hUls, tunnels and shafts wore bemg driven to ascertain the dip of the reef, but he had not itnderstood till then what long and laborious processes were necessary before any appreciable amomit of gold could be extracted. Denham, however, was always sanguine ; nothing serious could be attempted until the elaborate ' batteries ' and ' stamps ' arrived and were set up. In the meantime the assaj-ers in London, to whom samples had been sent, reported an average yield little short of fabulous. Allen soon caught the prevailing tone of enthusiasm. But there was nothing for him to do ; his duties were simply nominal at present, though he had a small salary which enabled him to live. Sometimes, in very wearmess of being idle, and impatience with the slow rate of progress, he got leave to accompany the Cornish miners into the tunnels and do such work as was entrusted to him --and dull and exhausting work he found it. And then there were difhculties and delaj-s ; some of tlie ma- chinery was not sent out or miscarried on the way ; the buildings erected to receive it were found unsuitable and had to be rebuilt ; after months of unsuccessful labour it was discovered that the miners had sunk their shaft on the wrong side of the dip and were only getting further from the reef. All this did not prevent very roseate reports being issued, nor did it shalie Denham's confidence in ultimate success, but it did make the expenses very heavy, and dishearten many who had been hopeful enough till now. At last the machinery was in working order, the masses of stored quartz were crushed and reduced, and gold, though barely enough to pay the expenses of obtaining it, was actually produced. But the enforced idleness, the fe\erish, constantly defeated ex- pectation of some sudden good fortune liad, as miglit have been foreseen, a demoralising effect on Allen. He was unpopular with the staff, who looked on him as a useless intruder ; he had to make friends as he could among the miners, some of whom were a rough and reckless set ; he even associated with some of the Madrassee Eurasians who were employed in the mine and who had most of the vices of their mixed race. Denham took little notice of him, though he warned him at times against some of his companions, but he was too preocciiirled to take much interest in his proceedings. Left to himself as he was, with no resources to occupy his mind and no regular work to steady him, the wonder was rather that Allen did not go to ruin altogether, than that he should be guilty of an occasional lapse. But the same hope which made anj^ settled way of life impossible to him — the dream of some stroke of brilliant 352 THE TARIAH fortune in which he woulcl share — preserved him from any irre- trievable downfall. The knowledge of all that he had borne and was bearing for Margot kept him from losing his self-respect en- tirelj". Every day that passed increased the claim he had on her gratitude, he would not do anything that might make him ashamed to retm-n when he had the power. But there were times when despondency got the better of him, and he took the only way of escaping it that was open to him. And in due coiirse the diy season came on, and he was attacked by fever, which, though not dan- gerous, lingered obstinately about him, wearing, weakening, and depressing, till the rains brought relief and cure. He learnt on his recovery that the mine was further from pro- sperity than ever. Dm-ing the dry season an iinforeseen calamity had befallen them, the waterpower by which all the machinery was driven had failed, the reservoir had proved quite inadequate, and for weeks the works had been almost at a standstill. Allen happened to meet Denham on the day he heard this, and, in the u'ritable, nervous state his illness had left, blurted out some expressions which the other chose to resent. ' I meant to do you a good turn by bringing yoii here,' he said ; ' I thought I could make something of you in time — but I see I was mistaken. And now you as good as tell me I've swindled you ! I'll not be told that twice — 3-ou shall make over your shares to me, and I'll give you back what you've paid on them, and the sooner you're out of this place the better for me and for you ! ' Allen had not expected this, and pleaded against dismissal, but Denham's patience was exhausted. Allen was of no use in the office, he was glad of an excuse for getting rid of him, so the trans- fer was made and Allen's connection with the Mattaputty mine came to an end. And the day after this was finallj' arranged, the tide of fortime turned — another and a richer dip was stri;ck, the mine was in a fair way to pay at last, and Allen was left with the tormenting reflection that he had behaved like an imgi'ateful fool, and that if he had been content to keep his dissatisfaction to him- self and wait a little longer, the shares he had parted with might have realised a handsome sum after all. However, he had to make his way back by Ootacamund to Madras, where Denham had given him some introductions, though he advised him not to stay in the country but to go home at once. Go home ! Allen thought bitterly, what reception would he have there now '? Should he make his way back to Bombay and the Behar plantation ? He was ashamed to do so after so long a time, and all this enforced idleness had unfitted him more than ever for hard woi-k. He got no fiu'ther than Ootacamimd, where he staj-ed at the hotel while his money lasted — Avhichwas not long; he was reckless now, it seemed i;seless to be economical. AVith a wild idea of repairing his folly he took to gambling, and there were card-players there very ready to relieve him of his last rupee. Then he was obliged to find something to do, and succeeded in finding A RETROSPECT 353 employment in one of the shops in the town. It was hard but not ill-paid woi'k, and he was able to put by a proportion of his wages to pay his passage to England. For he was longing to get back — not that he had any definite purpose in returning, he certainly did not dream of approaching his father at i:)resent — but he was im- patient to leave this strange, s[)lendid, unfriendly India, where he felt himself more incongruous tlian ever. In London he would feel at home, even alone ; there would no longer be the great ocean between himself and Margot. Who knew whether he might not find covirage to see her some time, when he had earned the right ? Towards the middle of July — the July in which Margot became engaged — he landed in England, jioorer in purse and prospects than he had left ; and, in London, he could think of no better jilan than applying to his old employers. Fortunately for him, they hap- l^ened to have a vacancy just then, a situation far inferior to that he had held, but one which he was glad to take nevertheless. He had hired a room in Clerkenwell, and there he had lived for nearly a month, going about his daily work in the big establishment with a stolid indifference to the questions and sneers of some who had been employed there with him before, and who were inclined to be curious or merry concerning his short-lived career as a man of fortune. He lived a solitary life ; he had no fi'iends, the aunt he had lived with as a boy had left her old home long ago, and he did not know her address. His life was temperate, he seemed to have lost all taste for amusement of any kind ; when night came he was gene- rally too tired to care for anything but sleep. Yet he was not unhappy ; he was back in England, in the same country as Margot, he was independent, he felt as if he was doing something to redeem his mistakes. He did not know she was in London ; he thought of her as down at Gorsecombe, he was constantly dreaming of her. One night in particular he thought he had come home and had gone round by the garden and they had met. And she had come forward and taken his hands and thanked him, her beautifiil eyes wet with tears, for the sacrifice he had made for her, pitying him for all he had gone through. And then he thought she had explained why she had been silent, and how there was no need for silence now, and in some sweet indefinable way she had made him understand that she loved him and had always loved him, that they would never part now. And, with the wonder and rapture of this still thrilling him, he had awoke to find it a dream I But this dream left a lasting impression upon him which time deepened rather than effaced. It was so vivid, so lifelike, that it seemed to him like a sign or prophecy sent for his guidance. AVhy might he not fulfil it '? If he could only see her, and she could know the penalty he had paid for shielding her, surely she would speak at last ! AVhatever reasons she had had for not avowing her part in the matter before .V A c54 THE PArjAH must have ceased long a^'o to be of any serious importance. Still, he could not go to his fatlier until he had seen her hrst. Unless he was able to come back witli a full exculpation from the crime for Avhich he had been banished, he might as well stay where he was. And how was he to clear himself without undoing his sacrifice — - the one act in all his life which he could look back upon with pride ? He would see Margot first ; he would tell her all he had gone through on her account, and how tired he had grown of his exile. There would be no need to ask her to speak for him, she would understand, she would be the first to insist on repairing her wrong, his condition was different now fi-om what it had been when he was sent out. He felt rather than reasoned all this ; two things were clear in his mind — that if he went back it should not be in disgrace, that his exoneration should come through Margot. We all — the least imaginative of us — dramatise little scenes with ourselves in the role noble. Allen pictured that interview beforehand : she would be shocked, remorseful, tender — he would be generous and chival- rous — perhaps even the most extravagant part of his dream did not seem altogether improbable to liim. And at last he resolved that he would delay no longer ; he would arise and go, like the prodigal in the parable — though, in his case, it was not his father from whom he hoped most. He was Uke the prodigal in most respects ; he had journeyed (though heaven knows uiiwillingly enough) into a far country, he had wasted his substance with riotous living, he had fed the snine and gone hungry himself, and yet he was not going back in a spirit of utter self-abasement, not all the faiilt was on his side, not all the forgiveness on theirs — surely he might hope, he too, for the robe and the ring, the fatted calf, and the music. Some pardonable confidence he felt, a justifiable conviction that he had a right to expect admission, that Margot would now be willing ■to vindicate him. It happened that he had a couple of days at his disposal, in con- sideration of having been obliged, as the junior etyij^lui/e, to attend at the ottice as usual on the August Bank Holiday ten days before. And so he had gone down to Gorsecombe one bright August morn- ing. With what mixed emotions he neared the little station ! How familiar and unchanged everj'thmg looked ! There was the road on which he had taken those terrible rides on Hussar ; there was the copse where he had waited for Barchard that winter after- noon. His heart sank as he got out of the train ; he had arrived — but what was he to do next ? How should he obtain that meeting with Margot? There were no carriages or dog-carts waiting at the station ; he B?.w no one he knew, except the station-master and porter, who did not recognise him. This was not extraordinary, for the beard he had grown and exposure to a tropical sun had greatly altered him ; he was poorly and roughly dressed too, having purposely put on his worst clothes. A RETROSPECT 855 He walked slowly down the dusty road from the station to the village, thinking over his next proceedings. On an ordinary day his appearance would have provoked curiosity and comment as he passed down the main street, where strangers were always objects of interest. To-day, however, there were other attractions ; a local benefit club was holding its annual holiday, which was spent in going to church in procession behind a brass band to hear a sermon in the morning, and dining and disporting themselves generally for the remainder of the daj'. A small fair with all the usual attrac- tions was established on the green, and the place was too full of visitors from the neighbouring villages, of tramps and gipsies, for Allen's appearance to excite any sensation. He passed the church, with the black and gold clock jirotruding like a great eye from the base of its squat slate steeple. Outside in the churchyard were the bandsmen and the banner-bearers, resting under the lime trees with a comfortable conviction that hearing a week-day sermon was not included in their duties. Inside, the members of the club were listening to a discourse to which, being pi'oudly conscious of having subscribed to pay for it, they were critically attentive, with a disposition to resent any dismissal before at least an hour had expired. The wide street and the quaint little shops were all just the same ; in the watchmaker's wmdow the same row of fat silver watches dangled, freckling their faces in the ?un. There was the same timepiece, constructed of varnished fir cones — one of them had fallen out, that was all. At the bonnet- maker's, there was the same box of frilling in front of the muslin curtains — frilling amongst which a misguided bee was wasting his time, under the evident impression that it was a honeycomb. And the grocer's shop-front showed the same placards ; not a tea-chest, nor a jam-pot, nor a jar of sweets seemed to have been removed since he stood there that December morning, while his fate was being decided by Margot— only now the panes were alive with wasps swarming up and down in restless activity, undeterred by the ugly warning which a half- foot layer of their dead and dying brethren below might have afforded. Presently the club came out of church, decorated with blue rosettes and gaudy green sashes, their red faces wearing a grin of sheepish importance, and then, preceded by the band, slouched up the street to promenade the green until dinner-time. Allen recog- nised most of them, though they did not know him ; he was looking on mechanically at the procession, when presently he saw some- thing which made his heart leap within him. Two persons were riding through the crowd, one a little girl with long floating auburn hair under her velvet cap, the other, a slender, lissom figm-e, who was occupied in soothing her spirited little mare as it pranced deUcately at the blare of the band. They were Margot and Lettice, the only two beings he cared for in the world. They passed close to him ; he could have touched the skirt of Margot's habit — but he could not find courage to speak to her. aa2 356 THE PAEIAII She looked far lovelier than the gii-1 who lived in his memory sweeter, happier. And how sui^erbly she sat her horse ! They passed on, the little girl looked at him cnriouslj', but evidently without recognition, and now they were clattermg roimd the corner out of sight. Allen stood there rooted to the gi-oimd in the hot sun, looking after them. She tvas here, then — he might see and speak to her before the day closed. He felt strangely excited and yet hopeful. ' Perhaps,' he was thinking, * by this time next week / shall be riding with them ! ' For his Mattaputty experiences had at least left him a gainer in one respect — he could ride decently enough now ; it was the only means of getting about the country out there, and at one time he had ridden constantly with Denham. The idea of exhibiting this acquirement of his to Margot by-and-by gave hun a boyish pleasure; in contemplating it he forgot all that had to be gone thi'ough before he could take his place again in home life. Bj' this time the club had filed into the White Lion, where the dinner was to be held, which reminded Allen that he was himgry. He would dine too ; it would fill \\\) the time while he was arranging some plan for getting speech with Margot. At the "White Lion he might be recognised, and he shrank from recog- nition just then ; but there was the other inn, the Seven Stars, just opposite, homelier but respectable, he had never been there before. So to the Seven Stars he went. CHAPTEE III. BUT A LITTLE LONGER. My Lady verily awaiteth me ; So that until with Her I be For my dear Lady's sake I am right fain to make Out from my pain a pillow, and to take Grief for a golden garment unto me ; Knowing that I, at last, shall stand In that gi-een garden-land. And in the liolding of my dear Love's hand Forget the gi-ieving and the misery. Austin Dobson. The big kitchen of the Seven Stars looked very cool and com- fortable as Mien entered. There was company there, two laboin-ers sat at one of the rough tables, dining on bread and cheese and cold bacon ; a postman at another near the settle, who, however, rose hastily as he saw a stranger and removed himself and his food to an adjoining apart- ment ; a very old peasant m a smock frock, who seemed to have BUT A LITTLE LONGER 357 had as much Hquor as was good for him, and was seated on a stool quavermg unintelligibly to the fire ; and, lastly, Mrs. Parkinjear herself on a chair in her usual corner. The sun gave a brilliant transparency to the red curtain and the green plants at the window, leaving the interior of the room in shade. ' Come in and sit ye down, sir, whoever ye be,' said Mrs. Parkinjear, ' I've lost my eyesight, sir, as you can see, and I can't attend to you as once I could, but my dear granddarter will be back in a minute. It's a sad de])rivation to me. Minnie'll be here directly ; she's only stepped down to the cellar to draw a mug of cider for postman here. You're fond of cider, ain't ye, j)ostman ? ' Naturally there was no reply, and the old lady called ' Post- man ! ' then, more persuasively, ' Posty ! Ah, he'll have run awaj' when you come in. He's a wonderful shj' sort o' man for a postman, so he is ! ' Allen gave his order when Minnie reappeared, and sat in the backgi'ound eating his humble fare, and listening to the labourers, neither of whom he knew by sight. One was a good-looking, stupid fellow, with a sleepy smile, white teeth, and luxuriant whiskers ; the other, fan, florid, burly, and opinionated, seemed to be laying down the law on the subject of mowing. Allen listened, partly because there was nothing else to do, partly because he hoped sooner or later to hear some allusion to his family. ' Bumble's a very good mower, he is,' said the burly man ; ' a' cuts in and a' cuts out, but a' takes a good deal less ground nor vrhat he used. Eeason why — man's older.' ' I carl old Eddards better nor him,' said the sleepy man, with the air of one who speaks under correction. ' Old Eddards is all very well in grass — but what good 'ud old Eddards be with a laivn, eh ? You cudu't put 'un in a clover-field neither ; now, could ye '? ' ' No, you cudn't put 'un to do that, sart'nly,' conceded the other, ' He could cut 'i;n, mind you, he could cut 'un — but he woiddn't git along, old Eddards wouldn't. Now, there's you, Jim, you can mow pretty well, I will say tJiat of ye, and there ain't on'y ono fault I has to find with ye — you mows too 'igh ; you cuts your ground clane enoiigh, but your bottom neb's too fur down the end o' your scythe ; this 'and's too fur down the stick, d'ye see ? Now, you bring your neb up just that fur apart ; then you can di'ive jonv ground out straight, d'ye see ? ' ' Y''es,' said the other man, too sleepy to resent this advice ; 'j'es, I can see there's sense in that.' ' Ah, I Jitwiv there is ! Now, there's 'Opper, he's a very gooil mower — he is a good mower if ye like — lays his ground out straight, makes a curve just no bigger nor that, lays around him like ! Chadwick's gardener took him on for a job last month up at Agra House, so a' was tellin' me,' But here, just as the conversation began to be interesting, Mrs 358 THE PARIAH Parkinjear struck in. ' I hope Miiinie's been attending to you' sir ? ' she said to Allen. ' Yovi must mention it if you ain't got all you require. 'Tis a fine afternoon, isn't it ? I can feel the sun where I'm settin'. My poor, dear 'usband was allays one for letting in the sun to the very end, he was. He was in the brick- making business, but he wasn't no scoUard, dear man,' she rambled on. ' I might have had him now, only he had to go over to Close- borough one day, and he was in a hurry to get back to me, and got caught in that awful storm and couldn't get back nor forwards, and from that moment never had a well moment with the brownchitis, poor thing ! ' ' Talking o' storms, missus,' said the burly man, ' we'll have cue afore we're many hours older, call me a liar if we don't; been brewing up for it since noon.' ' Well, things are too far forward to be damaged now, we'll hope,' said Mrs. Parkinjear, not best pleased at the diversion. ' And, as I was telUng j'ou, su% before I was took up, there was my poor son, he was out in New Zealand, gum-digging, and he come home suddenly and walked from the station, meaning to step in unexpected like and have a bit of fun with his poor father, he being so brown and altered, and on the way he meets someone he knows and says, careless like, " Know if father's at home ? " sez he ; and they says, " Your mother's downstau's and about again, but your father's dead and bm'ied this three months." Aiid, poor dear boy, he wasn't well for a mouth after, for he was main fond of his dear father, he was.' Allen felt a sudden misgiving — what if 7m father, too, had died in his absence ? But no, these men had mentioned him just now ; Margot had not looked as if any sorrow had happened recently at home ; still, he must try to get some information, though he was conscious of having little skill in extracting it ; he would lead the talk to Margot as well as he could. ' You're gay here to-day,' he began awkwardly ; ' quite a fair going on, I see.' ' It's their club-day here, you see, and that wakes things up a little. Why ain't ijou with 'em, Garge ? ' ' B'long to the 'And-in-'And,' explained Garge grufflj'. ' Our club-day was July. We 'ad the ridgmental band over from Close- borough to it, and there was a deal more swing-boats and merry-go- rounds than what there is to-day.' ' Ah,' sighed Mrs. Parkinjear, ' there'll be fine doings when night comes on. I don't hold with folks making beasts of their- selves, keeping other folks from their night's rest ; it's time it was put down, to my thinking.' ' Well, I dunno, it ain't a bad thing for your business, y' know ; look at it that way.' ' I don't encourage none of that in 7}iy bar. This is a respectable house, and I'll keep it so ; if they want to get drunk, they must go over the way.' BUT A LITTLE LONGER 859 ' Why don't ye send 'iia over the way ? ' saitl Gargo wit'i a gi'in, pointing to the old htbourer on the stooL ' He's had a drop too much before he come to me, and he don't ought to come here at all, as he knows very well, when he's like this,' said the landlady, raising her voice for the old gentleman's edification — not that slie produced any impression, as he instantly began to crow and cackle, like an agi-icultural Mr. Dolls, for a ' lil drop ixiore gin.' 'It's against my conscience to serve him at all,' said Mrs. Parkinjear austerely ; ' but he'll only go where he'll be worse treated if I don't keep him quiet. Minnie, take my keys out of my pocket ; j^ou can draw Mr. Ricketts a little drop, but it's the last he's to have, mind that ! Don't take any notice of him, sir,' she added to Allen, ' it's the band and the 'oliday and that, that's upset him.' ' The band nearly frightened a — a yoiuig lady's horse just now,' said Allen, taking coin-age at this opportunity ; ' there was a little gii'l on a pony with her. Do j'ou know who they are ? ' ' Garge, you can tell the gentleman maybe,' said Mrs. Parkin- jear ; ' I can't see no 'orsesnowada^^s, no, nor 3'et no ponies, ah, dear ! ' ' A young lady on a 'orse '? ' said Garge stolidly, ' there's a many young ladies as rides their 'orses about 'ere.' ' Likely it 'ud be Miss 'Otham from 'Awleigh Court,' suggested his friend ; ' I've seen her over here times. Or did ye say there was a little gal on a pony ; pooty little gal ? long 'air ? It'll be Muster Chadwick's darters, siire 'nough. Yes, that's '00 it'll be.' ' They ain't his darters, on'y his darters-in-law, in a manner o' speaking,' corrected the opinionated man, ' I 'card Draper Spufford tellin' somebody so t'other daj^' ' And Draper Spufford spoke no more than the truth then ! ' put in the landlady. ' I mind their coming here two years last Easter, was it ? somewhere about that, I know. Mr. Chadwick hadn't only just been married to those gells' mother. Yes, Jim, you're right. It was Miss Chevening the gentleman saw. I might have known it was.' ' Then hadn't this Mr. Chadwick any family of his own ? ' asked Allen in a thick voice. ' He hadn't only but one son as I ever heard on, and, from all accounts, he wasn't sorry to see his back. Not as there was ever much harm in the young man, from all I conld learn ; he was more silly -like than downright bad ; he used to be about with young Bob Barchard who was a reg'lar bad lot, and went and 'listed for a soldier since, and I don't envy the Queen her bargain ! ' ' But the son — do you know what became of him ? ' ' It isn't rightly known where he is now ; he went out to America, or some outlandish place like that, and he done some- thing out there that his father wouldn't put up with nohow, for their coachman, ]\Ir. Topham, and a very nice civil-spoken man he is too, was saying in this very room how it was as much now as their place was worth, any of 'em, to mention Mr. Allen (that 360 The pariah was the yoUng man's name, sir) to his father. "He's no son o' mine," said Mr. Chadwick ; " if he comes back here, I'll have the door shut in his face. INIind that ! " he says. And the cm-ious part of it is, sir, if you'll believe me, that the old gentleman— this one's fatlier — turned }iis son out o' doors too. It shows how these things runs in families, don't it ?' ' I suppose,' said Allen, ' you don't happen to know — you didn't hear whether the— the young lady took his part at all ? ' ' That I'm sure I can't tell you, sir, but from what I did hear, it wouldn't be likely any of them would interfere; they're not his blood, you see, and besides, they none of them took to him when he was livmg in the same house, and I dessay, if the truth was known, they weren't sorry when he took himself off and wasn't likely to trouble tJiem no more. And in course all Mr. Chadwick's money 'ull go to t}tem now ! ' ' Ah ! ' said Allen, ' it's that way, is it ? But she — the eldest one, I mean — didn't look the sort of girl to care about the money.' ' I'm a poor blind old ladj' now, sir, and I can't tell. I've heard she's a sweet pretty face of her own, though proud and high in her ways, but she's been here with Miss Millicent, the Vicar's daughter, once or twice and spoke as pleasant and kind as j-oi; please, with a voice that did my 'eart good to listen to. But you can't tell what she had to put up with from such a step-brother as he was. Like enough she'd reason to be ashamed of him, and not want him back.' ' Yes,' said Allen heavily, ' like enough. And is his father livmg here now ? ' ' He was a day or two ago, I know. He lives there most of his time ; he ain't at all liked in these parts — don't get on with the gentry, so they say, and I 'eard he'd been seen driving about that drunk he couldn't 'ardly keep hold on the reins, and that in broad daylight ! ' ' I see him the other day,' said Jim. ' It M'as knock-off tiine with me, and I was coming home down Piper's Lane when he druv' by. I thart I'd ha' bin run over the way he was going, first one side, then t'other, and a-larrupin' with his whip ; " Damn your eyes, stand oi;t o' my way!" sez he. And I did, pretty sharp too. He wur drunk then fast enough.' Allen had heard as much as he could bear by this time ; he paid his reckoning and went out of the inn into the dazzling street. So his conjectures were only too true; his father had cast him off; the servants had orders to shut the doors agamst him ! He had meant to go round by the back entrance to Agra House, and try to get someone to carry a message to Margot for him — but now he was afraid. Still, he wandered up towards the house, half hoping that he might see Margot herself; he came to tlie well-remembered gates, with their pretentious stone pillars and glittering gas-lamps ; no one was at the lodge, but he did not go in, he skirted the palings of the BUT A LITTLE LONGER 361 plantation for some distance till he came to a point \vlience he could command a distant glimpse of the house and lawn. Perhaps Margot might be sitting or walking there alone ? As he drew nearer he hoard the faint ring of girls' laughter and voices from the tennis-court, wliere tlie game was being plaj^ed in defiance of the sultry heat. There were four of them playing — two spectators, a girl and a child — was it Lettice '? — sat in wicker chan-s in the shade — and the tallest of the players, the one in the white tunic over a dark-blue skirt, that must be Margot herself ! He stood there, straining his eyes with a yearning attempt to see her more distinctly still, till presently the players changed sides, and she was screened from him by a clump of j'oung firs, though now and then he caught the clear gay tones of her voice. He turned away with a heavy heart ; she seemed so happy, so completely to have forgotten — and besides, it was hopeless to think of trying to approach her just then. Just then ! How did he know that he might not have to go back with his pui-pose un- executed after all '? But it appeared that fortune did not intend to be so cruel as this, for, as he went slowly with bent head down the lane, still pursued by those happy voices, he saw a trim, smartly dressed form advancing towards him — it was Susan ! Here was hope at least, for surely she would beh'iend him. ' Susan,' he cried eagerly, ' Susan ! ' ' Upon my word, young man ! ' said the girl, ' who gave you leave to make so free with my name ? I'm not Sitsan to the likes of you, I can promise you ! ' 'Don't you know me, Susan? "Won't vou stop and speak to me?' 'Mercy on us!' she cried, 'if it isn't Mr. ! So you're come back, are yoti ? ' ' Yes,' he said humbly, ' I've come back.' ' Wherever you've been, you don't seem to have made yoitr fortmie there, judging by appearances,' she remarked; 'you are a pretty scarecrow, I must say. Aiid what do you mean to do now you are back ? ' 'I — I don't know yet. Is — is the governor dead-set against me, Susan ? ' ' You'd better not let him ketch sight of you, I can tell you that— partickler when he's like he mostly is just now ! But, luckil}^ for you, he's away for a day or two at present — off on the si^ree, I shouldn't wonder, and small blame to him, with missus away constant ! ' ' Is she away now, then ? ' ' Away at a place called 'Um])ug — and the proper place for her, I say ! She, and Miss Ida, and the young gentleman. There's only Miss Margot and Miss Lettice at home just now. If I was you, I'd walk straight in and say I'd come back and meant to stop — and then let yotu* father tiu-n you out if he could ! ' 362 THE PARIAH ' I can't do that, Susan — not till I've seen lier.' ' Which her "? Miss Lettice ? You'll see enough of her after— she's everywhere, she is, and that spoilt, with no one being allowed to say a word to her, I've no patience with it. But I'm not her nurse, oh dear no ! — I'm only her maid, and have to put up with all her tantrums ! ' 'It's not Lettice I want; it's— it's Margot. I must see her, Susan, before — before I can come back.' ' Can't you come back without her leave and licence ? But I remember now — didn't you go away at first to please her ladyship ? Well, you won't find you please her so much by coming back, it's my belief.' ' AVhat do you know about it ? She will help me — she must ! ' ' Must ? ' said Susan ; ' you tallv pretty big. One would think you had a reason for it.' Allen was a little alarmed at having let the word slip out. ' I — I didn't mean it that way,' he said ; ' never mind that. Look here, Susan, I've not much time to spare — that is, unless — unless it all goes right. And for that I must see her, and privately, and I w'ant you to help me. You will, Susan, won't you ? I'll make it worth your while some daj', if I can't now.' ' Much use it is helping yoit, ! I've tried that before, and much thanks I got for it. But I'll try once more. You be at — let me see — at the round summer-house, down by the lane there, by half- past nine to-night, and I'll engage she shall come out to you.' ' What shall you tell her ? ' ' Never you mind ; but she'll come, and you take my advice, don't you stand no nonsense from her. Show her you're master, and if she's not acted true to you, don't have no mercy on her, for ghe don't deserve it.' ' What do you mean ? ' he asked. ' What do you know ? ' ' Me ? I don't mean nothing. If she hasn't been making a fool of you, she hasn't, and that's aU about it. Anyway, you can settle that between you this evening; and now I can't dawdle here talking any longer, I'm going down to the village for a bit. I've little enough time I can call my own. As for you — you'd better keep out of the way till you're wanted. Take a walk, I should, away from everybody, where you won't be noticed. And by the time you're back, she'll be there waiting for you — don't you worry yourself about that.' Susan tripped off down the lane towards the village, humming. ' I've put a spoke in Miss Margot's wheel, this time ! ' she was refiecting. ' I'd give a month's wages to see her face when she comes out and finds it's him ! She'd sooner see him dead than back, I'll go bail. Unless I'm very much mistaken, he's got some hold over her. I only hope he's the pluck to use it. And if ho does, and gets taken back, why, then he's soft enough for me to catch him yet if I come round him gradual. Ought I to have told him as she was carrying on with that Orme ? No, he might have BUT A LITTLE LONGER 363 give It all up and gone awav then. She may tell him that her- self 1 ' Susan's idea of the situation was far enough from the truth, but she guessed that Allen had the power of making her young mistress exceedingly uncomfortable, an end which — independently of her own i:)rivate interest in Allen's return to his family — she was willing to promote to the best of her ability. Allen had some hours to kill before his interview with Margot, and acted upon Susan's advice in keeping out of the way for the present. He struck a smaller lane which led him to a road below, and then toiled up a dusty road to a hill where he knew of a foot- path which would take him to Bramley Common. His heart was still heavy, though there was now a limit fixed for this susjiense, but, as he walked on in the sultry afternoon heat, he was lulled into a vague content. He had never been very sensitive to Nature, but now, whether the undulating vallej's and stupendous mountain ranges of Southern India or the arid monotony of London had taught him to be more appreciative, he was soothed and comforted by the peaceful Enghsh surroundings, the plain below with its patches of bright yellow, green and choco- late, the deep blue hiUs beyond, seen through quivermg haze, the clumps of gorse, their gold now tarnished, the chirp of the grass- hoppers, and the warm scent of the bracken. And he went on up the steep track and over the common, till he came to the little church outside which he had stood in the darkness that memorable Sunday night. He unpinned the wooden gate and went to the porch ; the door stood open, and he entered and sat down in the lirst pew. Outside, there was a view of the church- yard with its grey orange-spotted tombs, and small conical yews, and bej'ond, up the slope of green and gold meadow-land red cattle were grazing in the sunshine. Inside it was still and cool and solemn ; the sills of the deep Norman windows and the edges of the pews were stained with brilliant patches of colour from the painted glass ; the clock in the tower above ticked loudly in the silence ; someone had put some lilies, gladiolus, and sweet peas in the vases on the altar. He sat there, at first thinking only how good was this absolute rest and shade after the weariness and heat. Gradually the place began to exercise an influence over him ; over the porch he had read in faded red letters, ' This is none other than the House of God.' Allen was neither religious nor irreligious ; it was rather a superstitious instinct that came over him just then. If he were to pray now, here — might he not have a chance of being heard '? He knelt down on the narrow footstool in the pew, and for a moment his ideas left him. He remembered no prayer, he could think of no words. On the ledge in front was a tattered old prayer-book — wovdd not that help him ? It fell open mechanically at the place for morning prayer, and his eye fell on the General Confession. ' Erred and strayed like lost sheep ' . . . ' Spare thou them, 364 THE PARIAH God, which confess then- faults. Restore thou them that are penitent.' He took the phrase literally, without attaching any spiritual meaning to it ; ' restore ' for him meant restoration to home, love, character, all that made his life ; but that did not affect the fervour and humility with which he repeated the words aloud, half alarmed by the sound of his own voice in the stillness. Then, before he x'ose, he added, with an odd feeling that he must make the most he could of this opportunity, ' And, God, make her kind to me ; make her ready to tell everything. Amen.' Then he rose and came out of the church, feeling strangely re- lieved, sure, indeed, that now all would be well with him. The afternoon was drawing into evening, the sun was sinking in a coppery veil, the white dust on the road was tinged with pink, but the air was closer and heavier than ever, even on the common in the open. He was worn out, and threw himself down on the rusty bracken, where he soon fell dreamlessly asleep. AVhen he awoke, the moon had risen over the firs, and a few stars shone overhead ; in the west, a sullen mass of clouds was rising like a towered and battle- mented wall, a ' looming bastion fringed with fire.' He sat there a while, confused and languid, and then he remembered where he was and what he had to do. Was luck against him even now ? ^^'as he too late ? He was seized with a horrible fear that this was so, when the clock in the church at the edge of the common struck. He counted the strokes with bated breath : seven, eight, nine — thank God ! no more, unless he had mistaken. A clock, distant but still audible, struck down in the valley — no, it tvas nine. There was time to get to the garden and meet Margot yet at the appointed hour, if he made haste. He hiu-ried back feverishlj', clambering down the dim grey path, swinging through the lanes under the interlacing willows and sycamores, where it was difficult to find air enough to breathe, run- ning madly along the road, till he was close once more to the lane where he had met Susan and need hurry no more. And then he trembled with expectation ; his dream — his dream was already close on its fulfilment, he wordd see her face to face once more, hold her hand, hear her voice. That night he might sleep under the old roof— to-morrow he need not go back to the hard cheerless toil of his London life ! Yet he lingered before he coidd make up his mind to pass the little rustic gate, the old fear had returned upon him. As he stood there, breathing hard after his running, the hot air was stirred and chilled by a sudden breeze, and the chill seemed to fall on his heart. If she refused to speak — if she really did hate him '? Ah, no— she could not hate him — not after all she knew, he need not fear that. Still he stood there in the moonlight, till Gorsecombe Church clock struck the two quarters, and then he went in and along the well-remembered paths to the stone summer-house, a somewhat barbaric record of his grandfather's Ai'cadian ideals. BUT A LITTLE LONGER 365 He waited, listening eagerly for Margot's step on the gravel ; all he heard was the harsh discordance of the organs in the fair down below, and then that faint rustling sweep over the grass, the light eager footfall. She was coming — she was coming at last ! He felt comforted, reassured by this eagerness of hers, and filled with a hope too wondrous, too splendid for belief, he rose and went to meet her. CHAPTER IV. UNDECEIVED. Docli du clriingst micli selbst von liinnon, Bittre "VVorte spiiclit dein Mniid ; Walmsinn wiihlt in lueineu Sinuen Und mein Herz ist krank und wund. — Heine. Allen must have been slow indeed of perception if the startled surprise, the shade of embarrassment in Margot's manner had escaped him as she stood there, her eyes looking large, dark, and mysterious under the light shawl, her arms and neck gleaming fair in the moonlight. He thought the change in her manner was caused by his own altered appearance, and grew abashed and con- scious again at the impression he felt he produced. ' It's me, Margot,' he said, ' Allen. Don't be frightened.' The beaiitiful mouth curled a little, ' I am not frightened,' she said, ' but — but why did j-ou pla3' me such a trick as this ? ' ' I thought Susan would have told you I was here,' he said. ' Didn't you know who wanted to see you ? ' ' Susan never mentioned your name. I thought — never mind what I thought now. So you have come back, Allen '? I always knew you would come back — but not like this.' She did not hold out her hand nor smile, she stood there, looking at him with scarcely an effort to mask her displeasure. "Was this the welcome he had dreamed of? ' I — I couldn't help coming back,' he said awkwardly. ' I thought you wouldn't mind, I know I'm not much to look at.' ' I was not thinking of your appearance,' she said, with a touch of shame. ' It is your sending for me hke this that I don't quite understand. Why did you ? ' ' Because — oh Margot, can't you guess, can't you see ? I can't stand the life I've been living any longer. "Why should I, when there's a home I can go to ? I want to come back — I've been in disgrace long enough ! ' ' "What is the use of saying that to me, Allen ? Your father is the only person who can allow you to come back.' ' And if I went to him what would he do ? Send me about my business. That's whj' I came to j-ou first.' 3G6 THE PARIAH She was silent for a moment, thinking. Then she said, 'It Avoiild certainly be useless for you to try to see him ; he is not even at home just now, and — and he is terribly angi-y with you. I doubt wliether he will listen to anything you might saj'.' ' He will listen to you ! ' he urged eagerly. ' Margot, you wouldn't speak up for me before. I know — I know, you couldnH; but it isn't the same now, you must see it isn't. Will you speak to him now — will you, Margot '? ' ' Listen, Allen,' she said with a cold gentleness, ' will you pro- mise me to go back to wherever you are living now, and wait jiatiently a little longer — only a little longer ? If you will, I will do what I can for you ; but if you stay here or attemjit to act for yourself, you will ruin all your chances, reinember that.' He could have fallen down and worshipjied her in the enthusiasm of his gi'atitude. ' I knew you'd help me ! ' he cried ; ' I knew j-ou wouldn't leave a poor devil out in the cold when a word from you . Oh, I will wait as long as you please — I know you will make it as short as you can — I will do anything you tell me, if only I come back at the end. God bless you, Margot ! ' He seized her hand and was covering it with kisses. ' Don't ! ' she said, shrinking fastidiously fi-om this uncouth fervour. ' Don't touch me, Allen ! There is nothing to thank me for — as yet. I have promised to help you, and — and I will. Now write down for me where you are Uving, so that I can send for you when it is safe to do so, and then you must go away.' There was a small stone table in the summer-house behind them, and she stood by him there as he scribbled the address in pencil on a scrap of paper. ' That's where I live,' he said. ' I wish you could see it, Margot ; you wouldn't leave me there longer than you could help, I know, if you did.' She took the paper gravely and put it in her dress, ' Allen,' she said, ' you — you must not deceive yourself. Your father is very strange now — very violent — he may refuse to forgive you.' ' Forgive me ! ' he said ; ' what for ? when he knows all about it.' ' You know best whether he has much to forgive ; but I should have thought that after running away as you did . . . and — and was there not some money he had trusted you with ? ' ' I ran away because I was not going to be under a man who'd been told I was a — a thief. And the money was mine — the governor gave it to me — I had a right to spend it how I chose. I thought I was going to make my fortune with it. I very nearly did, too— but that's a long story. Anyway, he'll forgive me all that, Margot ; he'll say I couldn't have acted any other way, when 3'ou tell him how it was I came to take that locket.' ' You know very well I cannot tell him that ! ' she cried mdig- nantly. Alien rose and looked her straight in the face. ' Perhaps you won't mind sajdng what it is you will tell him ? ' he said sullenly. UNDECEIVED 367 ' I shall tell bim that you have been nnfortxmate, that you have suffered, and borne hardship all this time, that you are sorry and will never disgrace him again, that it is time to forgive. ^Yhat more can I say ? ' ' And you think I'll be taken back as a favour ? ' he asked ; ' come home to be spoken at, and watched, and treated as if I was a downright bad lot ; have everybody told all about how I'd been allowed home, though, if I'd had my deserts, I ought to have been left to die in the gutter '? No, by God ! I've had enough of that the last time. It's not me that has to be forgiven most ! ' She shrank back fi'om his hot breath as he placed his face close to. hers ; there was a look of his father in it just then, distorted as it was with fierce passion, which made her afraid of Allen for the first time. He saw this. ' I've frightened you now, at all events,' he said. ' So you nearly made a fool of me again — nearlj% but not quite ! I thought you meant to tell all and take the conseqviences, whatever they are — they can't be worse for you than me. And it seems you mean to hold your tongue still ! ' He felt a savage pleasm'e in the sight of her beautiful startled face, with the dawning terror in the eyes that had been so proud a minute before. ' What do you want me to tell ? ' she asked faintly. ' Everything,' he said. ' How you wrote to me from Bom'ne- moiith, where you were, asking me to get that locket and sell it and send you the money ; how I was caught taking it, and said nothing sooner than get you in a row, and how you came home and kept quiet and made me keep quiet too.' ' I made you keep quiet '? ' she cried. ' How could I prevent you from telling any story you chose ? ' ' Oh, you were clever enough ! ' he said. ' You kept out of my way as much as you could, and you knew better than to ask me to hold my tongue in so many words ; but you managed to make me understand for all that. And I was true to you — you know I was ! Not many chaps would have done what I did, when the very thought of going out to that beastly plantation sickened me, and I'd only to say a word. But I didn't. I wasn't going to have yovi despising me ; I meant to show you that I could act like a gentle- man — better than some gentlemen — if I liked. I thought you'd make it up to me some day ; and just now it seemed as if you would. And you meant me to go on bearing it ! It's too much — I've been your catspaw all this time ; I might have gone on longer if you'd given me so much as a kind word — anything to show j-ou were commonly thankful. But you stand there looking at me as cool as if I was no account to such as you, and I'm tired of it— I tell you I'm tu-ed of it. The governor and I used to be good friends enough once, when we were alone together. He'd be friendlj' now, dh-ectly he knew I wasn't the blackguard I was made out to be. And why shouldn't he know ? He shall know ! ' 368 THE PARIAH She was trembling a little, but she made an effort to be con- temptuous. ' It ^\■ill not be verj' wise of you to go to him with such a story as that,' she said ; ' he would not believe it without some other evidence than yours. And if I was questioned I should den}' it — do yoii hear ? I can tell him that it is all false, that you have imagined it, invented it while j-ou have been away. I never %\Tote such a letter, I never obliged you to keep silence — it is all a lie, a lie from beginning to end ! ' She compelled him to involuntary admiration, so superbly lovely did she look in her desperate refusal to j'ield. ' I believe you would,' he said slowly ; ' and you would make him believe you, too, if you spoke like that. Margot, you're a devil — a beautiful cruel devil ! It's lucky for me that I haven't only my word to go upon.' ' "WTiat do you mean ? ' she said hoarsely. 'Why, I kept yoiu: letter. I've got it with me at this very moment.' ' You kept it— kept the letter ? You think I shall believe that ? Show it to me— I dare you to show it to me.' ' It's very likely I should trust it in your hands now,' he said. ' You pretend to think it would not be safe with me ! ' she cried in bitter scorn. ' What a pitiful excuse to make ! But I know why you make it — I am not afraid cf that letter ; it is only another lie ! I have heard quite enough — I shall have no more to do with you, Allen. If you are mad enough to tell this — this impossible tale, do so, and take the consequences ! ' 'Take care what you're doing!' he said; 'don't drive me too far. Yoti know very well I'm no liar, whatever other people may be. Look here, Margot, I dare say I'm a fool to trust you, but if you'll swear to me to let me have it back, I'll show you that letter, and then you'll see it's no good holding out any longer.' ' My word is enough,' she said proudly, and held out her hand in impei'ious demand. ' If you really have it, give it to me.' It was strange, but though he knew how vital the possession of that letter was to both of them, he never thought of resisting her. He did not even exact a more express promise ; it was difficttlt for him even then to believe her capable of so mean a treachery. He took out a worn leather case from an inner pocket, extracted a paper, soiled and yellow by frequent perusals, and gave it into her hands. The moon was bright enough for it to be possible to read even that faded ink with a little trouble. Margot stepped out upon the path and read, Allen watching her face meanwhile. When she came to the end she shivered ; a terrible temptation was assailing her. ' Yon were asked to desti'oy this,' she said in a low tremulous voice. ' Why didn't you '? ' ' It was worth too much to me for that,' he answered. How often, when his fortunes were at their worst, his spirits at their lowest, had the si.L,'ht of that letter Ix'cn a talisman to him. re- minding him, as it did, that even his life hud held one briglit episode ! tTNDECEIVEI) 369 ' This is my letter,' she said ; ' you admit that yourself. What is to prevent me from destroying it ? ' ' Nothing,' he said, ' if your word doesn't. Yes, I Avas a fool to trust j'ou, after all ! ' She thrust it back into his hand as if the paper scorched h(-r, ' Take it,' she said, ' or — or I might forget — I don't know. . . . Tako it, and use it against me — against us all. That is why you have kept it all this time, why you were silent when j'OU might have spoken I You wished to make your claim as heavy as possible ; you knew that everj' day j'ou were away and every hardshii) j'ou endured only gave you a greater hold upon me. And now you have come back to tiu-n the tables ! It is just — ^,]'ust enough, I suppose ; but you might have spared the form of consulting me ! ' He turned away his face for a moment. ' I think j'ou'll drive me mad, Margot,' he cried in his pain. ' God knows I never kept it for — for that i I kept it because it was the only thing I had that came from you. I've been bad enough, biit I should have been worse if it wasn't for having it. And 3-ou think it was fit at I I came here meaning to put it to you, whether I hadn't been pun- ished enough for your fault. I thought you'd see it was fair now that I should be cleared, and the blame put on the right shoulders, I thought, when you saw what I was, yoii'd feel a bit sorry and willing to make it up to me like. But I no more meant to threaten or— or do anything against your wishes than — than that moon there. It was j-ou that forced me to say what I did. When I heard you talk as if j'ou'd forgotten, and didn't mean to remember all that was, and promising as a great favoiu' to ask the governor to forgive me for what I never did, why, it wasn't in nature that I shouldn't speak plain ! Is it so much, I ask you, to speak the truth now and have justice done to me ? I'm so miserable, Margot — miserable and lonely, and sick of it all ; no one to care a damn whether I'm ill or well, alive or dead ! And coming back like this, and seeing tlie old place, and you again, oh ! it isn't wonderful I can't feel as if I could stay away for ever — though I won't be for- given out of favour ; no, I'd sooner go back and drudge till I died than that ! But you can clear me, if you only will.' ' You must clear yourself,' she said in the same low voice. ' I cannot go to your father with such a confession as that. At least — I tvill not — there I You have your character in j'our own hands, and it is for you to speak — not me.' ' You treat me like the dirt,' he said ; ' you always did. You'd sooner be cut in pieces than be humble now, even when you're worsted. Well, if I'm treated as dirt, I'll behave like it ; I shan't get less credit for it. I irill clear my character — there ! I will come back and take my place among you all, whether you like it or not.' ' Yes, you will come back,' she said ; ' you will take your place again — but not amongst us. We shall at least be spared that ! ' ' Not amongst you ? ' he repeated. ' How do you mean ? ' B B 370 THE PARIAH • If you really don't untlerstand what the effect of this will be, I will tell you. You don't know what your father has been of late. He hates us — yes, I believe he hates us all in his heart. He feels that we are a restraint upon hiui ; he would be only too glad of an excuse for ridding himself of us all — all ! And if— if this story is proved true, he wiU make no distinctions ; he will declare it was a plot — a plot to ruin you; he wiU say that we were all guilty alike. We shall be disgi-aced — turned out of the house ! ' ' No, you will not ; I will take care of that, Margot. He shall not hurt you.' ' You — you ! "\ATiat influence did you ever have with hun when you were at home ? And now, j'ou will have difficulty enough in making your own peace. But ours— i\o, you will not be able to save us. And even if he listened to you, if he condescended to keep us, do you think / would stay, whatever the — the others did ? Why, rather than live here when that was known and talked about everywhere, as it would be — your father will not S2)are us, I know — rather than do that, I would go anywhere, bear anything in the world. If you are expecting that all will go on exactly as it did before, you make a mistake, and it is as well that j^ou should luider- stand that at once ! ' There was no violence in her manner; she spoke with a re- pressed, concentrated scorn shrivelling as an acid, only the heaving of her breast and the trembling she could not control betrayed the white heat of passion tiiat consumed her. His heart swelled at her injustice, her ungrateful unreasonable- ness. ' Ah,' he said bitterly, ' you can't find words hard enough for me I Do you suppose I don't know, without that, how you desjjise me, and hate the very sight of me ? And yet, tell me tliis — what have I ever done to you to deserve to be treated like this ? Was it my doing that I was sent away ? Isn't it natiu'al that I should want to be taken back after all this time ? ' She had sunk down on the bench, and was covering her face with a low moan ; slie made a writhing movement of pain at the last speech of his, and then raised her head as she replied hope- lessly — ' Natural ? Oh, yes, it is perfectly natural. It is I that am unnatm-al, I suppose. I — I can't help it. You must come back, it must all be told — it is justice, I admit all that — anything you choose, but I cannot be expected to — to welcome you, can I ? Oh, what a mean, miserable business it all is, and no escape, no excuse. If I had known— if I had known ! ' She sat there, swaying under her bm-den of crusliing shame, and he sat at some distance from her, awed by the sight of this dumb misery, trying to persuade himself that he could not be rightly held to blame for it, and yet with an ever-growing self-rejM'oach. Some might have fovmd a sweetness in the spectacle of such humiliation, AUen only had an uneasy sense of being somehow in the wrong. UNDECEIVED 37 1 Suddenly Margot started : ' There is some one in the garden — on the lawn,' she exclaimed in a whisper. ' Look ! ' From where they sat they could see the gi'ey tennis-court in- dented by deep black shadows, and tliere, past the lowered tennis- net, a small figure was flitting noiselessly across. ' It's Lettice ! ' cried Margot ; ' she must not see j-ou here— come into the shadow, quick ! I will go to her, and send her in. Stay where you are till I come back ! ' ' No,' he said; 'let me see her — let me speak to her, Margot. She — she used to like me once ! ' ' Why should you see her ? Do you want to make her as miserable as you have made me '? Let her be for to-night, poor child — she will know soon enough ! ' He dropped back cowed at this, and Margot went to Lettice. ' I've found them,' cried Lettice. ' I knew I'd left them there.' ' You know you ought not to be running about the garden so late as this,' said Margot ; ' Susan should not have allowed it ! ' ' Susan never came to me to-night, and I was just putting m^-- self to bed when it suddenly struck me that I never gave Pussie Eddlestone back her bangles. It was at tennis this afternoon, and she took them off while she was playing and asked me to take care of them for her. So I hung them on a branch out of the way, and somehow I forgot all about them till just now — wasn't it funny of me ? But there they were, just where I left them, and thej^ haven't got rusted or anything, Margot, look.' Ai:id Lettice held out two silver bangles adorned with foolish little dangling nuts. Margot felt a bewildering sensation of strange- ness. Pussie Eddlestone — the tennis party, only that afternoon — how far away it all seemed ! She tried to speak as usual, but her voice shook. 'You shouldn't be so careless, dear, and — and it is late ; now you have found them go in, go in at once ! ' ' What is the matter, Margot ? ' Lettice asked quickly. ' Your hands are quite cold, and oh, how they are tremblmg ! Was it you I heard talking to somebody just now ? I did hear talking, I'm sure. W'ho is here ? ' ' No one — no one,' said Margot hastily. ' Go back to your room, Lettie.' ' Now I'm sure somebody is here — for you've been crying, Margot ! ' Then Lettice caught Margot's arm impulsively. ' I know what it is,' she cried ; ' Allen has come back — he is in that place over there. I shall go to him.' ' No, Lettice, I forbid you — do yoii hear ? ' But Lettice was already skhnming over the moonlit lawn in the direction of the summer-house, and would listen to no commands to retiu-n. Margot was constrained to follow ; she was powerless now — after all, it mattered so very little ! As she came near, she heard Lettice's eager greeting : ' Oh, Allen, . B B 2 372 THE PARIAII Allen, you have come back ! I knew yon wouldn't stay aWay always, I aiu so glad! ' When Margot reached tliom, Lettice was sci'utinising Allen as lie sat there with lier liands laid on his shoulders. ' I wasn't sure it was you, quite at first,' she was saying. ' You look so tired and shabby, and sorry, Allen, dear ! ' ' I'm all that, Lettie,' he answered. ' I suppose that's why Margot was crying so ? ' ' Was it ? ' he said gi-imly. ' I think she was crying on her own account, Lettie, not mine.' ' Oh, no— not that — loere yox;, Margot? Why should she, you know ? And, now you've come back, Allen, and I'm sure papa will forgive yc^u when he sees how poor you are — though he was dreadfully angi-y o t first, oh, dreadfully ! Then j'ou M'ill live here with us, just as you used to, and you won't do anytliing naughty again, and have to go away again, will you ? ' ' When Allen comes back,' said Margot, ' it is we who may have to go away, Lettice.' 'Why? We are not naughty, Margot! Oh, I don't believe that — do you, Allen ? You won't want to have us sent awaj' — why, yovi would be all alone, you know ! ' ' I can't stand this,' said Allen. ' Lettie, do you see this paper ? ' ' Allen ! ' cried Margot quickly, ' you will not tell her — you can't do that ! ' ' Wait till I have done,' he said roughly. ' Here, take this paper, Lettice, in your two hands so — don't look at it. Now tear it across and across, as small as you can — that's the style — there ! ' Margot gave a quick gasping sigh, as she stood spell-bound, while Lettice tore the letter into fragments before her eyes. She could not speak, could not even think, for conflict of her emotions just then. 'Couldn't you have done that yourself?' said Lettice, as she let the pieces drift en the stone floor ; ' it was quite easy, Allen ! ' ' Oh, yes,' he said, with a curious laugh, ' easy enough ; but — well, I thought I'd rather see you do it, Lettie.' 'I wish you had told 1x3 what it all meant — I don't Like doing things without knowing in the least what I am doing.' ' Can you keep a secret, Lettice ? Y''es, I see you can. Very Avell, promise not to tell anyone you've seen me to-night or — or anything, till I give you leave.' ' I promise faithfully — but you are not going away, not again ? ' ' Yes I am — I must, Lettie.' ' But only for a little while — you'll come back Allen, won't you ? ' ' Oh, that's all right — don't you be alarmed, it's onlj' for a little while — now, you've promised, Lettie, remember ! ' ' I always keep my word — I keep it much more than Reggie (loss — dou't I, Margot 7 And so long as you're cominij backj it UNDECEIVED 873 won't be at all bard. Oh, Allen, wouldn't you like to see Yarrow before you go ? He's been so ill, dear doggie, and we thought he would die once, but he got better directly we came back, and I know he'll be glad to see you ! May I go to the stables and get bini, Margot ? ' Margot could not speak, so Lettice took permission for granted and was off in the direction of the stables. ' Margot,' said Allen, when they were alone together, ' I — I'd better be off. I can't wait. I've bad about as much as I can bear as it is ! ' Margot's answer was a burst of passionate sobbing. ' Allen,' she niurmm-ed, when the fit had abated somewhat, ' what can I say ? what can I do ? It is all so wrong — I feel so ashamed — so ashamed . . . and yet I cannot — no, I cannot do anj^thing ! ' Poor Allen conJd do nothing graciously — it was not in his natm'e. ' You're not asked to do anything,' he said, brutally enough — only he did not feel bi-utally. 'You must go,' she said wildly, ' it is the only thing — but, oh, Allen, I am grateful! I am indeed . . . and — and some day, soon perhaps, if I can, if I only can, I will make it up to yoi;.' ' Margot ! ' he cried, ' do you mean that ? Is there a chance of — what do I care now ? Nothing — that was all I wanted in the world ! ' She knew that he had mistaken her meaning, yet she could not bring herself to undeceive him then — it would have been too cruel. For the moment she may even have felt capable of that supreme sacrifice under the overwhelming sense of obligation. She did not answer, she even let him seize her hand, though she shrank as much as ever from the mere prospect of being embraced by liim. Perhaps he saw that ; at all events, the dreaded embrace was spared her — he let her hand fall abruptly, and the next moment she realised that he had gone. Then, with tottering, uncertain steps, she went to intercept Lettice and the collie, trying to invent some story that should satisfy Lettice's mind on Allen's uncere- monious departvu-e. But Allen was once more back in his fool's paradise. At last, at last he had touched her heart ! She was no more proud and ungi'atefiil, his final sacrifice had conquered her — had she not almost confessed that she might love him in time ? To be loved by Margot— what a destiny for a low common fellow like him ! And yet it was true, or it might be true some day. Now he could go back to his drudgery and his solitude with a light heart, he had only to be patient for a while. It was better, far better than living at Agra House, enjoying his father's favovir, while Margot was far away, thmking of him, when she thought at all, with scorn and abhorrence. So his heart was light as he turned down the familiar road to the village. There the festivities were still in full swing, broad bars of lamplight streamed from all the doors ; there were small 374 THE PArjAH sv.eetstnff and toy booths along the street, their canvas sides iUuminated by tlaring candles ; the tap-rooms of the inns were full, and, on the green, the steam-circus was revolving with a glittei. of nnrrors, vermihon, and gilding, the riders, old and young, sweep- ing by in grinning delight on their ridiculous steeds amidst a deafening babel of organ-playing, rifle-cracking, and shouting. Hard by were the gipsy-vans, and in the cabin-like interior of one he saw a small child preparing to go to bed. The mellow lamp- light made a glory round her long hair, reminding him of Leitice. He v/ent up to the open casement, with its neat brass rail and muslin curtains, and threw a small piece of silver (he had not many to throw away) at the feet of the astonished child. Then he left the village and its unwonted noise and bustle behind him, and went on to the station. It was late, but he thought there might be a train to town about that time ; at all events, he would go and see. He was on the down-platform trying to find a porter to answer his inquiries; a train had just come in, however, and he had to wait. As he stood there, a j'Oimg man got out of a compartment and came towards him ; it was Xugent Orme, \\ hose quick eye had recognised Allen, despite all alterations. He came up and laid a hand on his shoiilder. ' Chadwick ! ' he cried ; ' so you have come home ? I had no idea you were in the train ! ' If Allen could have escaped recc.gnition he would have done so ; he felt too excited and exalted for any companionship just then^ he wanted to be alone and think of Margot, and how she had looked and spoken just at the last. But Orme had seen him, and he could not deny his identity. ' I wasn't in it,' he said ; ' I — I was going back to London, sir.' The ' sir ' slipped out unconsciously ; he felt his own inferiority under the gaze of Orme's penetrating but very far from unkindly gi'ej' eyes. ' You can't go back to-night, you know,' said Orme ; ' the last train has gone. Come back with me to the Vicarage — we can give you a bed for the night.' Allen hesitated, but the kindness in the other's tone touched him. ' If — if it won't be putting you out of your way, sir,' he said. ' Of course it won't ; and look here, Chadwick, you can drop the " sir." I thought that was settled long ago. Come along, then — my people will be delighted to see you.' For the life of him he could not say that with quite the full accent of conviction. Allen looked a shabby and disreputable guest to bring into the Vicarage without warning. Orme felt that his mother might protest with some reason. However, he could not feel any of the disgust and indignation which had' coloured his thoughts of Allen of late. "Whatever he liad done, and whatever he was, he was in a state now which called only for pity and forbearance. In delicacy, Orme would have spared him even questioning just then, but he felt it important to know how Allen was situated before he could help him eti'ectually. UNDECEIVED 375 So as tliey were going along the dark lane from the station togetlier, he began — ' When did you come down here, Chadwick ? ' Allen told him. ' And have you seen j^our father yet '? ' ' No — he wasn't at home.' ' But surely you weren't going away without making an attempt to see him ? ' ' There'd be no use in my seeing him.' ' Then what did you come down for ? ' ' That's my business,' said Allen. ' Of course it is ! ' retorted Nugent rather sharply. ' By all means keep 3-our own coimsel if you prefer to, though you might imderstand that I don't ask out of idle curiosity.' 'I came down to see — somebody,' Allen admit*^^ed, ' and — and I've seen her, and got all I wanted.' Orme stopped, liis face looked set and stern imder the lamp on the footpath. ' If that means that you've been at your old tricks, Chadwick, you had better say so at once, before we go another step together. Have you been trying to annoy Mar — Miss Chevening ? Yes or no ? ' ' I saw her, it was in the garden,' said Allen doggedly. ' I didn't mean to annoy her.' ' Perhaps not ; but whether you meant it or not, what good could it do '? You could only distress her ! If you wish to come home, be a man, Chadwick ; go to your father and speak to him — don't skulk about the grounds frightening girls. You can stay at the Vicarage till he returns.' ' Orme, I take my oath I never meant to skulk or — or frighten her, and you don't understand. I — I can't come back. . . . I've done what will prevent me from that ! ' ' Did she tell you so ? ' ' No— she wouldn't have prevented me, only — only I didn't want to, that was all.' Orme breathed more freely ; for an instant he had been afraid that Margot had been unrelenting to this poor prodigal — had turned him from his father's gates. 'Look here, Chadwick,' he said more kindly, 'no one can help you if you won't help yourself. You must pluck up courage and see your father. I can't believe that he will be hard on you — you have paid dearly enough, I'm afraid, for giving way to a moment's tem])tation.' They were walking on now and had reached the first few out- lying houses of the village. ' What do you mean when you say that ? ' cried Allen. ' What do you know ? ' ' My dear fellow, whatever I know you must not think I am anything but sorry for you just now.' 'You said "temptation,"' insisted Allen — ' temptation to what?' ' To dishonesty — if you will have an answer.' 876 THE PARIAH ' Do yoii mean using the money the governor gave me — gave me, mind ? ' ' I do not mean that, as you know very well. I meant the tlieffc for which you were sent away. AVhat is the use of denying it to me, when I know everything ? ' Allen's face worked violently. ' You know — you know ! ' he repeated in a strangled voice. ' Orme, for God's sake tell me who told you that ? AVas it — was it — Margot ? ' ' If it was,' said Orme, ' we have no secrets fi-om one another, Chadwick — we are engaged. It is natm-al that she should tell me.' ' Damn her ! ' said Allen fiercelj'. ' So she told you that, did she ■? She ! God, if I'd known that a little time ago ! Orme, I've a good mind to No ; you've heen kind to me — and what's the use, what does it all matter? Yoii'll he seeing her to-morrow, I dare say. Well, you tell her from me that I'm a low, common chap, on my road to the devil hy the shortest way I can find, but I'd sooner be as I am than what she is — that's all. I won't trouble you with my company any longer — you're all too moral and strait- laced for the likes of me, I dare say ! ' Orme was angry as well. ' If you're bent on going to the devil, go ! ' he said ; ' I'll not try to prevent you any longer,' and he turned on his heel. Bj'-and-by he thought the other's outburst was due to some crack-brained jealousy, and stopped undecidedly. Had he not been too hai-d on him ? "Was not an imprecation, even against Margot, pardonable under the circumstances ? But Allen was out of sight : black clouds had gathered overhead effacmg the moon, and heavy drops were falling in wet stars on the dust. Per- liaps this made it easier to abandon Allen's reclamation as hopeless. Nugent turned in at the Vicarage, not, after all, unthankful to be alone. The rain came down in sheets soon after he was indoors, and once more he had scruples. However, no doubt Allen had found shelter somewhere, he thought, and he was right. At that moment Allen was in a low pothouse in a back lane of the village, engaged in getting drunk with as much expedition as possible. Some hours after the rain was still falling, but he was no longer sheltered from it ; he was lying in drunken torpor under a hedge hy the roadside. So ended his expedition, and with it all the dreams and hopes that, shadowy as they were, had kept him from falling earlier into brutalising despair. ON THE VEKGE 377 CHArTER V. ON THE \ERGJ;. Unsichtbar zuckt audi Schmerz uin deiiien Mund, Verborgne Thriine triibt cles Auges Schcin, Der stolze Busen hegt geheime Wund. — Heine. Orme awoke next morning to tliat sense of vague dissatisfaction which most of ns have known at some time. He soon traced it to its projjer som'ce — his conscience was not at ease about his treat- ment of Allen Chadwick. He wished too late that he had refused to let him go ; he had a guilty recollection of being over ready to take him at his word. It was this, perhaps, that kept him from mentioning that meet- ing when lie came down to breakfast, and impelled him to ease his conscience afterwards by endeavouring to find out whether Allen was still in the village or not. If he went to the station he might intercept him yet, and he went to begin his inquiries there. The rain had ceased, it was a grey muggy morning, the muddy roads were strewn with prema- turely fallen leaves, and were beginning to steam in the slowly retm'ning heat. Though it was mid- August still, autumn had given its first warning of decay, the cooled and moistened air was charged with its enervating melanchol}'. Orme kept a sharp look-out as he walked on, but he saw no one resembling Allen on his road to the station. There he found a porter whom he questioned. Yes, the porter had seen a j'oung fellow corresponding to the description ; he had come in early that morning and sat by the fire in the porters' room, it being uncommon cold for the time of year. If the porter was asked his opinion, he would say that the young chap had spent the night out of doors, for he was wet to the skin and muddy — • well, there, he was » mask of it ! But, bless you,' he continued, ' those tramps they think nothing of sleeping out in all weathers sooner than go to a workhouse, sir. This one seemed all stupid like, been on the di'ink heavy, and laid down in the first ditch as came 'andy. I kep' thinking, too, as I'd seen his face before, and I asked him if he didn't belong to these parts, but he said he didn't belong no- where. And when the 7.40 up come in, he got in and went off by it. I hope you ain't missed nothing up at the Vicarage, sir ? I'd ha' stopped him if I'd known, and had him searched, but he seemed harmless enough.' ' No,' said Nugent ; ' it's all right, I noticed him last night and had some talk with him, that was all.' Now that he knew that Allen had gone he felt relieved to be thus spared any further responsibility. The fellow was worthless, 378 THE PAMAH ' ou bis roaci,' as lie had said himself, ' to the devil ' ; it was better, since he would not be stojiped, that he should take his shame and degradation elsewhere. This last outbreak of his seemed to justify Orme in his disgust, to remove the sting of his self-reproach. He would go and see Margot, and find out from her what pur- pose, if any, Allen had had in seeking her, and what had occurred. iShe would tell him, of course, of her own accord, and he could relieve her mind of anj' fear of being again molested by giving her the news of Allen's departiu'e. He had to wait a little while before she came down to see him, looking paler than Tisual. She admitted that she had had a wretched night, the storm had kept her awake — what torrents of rain ! and sm-ely there had been some thunder, had not he heard thunder ? Did he get home before it began ? She talked fast and nervoiisly, with a forced animation ; he fancied that she avoided meeting his eyes, that she tried to keep the conversation upon indifferent topics. He had meant to leave it to her to make the first mention of Allen's brief reappearance, but, as she showed no intention of doing so, he was driven by a growing impatience to say, ' Has anything happened wliile I have been away ? ' She laughed. * My dear Kugent ! j'ou forget that you only went away on IMonday, the day before yesterday ! I am glad the time seems so long to you, but what should, ha^-pen in two days — and here ? ' ' Then you have nothing to tell me — about yourself, I mean ? ' ' Do you want a full account of all my doings ? I'm afraid it Avon't be verj' interesting. On Monday, Miss Momber called, just when I wanted to do my flowers, and in the afternoon I went to tea with the Eddlestone girls. On Tuesday, my step-father went away and he hasn't come back yet. Lettice and I went for a long ride in the morning and played tennis all the afternoon. In the evening — well, in the evening it rained, which you know already. That is all, Nugent. Oh, and the benefit club had its festival yester- day, and the band frightened Harebell.' He asked no more just then; he knew fi'om her manner that she had seen and spoken with Allen. She had her reasons for concealing what had passed; he would not give way again to the old distrust — but, oh, why could she not confide in him ? And the double consciousness of something withheld produced an embarrassment and constraint between them for the first time smce their engagement. ' How stupid we both are to-day ! ' exclaimed Margot at last; ' it is this horrible weather, I suppose — the rain has only left the heat worse than it was. Let us go round the garden, Nugent, and see how my poor roses have suffered.' They went round together ; the gardener's boy passed wheeling a barrow containing the litter that had been made during the night, and Margot stopped and spoke to him. ON THE VERGE 379 • "What have you got in that barrow, Tom,' she said. ' Leaves? ' ' Leaves and all sorts, miss,' said Tom, putting down his barrow to touch his hat ; ' had a job to clear it all up, too, miss ; this is the second barrerful, got it all swept up now, miss.' ' And what do you do with it all, Tom ? ' ' Bonfire, miss, got it biu'ning now in the yard.' 'Very well, Tom, you can go on,' said Margot. They were opposite the summer-house now, and Orme thought he saw her glance at it as she passed with a slight hesitation. ' Shall we sit down ? ' he proposed. ' There ! ' she said, with a little shiver. ' No, indeed. I was thinkmg what a hideous little place it looked, and how I should like to have it pulled down ! ' Orme said nothing, but it instantly itished to his mind that it was there that she had met Allen the night before. ' I am gi-atefiil to the rain for one thing,' she said presently, ' it has put off the picnic. Even Pussie Eddlestone quailed at the idea of having afternoon tea in a swamp, so she has written to fix to- morrow instead. I am so glad, for I don't think I could have borne it to-day. I hope I shall be better to-morrow — you will come, too, Nugent, of course ? There will be plenty of room for you in the wagonette. Lettie is going in Millicent's pony-trap.' ' How will you go ? ' he asked. ' I shall ride, I think.' ' Then I will ride too,' he said. ' I can get a horse at the hotel stables, and we can go together.' He fancied that her assent was not so enthusiastic as it might have been, and soon after, seeing that she was suffering still, and that her replies became more and more languid and perfunctory, he left her with a heavy heart, wishing that he could have found the courage to tell her what he knew, and yet trying to convince him- self that it was his duty to be patient and await her pleasure. By the next daj', however, his mind was more at ease ; he would have an ojiportimity of sj^eaking to her while they were riding to- gether, and this time he would not allow her to battle him. He saw what the case was — that coward had been working on her sym- pathies, making her feel that she was the cause of his wretchedness — well, it ought not to be difficult to convmce her that her pity was tlu'own away, her responsibility of the remotest degree. It was a lovely afternoon — the sky a deep blue, mottled with trails of piu-e white, the air clear, the landscape refreshed and re- juvenated by the much-needed rain — when Orme dismounted at the steps of Agra House. Margot's mare had been brought round, and Margot herself was not long in making her appearance. She was a sight to rejoice any eyes, to say nothing of a lover's, as she came down the steps with a smiling nod of welcome to him, and stood there caressing and talking confidentially to Harebell. And yet, when he had put her into the saddle and they were riding through the gates together, he noticed that her eyes still had that 380 THE TAEIAn strained look of apprehension, and that her cheeks had lost all vestige of colour. iShe talked gaily enough and declared herself quite recovered, but he fancied that, as before, there was an effort in her animation. ' ^Ye had better trot on,' she said after they had got clear of the village, 'or we shan't catch up the others — they started ever so long ago.' ' Is it absolutely necessary to catch them up ? ' objected Orme. ' They will expect it. But, of course, if you would find trotting at all inconvenient ' ' I am not afraid of falling off,' said Nugent with a laugh, 'if you mean that.' ' I only said that to tease you,' she answered, with a side-glance which spoke her approval of his appearance. ' You look rather well on a horse, do you know, Nugent Y But really we ought to go on. The Holly Bank wagonette isn't even in sight j-et.' For some time thej' trotted on, exchanging remarks at intervals, until on a hiU far in front they saw the ghtter of varnished panels in the smi. ' We needn't hurry now,' said Orme, ' there's the wagonette, and, yes, that's Millicent and Lettice in the pony-carriage behind them. As long as they see us, that will do, and — and I want to tell you something, Margot.' She checked her mare instantly. ' "Wait till I have told you something first,' she said. ' I forgot it yesterday, and I know you will be interested.' It was better that she should tell him — he felt ashamed once more to have doubted that she would do so. ' Tell me your news first,' he said. ' Ida is engaged to Guy Hotham. It was all settled at Hombm-g, and they will be at liome in a few days now. Nugent, do you thirik Lady Adela will object — could she ? ' His face fell ; he had hoped that she was about to tell him something very different, but she seemed so earnest, so absorbed in the subject that he could not pass it off just then. Perhaps — it occuiTcd to him for the first time — Allen had lied, she had not seen him, did not even know that he had been there. At last his opportunity came. ' You don't ask me for my news,' he said, ' and yet, if you don't know it already, I think you will be a little startled. Margot, on Tuesday night I saw Allen in Gorse- combe.' ' You — saw Allen ? ' she repeated with bloodless lips. ' Nugent — did you speak to him, did he tell you anything — why he had come ? ' ' He said he had come to see 3'ou, that he had seen you in the garden. Margot, why did j^ou keep that from rae ? ' ' Why did I ? Oh, Nugent, I've dropped my whip ! WiU you get it for me, please, I will hold your horse. . . . Thanks ver^' much ! And now, see Pussie is waving a handkerchief at us from the wago- OJi THE VERGE 3Sl nfette — they will all begin waving iTiret-tly, like a school treat ! Wo must get on, really.' ' Answer my question tirst,' he said ; ' w liy did you say nothin.'^ about Allen ? ' ' Because it could do no good, it was not a pleasant subject to talk about.' ' That I can iinderstand— but not why you didn't mention it to me. Sxirely, ]\Iargot, there should be no secrets between us now ! ' ' I — I tried to tell you, I could not— not at once. I — I thought you would blame me.' ' Blame you — for what ? ' ' It was stiipid of me, wasn't it ? But it made me nervous, Kugent. I never used to be nervous — but it is a little your fault. I never know how you will look at ihings and it frightens me ! ' Orme w'as deeply hurt. ' I am sorry I give you that feeling,' ho said coldly ; ' I thought you had more conhdence in me than that.' And, without another word, they rode on till they came up with the rest of the party. ' We quite thought you had had an accident,' screamed Pussio Eddlestone, ' didn't we, mamma '? W^e were nearly sending Mr. Fanshawe back to see what had become of you. I had visions of INIargot being run away with, and Mr. Orme going home on a hurdle. Now you have caught us up do keep with us, like good people — it makes it so much cosier ! ' Whatever additional cosiness could be derived from calling out small-talk at the top of her voice and making encouraging sounds to the horses was afforded to Miss Eddlestone for the rem linder of the drive. A little later they reached the place where they had jrranged to picnic, a beech v;ood surrounding a chain of three miniature lakes, a favoiu'ite spot for such expeditions. Tb3 Eddlestone girls bustled about, discussing the best sites, organising stick-collecting parties, and unpacking provisions with tlie noisiest energy; the jokes were as mild, the tea as smoky, and the discomfort as undeniable as they generally are on these occa- {.ions. At any other time, Orme would have found enjoyment, notwith- starding, in the scene — the warm, peaceful afternoon, the bright ligures grouped in the shade by the satiny grey beech trunks, and beside them the olive-greon Vv'ater, ringed here and there by a rising fish. But he was too oppressed to do so then, or to take more than a very half-hearted part in the general gaiet}'. What he had just learnt had sorely disquieted him. He did not suspect Margot, even then, but he watched her with a sad wonder as she sat there, laugh- ing and talking with that feverish brilliancy m her eyes. He had thought he possessed her entire confidence, that their mutual understanding was perfect — and now she had kept this harmless secret from him, out of fear. Margot, who seem so proud and fearless, afraid of him. Why ? Was it his o^\■n fault ? How could he repaii- it '? 382 THE PARIAH Presently Lettlce came to him : ' Nugent,' she said in a whispei*, ' come and help me to get some water-lilies, there are some on the other pond, quick, before the others see us ! We'll pretend we are just going for a little walk, and look quite careless about it — then they won't suspect anything. Give me your hands, I'll pull you up — oh, what a weight you are ! ' Kugent let her drag him off by an elaborately circuitous path. ' Can you row ? ' said Lettice. ' You can ? Then there's a boat in a little house down there — we'll get it, do let us.' The rest of the party began to disperse. Mrs. Eddlestone, who was not of active habits, remaining to jjack up, Mr. Fanshawe going off with Fay in search of ferns, Millicent and Dottie carrjmg the remains of the feast to the coachman. Pussie Eddlestone drew Margot's arm in hers and strolled round the edge of the lake. ' Hasn't it been jolly ! ' she said. ' Though, to be siu'e, we might have had a few more men. Would any one think Mr. Fanshawe was such fun, to hear him in the pulpit ? It would be nice if he took a fancy to dear Fay, wouldn't it ? By-the-bj', dearest, have you settled yet, when your wedding is to be? You'll let us be your bridesmaids, won't you ? ' ' Nothing is settled yet, Pussie. Perhai)s my wedding never will be.' Something in the tone of the reply made good-natured, inquisi- tive Pussie open her eyes. ' Why, ^Nlargot, what a thing to saj' ! I thought you were such a happy couple ! He was looking rather glum all through tea, now I remember. Have you fallen out with one another, or what ? ' ' No — no,' said Margot impatiently ; ' only one can never be siire of anything in this world ; happiness least of all ! ' She was standing by one of the lakes as she said this, looking with clouded, serious eyes out to the middle of the water, where Nugent was sculling lazily about under Lettioe's orders. Now he was leaning forward and talking to her, in so low a voice that the words were not carried to the bank. If he was questioning her about last night — if Lettice forgot her promise ! ^^"ell, it was Fate — she was powerless. And though she seemed to see nothing, she was conscious all the time of every detail in the scene before her. Orme's fine and rather severe face, and Lettice's eager one ; the liquid dazzle on the wet sides of the boat ; the golden-gi-een of the beech wood, and in the background a pine-clad hill with the red trunks gleaming redder in the level sunshine. ' What makes you so awfully morbid, dear '? ' said Pussie. ' If I were lovely like you, and engaged to be married to someone who adored pie, I wouldn't be afraid of mihappiness coming, at least I would wait till it did come ! ' ' Don't envy me, Pussie. Y''ou wouldn't if you knew ! What am I saying ? You are right, I was morbid. And, after all, if one once really loves it isn't easy for anything to destroy that love, is it ? ' * Now what has anyone been telling you against Mr. Orme ? ON THE VERGE 383 Don't believe it, Marf^ot, whatever it is. Wliy, we've known him ever since we were cliildren together, and besides, can't you feel it isn't true ! "What did they say, dear ? ' Margot laughed a little drearily. ' How ridiculous you are. Do you think I want to be assured that Nugent is faultless '? No one has ever told me anything to his discredit, and if they did — ah, I should shock you if I finished my sentence.' Jiist then she would almost have welcomed the discovery of anything in him winch put him on a lower level, which would lessen his right to condemn her. She felt siu:er of her ability to forgive him, than his to excuse hor. Did he know already, and how much '? If she were to tell him this very evening, as they were riding home, he might help her, comisel her what to do ; on the other hand — she would risk everything. She could not foresee what view he might take, what act of reparation he might insist upon. Still, as she went back to the spot where Mrs. Eddlestone was still placidly dozing by an unpacked basket, she had almost resolved on unburdening her conscience before nightfall. Lettice had made no perilous confidences while in the boat. Orme was incapable of inviting them, and she was mindful of her promise, from a persuasion that Allen's return was connected va. some mysterious way with her silence. So when he and Margot were on their way home, he was as un- enlightened as before. There was some delay in saddling the horses, and tlie veliiclcs were far in advance when they mounted, but this time neither showed any inclination to hurry. ' Nugent,' began Margot, ' I — I want you to tell me exactly what happened that night when you met — him.' ' Why should j'ou wish to know '? ' he said. ' He is gone — he went off to London next morning, he is not likely to trouble j'ou again ... let us forget him.' Her face lost some of its anxiety, but she was not entirely satisfied. ' Still, I should like to know, Nugent,' she said, bending over to take her handkerchief from the saddle-pocket. ' Tell me.' Seeing that she would not be put off, he told her everything but Allen's parting words. Her eyes were fixed on him and he saw her face slowly assuraing an expression that startled him by its suppressed tragedy. ' You told him that ! ' she said in a low voice. ' Oh, Nugent, what have you done — what have j-ou done ? ' ' Don't look like that, dearest ! ' he said, ' I was wrong, I know. I only meant to prove to him that I knew the worst there was to know. If he had come back with any honest purpose he would not have resented it so, but he is a thorough scoundrel. He left me in order to go and get dead-drunk in some low taji-room. I heard that afterwards. \Yhat could anyone do to help such a fellow as that ? ' Margot's face was turned away from him towards the gorgeous H84 THE TArjAII western sky, Avith its contrasts of safi'ron and heather, rose antt lapis lazuli, seen above the bronzed purple of the slopes aci'oss the valley. Her time had come ; she must speak now ; but she kept her face averted as she did so, and the words seemed forced from her bj' some agency stronger than herself. 'Ah, Nugent!' sha cried, almost inaudibly ; ' if — if he were innocent ? ' ' Innocent! 1 don't understand,' said Orme. ^ Why won't you — without words '? If he did not reallj' steal that loclvet ' ' How can that be, if it is true that he was actually caught in the act ? Did you not tell me so that evening at Taplow '? ' ' Did I say that ? I ought to have said that he was found a\ ith the locket in his possession— //mi was true enough.' ' But you meant me to iniderstand that he stole it, didn't you ? ' She made no answer — her graceful head drojiped a little more. ' ^^'hich story am I to believe — that or this ? Margot, do yon think I hesitate for a moment ? I know you too well for that. How could you imagine I could believe you capable of such cold- blooded wickedness ; such mean, hateful treachery ! ' ' I only said if Allen were innocent, Nugent ! ' she said faintly. ' I know,' he replied, ' you spoke out of somegenerous impulse to shield him, to make excuses for him. You felt, very likely, that you might have done more than you did ; you were touched when you saw him in that degraded, desperate state. But you didn't see — how should you? what such a defence as that involved, or you would never have hoped that I should believe it ! If I once believed that Allen was innocent, I should believe much more — I could not help myself, Margot. Thank God, I am too sure of you for that ! I know that if you were really convinced of his inno- cence, you would not have sent him awaj', you would not have tried to conceal his return ; \o\\ could not, or you would not be Margot — not my INIargot ! ' ' And — if I had done all that,' she said ; ' would you hate me ? ' ' If you had done that,' he replied, ' I should not hats you, I sup- pose, even then — but I would never see you again if I could help it. I should try not to think of you, or if I did think of you it would be as one I had loved and who was dead.' She stole a look at his face as he spoke, and shuddered. His eyes were stern, the lines of his lips had grown rigid at the mere thought, the sunset touched his features with a radiance which seemed to render his face unfamiliar and almost terrible to Mai'got just then. But the next moment he was smiling into her conscience- stricken face with all the old tenderness. ' See what you might have accomplished by that quixotic plea of yours ! ' he said. ' Luckily for me — and you too, you poor, impetuous darling — you have failed to convince me in the \evy least ! ' Margot gave a long sigh. ' Yes — I have failed,' she said. ' I will not try again. And, Nugent, whatever I am — you do love m© now ? Tell me so again 1 ' ON THE VERGE 385 There was something infinitely pathetic to him in the humility of the exquisite face that was uphfted to his own ; he bent and kissed her passionately on her tremulous, proud lips ; his arm was around her slender form. ' I love you,' he said. ' I love you with all my heart and soul — you cannot really doubt that, Margot ? Whatever you say against yourself, I know that j'ou are generous and true and tender-hearted. Forget all my old miserable fault- finding — your instincts were right, mine were wrong. Darling, I am not worthy of you — who would be '? But at least — at least I love you ! ' He released her and they rode on in silence ; Margot smiling to herself in the dusk with a half bitter, half melancholy self-applica- tion of two lines from ' The Last Ride Together,' So one day more am 1 deified, Who knows but the world may end to-night ? Presently they came to a stretch of level turf. ' Nugent ! ' she cried ; ' Harebell has been so good, and she is dying for a canter ? ' And before Nugent could remonstrate, she was flying over the common and he had nothing to do but follow. ' Isn't it glorious ! ' she said, as they pulled up some minutes later, ' I didn't think your horse would have kept up with Hare- beU.' ' It was not a very safe thing to do,' said Nugent. ' You couldn't possibly have seen a trench or a rabbit-hole in this light ! ' She laughed a little wildly. ' Perhaps that was why I did it ! ' ehe said. CHAPTER VI. LITERA SCRIPTA. York. Peruse this writing here, and thou shalt know The treason that my haste forbids me show. Ainn. Remember, as thou read'st, thy promise past I do repent me ; read not my name there, My heart is not confederate with my hand. Bich. II. Act 5. Chadwick returned unexpectedly on the evening of the picnic, and Margot met him at breakfast next morning. ' So I'm to have the blessing of seeing my family around me at last ! ' he remarked, with one of his ugly sneers. ' Your dear mother writes me she is coming home. Returning with flying colours, too, and a prisoner of war — oh, don't look at me like that — you know all about it ; I shall take care to let Lady Adela know Fve had no hand in it. This young Hotham must be a chuckle-headed chap to be caught by Miss Ida. I ought to be a proud man — stepfather-in-law to a cc 386 THE PARIAH future baronet 1 I shall hold np my head with the county-folk now. If that boy of mine hadn't tiu-ned out a good-for-nothing rogue, he might have made up to Miss Hotham and we should have been a snug family part3\ Ah, you may cm-1 yoiu: lip if you like — though it doesn't come well from you, however grand you may think j'ourself, young lady ! ' ' Why do you say such thmgs to me ? ' the girl protested in a low voice. ' I am very far from being inclined to sneer at anj-one jiist now.' ' Allen's beneath your notice, eh ? Well, you got him turned out and you can afford to let him alone now. He's done for him- self with me and gone to the bad, and I don't so much as know whether he's alive or not. I've got a set of dutiful, well brought up children, who are everj^thiug they ought to be, and one of them'a going to marry into a county family — that ought to content me, I daresay. And yet, you'll think it very low and vulgar in me, very likely — but there are times when I'd rather have a boy of my own. There are times when, if that poor, shiftless scamp were to come back and say he was sorry like a man, I do believe, though I've struck him out of my wUl and called him all the hard names I could think of, I do believe I should be fool enough to forgive him ! It's something, after all, to have a creatm-e of one's own Hesh and blood to care for one.' ' Have you ever encouraged us to show yoii any affection ? ' she said. ' You do not care for us.' ' I'm not complaining. I married with my eyes open. I dare- say folks would say all the hardship was on Tjour side of the house. But if I find my amusements where I can get 'em — and God knows that isn't at home ! — I don't interfere with you ; you have all the indulgences other girls have — dresses, parties, as good a bit of horsetlesh to ride about on as any in the county, and no money spared on any of you, and all I get in return is black looks for it ! ' Margot's eyes had a heartbroken look of appeal in them. ' Don't saj' that ! ' she unplored him with trembling lips ; ' it is not kind — it is not true . . . 1 am grateful. I do feel that you treat us well ... I wish — I wish I deserved it ! ' He had expected a very dill'erent reply, and this disconcerted him. ' I wasn't thinking so much of you,' he said lamely. ' You're the best of 'em^you and the little gui; it's Ida who puts my back up . . . Don't mind what I said, I'm out of sorts this morning. There, you've not done anything at all events. It's all right ! ' This unusual kindness, rough as it was, smote Margot to the heart ; it was long befoi-e she recovered from the effect of that interview ; she was nervous, afraid of herself all day. She was even glad that she had promised to spend that evening at the Vicarage, her fear of being alone again with Nugent was nothing to her dread of another trfc-n-tete with her stepfather. She felt alnaost happy at the Vicarage ; there was something comforting in being treated with all that admiring affection, even LITERA SCRIPTA 387 though she knew that it might pass awaj- only too soon. Margot was more in-esistihle than usual that evening, pathetically grateful for the most triflmg kindness, docile and subdued, to a degree that won Mrs. Orme's complete approval. ' I must say,' she remarked to Milhcent in the drawing-room after dmner, ' being engaged has had an excellent effect on Margot, she is so improved — so inuch more gentle than she was ! ' 'Much,' agreed Millicent, but she said it with a httle sigh. ' I wish she looked a httle happier,' she was thinking ; ' is she finding out that she has made a mistake in her feeling for Nugent ? I wonder if she is telling him so now out there, poor fellow, and he loves her so dearly ! Why could she not have left him alone ? ' Millicent wronged her. Just then, Margot, as she paced the lawn with Nugent in the mystical gi-een light, had never loved him more, never felt so intense a satisfaction in the consciousness of being beloved. She said but httle herself, no more than was suffi- cient to draw forth stronger and tenderer assurances of all she was to him than he had ever spoken 3'et. She needed them all ; they gave her strength and courage ; in spite of his words yesterda}-, she began to hope that this power she possessed over him, making his strong voice tremble with repressed passion, would survive any disclosiu-e she might make. She woiild be herself still, unchanged but for one thing ; could he leave her, and never see her face again, as he had said ? Then she remembered that, for far less cause, he had been ready to withdraw from her before — why imperil her whole happiness now by revealing what there might even yet be no necessity that he should ever know ? No, she could not ; the present hour was sweet, she would enjoy it ; if it was not to last, she would have it afterwards to look back upon — this last evening with Nugent in the shadowj^ garden, with the scent of late Mary hlies and stocks in the air, and all forms and foUage confused and softened in a mellow haze. Yet, though she could not decide to tell him, she was equally imable to keep away altogether h'om the dangerous toi^ic, as though she sought yet for some favom-able openmg, or wished to commit him to some self-contradiction. ' "Why do 3'ou doubt me ID^e this, darling ? ' he said at last. ' Why can't you believe once for all that nothing you could do would alter my love ? — it is so ! ' 'Nothing, Nugent? When you said yesterday that, if I had sent Allen away knowing he was innocent, you would — leave me ! ' ' If you had done so, yes. I was safe in answering that, be- cause I know perfectly well that that is just one of the things you simply could not do. Margot, can't j^ou forgive me yet for mis- trusting you before ! I did distrust you, to my eternal shame, bv;t that was before I knew you as I do now, and even then, I never once thought or could have thought you a traitress.' ' Oh, and I was not — indeed I was not ! ' she cried. No,' he said. ' I think you are too proud for that. So you c c 2 388 THE PARIAH must not persist in supposing yourself guilty of these imaginary crimes, and asking me what I should do ; or you will end by be- lieving in them yourself. I don't want to be too hard on that poor fellow, but, from your own account, he could not be innocent, you could not even believe, to say nothing of knowing, he was so under the circumstances. He may come back and reproach you as much as he likes — though I should not advise him to do it if I am near — but the responsibility for what he is now is not on you. I have told you all this before, and now I have seen him myself and heard of his later proceedings, I feel even more certain than I did that he was an irreclaimable scamp, and that in insisting on his leaving you did onlj' w4iat you were perfectly justified in doing. So you must think no more about it. Are you cold out here, darling ? No ? I thought that was unlikely on such a magnificent night. How splendid the moon looks between those two cedar boughs ! "What a cm-ious shape, too — that tilted oval ! ' ' Yes,' said Margot ; ' it looks like a cold shining death-mask hung up there.' ' Not a particularly cheerful simile. You are almost as bad as Heine's philosopher friend, who said the stars were only a brilliant eruption on the face of Heaven ! ' ' Did he ? ' said Margot absently ; ' how unpleasant of him — but it is rather ghostly out here, Nugent, don't you think ? Let us go back to the drawing-room, and I will sing to you, if you are good.' They found Mrs. Orme reading a letter which had just been de- livered. ' Oh, Margot,' she began, ' perhaps you can tell me what I ought to do about this ? I've just had a letter from a Mrs. Melladew, who says she used to be Mrs. Chadwick's governess. She wants to know if she may use my name as a reference — she is taking pupils and very anxious to be recommended. I should have thought she would write to your mother. I know nothing about her, except that she accompanied songs sometimes at our Penny Readings. So far as I remember she played with some taste and correctness.' ' She did not behave very well about leaving,' said Margot. ' I suppose that was why she did not like to ask mother to recommend her — and of course,' she added, ' she will be glad to have your name. She did teach the piano very well. I think you might safely do what she asks.' ' I look upon giving a reference as a very serious thing,' said the Vicar's wife importantly ; ' a very serious thing indeed. I could not recommend her at this distance of time without having a personal interview and finding out what she intends to teach and how far she is qualified to do so. I shall write and tell her that, if she likes to come down and see me, I will let her know, after I have put a few questions, how far I can conscientiously allow my name to be used. Y'es, that will be far the best way. I don't suppose she will really come all the way from town, and I shall feel I have done all that can be done.' LITERA SCniPTA 880 She sat down to her writing-table to carry out this design, whereupon Nugent claimed the fulfilment of Margot's promise. She went to the piano, and he sat near, where he could watch her face as she sang. She had chosen that daintiest and tenderest o modern love-songs — ' The Devout Lover,' possibly with a sad pre- vision of its future irony. She had only sung one verse, when the Vicarage maidservant entered : ' There's a yoimg person outside,' she said to her mistress, ' who wants to speak to Mr. Nugent.' ' She must mean the Vicar,' said Mrs. Orme, turning round from her letter; 'it can't be you, Nugent. Say the Vicar is away at a parish meeting, and won't be back till late, will you, Ellen ? ' ' The young person said most particular, please ma'am, that it was Mr. Nugent she wished to see. ' ' Oh,' said Nugent ; ' I'd better go and see what it is, mother ; I shan't be a moment.' He rose and went out. ' It's Miss Margot's maid, sir,' said Ellen. ' She didn't wish it mentioned in there. I've shown her into the study.' In some wonder as to what this young woman could possibly want with him, Nugent entered his father's room. There, at one side of the Vicar's table, with its litter of parish accounts, sermon paper, and divinity books, sat Susan, nervously twisting the long ends of her mantle. ' I hope I've not taken a liberty, sir,' she began ; ' but there's things as can't be said on the house-tops — and I should be glad of the favour of your advice.' ' Eeally,' said Nugent, ' I am not qualified to advise you. I think my father — unless,' he added, ' it's any legal trouble you're in?' ' It's nothing of that sort, thank you, sir. I've come to you, knowing that j'ou used to be a good friend to Mr. Allen when he was living at home.' Orme sat down. ' Well? ' he said. ' Perhaps you wasn't aware, sir, that he was back here the other night ? • ' I am quite aware of that, he has gone away again — what of it?' ' I don't know if Miss Margot mentioned that she had a talk with him while he was here.' 'Miss Chevening mentioned that, too— naturally,' said Orme. For an instant the girl's face fell unmistakably, but only for an instant. ' You see, sir,' she continued, ' what I should like your advice upon is this : I never was so set against Mr. Allen as some people. I always said it was a case of give a dog a bad name ; and when he was sent away to Injia on a sudden, I had a feehng it was all on account of something he was thought to have done, thoiigli it was kept very quiet — even us servants didn't know nothing for ccrtuin. And it wasn't till only the other day as I found out what that some- thing really was. Mr. Allen was sent away for steahng joolery 390 THE PAEIAH belonging to Miss Margot — whicli he no more done, sir, than what [ did myself, and I can prove every word I say ! ' ' I am very glad to hear it, and so I am sure will Miss Chevening be — if you can prove it, there's no reason for any hesitation that I can see.' Susan's eyes glittered. ' That's Avhat you say now, su',' she said ; ' but I've myself to think of. I'd like to see Mr. Allen righted, but if it's to cost me my place ' ' If you are afraid of your master, I will undertake to see it done without bringing you into the matter — that is, if you have any real proof, your mere word is nothing, I need not tell you, in a case like this.' ' Thank you sir, I'm sure. I have got a proof beyond my words, or I shouldn't be here. And I wantj^ou to promise as you'll lay it before Mr. Chadwick yoiu-self, which is more than I diu'st do myself! ' ' I wiU tell you when I have seen it. First of all — what is it, and where is it ? ' ' I've got it wrapped up in my dolman, sir ; and I'd like to tell you, before I let you see it, how it came into my hands, and then you'll see why I'm not putting myself forward beyond what I can help. Mr. Allen asked me to get Miss Margot to come down to the summer-house and speak to him, which she done, for I see her set out.' Orme began to feel uncomfortable ; he did not know why, for he had already guessed that the raeetiug took place in that par- ticular spot : perhaps it was a certain suppressed tigerishness in this woman's expression, a conviction of coming triumph, that he did not like. Wilde this conversation was going on, Margot had been softly finishing the song in the drawing-room opposite, he heard the last line dying away as he sat there, waiting for Susan to proceed, ' And worship her in distant reverence.' Susan was still hesitating, probably editmg and revising her proposed revelations. ' If jou happened to overhear what passed at that interview,' said Nugent, ' you may spare yourself the trouble of saying any- thing more- -because I shall not listen.' She flushed with indignant A'irtue. ' I should scorn such actions,' she said ; ' it was — it was the day after, and I was walking round the grounds after tea, when I see some scraps of paper on the floor of the siunmer-house. I thought I knew the writing, and it was a pity to leave it laying about where it might be read, so I picked them all up, and something made me piece 'em together like, just to see if they made sense. When I read it, there — you might have knocked me down with a feather ! It was as clear as daylight as Mr. Allen was as innocent as a child ! . . Sir, Mr. Nugent, let me go on — let me tell you how it was, if you're truly his friend it's LITERA SCRIPTA 391 your bounden duty to hear me out — that letter was written, asking, begging, and praying of him to take that locket out of Miss Margot's drawer and ' ' Give me the letter,' said Nugent. ' If I do, sir, you won't let Miss Margot get hold of it ? You see, if she tore it up once, she'll as Hkely as not burn it next time she ' ' Miss Margot burn a letter ! What in God's name are you talking about ? What do you mean by talking this impertinence — to me ? ' ' Of com'se I can't expect you to believe nnTj word, sir; though I ought to know her writing by this time — but here's the letter to speak for itself. I've pasted it together on foreign paper, as you may see.' ^ Her letter!' cried Orme, falling back, deadly white, in his chair. ' Do you think if I had known that I would have heard you BO far — do you think I will read a line of it after this ? It is a damned forgery, this letter of yours, do you hear ! ' ' I hear you, su', and I'm not siirprised at your taking on, even to bringing yourself to use such language to me. But if it's a forgery, I should have thought that was all the more reason for lookmg at it. I'm sure I've no interest one way or the other, as your own sense ought to tell you.' Nugent turned upon her. ' I don't believe you,' he said ; ' you have an interest ; you have not come here to ask advice, you have made up your mind what to do already — hold your tongue, and put that precious x^aper in your pocket again ! You have some devilish scheme of yom- own in all this ; you may really believe you have got hold of something that compromises Miss Chevening, or you may be acting with a confederate for all I know. Listen to me, will you ! I say you can make what use of that letter you like, so far as I or Miss Chevening are concerned. If you are acting under any other person's orders, let me warn you to take care what you do. Before you take any steps, think whether you may not find that you have ruined yourself without injuring Miss Chevening, which seems to be your main object. Conspiracy is an ugly thing to meddle with, remember. You say you want my advice— now you have it.' ' Then you won't even look at the letter, sir ? * ' Am I to tell you that twice ? Leave the house, and, before you decide to go on with this, coimt the consequences — that is aU I have to say to j'ou. You have been warned.' Susan rose ; she was pale, too, for she was more than a Kttle Bhaken by the contemptuous rage she had provoked, and discon- certed as well by his insight into her motives ; and yet, as he could not help noticing, she had not the bearing of a detected impostor. She was chagrined, spiteful, but not abject ; he could not think she disbeUeved in the genuineness of her evidence, or that she was in collusion with any other. 392 THE PARIAH ' I'm going, sir,' she said. ' I respect mj'self too much to notice the things you've thought fit to say. Whether you beheve me or not, all I want is to see justice done, and if you won't help me, I must go through with it single-handed, that's all about it. And I might have known beforehand, if I hadn't been a fool, that it wasn't likely as ycud be anxious to see Mr. Allen righted now — it's natural you shouldn't, under the circumstances.' 'If a man were to say that to me,' said Nugent, 'I wouldn't answer for what I might do to him. As it is, you will go out of this house without another word ! ' He rose and opened the door with such an expression that even Susan's feminine desire for the last word was quelled into silence, and she passed out, with her nose high in the air, it is true, but a heart that was secretly quaking. ' I wish rd a young man as would stand up for me like that through thick and thin,' she was reflecting, on her homeward way; ' that baker wouldn't — no, nor yet that young rip of a Barchard, for all the gentleman he thought himself ! Biit Mr. Nugent will have it out with her, for all that. I've stopped her singing for a while, that's one comfort ; she'll be on her knees to me next, and then it will be my turn ! ' Orme dropped into his chair again, trying to think. With a shock of absolute terror he found himself yielding once more to doubts of Margot, and this time more hideous than any that Millicent had instilled. The flaws that had seemed fatal then to his love, now seemed venial by comparison. And yet — she had vindicated herself before, she woiild do so again. But he must know, he must ask, already the glow of indignant incredulity had died away ; he was beginning against his will to remember, to com- pare, to balance probabilities. Only Margot could save him from this hell of doubt — and he could bear it no longer*. He went to the drawing-room, where she was still sitting with his mother and sister. Not daring to advance out of the shadow, he said, in as ordinary a voice as he could command, ' Margot, will you come into the study for a moment ? I want your opinion about something.' She foUowed him, with some smiling remark to Millicent in passing. He closed the study door upon them. ' W'hat a wretched light to show anything by ! ' observed Margot, as she saw the one candle flickering in the draught from the open window. ' What is this wonderful object I am to admire, Nugent ? ' He stood there by the book-cases, looking at her in her brilliant young beauty. What folly to believe that that sweet, stately innocence of hers had anything to conceal ! ' An excuse to get you alone,' he said. ' Margot, I have just seen somebody who told me a very strange story.' She looked strange and startled, with the light flickering over her face. ' A story ! ' she repeated. ' About what, Nugent ? ' LITERA SCniPTA 893 • About a letter that was written long ago — written antl destroj-ed.' She caiight the window-curtain at her side, as if to save herself from falling. ' Ah ! ' she cried, ' I know now ... it was Allen ! He has come back to do this. — Oh, the coward ; the coward I Nugent, you must not believe it — you will not ? ' ' "Why should you think it was Allen ? ' he said. ' It was not Allen, Margot, it was someone who hates you at least as bitterly — your own maid, Susan.' ' Susan ! And you listened to what she chose to tell you against me ! Is that your trust, Nugent '? ' ' Don't reproach me till you have heard. She came to me with a story that Allen was innocent ; that he was induced to take that locket by a letter making certain representations. I did not at first landerstand that you were personally concerned. I refuse to believe now that you knew of its existence. I trust you . . only, if 3'ou love me, Margot, let me hear you say so yoiu'self ! ' ' There is no such letter,' she said defiantly. ' You have been deceived by a wicked girl. There is no such letter, Nugent. There cannot be ! ' 'Thank God!' he said, under his breath. 'I was sure of it, darling. I knew it was an infamous slander. I was so sure that I would not look at the letter that woman tried to show me.' Her grasp on the curtain tightened. ' Susan tried to shotv you a letter ! ' she said faintly. ' What letter, Nugent ? ' ' The letter. The letter which, according to her, brought about Allen's disgi'ace.' ' Did she tell you how it came into her hands ? ' ' The account she gave was that she picked it up in pieces by the summer-house in your grounds the evening after you saw Allen. Not a very probable story, is it ? If you remember, we saw them clearing up the paths that morning.' ' She — she might have gone there early — before they began.' 'Then do you mean that she told the truth? Was there a letter ? Was it torn up ? If so, by whom ? ' ' Nugent, how can I tell ? You ask so many questions.' ' You know nothing about it ? ' 'Have I not said so? — But these pieces, Nugent; these pieces — what did she mean to do with them ? Why did she bring them to you ? ' ' She had pasted them together ; she pretended that she was afraid to show it to j-our step-father herself, and wished me to do so.' ' And she left the letter with you ? Where is it, Nugent ? ' ' I told you I refused to take it. She left declaring that she would do without my help. Good Heavens ! Margot, what is the matter ? — What have I said ? ' She was clinging to his arm, looking up into his face with wild, beautiful eyes ! ' Is'ugent,' she said in a strained whisper, ' she 394 THE PARIAH means to show it to liim — she hates me so ... I know it now . . • she will do anj'tliing to injure me. And, Nugent, she must not — do you hear? — She viust be stopped ! oh, say you wiU help me to got that letter back ! ' He put her from him and held her hy her wrists, so that he could see her face. ' Tell me the truth,' he said sternly. ' You did know of that letter ? ' Her hands writhed in his in the effort to free themselves and cover her shrinking face. ' Have pity on me, Nugent. Don't make me tell you ! ' she mramured. He let her go abruptly. ' You need not tell me,' he said. ' I Icnow now, and you thought I would help you to keep this secret ? You knew and said nothing, would have said nothing — but for this I • She had fallen into the chair occupied by her enemy a few minutes ago, and was making piteous efforts to collect her thoughts, to make her defence. ' I would have spoken soon,' she said ; ' when I was able — in- deed, indeed I meant to . , . Nugent ! don't you believe me ? ' ' No,' he said, ' I don't. I can't. When I think of all you have told me, all lies — deliberate, xuiscrupulous lies — all that poor fellow has suffered ; how I was led to side against him, drive him back to his despair, and you always silent, micaring, except when you men- tioned him with a lofty pity — my God ! Margot, you have deceived me for the last time ... I will never believe a word you say again ! ' ' I knew this would come,' she said, speaking like one in a trance. 'I said so— that first evening of all, on the balconj' — do you remember ? I knew you would be a hard judge. You always were a little hard to me. And just now in the garden, while you were telling me how dear I was, I knew, I knew ! You are right, I suppose. I alwaj's told you I was not good. I have been wicked, hard, unjust —now I am pmiished for it. All I can do now, Nugent, is —is to set you fi-ee. . . . This is the end of everything between us ! ' ' Yes,' he said ; ' it is the end. But, Margot, there is more to do yet. You will do what Httle can be done to undo this wrong. You will tell your step-father everything now — this very evening ? Sm'ely there is no time to lose.' ' She may tell him I ' said Margot. ' I cannot and will not say anything.' ' I will go with you,' he urged. < I will stand by you — it is the one way I can serve you now. Margot, don't leave this accusation to be brought by your worst enemy I Even now you may gain yoiu' pardon by confessing. Can you leave Allen under this disgrace an hour longer ? ' ' My stepfather would think my repentance came a little late,' she answered with a frozen smile. ' I shall confess nothing. If I can persuade that girl to be silent even for a little while, I shall. LITERA SCRIPTA 395 You see — I ani desperate. If yon are anxious to rescue Allen, de- nounce me yourself, Nu.^ent ! ' ' You know I could not ! ' lie said — ' not unless I was certain that the truth would never come out otherwise. Then, Marj^ot, I would. As surely as there's a heaven above, I would speak — rather than lot tiuch wrong go on ; yes, if I had to kill myself after- wards I See, I give you a week. I shall stay here during that time, much as I would give to go away. If by the end of the week Allen's father does not know of his innocence — I wiU tell him myself.' ' What an heroic determination ! ' she said, with the ghost of her old mockery ; ' but I thmk you will be spared such a painful necessity. It is something at least to know what you propose doing. I have two enemies now, it seems ! ' He made a gestm'e of despair ; at the moment he did very nearly hate her. ' You taunt me,' he said ; ' but — God help me ! — what am I to do ? Yoiu: enemy I can never be, whatever you have done and are — I have loved you too well for that. But that shall not make me your accomplice ! ' ' Have I asked you to be ? Yes, I remember — I did . . . that was before. Now I ask nothing. I will go on alone — act as I thmk best. We are not enemies — we are not friends, only two peoi)le who have loved and found each other out in time.' As she spoke these last words MiUicent suddenly entered. ' Why, you disgracefully selfish persons ! ' she began lightly, ' are you aware that you have left us alone all the evennig and that mamma has gone off to bed ? . . . Nugent ! . . . Margot ! ' she broke off, looking from one to the other ; ' is — is anything wrong ? ' ' Nothing, dear Millicent,' said Margot, with a laugh that had a heartbreak in it, ' except that Nugent and I have discovered that we are imsuited to make one another happy, and have been telling each other so.' ' I know who made that discovery ! ' replied Millicent indig- nantly. ' Margot, you have no heart ; you cannot value love when it is yours — you do not deserve that it should be wasted on you ! Why is beauty given to people like you, I wonder ? ' ' I don't know indeed — for their more perfect happiness, perhaps ? And, forgive me, Millicent, but I have really been reproached this evening as much as is good — even for me. So if you will let me have my things, I will go home.' ' You are not coming with me ? ' she said with lifted eyebrows, as she found Nugent preparing to accompany her. Yes,' he replied shortl3^ ' I can't let you go back alone. Margot, you won't insist on that ! ' ' I oiily insist on one thing,' she said ; ' that if you do come you will not speak to me ; I want to be left iu peace — if there is any peace for me anywhere now ! ' 39G THE PATJIAH And they went back to Agi-a House together without a word, each conscious of the shadow that walked between them in the silence. CHAPTER VII GAINING TIME Als treulos muss er veraehten Die eigne Herzliebte sein Als schimpflich muss er betracliten Die eigne Liebespein. — Heine. Oh, my Sweet, Think and be sorry you did this thing ! — Browning. At the door of Agra House, Margot spoke for the first time since they left the Vicarage, and her words seemed the result of a delibe- ration arrived at during that silent walk. ' You are not going to leave Gorsecombe yet ? ' she began. ' I told you I should not,' he replied gravely, ' until ' ' Until you have satisfied yourself that I am humiliated enough! ' she struck in with a momentary flash. ' Very well ; but till that desirable end is reached, is it necessary that the whole village should know that we have decided to separate ? ' ' Not if you think otherwise,' he said. ' Millicent will say nothing till you wish.' ' If you must stay here— and I know you cannot trust me out of your supervision — let us keep up pretences as long as we can. Oh, it will be ghastly, I know, but, I — I wiU make it as easy as I can for you — it will not be so bad as having all Gorsecombe specu- lating about us to our faces, will it ? We need only be seen walk- ing together occasionally ; if we are a little silent, they wiU put it down to perfect happiness and understanding ! ' The muscles in his foce were twitchmg with repressed suff"ering as he answered her. ' I will do what you please, only — you talk of making it easy for me, Margot — if you are going to speak to me as you did just now, it will be more than I can bear I ' 'Ah, but I am not. You must remember that it is hard for me too — it is a difficult situation just at first, between a girl who hates me and a man who only despises me. What I said was not quite in good taste, very likely. I shall get used to it all in time. By to-morrow, I daresay, you will find me a safe companion. That is, always supposing that Susan has not already set you free to depart. There, you can leave me for to-night at all events.' His heart was wrung hy the impulse to plead with her once more, to beg her to have pitj^ on herself and on him, to cast away this cynical hardness of hers and own some sorrow for the great wrong she had committed, some willingness to make reparation, GAINING TIME 397 But he felt intimidated by those imperious eyes, and the haughty curve of her full lip ; he could not move her, he felt weak enough even still to dread being moved by her, and so the words he had almost uttered, died unspoken, and he tiu'ned away into the dark- ness, to wrestle with his agony as he might. Miss Chevening, still in the same state of unnatural composure, passed into the hall, and, contrary to her usual custom, looked into the study to bid good-night to her step-father, whose manner satisfied her that her secret was safe as yet. Then she went up to her room and rang for Susan. Presently Susan appeared, demurely observant. ' Are you ready for me, Miss ? ' she inquired, as if nothing had happened to affect their relations. ' I hear,' said Margot calmly, ' you have been taking the trouble to play the spy upon me, Susan. I want to know how you came to find that letter.' ' Well, Miss, if you must know, I haven't been satisfied in my own mind about the way you treated Mr. Allen from the first. And when I knew as you and him was going to have an interview in the siunmer-house, I thought it was only right there should be some third party present, to see fair play like. So I made free to slip round by a backway through the shrubbery, and stood up behind the arbour.' ' And then, I suppose, you heard all that passed between us ? ' ' I made the most of my opportunities, miss, certinglj^ ; and I don't deceive you. I heard quite enough to show me what had been going on. Then, as soon as it was safe to come out, I came — and there was the letter all tore to bits, which spoke for itself. And with all respect to you, miss, that letter I mean to keep till I have a chance of laying it before one who has the best right to see it ! ' Margot's eyes lightened ; if a wish could have killed, Susan would never have left that room alive, but it was necessary to keep calm, not to let this gkl see that she could affect her in any way. ' What is your price ? — for I suppose that is what you are coming to,' she said. ' My price, miss ? Really I beg your pardon, but I don't under- stand.' 'You do understand — you understand very well. What will you take to give up that letter ? You had better be moderate. I — I am not very rich ; still I have some money. Remember, no one else is likely to buy yoiu* wares.' ' You're making a mistake, miss,' said Susan. ' I may be a poor servant girl, but I have my ideas of right and wrong for all that. No money that you nor yet no one else, if it was the Queen herself, was to offer would make me part with that letter, except to the proper quarter. I'm not to be tempted, miss, so you may make up your mind to that.' What might have been a genuine btu'st of honest indignatioa 398 THE PAEIAH was spoiled by the malignity that was ai)parent in every word ; yet Margot quailed and felt reboked for the moment. ' You must hate me very much, Susan,' she said in a low voice. ' I wonder why.' ' If I hate you,' was the reply,' ' which I don't say whether I do or don't, I've reason enough for it. You think because you're good- looking, j-ou're everybody and everythink. Y^ou'll have to be taught that right's right and wrong's wrong for you the same as everybody else. "Who are you and your family, I'd like to know, that master's only son should be made to seem a thief and turned out to beg or starve to keep you from disgi'ace ? If he's fool enough to let him- self be plotted against and turned round your finger, I'm not, and I'll see justice done before many hours are over, I can toll you, miss, whether you lilie it or not, if you went on your knees to me to make me shut my mouth ! ' 'That I shall certainly not do,' said Margot. 'You are a bad ghl, and you are doing this, not because you love justice, or even money, but becaiise you hate me. I can see that, and I am not foolish enough to try to soften you. But I supj)ose even though you do hate me, you are not quite blind to your o'uti interests, when you need not sacrifice the one to the other, so I am going to propose a bargain. I do not wish this to be known just yet — not till my mother is here, which will be in two or three days at the fm'thest. For every day that passes before Mr. Chadwick knows the truth, I will give you ten shillings — you see, that leaves you perfectly free to turn informer when you chose, only you can enjoy joux revenge a little longer and earn money by it at the same time. If you re- fuse, you will be stupid, but that is your own affair.' She might have been discussing some question of toilette, so calm was her manner, though her hands were twisting convnlsively in her lap. But her voice and her eyes were full of an indomitable sphit and a consummate disdain which had some effect even upon Susan, though avarice had a greater. ' I can try it. Miss, for a day or two, and see how it works,' she said, with more respect. ' I'm siu'e it's not my wish to make things more unpleasant than need be — ' ' That will do,' said Miss Chevenuig. ' Y"ou can go. I don't want you near me any longer.' "When Susan had got out of the room she realised that her triumph had lacked completeness after all. She had not had the satisfaction of seeing her young mistress at her feet ; she had not even wrung any appeal for mercy from those proud lips — which natm'ally increased her hate. Still, she would see her low enough before long, and in the meantime, there was no harm in getting what she could, in case the more substantial reward she hoped for should prove illusory. Margot did not see Niigent the next day ; but the day after that she met him coming out of the Vicarage. ' You have not kept your promise,' she said ; ' but perhaps j-ou were on your way to me ? ' GAINING TIME 399 ' I tried yesterday,' he said, ' and I — I could not — it was too much ... so soon ! ' ' Let us begin our penance now, then — not that you have com- mitted any sin. We must, Nugent. Miss Moniber is looking at us over her window-blmds. If we separate here, it will arouse her suspicions at once — you owe so much to me ! ' ' I have promised my mother to meet Mrs. Melladew at the station and bring her back to lunch,' he said, in a constrained voice. He was looking worn and haggard, as if he had not slept much of late. ' Mrs. Melladew ! ' exclaimed Margot, and a new light, almost a hope, shone in her eyes. ' I had forgotten. Nugent, let me come with you. I must see her alone — you will let me, will you not ? ' ' Of course,' he said drearilj-, and they walked towards the Station Eoad together, silent — for what could he say to her, or she to hiin that was not better unsaid now ? She dreaded him as an embodied conscience ; he saw beneath the fair and seductive mask a prodigy of miscrupulous, impenitent selfishness, and each read the other's thoughts. Only once he spoke, ' Has that woman acted yet ? ' he asked. ' Not yet. I think I have persuaded her to give me a little longer.' ' You are wrong to leave it to her to speak.' ' You have the remedy' in j'our own hands.' ' I hope,' he said ; ' I hope to heaven you will not drive me to use it ! ' ' I cannot answer for what j'ou may think fit to do, of coiu'se.' That was all that passed between them, except that now and then they met persons they knew, a jovial country gentleman on his cob, or a well-meaning farmer or village-wife, who little gitessed how i7ial d jji'ojyos were then- jokes and compliments. On the plat- form, while they were waiting for the train, Nugent spoke again. ' Tell me only this, Margot, why are yoti so anxious to see this Mrs. Melladew just now, and alone ? ' She turned her head away. ' I will tell you nothing — nothing any more,' she said ; ' what is the use ? ' ' Does she know anjthing about — that letter ? ' ' Perhaps. It is enough, or ought to be enough, that I wish to see her. If you have any regard for me left at all, you will help me, not hmder me.' The train came in and Mrs. Melladew — a mucii older and more careworn lookmg person than the sentimental, flighty-headed Camilla of old — got out of it. As she recognised Margot, she seemed confused, tmcertain what to do, but the girl met her with a cool decision. ' Camdla, I heard you were coming, and I persuaded INIr. Orme to bring me to meet yon. I have something to say to you in pri- vate — let us walk a little way down this lane, and Mr. Orme will wait here till we come back.' iOO THE PARTAH Nugent waited with such patience as he could command. It seemed an endless time before they retm-ned, but at length he saw them coming down the lane. Margot seemed to be pleading, retracting, extenuating something she had said. Mrs. Melladew was flushed and tremblmg with in- dignation ; she went straight to where he stood. ' Mr. Orme,' she began excitedly, ' before I go with you to the Vicarage I want to know this : has Miss Chevening dared to tell you that I — ? ' ' Camilla, stop ! ' said Margot, interposing with pale face and burning hazel eyes. ' Control yourself. I have not said a word — indeed I have not ! I — I made a mistake. I beg your pardon — what more can I do ? ' ' I assure you, Mrs. Melladew, that I have not been told anj-- thing. If you will allow me I would rather remain in ignorance of your conversation,' said Orme stifflj'. ' Yes, yes,' said Margot eagerlj-. ' Praj", Camilla, pray let us forget it ! ' ' You never liked me ! ' returned Mrs. Melladew, on the verge of tears, ' and now — when goodness knows I find it hard enough to make a living ! — you try to take away my character, to make me own to things I never did — no, nor dreamed of doing ! I had no reason for getting rid of that poor young man — why should I ? ' ' I accuse you of nothing,' put in Margot. ' AVhy will you be so unreasonable ? Have I not owned I was wrong ? ' ' Ah, you are afi-aid — you dare not face me out ! Look at her, Mr. Orme ; don't trust her, she is false and wicked — she would do anything to save her pride, and once I used to wish mj'self in her place. I would not be now for anything in the world.' ' You are only telling Mr. Orme what he knows already,' said Miss Chevening. ' Mrs. Melladew,' Orme broke in, ' don't let us make this scene more painful than it is alreadj-. I — I have been obliged to hear lately many things that — that have changed my life. I wish to know no more. Let i;s forget this, and let me take you up to the vicarage.' ' No,' she said ; ' I can't now. I have been too much upset. Tell Mrs. Oi-me anything you please, that I missed my train, if you like. I will write and fix another day, but now I will go back at once.' A train was just coming in, and she was able to carry out her in- tention, neither of the other two dissuading her. ' Margot,' she said, as they went towards the station, ' I always felt I behaved badly to poor dear Ida, in deceiving and leaving her as I did. My only excuse is that I was in love — foolishly in love. But you at least cannot reproach me. No, I won't shake hands with j'ou. I hope I shall never see or hear of you again — j'ou are a wicked and dan- gerous girl, but you will be pimished some day. I think you muat be punished already ! ' GAINING TDIE 401 Ormo licartl tins, and also saw the effect it htxH ni^on iMargot, who stood thei'e without attempting to reply, looking miserable and even humiliated enough, but unrepentant still. Yet if her offence had been anything less, his heart would have softened to her then — that look of lonely, half-defiant misery only seemed to make her lovelier. Again he wondered how hardness and deceit could put on so fair an outside, that even now, when he saw her as she was, desperately striving to put off exposure by the most reckless and hopeless expedients — even now all her charm had not perished for hiin. When they were alone together, he said earnestly, ' Can't you see that it is hopeless — that you are only injuring yourself by what you are doing ? ' ' Nugent,' she answered, ' don't preach. If I choose to injure myself, that does not concern you any more. I will not admit that it is hopeless — not yet.' ' It is hopeless — even if you had gained your object (I do not ask to know what it was) with Mrs. Melladew, even if you could bribe that girl Susan to spare you, you will not silence me, Margot. The wrong you have made AUen bear shall not go on, that I swear. His father must and shall be told the truth.' She turned upon him — her eyes ablaze with anger. ' Do you mean that you will break yoiur word, and tell him now ? Nugent, if you do, I shall hate you. I very nearly hate you now, when you are so righteous and bitter against me ; but if you do that, I shall quite hate you ! ' ' I am not in the habit of breaking my word,' he said coldly. ' I promised to wait. I wish — if you knew how I wish ! — that you may save me from an odious duty ; but when the time is up, if you have not spoken, I will speak. I cannot help it if that makes me hateful to you.' ' It is only time that I want,' she said more gently ; ' only time. I cannot — no, Nugent, I cannot go to my step-father myself. Oh ! ' and she lifted her face to him with a sudden impulsive appeal that was weU-nigh. irresistible, ' if I was to tell you what excuses there are for me ; why I acted as— as I have acted ; what I fear now would you forgive me, Nugent ? Would you think better of me ? If I could only believe that, I would try once more ! ' ' You made excuses to me before,' he said, ' and they were false. I believed them then; I was too ready to believe when it was you who spoke. You drove that poor fellow from his home, you prevented him from coming back, you would have kept his inno- cence a secret even now if you could, you are still scheming to avoid acknowledging the truth. Nothing you can say will alter or excuse that even if — ' ' Even if you believed it,' she continued for him. ' Yes, I see, Nugent, it is really all over. I saw it in your face that evening, and then I resolved that it would be useless to try to move you. Why did I forget just now 1 Yes, you have lost faith in me, nothing D D 402 THE PARIAH will ever bring that back again. I have failecl and I deserve to fall. Now let us part. I thought I could bear being with you, but the strain is too heavy for me, people must think what they like ! I wUl not see you again until — until jou come to do yoiu* duty in exposing me, unless I send for you first, and then, for the sake of old times, Nugent, you will not refuse to come to me. Leave me here to go on alone — it is better for us both ! ' He stood aside, and watched her as she passed on along the road, her step as light and gi-aceful as ever, her head proudly erect, much as he had seen her on the Trouville ^jZcrr/c on just such an August day as this two j-ears ago, before he had ever spoken to her or seen her face. And now he wished with all his soul that he and she had never mety that he had been spared the mockery of a love, happiness, and faith which endui'ed so brief a space and had such an ending as this. The days passed on somehow. Mrs. Chadwick was taking her homeward joiurney by easy stages, without having indicated, per- haps intentionally, any place on her route to which letters might be addressed. On Margot the dreaded blow had not fallen as yet, thanks to the piece of gold which Susan foiind every night upon her mistress's dressing-table, and which was accepted without comment on either side. Chadwick was surly at his wife's repeated delays, but nursed his wrath, in company with the spirit-decanters, till her return. Margot had to go on playing her part, to disarm the curi- osity of the neighboiu's, at temiis parties, or at chiu-ch, to bear herself as if she were not oppressed at all times by a temble dread of what was happening at home. Often, in sheer despair, she was tempted to reveal all she knew, but the consequences appalled her. At last, the precariousness of her position became grimly famihar, she even forgot it at times — had she not, she would have gone mad. It is possible enough that Damocles himself began to recognise some fiavoiu' in the viands before the last course had been served. And now her suspense was nearly at its natm-al end. To- mon-ow was the day which Nugent had fixed as the limit of his silence : that very morning Mrs. Chadwick had telegraphed from Paris that she expected to arrive, with Ida, Guy, and Eeggie, at Agra House late in the evenmg. Margot was sitting in the great drawing-room with Lettice, whose gleeful impatience planted the last thorn in her sister's heart, waiting for the travellers to arrive ; the carriage had already gone down to meet them, every sound fi-om the front of the house seemed to be its returning wheels. They had come at last. Lettice had run out to greet them. Margot, sick and faint, stood a moment in the room, irresolute, before following her into the hall. Her mother did not see her at first, she was too busy in giving GAINING TIME 403 directions and asking questions in the intervals of kissing Lettice, who had thrown herself into her arms. ' "Why, Lettie, you look quite a different child ; all the pretty roses back again ! I knew you would get well here sooner than at Homburg ; and mother hasn't forgotten you, darling ! The brown portmanteau and bag to go into the blue room, Masterman, please, and be careful with my trunks. Guy, dear, this is not Hawleigh, you know, but we will try to make you comforta.ble here. Margot, you quite frightened me, coming out like a ghost. How are you, sweet one ? ^Ye thought of you in Paris — such a crossing ! No, not that one; that's Miss Ida's. "Where's Susan? Tell her to come instantly. Is papa in liis study ? Then I'll poj) in and see him before I go up to my room.' Her cheerful airy satisfaction and high good-humour, which even embraced her husband just then, struck Margot as in ghastly contrast with the danger that threatened. ' Margot,' complained Ida, pouting, 'you. might say something to Guy ; you might looh as if you were glad to see us back again ! ' There was something almost fierce in the elder sister's caress. ' Glad ! ' she cried. ' Oh, if j'ou knew how I have wanted you I And — and Ida, dear, I do hope and pray that j^ouand Guy will ' she could not finish her sentence. ' That we shall be happy ? ' said Guj', as he wrung Margot's hand, looking very happy and handsome just then. ' No doubt about it, so far as I'm concerned, and she's learning to make the best of a stupid sort of fellow like me ! ' ' Oh, Guy ! ' protested Ida. ' I am very, very happy, Margot,' she whispered ; ' so happy that I feel as if it couldn't last. Do you ever feel like that about Nugent ? ' Margot did not reply, but her expression showed Ida that some hidden and terrible grief had entered into her sister's life since they had met last. ' Forgive me, darling, I didn't know,' she added hastily, ' You will tell me aboi;t it upstairs — won't you ? ' ' Yes, yes ! ' said Margot. ' There — there are several things I must say, Ida, when we are alone.' Eeggie, in all the importance of travelled boyhood, was en- larging to Lettice on his Continental experiences. ' It was joUy at that Homburg hotel, I can tell you, Lettie,' he informed her. ' I dined table-d'hote every night — it didn't begin till your bedtime. And the Prince of Wales was there part of the time ; I capped him when we met, just as I would one of the masters, you know, and he capped me. I don't think much of Germans, though ; they sell beastly sweets. I hke Paris. Guy bought me a stiinning box of soldiers there — cavalry charging. Guy's a brick. It ivas rough in the steamer. Mother and Ida were ill, and even Guy wouldn't answer any questions properlv- I wasn't ill in the least. A French lady said I was a regular little English sailor — it was more than she was, but she was better just then.' D D 2 404 THE PARIAH ' Did you have equl-noxious gales, Reggie ? ' asked LetticS, much impressed. ' There were gales all the way,' he said. ' They might have been those for all I know ; you would have been sick if you had been there, I can tell you. How's old Yarrow ? ' Mrs. Chadwick meanwhile had burst upon her husband. ' Well, Joshua, here we are back again. I hardly thought I could have come on from town to-night, we had such a teiTibly rough passage ; but I made the effort. I felt I oughtn't to stay away a day longer than I could help. I felt that so very stronglj^ ! ' ' Did you ? ' he returned. ' It has taken you a devil of a time to feel it, that's all I can say. Well, you're back now, and it will be my fault if you get the chance again for some little while. There are some bills I shall want some explanation of from you, Mrs. Chadwick, when you've got over the effects of yom- journey.' ' Joshua ! ' she exclaimed, rather piteouslj'. ' I have been away all this time, and you begin about biUs the moment I come home. For goodness' sake, let us try to do without quarrelling for a Uttle while — Guy Hotham is here.' ' What do I care for Guy Hotham, or Guy anybody ? ' he said. 'You've hooked him for your Ida — whether you can keep him on the hook is your look-out, not mine. What's he doing here ? Why couldn't he go on to Hawleigh ? ' ' Because it is too long a drive so late at night,' she replied. ' Joshua, it can't hiu-t you to be civil to him, particularly as Lady Adela has really taken his engagement better than I expected ; she has asked Ida to stay at Hawleigh next month. Really you might, on this very first night of all, try to take things a little more pleasantly, when they are going so well too 1 ' ' I'm not going to use violence to the young man, am I ? Keep him out of my way, that's all I ask. I don't want your swell friends here with their cursed haw-haw ways, treating me as if I was my own butler. There, go and take oft' your things and have some supper — it's laid out in the dining-room — and don't let any- body come m here and bother me, that's all I ask of you.' She was not sorry to escape, and invent some pretext for pre- venting any one, Guy in particular, from encountering her husband that evening, as his condition was obvious enough. But even this did not damp her si)irits very greatly, and at supper she was very much the most cheerful of the party. At length Ida rose, declaring she could not keep awake any longer, and Margot accompanied her. At the door of her room, Ida offered to say good-night, but Margot declined to accept the hint. ' I am coming in with you for a few minutes, dear,' she said gravely. ' But I am really so awfully sleepy, Margot 1 ' protested Ida, yawning to give effect to her words. ' Won't what you have to tell me wait till to-morrow ? ' ' No,' said Margot ; ' it has waited too long already.' GAINING TIME 405 Ida jaelded rather pettishly, evidently without suspecting the nature of Margot's communication, and fearing, weary as she was with travelling, to be bored by demands on her s^'mpathy for her sister's trials. ' Well,' she said, ' come in, then, but you must not stay more than five minutes, or I shall fall asleep in the middle of it.' The two sisters were together for a much longer time than five minutes that night, but in the course of the interview Ida heard that which effectually removed all tendency to drowsiness. CHAPTER VIII. THE COURAGE OF DESPAIK. If Margot found the suspense almost beyond her power to endure, it was not less terrible to Nugent Orme. Perhaps it was even more so, for she did occasionallj' succeed in shaking off the oppression of it — he, never. Miilicent was still the only person at the Vicarage who knew that their engagement was at an end, and she was ignorant of the real cause, which he could not bring himself to tell her. Her great love for him inspired her with an imaccustomed tact in treating what she recognised as a sorrow which could bear no speech as yet. She summoned all her ingenuity to prevent her father and mother from noticing that anything was amiss, devising pretexts which should enable Nugent to be away for the greater part of every day without exciting their remark, and shielding hini in countless ways when he was with them. This, the Vicar's easy-going indolence, which made him rarely observant of anything that was not forced upon his notice, and his wife's absorption in parish work, rendered easy enough. Miilicent abstained from all questioning of her brother, notwithstanding a natural desire to know whether the determination to part had come from him or Margot. At first, she had regarded Margot as a heart- less flirt, who had chosen to captivate Nugent fi-om sheer love of admiration, and dismissed him as soon as she was weary of his devotion, but that was only at first, and now, when reflection had made her almost certain that Nugent had discovered something that justified her own charge against Miss Chevening, she felt no triumph. Her origmal distrust of Margot had given way ; when the intimacy between them had been renewed, she had been unable to resist the fascination of her beautiful friend, and whatever fault she had committed, she pitied, and would have been sincerely rejoiced to find excuses for her. But Nugent evidently saw none, and had no hope of doing so ; all her efi'orts to see Margot were repulsed ; she could only wait and try to comfort herself with the thought that the disillusion, if it was to come, had not come too late, 406 THE PARIAH What Nugent suffered he chose to suffer alone, and as the dreaded day drew nearer, and still there was no si.c^n that Margot repented or intended to make any act of reparation, his mental torture gi-ew more acute. He shrank with loathing from the odious duty that might soon devolve uj^on him ; he had pledged himself in a certain event to make disclosures which must exjjose the woman he loved to dis- grace. Why had he done so ? How much easier to hold aloof, to leave Allen's rehabilitation to fate or chance ! But if Margot would not speak, if she succeeded in silencmg any one who was able to denounce her, then Allen must surely be doomed to sink into lower depths from which it would be too late to rescue him — even now the horrible injustice of which he was the victim might be irre- mediable. To be sUent for the sake of sparing Margot's feelings would be conniving at a moral, if not an actual mm-der. He had not the right to spare her, and yet — oh, God, if something might intervene at the eleventh hour to save him from taking action ! It seemed that his prayer was not to be granted ; the morning came of the day which, before it closed, would decide whether he was equal or not to the task he had set himself. He would delay acting to the latest possible moment, do nothing till evening, and then he would go up to Agra Hoose, and if Chadwick had not learnt the truth by that time, nothing should prevent him from speaking. So he had decided as he sat under the cedar, feeling chilled to the marrow, though the sun was blazing down on the lawn, when he saw Guy Hotham coming towards him through the open window. He had already heard overnight of the return, and as he went to meet him now, he saw from Guy's untroubled coimtenance and the heartiness of his greeting that nothing of a painful nature had occurred as yet. ' Awfully glad to see you again, old fellow ! ' began Guy. ' You're looking rather seedy, though ; j'ou've been sticking to that beastly Lincoln's Inn too long. Well, you mustn't be in a hurry to get back just yet awhile, that's all. Of course you've heard it's all right about Ida and me ? . . . thanks, I knew you'd be pleased about it. I do think I'm the luckiest beggar in the whole world — the Mater's come round, got a letter in Paris, asking Ida over to Hawleigh — that was old Aunt Juha ! So we are going to be brothers-in-law after all — that reminds me, I've a note for you from Margot somewhere. Ah, here it is ! ' Orme hurriedly read the note, which contained only these words : ' I want to see you alone, at once ; you will find me at the small gate. — Margot.' He went back at once with Guy, who was overflowing with high spirits and eager to retui-n to see Ida. ' I haven't seen her since last night,' he said, ' she's rather knocked up by the joui'ney and didn't come down to breakfast — she's not strong, poor httle girl, but she'll be down by this time, I daresay'. Here we are at the THE COURAGE OF DESPAIR 407 gate, and there's Marcjot herself waiting for you — hope you're flattered I I'll go romid the other way, eh ? " fellow-feeUng " now, you know. Good-bye till lunch.' Orme advanced to meet Margot alone : her eyes looked very large and bright as she stood there, her lips were parted, one of her beautiful hands was pressed closely against her side, the other was dry and burning as he took it. She tried in vain to speak. * You have sent for me, Margot,' he said. ' Is it known yet ? ' She shook her head : ' You said you would speak to him your- self,' she faltered, with difficulty. ' Did you mean that, Nugent ? ' His heart hardened against her. ' I did,' he answered, ' I in- tend to speak to-night, if I must. Don't try to persuade me against it — it will be no good, Margot.' ' I want you to speak,' she said, ' that is why I sent for you. I want you to go and tell liim — now ! ' When a man has strung himself to undergo a certain ordeal, any modification in the conditions which he has pictured to himself for it beforehand is apt to increase his reluctance. Orme had imagined the scene as taking place some hours later, with the dusk to serve as a screen between Chadwick and himself. To go through it in broad daylight, within the next few minutes, was more than he felt prepared for just then. ' Must it be now ? ' he said. ' At once,' she repeated impetuously, ' that girl is growing sus- picious, she will wait no longer. If it must come, I — I would rather it came from you.' 'Is there no other way?' he cried. 'Margot — it sounds like emptj^ extravagance, but it is true that I would rather die here this instant than be the means of bringing this upon you — tell me you believe that ! ' She smiled sadly, a little bitterly. ' I do believe it,' she said, ' you are following what you consider yom* duty — what is your duty. I don't blame you. I even wish you to do it — only for God's sake, do it now ; let me know the Avorst at once. He is in his study, alone — go to him there 1 ' ' Thinli first,' he urged her ; ' cannot you find courage to tell him yourself ? You know that I say this for your own sake, not mine. I will go with you, help you, j)rotect you if that is necessary — but indeed it wUl be better for you to accuse yourself.' She covered her face with her hands for a moment. * I — I can- not,' she said. ' I have not strength enough for that. I will come with you. I meant to do that— if you wiU let me . . . you shaU stand between him and me, but more than that — no, Nugent, you must not ask too much of me ! ' ' Come then,' he said, ' and God help us both, Margot ! ' They passed through the cool fragrant hall ; at the door of Chad- wick's study she faltered for the first time, and he feared she was about to faint, but she thrust back his arm with a blind gesture of refusal, and they went in. 408 THE TARIAII Chadwick was reading an Indian journal, which now formed his Bole Uterature ; a glass of brandy and soda stood at his elbow, the windows of the room were closed, and the air was heavy with recent cigar smoke. Margot sank down in a window-seat, looking out on the trim lawn and the ribbon-planted beds, over which yellow butterflies were gaily fluttering. ' ^Yell, Orme,' said Chadwick, who did not seem to be in one of his dangerous moods just then, ' you haven't honoured us by looking in much lately. I don't know if that's the way courting is done nowadays, but when I was a young man — however, if Miss Margot there don't object, it's not for me to say a word. Take a seat, man, it fidgets me to see you standmg there like that. This paper here, " The Bengal Planter," says indigo's looking up again ; if that fool of an Allen had been out there now, he might be making lacs and lacs, doubling the value of the concern — ah, well, the young scoun- drel chose to throw away all his opportunities, and he's paying for his toll}' somewhere, I hope ! I've done with him long ago. I don't know why I should talk of him now — it isn't because he's anything to me any more ! ' ' Mr. Chadwick,' began Nugent, * Margot and I have come in to tell you something — something it is necessary that you should be told.' ' Phew ! ' exclaimed Chadwick, with along whistle ; ' what, have you made up your minds to be married at once then ? Well, you must settle that with my wife. I'm nobody here, you know ! ' Not- withstanding, he was clearly pleased at being consulted. ' Oh, no — no ! ' cried Margot from the window-seat. ' It is not that — oh, Nugent, make him understand ! ' ' I see,' said Chadwick, ' it's the other way, eh ? Fallen out, have you ? There, again, it's no use coming to me about it — I can't make it up between you ! ' ' Wait till you have heard what we have to tell, it is nothing of that kind. It is something very i^ainful to say, and to hear, some- thing which Margot has had on her mind for a long time and can bear no longer. I am here to speak for her ; you can see that she is in no condition to speak for herself.' ' Go on, sir,' said Chadwick, ' I'm listening to you, though I'm d — d if I know what's coming.' ' Her secret is connected with j'our son AUen. You sent him away from home under the belief that he had attempted a robberj-. Ho was perfectly innocent of any idea of robbery. What he did was in consequence of instructions he had received.' ' Do j^ou know what you're saying, sir ? You're implying that I have been fool enough to believe my son a scoundrel, when — • when he was nothing of the kind ; at my age, and with my own son too ! Wh}', if I believed that — but I see tlurough it. I'm too old a hand to be taken in that way. It's a dodge of the pair of you to get me to forgive that boy. Now you listen to me : if you know where he is, you can tell him that if he likes to come to me and own up THE COURAGE OF DESPAIR 409 like a man, I may have something to say to him —but you'll never get round me by any d — d trumped-up cock and buU stories which a child wouldn't swallow, you tell him that ! . . . "Who is it now, — Susan, eh ? Well, get what you came for and go away ; don't you see we're engaged, woman ? ' ' I beg your pardon, sir, I'm sure, but if you're engaged in talk- ing about Mr. Allen, you may find it to your advantage to hear what I've got to say first,' said Susan respectfully, as she stood just inside the study. ' I think you're more likely to hear the truth from me than from some parties that could be named.' ' Stop, sir 1 ' said Nugent. ' Let this woman tell her story after- wards, when you have heard us ; j-ou will find the two accoimts agree.' ' Shall I ? I'm not so sure of that ! ' returned Chadwick, with a muddled kind of cunning. ' If I did, it would only prove you were all of a tale and wouldn't alter my opinion. But I mean to put a few quiet questions to her before I go any farther. Now, you Susan, what have you been put up to say about Mr. Allen, eh ? Out with it.' ' I haven't been put up to say nothing, sir ; and there's two now standing in this room would have been glad enough to shut my mouth if I'd been willing, but willing I was not.' ' Don't, Nugent, don't ! ' said Margot disdainfully, as he was about to make some indignant protest ; ' let her go on, what does it matter now ? ' ' It may be news to you, sir,' continued Susan, now secure of a hearing, ' that Mr. AUen was back here not many nights ago, in this very garden.' ' I thought as much ! ' said Chadwick ; ' so that was how you came to hatch up this whitewashing story of yours ? ' he added, tiu'ning to Margot, who was powerless to reply. ' In com-se, sir,' said Susan, ' I don't know what Miss Margot may have told you, or what she hasn't. P'raps she told you how she sent him away, saying she couldn't do nothing to clear him, and it warn't not safe to go near you just then ? P'raps she men- tioned about his bringing out an old letter of hers, telling him how he was to go to her room and take out her locket, and sell it, and send the money to her, and about her tearing up the letter, and daring him to do his worst ? ' ' I did not ! ' cried Margot. ' Nugent, you wUl not believe that ? Ah, my God, you do, you do ! ' ' Considering that I picked up these very pieces a few minutes after,' said Susan, ' Mr. Nugent would be hard put to it not to believe it, though he did pretend to when I came to him and asked him to speak up for Mr. Allen. Yes, sir, I've had to act aU by my- self, for I knew as no one else wasn't likely to. Poor Mr. Allen, sir, has been made a scapegoat of by them as should have known better, and as wouldn't have spoke now — and how far they meant to tell the whole truth and nothing but the truth, that I leave to their own 410 THE TAPJAH hearts and conKciences to say — b^lt not a word wonld ha' passed their Hps, true or false, hut for kno^ving I had evidence, and the will to use it. I don't expect no thanks, bej'ond seeing Mr. Allen given back his rightful jilace, and her as drove him out and kep' him out known for what she is, and here's the evidence, sir, which I leave it to j-ou to judge whether I'm telling j-ou lies or not ! * And Susan brought out the fatal letter from under her apron, smoothed it carefully out, and placed it before Chadwick. ' It's got a little rubbed, sir,' she said apologeticallj-, ' and the paste shows in places, biit you can make out the writing all the same.' Chadwick sat in a sort of stupor ; the satisfaction he had felt with his own acuteness had vanished long since, his brain, drugged and bemused by constant excesses, was still grappling with these new and scarcely conceivable ideas that had been so rudely pre- sented to it. ' Very well,' he said at length, fixing his glowing eyes on the girl, ' you've told yoiu* story — now you can go, do you hear ? Be quick about it ! ' Unwilling as Susan was, she had to obey, and when she had closed the door, Chadwick, with hands that trembled from other causes than di-ink, took up the letter, and read it slowly, while Margot, as she sat there, felt as if her heart must burst if the intolerable strain were to be much longer continued. At last he looked wp, his face purple and congested with the anger he was strivmg to keep down sufficiently to remain articu- late. ' So,' he said to Margot, ' I've been tricked into turnmg against my own boy, have I ? The only child I had of my own — and it was j^our doing ! You took advantage of his being a fool, and iTsed him as your catspaw — or, as likely as not, sent him this precious letter as a trap to get him out of your way ! You kept him quiet to the very end, you foimd ways of shutting his mouth ; but that wasn't enough for you, you weren't contented till he was out of the house. You told me in this very room— God ! I can hear you now — that it was "better that he should go." Better I ah, and you knew wliij it was better ! And he and I went up to London together, and all the time I was with him, there was I treating him Idve a dog, and he never let on, never said a word to show me what I was doing. But he ran away ; I don't wonder at it, poor devU ! And when he came back,' Chadwick continued, almost choking now with rage, ' when he came back, that did not please your ladyship, so you cheated, and hed, and fooled him into going off again to starve and rot in the gutter for all you cared ! You thought when the letter was once torn up it would tell no tales, and you went on as calm and haughty as ever, lecturing me on my gomgs on, and rulmg the house, as if you were its guardian angel, instead of what you are. Why, even the poor ignorant coolie girls out where I've been, if they could understand what you'd done, would spit in youi" face. And now, when the game's up, you come in, quite cool and collected, and tell me just as little as you safely THE COURAGE OF DESPAIR 411 can, and think that will end the matter ! As for you, sir,' he added turning round on Orme, ' I don't know what you think of yourself, hut I know very well what I think of you : you've lent yourself to all this, you've done yoxu* best to hush up a ' Here Margot rose and came forward unsteadily. ' Say what you choose to me,' she said, ' it is just . . . hut you insult Nugent when you join him with me. He knew nothing till a few days ago. Ever since he did know, lie has never left off m-ging me to tell you all, and I — I could not till now, when I was too late.' ' Too late ! Yes, you are too late to better yoiu' own case. If I was wrong about Orme, I am sorry ; it's something to know you haven't succeeded in making a fool of liim at all events. Now mark what I say, I'll take good care that all your fine friends in the county shall hear what you are, and what you are not ashamed to do ; if they like to associate with you after that, they're a less particular set than I take them for. But I want to know more about it before I go any fm*ther. If Orme hasn't been with you in this, who lias ? "Who put it into your head to ruin that boy ? Was yoiu' mother at the bottom of it ? Answer me, for I'll find out somehow, and, if she was, I'll make her repent it, by Heaven I will ! ' Margot threw out her hands in passionate protest. ' Mother ! ' she cried, ' why do you suspect her of being so wicked, what has she done to be accused of this ? She knew nothing, no more than you did ; she knows nothing still. Oh, you must believe that, it is the simple truth. Must I tell you again and again that — that there is only one i)erson you have the right to punish, and that person is I!' As she ceased speaking, the library door opened once more and Guy appeared. ' Not interrupting you, I hope ? ' he said briskly. ' I thought Ida might be in here, perhaps ? ' ' No, Guy, no,' said Margot, ' she is not down yet, she is unwell, and — and we are engaged . . . please, jyleasc go away ! ' ' Here, Hotham, don't you go ! ' Chadwick called out, with a savage laugh, ' you've a right to know all about it, now you're one of the family ; come in, and shut the door. I shoidd be'glad of your opinion.' Guy came in, his cheery face suddenly growing troubled. ' I don't know if you'll recollect a boy of mine that used to be hanging about ? ' Chadwick resumed ; ' a rough ungentlemanly cub he was, 7jou wouldn't notice him most likely '? ' ' I remember j'our son, sir, perfectly,' said Guy. ' He went out to India some time ago, didn't he ; no bad news of him, I hope ? ' ' I sent him out to India because I found him out in what I believed was downright theft. I've just discovered that, as it hap- pened, he was as honest as the day all the time, and there was someone else who knew it at the time, a women too, and could have saved him by a word, but she had an axe of her own to grind and she said nothing — she let him go. What should you think of a woman who could do a thing like that, now ? ' 412 THE PAKIAH ' Think ? ' said Guy. * What any man would think. It was one of the servants, then — the gii'l, I suppose, I saw coming out of this room just now ? ' ' That's you aristocrats all over ! ' said Chadwick. ' If a dirty action's done, of course it must be one of the lower classes who did it ! "Well-bred, handsome ladies and gentlemen couldn't possibly do anything shabbj\ But, however it may siu-prise you, it wasn't Susan or any low housemaid or servant at all. Ask Margot there to tell j'ou who it was ! ' Guy half turned to Margot, who suddenly hid her face. ' Good God ! ' he said in a low voice, ' is it jjossible ? ' 'Ah ! it's strange, isn't it, but possible — ^just barely possible, as you see. Look at her, Hotham, that is the youBg lady to whom you will be related some day, that is, if this doesn't alter your plans, as I expect it will when you've heard the whole story.' Guy had never had a \evy hearty liliing for Margot, whom he suspected, unjustly enough, of looking down upon him. But as he saw her there, bowed down under her shame and her stepfather's coarse abuse, his chivalry was roused and he could feel only lenient. 'I don't know quite what Miss Chevening has done,' he said haughtily, ' or whether I should blame her if I heard the whole story, but, however bad it might be, it could not possibly affect me, as far as Ida is concerned. I shall marry Ida, and not her family.' Margot caught his hand in eager gratitude. ' Guy ! ' she cried, ' I knew you woidd say that, but God bless you for saying so . . . God bless you for not tiu-ning against her, because of me ! And indeed she would not deserve it, and it would break her heart, for she loves you very dearly, Gu}- ! ' ' There ! ' he said, feeling greatly embarrassed by the scene and anxious to escape from it, ' don't be afraid, Margot, I — I'm not that sort of fellow, and I daresay,' he added awkwardly, ' there's a mistake somewhere. I'd better leave you to clear it up, I think ! ' And he got out of the room with an evident desire to know no more, ' Clear it up ? ' said Chadwick, when he had gone. ' It shall be cleared up with a vengeance ; it's something to find that even your beloved swells do draw the line somewhere. What are you made of, I wonder, to stand there as straight and proud as ever, when you ought to be grovelling on the ground for shame, you stubborn, false-faced she-devil ! ' Orme had been standing apart all this time, not daring to inter- fere lest he should excite Chadwick still further against his step- daughter. And in his heart he felt that this fury was justifiable, that Margot's insensibility to the full baseness of her conduct almost deserved this brutal awakening, but now he could stand no more. ' That will do, sir,' he said ; ' you have said enough in all con- science. Margot, let me take you away, there is no reason why we should stay here any longer.' THE COURAGE OP DESPAIR 41 o She submitted to be led out of the room and into the hall, like a child. She sat for a moment on one of the couches there and closed her eyes. ' Nugent,' she said faintly, ' how you must despise me 1 ' Orme was very pale. Was it not true ? Had he not indeed despised her — and yet the hopelessness of her grief touched hia heart so powerfully then that the love he had thought dead stirred, if faintly. He knelt by the couch, and took her hand. ' Margot ! ' he said, 'don't say such things — don't think them. I cannot leave you here. ... I can't give you up — do what I will! Let me take care of you still, dear. . . . Give me the right to take you away out of all this ! ' She put him gently aside as she rose. ' It was good of you to offer that,' she said, ' but^ah ! Nugent, do you think I cannot see that it was pity that made you say it ? Don't protest — you know, and I know, that your love can never be what it once was. And anything less I could not bear — pity and forbearance least of all ! No, it is over for both of us — it ended that night. Your standard is too high for me ... if I could alter your judgment of me in some respects, there would still be things you could never really pardon, that would make perfect confidence between us impossible always. I would rather be alone all my days than endure the knowledge that my husband could never honour nor trust me in his heart. See, Nugent, I set you free ... it is my wish to be free myself ... so we will say good-bye here for the last time of all, and you must try to think kindly of me, as I shall of you always 1 ' He saw that her decision was irrevocable ; perhaps even felt the truth of her words, while something in her manner as much as her words told him that a change had taken place in her feelings towards him. Yet it was not relief that he felt then — only a bitter realisation, now that he had lost her, of all that she was, would ever be to him. ' Is it really too late ? ' he said impetuously, ' Margot, take time to think, before deciding . . . surely we need one another too much to part I ' ' I need no one any more,' she said. ' I have decided, Nugent. Good-bye.' ' Since it must be, then,' he answered, and there, at the foot of the staircase, they parted, calmly on both sides now that parting was seen to be inevitable. Nugent went home to the Vicarage, too exhausted and stunned by all he had gone through to be capable of any acute emotion. In a few words he told Millicent what had happened, and that after- noon, feeling that he could bear Gorescombe no longer, he went up to London. 414 THE TARIAH CHAPTER IX. MAEGOT GOES TO MAKE AMEND3. CnADWiCK had not attempted to prevent or follow Margot's retreat. As if he felt a rebuke in Orme's remonstrance, ho looked on m silence as the two quitted the room. He regretted his biu'st of passion ; even now, he could not storm at his step- daughter with- out that instant sense of inferiority. Abuse, after all, was a poor revenge — he must find more ingenious methods than that ; now he had the whip hand over this disdainful girl, the lash must be api^hed with all the science at his command. His first idea had been to turn her out of the house, as she had caused Allen to be turned out, but this again was unsatisfactory. He wanted her at hand, to assure himself of her disgi-ace, and to be able to turn the weapon in the woimd from time to time, to watch her sinking slowly under the burden of her expiation. Chadwick was no fool, and if drink had dulled his brain in some respects, it heightened and inflamed its capacity for working mis- chief. ' By God, I've got it I ' he cried, after reflecting for some minutes, and then he rang the bell. ' Tell your mistress I want to see her,' he said ; he was quite calm now. Mrs. Chadwick appeared, still in total ignorance of what had occurred, and her husband, in a few terse, bitter sentences, put her in possession of the whole story of her dai;ghter's duplicity and cowardice. The poor woman was at first utterly incredulous, but at length, when unable to resist longer, she began to protest her own innocence and feebly lament her child's misconduct. ' If I had guessed what was going on,' she declared, 'I should never, never have permitted it ! Even as it was, I felt it was a pity poor Allen should have to go, though I did not like to question your judgment. But Margot always has taken her own way from a child ; she never treated me as a mother. I was not told a word — not a single word ! You see, Joshua, I don't take her part now — I am ashamed that a daughter of mme should have acted so — so disgracefully. I could disown her, I am so deeply annoyed. Joshua, you believe me, don't you ? You don't — you don't connect me with this ? ' * No,' said Chadwick, ' don't you be alarmed, Selina, I don't suspect you. Margot wouldn't be as clever as I take her to be if she'd chosen you for a confederate. The question now is — what's to be done with her ? and I've been thinking it over, and I've come to a conclusion which I think wiU meet the case. So if you'll go and find her and brmg her in to me — she'd better come, teU her — I can settle what her punishment is to bo.' After a short delay, his wife retmned with Margot. ' I've brought this wicked girl to hear yoiu* decision; she is resigned to any punish- MARGOT GOES TO MAKE AMENDS 415 ment you think proper to inflict — all I do ask, Joshua, is that you will not expose her publicly.' ' Well,' he replied, ' as she's so sensitive when it's her own character that's concerned, I suppose I must make allowances for her. If I did what was just, I should send her away and let the whole county know why. But I want my hoy Allen back. I don't believe he'd have let himself bo treated as he was if he hadn't had a Boft place in his heart as well as his head, and it's likely enough he won't come back at all if he knows his dear, loving, tender-hearted step-sister isn't to be here. The first thing to be done is to find that boy, and that I'll do ; it's only a question of a little money, he'll be back in a few days from now. And then — and then, joung lady,' he continued with a gleam of malignity in his blood-tinged eyes, ' we shall have an oj)portmiity of testing your penitence. Your old lover has cast you off — I coidd see that well enough just now. If my boy is willing, after the way you've treated him, to marry you, marry him you shall, or take the consequences ! ' Suddenly as this bizarre idea had been conceived, he became more and more enamoured of it. He knew Margot's aversion to Allen would render such a bond between them the most exquisite conceivable punishixient to her ; in its coarse materiality he con- sidered the mere possession of such a wife should satisfy Allen. It was nothing to him that neither her character nor her tastes made it probable that such a union would be a happy one. AHen miist manage her, break her proud spirit ; if he did not know how to do that with the advantages he would have, he would be a fool indeed, and, in any case, the young fellow would have a wife whom many would envy him. ' Margot,' cried her mother, desperately anxious to smooth things over, ' you hear what your father is — is so generous as to propose ? It is really more — much more — than you deserve. Tell your father that you are willing to be Allen's wife, if he desu'es it ... it is the very least you' can do — now ! ' Margot glanced wildly round ; the horror of this unlooked- for announcement almost deprived her of power to think. She felt abandoned in this extremity. Nugent was no longer at her side, she herself had sent him away, and her mother seemed to see nothing hideous and unnatural in this proposition. Must she yield ? Ah ! no, anything sooner than that ; and all at once her face became calm and resolved — she had decided what to do. ' I — I want time to consider,' she said, very low, ' let me have till tliis evening? ' ' Don't be too long about it, then — or I may consider too. This evening you'll be good enough to come and inform me what you are pleased to decide.' ' You will know before that,' she replied, ' whether from me or not.' And slowly, Like one walking in sleep, she glided out of the room. Chadwick spent the afternoon in di-awing up advertisements 416 THE PARIAH intended to catch Allen's eye, and writing letter after letter to detectives and private inquiry agents, dashing them off in feverish haste, and then destrojing them as unsatisfactory for various reasons. ' Pah ! ' he said, after composing one of these documents for the twentieth time. ' AVhy do I worry mj'self like this, when the chances are I can find out where he is at once ? It's a thousand to one that girl Margot knows ! Why the devil didn't I think of that before ? I've lost a whole afternoon over this ! I believe I'm going off my head with the excitement of it all. I'll go and get this out of Margot now — or, stay, I'll send Selina.' His wife, after departing to obtain this information, came back into the study with a troubled expression. ' Well,' inquired Chadwick, ' where does she say he is ? ' ' I think she must be asleep, Joshua. I knocked several times, but I could not make her hear, or get any answer. It is better not to disturb her just j'et, perhaps.' ' I'll give her another hour,' he said, ' not a minute more.' Towards evening he could wait no longer. ' She'll listen when I knock,' he said, ' I'll have no more of this d d sulking. I'm going myself.' His wife followed him upstairs and along the corridor to Mar- got's room ; the children, vaguely conscious of some disturbance in the air, left their tea in the schoolroom and crept up, too, at a dis- tance. Guy himself, who had been hanging about all day in moody indecision, uncertain whether he ought not to leave the house, and yet vmwilling to do so without having seen Ida once more, followed too. Mrs. Chadwick knocked first, or rather tapped softly. ' Margot, dearest, it is I — mother, you will let mother in ! I want to speak to you I ' But there was no answer. ' Joshua,' she faltered, ' I — I don't like this ... if I could only see into the room, but it's all dark . . . she — she may have fainted ! ' ' I'll soon bring her out of that ! ' answered Chadwick brutally. * Margot — do you hear me ? ' he shouted, ' I've had enough of this foUy — open the door, I say ! ' And he hammered and thundered on the panels with his heavy fists, while Lettice and Reggie began to cry. ' Stop that, will you ! ' cried their stepfather savagely, ' how can I hear your sister speak in this din ? there's nothing to cry about.' And again he thundered at the door, and again there was only silence within. Another person had joined the group in the corridor ; it was Ida, who, pale and dishevelled, with a loose wrapper thrown over her, had stolen out of her room. * Guy,' she said, ' oh, never mind me, I am better — quite well — W^hat is it, Guy, ^Mio is this they are trying to awake . . . not — not Margot ? ' MARGOT GOES TO MAKE AMENDS 41/ ' I — I think it is,' said Guy, trying to speak cheerily, ' it's Jiothinf;^, Ida ; po back to your room, or you'll be ill again.' But Ida refused to move ; she stood there, watching her step- father with a fascinated horror in her ej'cs. ' Margot,' said Chadwick, his voice thick with passion, ' if you don't open this door directly — by heaven I'll break it in ! ' Then Ida rushed forward with a cry : ' Don't speak to her like that ! ' she cried, ' j^ou will be sorry ! . . . Can't you understand ? She cannot hear you any more — she will never open . . . she is lymg tliere, dead 1 I am sure of it. Oh, Margot, Margot ! ' * Don't talk such cursed nonsense ! ' said Chadwick hoarselj', though he had turned ghastly pale ; ' she's shamming, or sulking. I'll soon see which.' In another minute he fetched one of the fire-irons from the opposite room. ' Stand away ! ' he said, and after a few violent blows the panel fell out shattered, but the j^ortiere before the door inside still hid the interior of the room, and no one had courage for a moment to withdraw it. The door, which was locked, and from which the key had appa- rently fallen, as it was not in the key-hole, had been shaken by the blows and soon yielded. Then Chadwick ilung it back and went in, while the others held their breath in awful expectation. He glanced round the dainty room, first in evident fear, then with a reaction of relief and anger combined. ' She's made fools of us all ! ' he said ; there's not a sign of her here — she's got away ! ' Ida, who had been cowering back in a corner with hidden eyes and a face the colour of chalk, burst into a wild laugh at this. ' She's got away ! you can't catch her ; you can't hurt her now ! ' she cried ; and violent hj-sterics followed which made it necessary to carry her back mto her own room. Margot had escaped, and her flight had been easily and simply accomplished. She had collected all her few valuables, and, wait- ing till the hour when the servants were all at dinner, had gone out, drawing the portiere, locking the door behind her, and carrying away the key. Then stealing down by the back staircase, she had gained the stables, where Yarrow came out of his kennel with a rattle of his chain and a long affectionate whine — there was no one else to see her, and, not daring to stop, she passed on and gained a by-road that, by a somewhat circuitous route would, she knew, bring her out by the village of Puddock's End, through which the rail passed, for she feared to be recognised by some of the Gorse- combe officials, if she went to the station there. And 80 an hour and a half later, tired and dusty, she stood on the platform at Puddock's End, waiting for the train which, as she had calculated, she was just in time to catch. There were very few there, and if some of them remembered her as the young lady they had seen driving or riding about Gorsecombe, it was only to wonder E £ 418 THE PARTAH at the eccenti-iclty of gentlefolk in taking a long walk in the heat and dust when they had other means of locomotion, for there is no cue more puzzled bj' vohmtary pedeslrianism than the average peasant. The London train came np, and, as the carriages rolled by, Margot saw with a spasm of the heart Nngont's face at one of the windows. He did not see her, and she had only a momentary glimpse of his profile, biit that showed her a set and stricken face, which had grown older and sterner since the day, only a week ago, when thej- had ridden together. She got into an empty compartment as far away as she could, and, when the train moved off, set herself, as she gazed with eyes that saw nothmg on the flitting landscape, to think out her futiu'e course. She had fled, never to return ; no force, no persuasion should make her marrj^ Allen. The idea revived her dislike and repulsion almost as strongly as if he had won no claims to her gratitude. His claims ? — ah ! how she hated them ; how she writhed under the sense of them ; how, in the hard bitterness of her soul just then, she hated him that he liad shown himself the worthier ! Yet, though she was fleeing from him, she was on her waj^ to him. That was the first object for which she had escaped ; she owed him amends, and she would pay him by bringing the news of his restoration in person. He had made a great sacrifice for her ; well, she would thank him, and release him from effacing himself any longer — what more was she bound to do ? AVas it nothing that she should seek him out in his misery, humble herself before him — she who had once held her head so high ? If ho chose to claim her, to make a merit of what he had done — why, that would prove him despic- able indeed, and she would have the right to despise him once more. His sacrifice — was she giving up nothing ? He had borne hardshii;s and disgrace for not two years ; he would regain far more now than he had ever lost — but she, she had lost lover, home, friends, all that had made her life, and none of this would have been had Allen never existed, or had he even acted with common sense! No, she could not be gi-ateful, she would not pretend that she was— lie could not make her a debtor against her will ! She would ackiiov,-- ledge her obligation as fully and freely as he could tlesire — indeed, she must not let him perceive that it was less than he imagined — but when she had done that, and proved to him that his father's house was open to him once more, she would have done all that anyone could expect her to do, and her debt would be dis- charged. She found herself nearing London with a shivering repugnance ; the first straggling rows of raw terraces amongst the fields and hedges made her heart sink, she grudged each telegraph pole as it flashed by. From time to time she had been haunted during the journey by the irony of Nugent travelling in the same train, the necessity of MAr.GOT GOES TO MAKE AMENDS 419 evading him at the terminus, and, when they arrived, she kept her seat as long as possible, nntil, in fact, a porter gave her the siiper- fluoias information that ' they didn't go no further,' after which she was ashamed to stay in the carriage. Having no luggage to detain her, she was able to drive away at once, and told her cabman to take her to the address scrawled by Allen on the scrap of pajier which she still preserved. As her han- som passed out of tlie station, she had one last glimpse of Nugent's tall hgure in the group before the luggage-van ; he was too much engaged in identifying his portmanteaus to look round. ' Even now,' she thought, ' he is not too heart-broken to thmk about his hat-box ! ' and then she smiled, though bitterly, at her own un- reasonableness. It was a long drive across London to Clerkenwell ; the streets seemed close and fetid after the pure country air ; she was mor- bidly alive to the ugliness and squalor through which much of their road lay. And yet it was not all ugly — could not be on that lovely August evening, with the dingy brick fronts of the houses, giving out a warm apricot glow, and towers and steeples shining like enchanted palaces in sunset glories of rose and gold, while, towards the East, a few flamingo-tinted clouds sailed, like lazy dragons, thi'ough the blue-green sky. And in the humbler and quieter streets there was a pleasant air of relaxation, small shopkeepers gazing placidly from their doors, women chatting at street-corners, children dancing on the pavement to a friendlj^ piano-organ — much, even in busy, toiling, ugly London, to see and feel the better for. But Margot had no eyes for it ; as she drove on, her imagina- tion was busy dramatising the scene that was coming. Should she hnd Allen in his lodgings, would he be in a state to understand her — reckless, obstinate, how should she make it clear to him that her own return was hopeless, that to delay his for another day would lie boyish folly ? If he were to insist on remaining where she was, liow should she escape ? She felt that she might be encomitering difhculties, even dangers, but she relied on her own courage and address to carry her through — she could not rest until she had ac- complished this act of penance. The cab stopped before a house which, if respectable, was poor and mean-looking enough. Margot, as she alighted, felt its squalor — but rather on her own account than on Allen's. The woman who let the rooms came to the door, a typical London landladj' of the lower class — dirty, untidy, cringing, j^et suspicious. She was plainly surprised at this stately young lady's inquiry for any lodger of hers, particularly as Margot's appearance did not suggest the ' Bible-woman.' ' I am a friend of Mr. Chadwick's,' said Margot. "When it came to the point, she could not bring herself to mention their relation- ship. ' If you're a friend, miss,' said the woman, ' in course that's another thing, but I didn't know as Mr. Chadwick had fi-iends 420 *HE PAillAa among the quality, nor yet no friends belonging to him anywhereSj which he never give me to understand so himself.' ' Is he at home now ? Can I see him ? ' asked Margot curtly. The woman wiped her hands on her apron. ' Well, no, miss,' she said apologetically ; ' it so 'appens that you can't see him, not at this partickler time. I'm sure I 'ope you won't blame me for hacting as I did, seeing as I'm a poor woman with my living to get, and no one to look to for any expenses I might be put to, and think- ing it best he should go, on all accounts.' ' If you mean j-ou have turned him out of your house,' said Margot, ' you have done a thing you will be sorry for for your own sake ! ' ' It's weU for you to talk, miss, but he's better off at the 'orspital than what he'd ha' been if I'd kep' him where he was.' ' The hospital ! exclaimed Margot, with a strange contraction of the heart, ' has he had an accident '? Where is he ? ' 'At Sin I3artholomew's 'orspital, miss. You see, he was away for a day and night about a week ago, and he come home sopping wet the foUering afternoon, and looking that bad, I see he'd taken a chill, and I arst him to lay up a bit, but he didn't seem to care what he did, and he wouldn't take no advice nor nothing, and the next day he couldn't get up to his work, and I knew he'd be laid up for some time. And seeing as I couldn't nurse him here, having no conveniences for sickness in my 'ouse, why, I 'ad him took to the 'orspital, miss, where he'd 'ave all he required.' ' You did quite right,' said Margot hurriedly. ' TeU me, where is this place ? Will they let me see him there if I go ? ' ' Bless you, yes, miss, if it's the proper time. I know when my poor son fell off of a van and was laying there, they let me go in and see him every day. And if you want to go there now, there's my li'uile boy 'ere as will go with you and show the way. Jimmy, put on your 'at and go with the lady to the 'orspital — you know.' So Jimmy acted as Margot's escort. ' l5o you know,' she asked him, as he padded along at her side, ' if Mr. Chadwick is really ill or not ? ' ' He didn't look very bad, miss, he 'ad quite a colour when they come for him with the stretcher. I 'ope as nothmk won't 'appen to him, miss. He treated me and Polly — that's my sister, Polly is — very kind alius. Day he went orf, he give us sixpence atween us two, and told us he should come back either very 'appy or very miserable, he didn't know which, and we was to wish him luck. And we did, miss, but he ain't 'ad much on it 3'et. This here's Bartholomew's gate, miss ; the porter '11 tell you if you can see him.' ' Thank you, Jimmy,' said Margot, ' and— and I want you to take this, if you will, and give half to Polly.' ' Why, it's arf-a-doUar, miss ! ' cried the boy. ' Did you mean it ? ' ' It's because you were kind to Mr. Chadwick,' said Margot, (vishing he were clean enough to kiss. Her eyes were stimg MAEGOT GOES TO MAKE AMENDS 421 •with tears as she passed under the double archway. ' Those poor children were kind,' she was thinking, ' why could not I be kinder > — why '? why ? ' The porter told her the name of the ward in which Allen was, and, if she went up, she was told, she might be permitted to see him. The quadrangle within looked cool and quiet with its fine trees, under which one or two medical students were strolling bareheaded in the dusk. She found the right door and went u]) the broad stairs, clinging to the old oak balusters ; at the several landing-stages there were the great doors of the wards, from which came a faint odour of anesthetics and the hushed wailing of infants, and at the top of all was the ward she sought ; she stopped for a moment on the threshold, dreading to enter, and then, over- coming her terror, she went in. There was nothing repulsive, nothing grim or obtrusively painful in the scene that met her eyes. The long ward had a cheerful look, with the bright pictures on the walls, the flowers, and bird- cages in the windows, the touches of colour from the pink counter- panes and blue checked curtains, the general impression of air and light. She felt reassm-ed : it seemed a place to get well in — not to die in. As she stood there, one of the Nurses, a girl of about her own age, came up in her pretty striped hospital dress, and, on hearing her object, told her the number of Allen's bed. ' I will take you to him,' she said ; ' may I ask if you are a friend of his '? ' ' I am his sister.' ' I am afraid he will not know you ; he has been delirious most of the day,' she said. ' Is he — is he dangerously ill ? ' asked Margot, with renewed alarm. 'The doctor does not give much hope,' said the mu-se, with a gentle matter-of-factness, ' bi;t there is still a chance that he will get over it. It is inflammation of the lungs.' Margot passed up between the rows of beds to the end of the room, and there, with his hands spread out on the coverlet, a bright flush on his face, Allen was lying ; his eyes were bright, and she thought, as she took the revolving seat by his bedside and spoke his name softly, that he knew her. But he went on muttering — at first incoherent sentences, and then, as though her presence affected him to some degree, more lucidly. ' Tell her I didn't cheat in the Casino,' he was saying, evidently imagining himself back at Trouville ; ' she thinks I did— that's why she has gone away — and I shall never see her again, never ! ' Then the scene shifted. ' Didn't you know, Margot ? You're going to live with tis now — all of you, alwaj-s ! . . . I shall see her every day — every day ! We are bound to be friends now, aren't we ? Bx;t I wish she looked more pleased over it. I didn't 422 THE PARIAH think she'd mind it so much as that ! She'll get used to it in time ; we'll be like one family together in no time— don't you think so ? People do — living in the same house and that, and it isn't as if I was a straiager to her, either, is it ? And I'm sure I'll try my best to make her feel at home and happy. . . . She is feeling strange at first, but she'll come round right enough. ... I wish she'd take more notice of me. I do all 1 can to please her — but she never notices. When she sees me start out hunting on Hussar — but isn't Hussar dead ? And — and I remember now . . . that's why she laughed at me ; that's why they'U none of 'em speak to me now ! ... I didn't think you'd turn against me, Lettie, but it don't signify. You're my friend, Bob, don't you think I'm treated rather bad ? Ah, you don't know her, or you wouldn't say she does it to draw me on ! ... I tell you she's not the girl a fellow covdd act bold with ; she — she makes you feel small somehow . . . and — yet, there she is — opposite. I never saw her look like that before — she's sorry about something. . . . Ah, what a fool I was — what a fool ! I couldn't help it. Why did she half shut her eyes in that way ? Now she hates me ! If I could only make her own that I could act like a gentleman ! If there was only something I could do for her, to make her friends with me again ! . . . She is friends, or why does she write? Tell me that. ... I don't care — they may call me a thief if they like — it's only for a little while ; only for a little while ! When she comes back it will be all right. . . . But she is back, and — she doesn't say anything ! I can't get to see her alone ; she's always in Ida's room. Why does she never mention that letter ? — she never does. I won't be the first. I'U show her I can be gentleman. I won't allude to it till she does. . . . Ah, but I must — I must . . . they're going to send me to India — away firom her, and still she won't say anything ! There she sits — so pretty, and scornful, and silent, and knowing all the time ! If you keep a lady's secrets and bear the blame of what she's done, you mustn't go and remind her of it — that isn't manners ! It's not as if she didn't know! Susan shan't get anythmg out of me. I'll go to India, if that will please her. . . . There — she is sorry for me ; grateful, too, only she doesn't like to say so ; she doesn't want anyone to know yet. She trusts me — I'll show her I'm to be trusted. I'd sooner die than split on her now she's kind again. . . . She is singing " Abide with me "... no — no, it's not Margot, not Margot — only one of the passengers in the saloon . . . it — it sounded 60 like. ... I thought I was back there outside the church in the dark, at Lingford. I forgot I was on board ship — going to India. That's how it was, Mr. Denham — it was hearing the tune.' And here his mind began to ramble back to the Indian gold fields ; he was watching the digging, or the crushing, card-playing in the miners' bmigalows, but always on the verge of becoming immensely rich. ' It's there — they all say it's there ! ' he would repeat again and again ; ' veins of it— lodes of it ! They've struck the dip — at last ! The shares are going up already . . . Margot, I MARGOT GOES TO MAKE A:\IENDS 423 Bhall see you again very soon now . . . you won't despise me when I come back rich . . . I — I knew what I was doing, you see — better than indigo-planting, with everyone thinking me a tliief ! ' She had to sit there and hear it all : her attempts to soothe him were unheeded ; she could only wait, hoping to catch the first sign of returning intelligence to which she could appeal for forgive- ness ; and still he wandered, and every word she heard came as a fresh stab. The pride in which she had wraj^ped herself so stubbornly fell from her there ; at last she saw herself as she was, with no sophistries, no self-delusions, to shelter her from her own contempt. Was it she indeed who had persistently scorned, misjudged, and ill-treated this poor boy, Avho had borne all this for love of her ? She, who — not an hour ago — had been framing little speeches of haughtily conventional gratitude, questioning his claims even to such meagre acknowledgment as that ? And now — when no atone- ment seemed too much to be made^his ears were closed to her remorse, his lips coiUd not frame the forgiveness without which she would know no peace ! CHAPTER X BEYOND HER POWER Child, if it were thine error or thy crime I care no longer, being all unblest, Wed whom thou wilt — but I am sick of Time And I desire to rest. Pass on, weak heart, and leave me where I lie, Go by, Go by. Tenyujson, The dusk slowly deepened till the green summits of the trees in the courtyard were no longer visible in the blue-grey outside the windows. It was the hour when even exceptional visitors were expected to leave, and, as Margot heard the hushed good-byes or forced-cheerful leave-takings that were taking place arotmd her, she remembered for the first time that, when she too went, she would have no place to go to. The house physician was just going his rotmd, and remained for some time by Allen's bedside ; when he had finished his examination and given some directions to the nurse, Margot, who had been requested to withdraw durmg these proceedings, returned and spoke to him. ' Will you tell me,' she said imploringly, 'how long he will be like this — when he will know me ? ' ' I am afi'aid I cannot say that.' ' And must I go away now, leaving him like— like this ? * 424 THE P.VRIAH 'Ah,' said the doctor, 'you would ■nish to remain here for the night, then ? ' ' Oh, if I might ! ' said Margot eagerly. ' I will go and speak to " Sister " about it and see if it can be aiTanged,' he replied. ' Ah, I must wait, I see — ' he added, with an accent that hardly denoted pleasure at the interruption — 'they are going to have praj-ers.' The ward sister had taken her stand at the other end of the room, opposite a reading-desk on which a single candle lit up her clear-cut face amidst the siUTOundmg obscurity, and presently in a soft gentle voice she began to read some of the prayers and collects fi-om the evening service, ending with the Lord's Praj-er, which Avas repeated after her by most of the patients who were in a con- dition to attend. There was something strikmg and impressive in the whole scene, a strangelj- touching effect in those humble child- like responses from men many of whom must have felt themselves very near the solution of the great mysterj-. When the simple function was over the sister came forward to make arrangements for Margot's comfort during the night. A couch was brought and placed near Allen's bed. For some hours she sat there, and during the earher part of the time his talk ran on and most of it was intelligible, while what she heard was, if possible, even more painful than before. He fancied himself in the garden with her, but all recollection of what had happened there was lost. ' Margot ! ' he kept repeat- ing, ' do you mean it '? Will you really marry me ? — me ! . . . All the time I was away, I hoped you would say something — but not this ... I thovight you couldn't care for a poor good-for-nothing chap like me — not in that way. But you do — you do ! . . . You shan't have to be ashamed of me like j'ou used to, dear, about my not riding, and that. I'm not afraid of a horse now. I learnt to stick on — out there . . . we shall have such rides together, Margot ! I saw you and Lettie to-day, and I thought, "Will they ever let me ride with them ? " And now you will ! . . . Tear up the letter, Lettie, it isn't wanted any longer. Margot is going to tell them how it was . . . the governor shan't say anything to j-ou, Margot, how could he if you look at him like that ! To think of living at home after all — with you, and Lettie, and old Yarrow, and every- body ! ' He gave a long sigh of delight, and then his murmurings be- came more and more indistmct and presently died away altogether in peaceful sleep ; the flush had faded from his face, and he lay there with a smile of exhausted content. Margot, as she looked at him sleeping there, felt some wonder at her old repulsion : was it that suffering and illness had done something to refine his face ? All she knew was that — homely and tmhandsome as it might be — she found no meanness or insignifi- cance in it now. When would he awake ? She sat on in the lowered light ; from BEYOND HER POAVER 425 one or two of the neighbouring beds came moans of pain or im- patience at intervals. An old Jew in an opposite bed, who was dying of some internal disease, kejit up a dismal croon of ' Ah, la, la ! bi-bi-bi ! ' for hom-s, to cheat the gnawing pain, only stopping to curse a parrot when it woke and croaked drowsily. The nurses came round from tiine to time, taking temperatures and administer- ing medicines, often to meet with peevish mgratitude from the sufferers. One of the night nurses came to Margot and persuaded her to lie down, since she could do nothing for Allen now. ' I will call 5'ou if there is a change,' she said ; and Margot lay down on the couch, though it was some time before she closed her eyes. While she had been sitting by Allen's bed she had seen her duty in a new light : she had formed the resolve which, a few hours ago, no power on earth could have wrung from her — she had decided that she must marry Allen. Not that she had come to love him — that would never be ; even now, in the very height of her pity, she foresaw that she would have a reaction to contend with — that when Allen got well, as he would now, since he was sleeping so quietly, and the nurse had spoken of a change — when Allen got well, the real ordeal would begin. But she had done with love ; she would find her happiness now in doing her duty — in trymg to give her poor despised lover some return for all she had cost him, since she was still desirable in his ej-es. AVhen he awoke he would be able to understand, and she would tell him that she was there, and that he must hasten to get well and be happy. Then she too slept, and in her sleep there came a terrible dream. She was Allen's wife, and he had reverted to his worst ; she saw him, more degraded, more contemj^tible, than in the old days. And now they were quarrelling — one of those intense and vivid scenes which Nature in repose presents with such terrific dramatic force and realism. It was in the library at Agra House, and she was remonstrating with him as he sat there, hiiddled up, bUnking evUIy at her with bemiised red eyes ; she was appealing to his love for her. And then he turned on her, and his eyes had the same mock- ing light in them she knew so well in his father's, and he told her that he had never loved her, always hated her, that he had married her, partly out of revenge, partly out of pity! And, as she heard, she saw Nugent Orme standing in the doorway, and woke w'ith a cry. The birds were chii-ping in the coming dawn : the foliage, the lines of roof and cornice, were all sharply revealed in the raw bluish light of early day. She remembered her dream with a shudder. Thank God, it was a dream ! And yet if it were to come true — if it were sent as a warning ? She lay trembling there, the resolution with which she had fallen asleep ebbing away as the daylight broadened ; no — she could 7iot marry Alien : she would be a tender, loving sister to him, 426 THE PARIAH she would go back to her home, if they would have her there, she would bear any humiliation her step-father chose to visit upon her; but marry Allen — ah, that could not be exacted from her ! She heard a somid behind her and saw the nurse standing by her couch. ' Has the change come ? ' she cried, and, starting up, she saw that a screen had been placed round Allen's bed. 'It came m the night,' the nurse said softly, taking Margot's hand, ' before we could call you. . . . My dear, my dear, don't cry so — the end came quite peacefully ; he died in his sleep ! ' He had died in his sleep ; the last impressions on his distm'bed brain had been happier ones than any she could have given — why should she wish it otherwise for him ? But oh ! the bitter remorse of feeling that she had not remained steadfast even in that tardy atonement of hers, that he was dead and never knew that she was there seeking his forgiveness ! He had fallen, defeated in the great struggle ; she lived and was free — but the victory was not with her. CHAPTEE XI. A HOUSE OF MOURNING. Margot's escape, ■which, besides baulking her step-father's schemes of vengeance, deprived him of his best chance of discovering Allen's whereabouts, rekindled Chadwick's fury to a jjitch that deprived him of all mastery of himself. He accused his wife of being a party to her flight, and vowed that unless the fugitive re- turned he would break up his household, and leave his family with the barest means of subsistence. Mrs. Chadwick sought to pacify him in vain ; drink and excite- ment combined had made him almost insane. He terrified her by his threats of violence, which there was plainly a real danger of his carrying out. The poor woman was obliged to beg Guy Hotham not to leave the house at present, much as she would have prefei-red to conceal the family scandal, if possible, and he consented, out of anxiety for Ida. By the next morning, however, Chadwick had quieted down, or rather his excitement had passed into another phase. Margot was forgotten for the time ; his mind was full of plans for celebrating Allen's return. He talked of a grand dinner, of flags and illumin- ations, of rejoicings in which the whole village should join ; his distempered fancy ran wild on these grotesque and fantastic ideaS; amongst which that of forcing his miwilling family to assist in their own humihation was foremost. He was enlarging on these schemes, and making his preparationt A IIOU.SE OF MOUKNING 427 forgoing up to London at once to begin the search, when a telegram was brought in. ' It's about the boy,' he said, and then, as he glanced through it, his face turned livid. ' Look at that 1 ' he said to his wife. The telegram contained these words: * Allen is here very ill. Come at once. Yoto will find vie here. Be inepared for the worst. Margot, Bartholometv's Hosjntal.' ' I shall find her there ! ' he repeated with a sinister emphasis, • If I find her, and not him, I know what I shall do. Yes, I know what I shall do ! ' As Giiy sat in the morning-room trying to read, Mrs. Chadwick burst in, pale with fear. ' Guy, dear Guy ! ' she gasped, ' a tele- gram has come from Margot. Allen is djdng in a hosjiital, and she is with him. My husband is going up there at once. Oh, I am afraid, I am afraid ! I saw liim take out a revolver. If — if he finds Allen is dead, he is capable of anything. For God's sake go with him ; you can telegrapla to her at the station ; tell her she must not stay. I think he is mad. Oh, make haste and go with him, he is just starting . . . you will do this for us, we are so helpless ! ' Guy sprang up, glad of any kind of action just then. ' Of course,' he said cheerfully, 'I'll go. I'll keep him from getting near her, never fear, he shan't touch Margot. Don't teU Ida where I've gone, she might be nervous.' Chadwick was standing in the hall as he came out ; ' Will j^ou give me a lift as far as the station, sir ? ' Guy said, as nonchalantly as he could. Chadwick did not hear him, he was preparing to get in. ' Better let lue take the reins, sir,' said Topham, from the horse's head. 'I've had to put 'Arebell in the trap, the other 'osses not being fit to go out, and the mare's firesh and she'll take some driving.' 'Do you think I can't drive?' cried Chadwick with an oath, ' I'll give her driving enough. Here, get up behind and hold your fool's tongue.' Guy saw that if permission was asked, it would be refused, and so, as soon as Chadwick took the reins, he sprang up behind the dog-cart. Topham gave the mare her head, and his master started her with a cut which sent them down the diive at a gallop, leaving Topham himself far in the rear. He came back to the porch, ' Master won't stop to take me up now, ma'am,' he said, ' he didn't oiight to ha' drove, and that's the truth. Is Mr. Hotham going to bring the trap back, or what ? ' ' iSo, no,' said Mrs. Chadwick, 'go down to the station, and as fast as you can, you will be wanted to take the dog-cart home.' Topham went off grumbling. ' To the station '? ' he muttered to himself, ' they're lucky if they get there ! I know I wish I'd put the cob in, lame as he is. 'Ai-ebell ain't used to such work, she ain't.' Tliat morning, as j\Iillicent Orme stood at her window in the Vicarage, looking out over the sweetbriar hedge iipon the broad 428 THE PARIAH street, she heard shouts in the distance, and the sounds of wildly galloping hoofs ; some of the shopkeepers rushed to theh doors, the village-constable stood in the middle of the road with outstretched anns, and then, thinking better of it, stepped back, and she saw Chadwick's dog-cart dash by at headlong speed, veering and yawing from side to side. The driver had evidently lost all control of his animal, and, as they flashed by, a young man on the back seat was clambering across in a desperate effort to seize the reins and stop the maddened horse. The clatter died away, and a crowd set otf runnmg in the direction the vehicle had taken, while other villa- gers, more stolid, stood at their doorways discussing its probable fate. A few muiutes later, a man came running back, to be instantly surroimded ; he went to the doctor's house opposite, and presently the doctor appeared, and both humed down towards the station, Millicent ran down into the garden and out into the road, where she fell in with a stream of villagers. ' What has happened, can you tell me ? ' she asked of them. ' Is any one hurt ? ' ' Don't rightly know as yet, miss,' said the saddler, ' but it's like to be a pretty bad haccident, I see that as they come by,' he said, with pride in his own discernment. ' That there Chadwick didn't seem to know or care as the 'oss was a runnin' away with 'em. And young Muster Otham with him, too ! Lor dear, if anythink has 'appened along of he, there'll be fine trouble up at 'Awleigh, there'll be that, and him the hair an' all ! Ah, here be Muster Topham — were you tipped off, Mtister Topham, or how was it ? ' ' I'd give a thousan' pounds if this hadn't happened,' said Top- ham hoarsely, and panting after his run. ' If master had given me the reins, as I wanted him to, there'd ha' been none o' this 'ere work.' ' Here they come ! ' said a labourer, ' ah, and they've been 'urt sure 'nough ; they be carryin' one of 'em on a geatt. And the tother one, yes, he'll be 'urt bad, too, they're liftin' of 'un along in a 'orse-rug : ah, dear me, such things ain't been seen in Gorsecombe since I've lived 'ere. Stand back, miss, do'ee now,' he added sud- denly ; ' it ain't no sight for such as ye.' Millicent had already drawn back, with an instinctive dread. It was a dead man that was being borne past her now, with a hushed crowd following at a respectful distance. Joshua Chadwick's violence had been stilled for ever. He lay there in dreadful inertness, some person had thrown a handkerchief over his face, and Millicent caught her breath in an agony lest it should fall, and yet was powerless to turn away her eyes. After him came four men bearing Guy Hotham, who seemed dead, too, though, as a matter of fact, he still breathed. The doctor walked by his side, and the grim little procession was brought tip by Topham leading the trembling, wild-eyed mare, with the broken shafts dangling from her collar. ' She'll never be fit for no more work ! ' he was saying to sympathising companions, ' such a kind A HOUSE OF MOURNING 429 little 'oss as she was too ! If she'd been druv' proper, she'd never ha' come to this end, God forgive me, but when I see a 'oss treated so, I think a broken neck's no more than his deserts, a madman he was if ever I see one ! ' Later, Milhcent heard the details from one of the eye-witnesses. The dog-cart had overturned at a corner, Cliadwick being instantly killed, and Guy Hotham, who had been thrown Tipon a heap of stones, taken up insensible ; the doctors pronounced it a severe case of concussion of the brain, and considered hisi-ecovery almost hope- less. Lady Adela and her daughter Joceline came over in haste from Hawleigh Court, but they had to be content to nurse him at Agra House, as it was impossible to move him. The accident furnished the staple of village conversation ; in the grocers' shops or the alehouse parlour, the persons who had been fortunate enough to see it happen enjoyed a brilliant social success. The village hairdresser, who was also a literary character, being accredited local reporter to the ' Pineshire Herald,' drew up'a thril- ling account of the disaster for his paper, in his finest language, of course describing it as ' a shocking fatality which has cast a decided gloom over the locality.' Kumour was busy with the events at Agra House which had preceded the catastrophe — how Miss Chevening had run away the day before, it was believed to be secretly married to yoimg Mr. Allen up in London, and how his father was actually on his way to stop the runaway match. Many wondered ' how Madam Chadwick would take it,' and especially how she was ' left.' Little of all this gossip had penetrated the Vicarage walls ; the Vicar had gone up to Agra House, as his office required, to offer sjanpathy and religious consolation, without succeeding in seeing any of the family. Lady Adela and Miss Hotham were there in attendance on Guy, but they were thrown very much on their own resources, for Mrs. Chadwick was too prostrated to pay any atten- tion to their comforts. One evening, a day or two after the accident, MiUicent was sitting alone in the Vicarage, when a visitor was announced, and Ida entered. For a time she clung to MilUcent without a word, incapable of speech for the deep dry sobbing that shook her slight frame. The two girls had never been very intimate, and the elder was sm'prised and even more touched by the confidence and dependence siich a visit implied now. ' I know, you poor Ida,' she said, ' I know how horribly sad it is for you — don't try to speak just yet.' 'I must,' said Ida, ' or I shall go mad. MiUicent, it is so dread- ful at home. Lady Adela manages everything. Mother has left it all to her, and — and they won't let me go to him. He has never spoken — not once since ; he was only conscious for a short time. The doctors say he may get over it yet, but I know he is dying. God means him to die— to punish me ! ' 430 THE PARIAH ' Dear Ida, do not give way to such thoughts ! God does not punish us through the innocent. If Guy is taken awaj^ it will be not because of any wrong you may have done, but because, though we cannot see or understand it now, it is best so, Ida.' ' You may say so — believe so, if you like — but I hnoio He is punishing me. Why, Millicent, but for me, Guy would not have gone on that dogcart. That shows — that shows ! Oh, teU me, jMillicent, if I speak now and own what I have done, will God for- give me — will He let Guv live if I do— will He, Millicent — will He ? ' ' Is your silence injuring someone else ? ' ' Yes,' said Ida m a whisper. ' Then speak, dear, not fi-om any hope of advantage, but because it is right. Speak — only to someone who has a better right to hear than I have.' 'I don't know who that is now, and I feel as if I must tell somebody. Millicent, if you wUl sit with your face turned away, and promise not to look at me, I think I could tell you. Don't interrupt me. or I can't go on. It was all so long ago, when I was quite a child — is one punished the same for what one does as a child, I wonder ? — it is not fair ! But Allen had a tutor then — Mr. Melladew — and I — I was silly enough to faU madly in love with him. Miss Henderson knew all about it, and she said he cared for me, too, onh' he was too proud to show it. And I beUeved it all, and when Mr. Melladew was sent away I was miserable. Then Miss Henderson managed for herself and me to go down to Bourne- mouth ; she hinted that perhaps he would be there part of the time. But I didn't see him, and she went on making excuses for him, and I beheved them. At last one day I did see him, and he passed by without even looking at me, and I couldn't understand it. She told me he was so sensitive, felt my step-father's treatment so very keenly, and that was why he had not liked to speak to me. So she arranged meetings with him in various places, and I gave her letters to take to him and she brought back answers by word. But he wouldn't write or consent to see me, she said — not yet, at least, and she said after each interview with liim that she had almost persuaded him that there would be no harm in his just meeting me for once. He was so dreadfully poor, she said — too poor to stay there very long, for he had scarcely any money, and my step-father had refused to pay him anj' salary. I was so afraid he would leave without seeing me again, and I hated to think that he had not been fairly treated at oiu* house. I thought he was angry with me, too, a little, and that was whj- he would go on re- fusing to see me. Oh, I know I was siUj- to be deceived so easily ; but just remember how young 1 was, and I thought myself so desperately in love then ! . . Well, I wanted him to have the money, and j^et I had none of my own, or not enough, and I kneAV my step-father would never pay. Then I remembered that at home I had a valuable locket which I never wore. If I could only A HOUSE OF MOURNING 431 sell that and send him the money and make him think my step- father sent it — people do those things in novels, and I had read so many ! Even if he found me out, it would touch him, I thought. But I was afraid to sell the thing myself in any of the Bournemouth shops — I thought the people would ask questions, or cheat me, per- haps. Then at last I thought if I could only get someone at homo to do it for me — but Margot was at Bournemouth with me; and, besides, I knew she would refuse, for she did not like Mr. Mella- dew. There was only Allen — and Allen hated me, and was just as likely to toll somebody to s\nte me, or tease me about it always in a hateful way he had ! But I knew he would do anj'thing for Margot, and so — you know I write so like her — I put her name to the letter. The lockets were both exactly the same, so if he took hers instead of mine, it wouldn't matter, and I meant to exp'ain it all. So I sent the letter without telling Camilla about it, and she promised that she would manage some way of bringing us together very soon. I waited and waited for an answer from Allen, but be- fore it came I found a letter from Camilla one dreadful morning asking me to forgive her for having deceived me from the first. It was she whom i\Ir. Melladew had been in love with all the time ! He had arranged that they should meet now and then, and as soon as she had staj-ed at Bournemouth the right number of days, he was to come down and marry her at the Begistrj- Office ; and they had been just married when she wrote. I thought I should have died then — I wanted to ... I was very ill; everything was a blank for ever so long; and even when I remembered, I couldn't be sure how mucli of it was real, and how much a dreadful, shameful dream ! I did not seem to love him any longer. I couldn't believe that I ever had really loved him like that, and yet — there was that letter about the locket ! . . . I knew Allen was going away, and I was half afraid of — I don't know what ; so I asked Margot one day why he had to go. I forget what she said, but it made my mind easier, and when I looked and found both the lockets all riglit, I felt sure I had dreamed it all — or at least that Allen had not done what I had asked him. So I made myself believe — you know how 3-ou can make yourself believe things — that all that part was not real, only imagmation, and gradually I got not to think about it at all. It was not a pleasant subject, I need not tell you . . . Milli- cent, why do you say nothing ? ' she broke off, inconsistently enough. ' I am thinking ... it is all so strange, so new to me,' said Millicent ; ' I can't understand it all at once. Had Allen's going away anj-thing to do with your letter ? ' ' Yes, yes — oh, didn't I tell yon ? He did believe the writing was Margot's, and he took the locket out of her room — only, he was caught in the act, and he thought Margot wanted it kept a secret - — I had said so, because I did want it very much— so he never said anything . . . Millicent, indeed I didn't know all this then ! Tell me, was what I did so very bad ? ' 432 The t.vrjArt ' If you really cliJ not know — though surely you might have guessed — you might have asked more questions than you did. I think no one would blame you very severely; you were very young, and, as j^ou say, very foolish. Is that all, Ida ? ' 'Not quite all,' said Ida. 'You know that at Hombm-g poor Guy proposed to me. I love him far, far better than ever I did Mr. Melladew ; I didn't know then what love really meant — I do now. . . . "Well, and I was so happy again, and yet — and yet, from things Guy said, I knew that he would leave off liking me if he thought I had ever cared for anyone before him. You see,' she added, with some naivete, ' I h; d told biiu t':a: I never had — he made me. Then we came home, and the same night Margot told me . . . Oh, Millicent, it was terrible ! First of all, she asked me if I had really written that letter, and I was obliged to say I had, though I had really for- gotten — almost forgotten — doing it. Then she told me all about Allen's being accused of theft, and how a wicked, wicked maid of ours had found my wretched letter, and meant to show it to my step-father. Think, Millicent,what I felt then !— it would all come out — Guy would know everything — he would be sure to believe I was worse than I really was ; and my step-father never liked me, and I was so afraid of him ! INIargot tried to make me tell her everything, but I was frightened — I would not say anything more, except beg her to save me somehow. I went on my knees to her ; I said I woiJd run away, drown myself — anything rather than face my step-father after he knew. I was perfectly frantic. And, at last, Margot said she had thought of a way ; if I would promise not to betray myself, she would take all the blame. Y'ou see,' added Ida, 'it did not matter for her so much— she had parted with Nugent already — and then she is braver than I am, naturally, and my step-father liked her much the best. And it was a good deal her fault, too — she owned that herself — for believmg Allen was a thief, and getting him sent awa^'. If she had been kinder, it would have been all found out at once. ... So I agreed, and the next day she told everything, leaving my name out, of course, and I believe my step-father was terribly angry. Then Margot ran awaj^, and a telegram came, and he started off to drive to the station in a fearfu passion, and mother got Guy to go wiih him, and then — you know what happened after that . . . And you see it ivas my fault that Guy had to go, and God is punishiiig me 1 ' concluded Ida in a strain of perverse insistence. ' Has Allen been foimd — why is he not at home ? ' ' Ah, that is the worst of it ! He is dead, Millicent ; he died in a hospital in London somewhere. Mastei-man has gone up to-day to arrange about bringing him home.' ' Dead ! ' exclaimed Millicent. ' Allen dead, too ! ' ' It is dreadful, isn't it ? ' said Ida ; ' but there are so many other dreadful things now ! . . . Millicent, I wish you would tell me again that you don't think I have been so very wicked.' ' I can't tell you so,' said Millicent indignantly; 'I do think you A HOUSE OF MOURNINGt 433 have been wicked — wickedly selfish and cowardly — to let Margot sacrifice herself for yonr sake ! ' Ida began to weep in an injured manner. ' Millicent,' she sobbed, ' I didn't think you would speak so cruelly to me — when Guy is dying, and I am so miserable 1 ... I wish I had never told you — but you are not to breathe a word to anyone else ; mind, I put you on your honour ! ' ' You don't deserve to be happy, Ida. Why, even now, it is only yom"self you think about ! Are you going to let Margot take all the blame upon herself '? Have you never suspected ivhy she and Nugent agi'eed to part ? You talk of my being on my honour ; I did not pledge myself in any way, and I do not mean to let my only brother be wretched all liis days to spK,re you a little uneasiness. If this leads him to alter his opinion of Margot, he has a right to be told ; and he shall be told ! ' Unce before, Millicent remembered, she had gone through a scene with Margot herself, in which her indignation had been roused in a somewhat similar way ; but the elder Miss Chevening, even when she seemed most heartless, had never excited the contempt she felt now for this weak, nerveless sister of hers. ' If he does alter his opinion,' Ida argued sullenly, ' it will be no good now. Margot told me he was nothing to her now, and never could be.' ' She is very much to him, still, which is reason enough. If you were more generous, j-ou would not turn a statement she made to induce you to accept the sacrifice into an argument against her now. I shall tell my brother everything, Ida, though it shall remain a secret to everyone else. If you are wise, though, you will tell Guy.' ' Tell Guy !' Ida burst out passionately. 'Guy is dying! "What does it matter to me now if ah the world knows ! Everyone is un- kind to me now, just when I thought I was going to be so happy ! Why have I come here, when Guy may be wanting me, calUng for me this minute '? I will not stay any longer. He may be dying even now, and I away from him I ' When Ida had gone, Millicent sat in a reverie, which was sad enough. Her heart was sore for the bright young life on which so many hopes and interests depended, and which seemed about to close with such pitiful suddenness and futility ; sore for that other life, that had ended yet more pitifully in the London hospital, after so much unmerited and unrecompensed suffering; sore for his father, cut off in the first bitterness of discovering an irreparable injustice. It seemed hard and unnatural ahnost to think of constructing any happiness out of such wreckage as this; and yet she felt a great hope, now that Nugent had quitted Margot in ignorance of all the facts, that fuller knowledge would infallibly soften his heart towards her, and restore something of his lost ideal. Millicent longed to be the means of bringing them together F F 434 THE PARIAH again, and that night she wrote a long letter, in which she told all she had learnt from Ida, and pleaded all excuses that could be urged in mitigation of the part Margot had played, and this letter, with many prayers for its success, she posted in the village next day. It may be true enough, as a general axiom, that a law of in- exorable logic works out the consequences of every sin, whether of commission or omission, to the end of the chain ; and in some cases the operation of the law is made visible to the most careless of us — an object-lesson from which we may deduce a useful moral for our brothers' edification. But, in other cases, the moral is less patent ; it almost seems as if the Furies had wearied of tormenting the evil-doer, or Nemesis had found her lame foot too much of a clog, and limped home again. Yet, even here, the cessation may be rather apparent than real, or the retribution be deferred and fall under conditions at which we can but dimly guess. Perhaps there are some natiires, too, so weak and irresponsible as to be miworthy of punishment nnder any conceivable scheme of justice. We cannot know, nor is it very profitable perhaps to touch on these questions in this place, except by way of preparation for the fact that, after all, the punishment Ida dreaded was averted. Guy did not die ; his strong constitution brought him through in time, and Ida escaped with a season of wearing anxiety which many a girl whose thoughtlessness and selfishness have harmed none seriously but herself has been called upon to bear, with no such happy conclusion to redeem it as came to Ida. For Lady Adela, in her joy at Guy's recovery, abandoned her former cold toleration of his choice. Ida's pale prettiness and graceful timidity, together with their fellowship in afSiction, had won her heart, particularly as all that had made such an alliance most objectionable was now removed. Chadwick had died a wealthy man, and without having had time to destroj' or alter the will he had made in favour of his wife and her children. Ida would be entitled to a considerable sum on her marriage, and the Hothams were not rich enough to be entirely uninfluenced by the fact. As for Mrs. Chadwick, after the first shock was passed, she was able to realise how wonderfully accident (she spoke of it reverently as ' Providence ') had favoured her at a desperate crisis. The husband she had never loved and had learnt to fear would never trouble her more ; an uncouth and repulsive step-son was gone, too, where he could be no disgi'ace to them ; she was free, rich ; the scandal which might have injured them had had no time to get abroad — she had everything now for which she endured the humiliation and penance of her second marriage. One of her earliest acts was to get rid of Susan, and, though not a wise woman in many respects, Mrs. Chadwick was astute enough to take a tone towards the girl which convinced her that her A HOUSE OF MOURNING 435 power was gone. But then, Susan, subdued and terrified by the tragedy she had helped to bring about, with her malice baulked and her ambition frustrated, was not a very difficult person to deal with ; she left, and her further doings do not concern tliis histor}'. Still there was one drop of bitterness in Mrs. Chadwick's cup After sending that telegram from the hospital, Margot had suddenly disappeared. As soon as Mrs. Chadwick was in a condition to realise this, she made search for her daughter in all the most possible quarters, but without success. She had not gone to her aunt, Lady Yaverland, nor to any of her old Cliiswick friends ; Mrs. Antrobus knew nothing of her, and soon a terrible dread of another and yet more cruel tragedy beset Mrs. Chadwick, giving her no rest by night or day. At last, to her inexpressible relief, news came in the shape of a letter from Margot herself; it seemed to have been delayed by foreign posts, and simply said that she had gone abroad, and that her mother was not to feel any anxiety about her, as she was perfectly safe and in good hands. She had not been able to stay in England, she said ; she had not dared, after all, to remain and face her step-father. When Guy w^as out of danger, and Ida was on a visit to Hawleigh Court, her mother wrote to inform Margot that there was no longer any reason why she should not return to her home. The letter, which was addressed to a foreign imste restanie, which Margot had given as her dkection, remamed long un- answered, and the reply when it arrived struck the mother with consternation. ' You ask me to come back,' wrote Margot, ' after all I have done, and all it has ended in ! I wiU never come back — I could not ! If I touched that money, if I shared in the enjoyment of it in any way, I should feel I was taking the price of their lives, which I helped to throw away. It is different for you and the others— but for me ! Oh, don't you understand that I could never do it now — it would be too horrible ! Write to me to the addresses I wiU send you — tell me everj^thing, every little thing aboxit all of you, only don't try to make me change my mind— don't try to trace me or even to know what I am doing. It is enough that I am no unhappier than I ought to be, and far, far better treated than I deserve.' ' Poor dear child ! ' sighed her mother, ' she takes such a very high-flown view of it — so absurd now, too, when she might come back and no one would say a word against her ! She always was so headstrong. But, never mind, she can't go on feeling like that, that's one comfort. I wish I knew whom she was with — she is probably' in a situation of some kind, and she will soon get tired of that, thank goodness ! I must leave her to hei'self a little ; she will come home all the sooner ! ' But week followed week, and Mrs. Chadwick's anticipations were not fulfilled. Margot's brief notes contained no hint of any slackening in her resolution. She did not return. x- F 2 436 THE PAKIAH CHAPTER XII. NUGENT UNDERSTANDS AT LAST. Faithful she is, but she forsakes ; And fond, yet endless woe she makes : And fair ! but with this curse she's cro.ss'd To know her not till she is lost ! George Meredith. ]\Iillioent's letter was delivereLl safely enough at Xugent's rooms, but it lay there unopened till long afterwards. He found that he could not stay in London — he could not bear his chambers in Lincoln's Inn — the contrast between his present state of mind and that in which he had last sat there was too sharp to be borne as yet ; every object his hand touched or his eye fell upon held a Bting of happier recollection. He wandered past the streets and sr[uares around the Park ; the silent thoroughfares, the blank house-fronts, with their drawn blinds and window boxes where the past season's flowers were dying untended, were more than depressing to him just then. On the night after his return he had made a dreary pilgi-image across the Park to Albert Hall Mansions ; there, beyond the glass roof, were the coloured fires, the silver}- haze of electric light, the music, the crowd, just as on that evening last July. He looked up at the dark mass of buildings behind him, and saw, dim against the moonless sky, the balconj' where he had stood with Margot, and all lier strange waywai'd beauty, the sweetness and surprise of her sudden capitulation, llic touch of sadness — superstitious it had seemed then — wlicn tlio brilliancy of the scene below had vanished and the bcU clanged in the gloom, all this came back to his sick mind. Now he iiucw what reason she had had for foreboding, with a conscience burdened by the sin of that betrayal, her happi- ness—for assuredly she had been happy — poisoned by the know- ledge that she had won his love by a lie. Why, knowing her as he did now, could he not be content at his deliverance — whj^ could he not forget ? He determined to try what change could do for him : he would escape from all these memories, and Norway seeming jiist then as good a place as any other, he started next day for Christiania. It was the old story of caelum non aniinum, though, for a time, the novelty and picturesqueness of fjord and peak and cataract, the sport — for he was a keen fisherman^the primitive villages, the quaint, kindly simplicity of their inhabitants, acted as anodynes or distractions. NUGENT UNDERSTANDS AT LAST 437 But, with familiarity, this effect passed off, and Margot's face began to haunt him with more and more persistency. He saw her now as she had looked at their hnal parting, when she had rejected his entreaty that she would let him take her from that house of strife. With what a strange, calm dignity she had spoken ! How came it, he wondered, that after all her misdeeds she still had tho art of making others seem in the wrong '? She deserved that he should despise her, that he should think no more of her, except as an illusion he had once held for the fair reality ; hut he longed for her, yearned for her still, with a yearning that would not be stifled. He had ordered no letters to be forwarded, though he wrote to Millicent occasionally. In his letters to her he made no allusion to Margot or the past, and she, regarding his silence as a token that her mediation had failed, was silent too. But one of her letters told him of the deaths of Alleu and his father, and the news produced a reaction in Orme's mind against Margot. It was owing to her that he felt a personal share in the respon- sibility for Allen's fate. But for the he she had told him, he would have been gentler that night when they had met at the station ; lie would not have allowed him to break away without more than a half-hearted protest. She had made an accomplice of him after all ! Now she was triimiphant, he pictiu-ed her fair and tranquil and proud as ever, with the end she had striven for accomplished just when all had seemed lost. Yes, he could hate hernow, but to hate was a greater misery than to love. He came back unrested, unhealed, and when he got to his rooms one murkj' evening in October, there was a pile of letters on his table, which he opened and read one by one without curiosity or interest. One, in Millicent's handwriting he left, brother-like, to the last ; this one was the letter she had written on the night of Ida's confession. As he read it, his first emotion was a mighty overpowering jo}-. The wrong she had done had been done in ignorance ; she was imiocent of all that had seemed so diabolical, so monstrous, in its unscrupulousness. It was all a tragedy of errors. What she had told him about Allen she had honestly believed — what she had done afterwards was in a desperate, mistaken effort to save others, to postpone action mitil she knew whether her worst fears were true or not. Arid after the joj' came hot shame, poignant remorse for having doubted her this second time, for not clinging— in the teeth of all evidence, all appearances — to the instmct which, though too faintly, had whispered that she of all women in the world was the last to do this thing. Would she ever pardon him this second disloyalty ? — would she be generous enough to recognise that her own silence, her compromising speech and conduct, had all helped to keep him in his error ? — would she remember that he had at least offered to remam by her through it all ? He could not tell ; but he felt that, if she loved him still, sht would forgive him even this, and he determined to lose no more 438 THE PARIAH time ; he would go down to Gorsecombe next day, and see whether his love's heart was hardened against him. Unfortmiately he had still to finish his letter, and the end con- tained the news of Margot's flight on the day of his own departure, and the absence of all trace of her since. The next morning his anxiety was in some measure relieved by another letter from MiUicent, from which he learnt that Mrs. Chadwick had heard from her daughter, who was understood to be abroad and not expected to return for some time. This did not prevent him from going down to Gorsecombe, and, on his ai-rival, he went up to Agra House and had an interview with Mrs. Chadwick, whora he found in mourning as little unbe- coming or obtrusively inconsolable as a widow's weeds can be. She met his appeal for any mformation respecting Margot with fluent evasiveness : she really could tell him nothing. Dear Margot was travelling with friends, her movements depended on them, and were so very uncertain. 'But you write to her,' he said ; ' you surely must know where a letter will find her ! ' ' It is very painful for me to have to tell you,' said Mrs. Chad- wick, ' but the truth is that I have ceased to have any communica- tions with her for some time. Of course I have satisfied myself that she is under proper care — she is acting (this is in the strictest confidence, remember — I wouldn't have it known in Gorsecombe for the world !) — but she is acting as travelling companion to a lady — she prefers that and dependence to living at home under her mother's roof! She persists in refusing to come home. So at last I told her plainly that I must decline to encourage such folly by keeping up any correspondence with her until she tells me she is ready to come back and behave sensiblj'. I have not heard from her since — and j'ou can imagine what a trial it all is for a mother.' Nugent thought he knew the reason of Margot's determination: he M'ondered afterwards how much, if anything, Mrs. Chadwick knew of the secret history of the tragedy, but it was impossible to guess from her manner. ' At least,' he pleaded, ' you can give me the address to which you last wrote ? ' Mrs. Chadwick hesitated before replying in her most engaging tones. ' Eeally, dear Mr. Orme, I don't see what good it would be if I did ; it would be very unlikely for any letter written there to reach her now. But I am afraid I must refuse to give you even so much help as that. You see, it is not as if you were anything to one another now. I don't know which of you was responsible for breaking off j-our engagement, but I have no reason in the least to believe that she has changed her mmd since — if you have. Mr. Orme,' she said — and there was really a ring of greater smcerity in her voice — ' I do want her to be left alone at present ; if she is worried with appeals or messages, if she thinks anyone is trying to find her out, Me shall lose her altogether ; promise me that you KUGENT UNDERSTANDS AT LAST 439 will leave her to herself, that you will not persecute her ! Indeed I believe that you will do yourself no good, and you may do he'' and us much harm.' Orme had a bitter consciousness that this was true, that he had lost the right of approaching her now, even if he had the means ; it was possible that her determination to remain away was partly insphed by the wish to avoid him. He made no fiu'ther attempt to trace her ; he must leave it to time to decide whether they were to meet agam, and what would come of it. In liis heart he cherished a hope that proud, high- sphited Margot would not be able to endure dependence long — that when her patience broke down she would recognise that she had no other place but home to go to for shelter. But this hope, after sustaining him through the winter, grew fainter and fainter when spring came and summer was at hand, and stiU there were no tidings of Margot. It was Whitsuntide again ; Orme had not seen his home since Christmas, and now the warm May simshine, the budding trees, the pink and white almond blossom in the Park stirred in him a languid impulse to see Gorsecombe once more in the freshness of early summer. Perhaps this time all the painful associations would have grown fainter ; he might even hear news of her who still was seldom out of his thoughts for very long. And so he was sitting once more at luncheon in the pretty shabby Vicarage dining-room, with the green Venetian blinds half let down and the warm breeze stealmgin through the open windows. He had only just arrived, his father and mother and Millicent were all there, and the conversation had been mostly carried on by the Vicar, who could talk about notlung just then but the conduct of the Eector of a neighboming village in institutmg proceedings against a farmer chmchwarden for brawling in church, the ' brawl- ing ' consisting in leaving the building pointedlj^ during a part of the ser\ace he objected to. 'It's a great pity,' he said; 'do so much harm about here, with the strong feeling there is against tithes ; it will be a mercy if it does not diive many to Dissent ! I can't think why Tancred hasn't more tact than to provoke his parishioners like this ! I never find anj' difficulty in getting on with raine. Stick to the Eubric and they can't give you any trouble — that has alwaj-s been my rule, and I've never had any mipleasantness with the Bishop as yet.' So he talked on, asking Nugent, whose knowledge of ecclesiastical law was not exactly profovmd, for his opmion on the legal aspect of the case. Nugent answered as satisfactorily' as he could, though his thoughts were elsewhere ; there were questions he was longing to ask and yet dared not. At last, when the Rev. Mr. Tancred was exhausted as a topic, Mrs. Orme said to Millicent, ' I suppose, Millie, when you were in the village this morning, you didn't happen to see anything of Margot ? ' 440 THE PARIAH Her daughter's face warned her too late that she had been in- discreet. ' No, mamma,' said MUlicent. ' I saw Miss Member at Can- nister's, and she asked me to tell you that there is a poor family in one of those cottages on the Duckford Eoad, just before you turn to go off to ' ' Is Margot back ? ' Nugent interraiited, doubting whether he could have heard aright. ' Surely, mother said Margot ? ' ' Yes, yes,' said Millicent nervously ; ' she — she only came back last night — I have not seen her at all yet.' ' She has not come home from — from illness, or anything of that kind, has she ? ' demanded Nugent. ' No — at least,' said Millicent, ' I have not heard. I don't know really, Nugent . . . Are you going out ? ' For he had risen. ' I want to — to take a look round the old place,' he said, with affected carelessness ; ' and I may make one or two calls.' ' Were you thinking of going to Agra House ? ' Orme was not in the habit of colouring, but there was an additional tinge in his cheeks as he answered : ' I shall probably go there — yes.' ' Wait a little — let me walk there with you,' she said. ' I only have my clothing accounts to go through and some flowers to take down to the chmrch for the decorations.' ' Can't wait now,' he called, laughing, from outside ; ' we'll have our walk afterwards.' ' But stop, Nugent — stop just a minute. I — I have something to tell you ! ' But he was already outside, and waved his hand to her, smiling from the gate. ' Tell me afterwards,' he said, and was gone. She returned to the dining-room rather disconsolate. ' He has gone up there — to see her,' she said sadly ; ' he wouldn't stay to hsten.' ' I quite thought he was cm-ed,' said her mother, ' or I shouldn't have mentioned her name as I did.' ' I wish he was ! ' said Millicent ; ' and now it wiU come on him quite suddenly, with no preparation. Poor Nugent ! ' ' Well, well,' said the Vicar philosophically, ' you've been spared an unthankful task, my dear MiUie ; you know what Shakespeare makes Cleopatra say : Though it be honest, it is never good To bring bad news : give to a gracious message An host of tongues ; but let ill tidings tell Themselves, when they be felt. He must hear it sometime, and the sooner in these matters the better. I was hoping he'd got over it too, poor boy, I certainly thought they parted by mutual consent. All, well ! lovers ought to know their own minds. Did j-ou send round to let Fanshawe know I can't take the evening service to night — no ? He'll be away Nugent understands at last 441 at ci'icket, or Tip at Holly Lodge with his lady-love, if you don't make haste ; there, I suppose I shall have to go mj'self ! ' Orme could not have borne any companionship just then: he wanted to be alone, to think over this great happiness that had come to him. Margot was back at Gorsecombe — he might see her that very day ! Yet he did not go up to Agra House at once, it was early even in the country for an afternoon call, and he wanted to collect his thoughts, to enjoy this period of anticipation to the full ; he had begun to hope again — if she had come back, did not that prove that it was not he who had kept her away ? He walked tlirough the village and along the open roads, finding joy in everything now, in the contrast of the tinted snow of the apple -orchards against the deep blue sky, in the scent of the haw- thorn and the aromatic fir-branches, in the mellow impudent notes of the blackbird, the distant call of the cuckoo. All about him Natvu'e was unfolding, renewing, awakening. How could he help seeing in this a type of his own fortmies — a sign that the winter in his heart and life was gone and summer had come back ? Then he came back by the lanes, in which the pink campion and wild hyacinth had almost ousted the last primroses from the banks, and soon he reached the little gate, where Margot had waited for him that last day he had seen her. The net was up, he saw as he passed the tennis-lawn, and a man in flannels rose fi'om one of the chau's as he approached. He made a movement as if about to hold out his hand, and then seemed aware that he was not recognised. ' You don't remember me, 1 see,' he said, with a smile. ' I can't say I do at this moment,' said Orme ; ' I am so little at Gorsecombe now.' ' It was in town we met — not down here,' said the other, still smiling, though a httle uncomfortably, as if he felt the embarrass- ment of having to recall himself to Nugent's mind. ' Have you forgotten a certain evening last summer, at Albert Hall Mansions ? ' ' At Mrs. Anti'obus's ! ' cried Orme, starting. ' To be sure ! I beg your pardon — I remember you perfectly now — yoiur name is Langrish.' It was Langi'ish ; the man with the weary eyes and the Hstless manner, whom he had met on the night he had won Margot, and to whom he had never once given a thought since. There were other excuses than this, and the difference between evening clothes and tennis flannels, for his failure to recognise him at once. Langrish had altered greatly since then, and the change was an improve- ment ; he looked a younger and a stronger man than Omie had taken him to be on their first meeting ; his eyes had lost that faded look, his whole bearing was brighter and more alert. 'You were going to the house'?' he said; 'I'll walk up with vou.' 442 THE P.VEIAH Orme felt an uneasiness too slight to deserve the name of jealousy, yet containnig its germs ; till now it had not occurred to him that he might have rivalry to contend against as well as alienation — hut what could this man want here, unless he came as a lover ? ' You are staying here, I suppose ? ' he said, rather suspiciously. ' For a few days only,' answered Langrish with cheerful careless- ness ; ' my leave is up, you see, and I am anxious to get back as soon as I can.' This did not sound very lover-lilve. ' You want to get back ? — to Yokohama — it was Yokohama, I think ? ' * It was — and is,' said Langrish. ' Oh, yes, I don't mind it now, you know. I'm taking my wife out with me.' His wife ! — he was married then, and going away in a few days — what absurdities jealousy leads a man into ! The reaction made Orme quite cordial. ' Of course,' he said, ' that makes all the difference. And you must let me offer my very best wishes. I'm afraid I shall not have the pleasure of meeting Mrs. Langi-ish before you sail, unless,' he added, ' she is staying here with you ? ' ' Y'^ou are very kind,' said Langrish, with some stiffness. ' My wife is here, of course, and you will find her in the house some- where. If you would like to see her, I am sure she will be equally pleased to see you. I thought possibly you might have come up with that intention.' Nugent miu-mm-ed something polite ; Langrish's assumption that he had come up to Agi-a House solely to make his wife's acquaintance rather tickled him — it was so like the egotism of a newly-married man ! As they entered the hall Eeggie and Lettice came running out. The boj', without noticing Nugent, seized upon Langrish. ' I say, you aren't coming in now ? not when you said you'd plaj' a single with me this afternoon, and I've got the bats out and everything ; I want to see which of us two plaj's best — 1 expect we're about equal.' Langi'ish laughed very pleasantly and good-humouredly. ' All right, old fellow,' he said, ' I'll have a set with you, if you like ; you must make allowances for my advanced years, you know — I can't run about like you.' ' What bosh ! ' said Eeggie. ' You're as j'Oimg as he is. Come along ! ' They disappeared towards the tennis gi'ound, leaving Lettice and Nugent alone in the hall together. ' Come into the school- room, Nugent, do,' said Lettice, ' I've got lots to tell you ; I've got a new governess, and I think she's lovely — only Eeggie will say she's bunny-mouthed ; she's away now, so you can't see her . . . Oh, and I want to show you my new ch'awmgs. I've been doing some illustrations to Homer — the " Stories from Homer," you know. Some of those I've done are verij good. Only I don't draw NUGENT UNDERSTANDS AT LAST 443 helmets nicely, so I've had to put them on ordinary hats. Should you think that mattered ? . . . Oh, Kitty, I've forgotten all about you ! Look, Nugent, doesn't she make a dear little doll '? I dressed her up in my doll's things, but she will not keep her tail down^she's in black, you see, because all the dolls went into mourning for poor Allen and father. It's nearly tinae for them to be in half-mourning now.' There was a shade of gravity on her face as she spoke Allen's name. 'Poor Allen ! ' she said softly ; ' perhaps if he had stayed here that night instead of going away again, he wouldn't have died. He gave me a letter, and told me to tear it up, Nugent, and Margot cried. I wasn't to tell — but I may tell you. Margot said I might last night.' The tearing up of the letter had been unexplained for him till now, and of this, too, she was innocent ! He could hardly master his voice for the emotion that came over him. So Margot had wished him to know^ — then there was hope ! ' Lettie,' he said, ' I want to see Margot alone — will you help me — will you run and tell her that I am here, and ask her in kind- ness to come to me '? ' 'I thought you and Margot weren't friends any more ? ' ' I hope we are. I — I want to know what we are to be, dear.' ' Because Margot is only here for a very little while. Oh, Nugent, can you get her to stay ? Do. I have tried so hard, but she says she must go quite away ! ' ' If I can help it, Lettice, she shall not go. Now run, like a good child, and ask her to see me.' ' All right,' said Lettice. ' Where shall I tell her you will be ? There's nobody in the drawing-room — I should wait there if I were you. Would you like to take Kitty to amuse you in case Margot is a long time ? I can spare her.' Orme declmed this hospitable offer, and Lettice skimmed up- stairs in search of Margot. He could not sit still in the shaded drawing-room ; he rose and wandered restlessly about, and at length stepped into the conserva- tory, where the heavy exotic atmosphere seemed charged M'ith the poetry and mystery of love. Would she come ? . . . A light step behind him, a delicate sound of drapery ; he turned, and all the blood rushed back to his heart— he saw her once again! She was in black, which at first sight gave her a fairer and more girlish look, but in her ej'es there was the shadow of an ineffaceable pain : the lines of her face were sharper, the paleness of her cheeks had lost its former creamy tint, her hand, too, as he took it, felt frail and unsubstantial in his. She met him with a wistful hesita- tion, no longer carrying her head erect, as he remembered it cf old. ' I saw you coming,' she said ; ' I lioped you woiild not go away without seeing me.' ' W'hatelse did I come for ? ' he said. ' Margot, I — I have heard everything ! ' 444 THE PARIAH ' You have heard ? yon will not rcpi-oaeli me now, when I can- not listen to you . . . \Vhat I did was for the best ! ' ' I have done with reproaches for ever,' he said. ' I only come now to beg j-ou to forgive me this once more. I ought to have believed in you through all — instead of taking it for granted, as I did, that you must be guilty.' ' That was not your fault,' she replied. ' I allowed you to think so.' ' But why ? Could you not have trusted me ? ' ' You see,' she said, ' I knew so little myself — I was afi-aid to speak of it, to think what it might mean — I wanted to keep the secret from everj-one, till I could know more, till I could see the persons I suspected and warn them. Yet I nearly did tell you.' ' If j-ou had ! ' he cried — ' if you only had ! ' ' Shall I tell you what kept me back ? I felt that you would blame me almost as much, if you knew, for treating him as I had done — for lettmg him go away that second time. 1 was afi-aid of what you would say. And then, when that woman brought the letter, I saw that— in spite of yourself — you believed her — that, even if I spoke, you would not believe me. That kept me silent, Nugent ! ' 'I did not deserve to be trusted, I suppose,' he said, ' but I have suffered for it too. Is it not time to let those terrible days be for- gotten ? Can you not forgive me, even this second and worst failure ? ' ' What should I be if I could not — if I felt I had any offence to forgive you for ? — I, who can never be forgiven now in this world I You must not think I have forgotten what I have done — that I ever shall forget. I have sinned too deeply — the conse- quences have been too dreadful for that. I have not come home here to live. I should feel that I dare not hope to be hapjiy in this house. But I could not go away without seeing them all for the last time ! Could I ? ' ' Margot ! ' he cried, ' why must you go away — from England, 1 mean ? Now, when we understand one another ! . . . Have some pity on me ! — don't leave me again ! ' She drew back, horror and bewilderment in her eyes : ' Is it you that speak such words to me as that — now ? ' she said. ' I thought you an honourable man, Nugent ! ' ' What have I said ? "What can there be dishonourable in a re- newal of our engagement ? ' ' Ah ! ' she cried, ' jou said you knew all — and I thought you meant . . . Can't you understand that — that I am not free ! ' ' Margot, for God's sake don't keep me in the dark like this I Not free ? Does that mean that I am too late— that you are engaged ? ' ' Did he not tell you — ^just now — when you were talking to- gether ? ' ' He ? Mr. Langrish ! How can that be, when he is married ? NUGENT UNDERSTANDS AT LAST 445 ' I am his wife.' The events which had contribiited to such a result must be tokl here for the reader's instruction, though Margot could not be ex- pected to give such an explanation to Nugent Orme. Briefly, then, her history had been as follows : She had waited at the hospital on the morning of Allen's death, until she could bear it no longer. She had her jewellery with her, and a slender stock of money ; her great desire was to leave the country, to go far away somewhere ; she would go as nurse, lady's maid, gover- ness^anything. Then she remembered that references would certainly be asked for — and what references could she give ? Sud- denly Mrs. Maberly came back to her mind, and her troubles witli companions. There was just a faint hope that she might be still in town, that she might not have engaged anyone ; she would go to the Langham before she went anywhere else. Mrs. Maberly by a fortunate chance had not left the hotel, and was still in search of the ideal travelling-comjianion, so when she learnt that the lovely Miss Chevening was leaving home for family reasons, and willing to go abroad with her in any capacity, she was overjoyed. They left for Paris next day, and for some time Margot had nothing to complain of, though the h-iend began to merge by slow degi-ees in the patroness. There were causes enough to prevent Margot from being the lively and interested companion Mrs. Maberly considered she had a right to expect. The news of Chad- wick's sudden death came as a fresh blow during her travels, and, though she struggled to do her duty and submit to all the whmis and caprices of her employer, her powers were not equal to more. By-and-by Langi'ish joined them, and the interest he had felt on first meeting her was heightened now by finding her acting as companion to his sister. He treated her with the utmost tact and dehcacy, shielding her in countless ways from his sister's ill- humour ; he saw that she was unhappy, and scrupulously refrained from betraj'ing his own feelings. Insensibly she gi'ew to like him, to regard him as a friend, with which, not imaginmg that he could be more to her, he appeared for the time content. However, one day he had found her in despair ; his sister, being in a more than usually bad temper, had informed Miss Chevening that her services were dispensed with. Margot had no money^all her resources had gone in providing the necessary equipment in Paris ; she would not return home- — yet, where was she to go ? Then Langrish assured her that she need not fear that his sister would turn her adrift in the world — he would see that she did not go back to England without a suitable escort, if she must go. The fear of losing her altogether made him break a resolution he had made not to avail himself of their relative positions ; he told her what a difference she had made in his life, and how, though he ought not to speak, and knew perfectly well he could be nothing to her, yet he could not help himself. If she was not free — if what 446 THE PARIAH he hoped could not be, she had only to tell him so, and forget that he had ever spoken. Margot was in a state to be grateful for all kindnesses ; her pride had been brought very low ; she had learnt a stern lesson against undervaluing her fellow-creatures ; not to mention that Langrish was not personally distasteful to her. IShe did not actually consent then — what had passed was too terrible and too recent — but she had sufficient confidence in him to tell him all that op- pressed her, and made her in her own opinion unworthy of a good man's love. He did not take a very harsh view of it, though he said no more of his suit at the time ; the broach with Mrs. Maberly was healed bj' his instrumentality, and matters went on much as before till the tour was nearly over, and then, once more, he returned to the question. He must return to Japan very shortly. Could she give him her answer before he went '? This time she consented ; she had no love to give, but, since he was good enougli to care for her, she would try to make one life happier, as some halting atonement for those she had spoilt. So far she had not regretted ; what had been in its inception mere gratitude and likmg was growing into a warmer feeling ; there were times when she had a guilty conviction that her lot was easier than she bad merited, and that the burden she had imposed on herself as some palliative to an ever-present remorse was growing hghter rather than heavier with time. To return to the couple we have left : Orme stood staring stupidly down on the red tiles of the tloor, tr3'ing to force his mind to take in the terrible truth he had just learnt. It was so far beyond the very worst he could have anticipated, that, even now, he had a lingering hope that there might be some mistake. ' His wife ! ' he echoed. ' You are his wife ? ' Through the open panes in the roof the words, ' Vantage to me ! ' came in Langi-ish's voice from the distant tennis-ground, like a mocking and triumphant comment on the situation. 'Indeed, I thouglit you knew,' repeated Margot piteouslj^ ; 'I saw you speaking to him on the lawn just now.' All the incidents of that brief conversation came back to him now in their real meaning- Ins instinctive jealousy, and the fact that it had been appeased by what was, if he had known it, the death- blow of all his hopes, the touch of ghastly comedy in his uncon- scious congratulations to the rival who had sujiplanted him. ' No,' he said drearily ; ' I had no suspicion till now. I — I sup- pose I ought to say something quite safe and commonplace — regret my mistake — wish you every happiness . . . Well, I can't — not just 3'et . . . Margot,' he broke out passionately, ' how could you do this thing '? What were Ms claims to mine ? You belonged to me ! You had no right — I say, no rijht — to leave me for an- other ! ' ' I — I hoped you would not have cared like this,' she answered NUGENT UNDERSTANDS AT LAST 447 in a low voice ; ' I am not worth youi* caring for. But you mnst not speak as if I had been untrue to you — as if I had left you. There was a time, when you first knew of that letter, when you yourself were the first to see that we must part. Yes — j^es, I know that afterwards, when the blow fell, you offered to renew the engagement — it was generous of you — I felt that at the time — I feel it still — but it came too late, Nugent ! ' * It was not too late, then,' he said ; ^ you have made it too late ! You could not have patience even this little while — you were in siich a violent hm-ry to throw away your life and mine ! And why, Margot ? Out of pique — for some fantastic scruple— for revenge ? God knows ... it is beyond me ! ' She drew herself up haughtily ; for all her new-born humility, there was a flash of anger in her hazel eyes. ' You force me to speak plainly when j'ou use such words,' she said. ' What I did was neither in pique nor revenge. I threw away nothing —you lost nothing — by my marriage. In no case — Nugent, you must understand me — in no case, could our two lives ever have come together again. The love I had for you died when I knew that j^ou had no real faith in me, that you did not love me as I had once thought to be loved. How another woman would have felt, I don't know — but when I saw that, I ceased to value your love. I found that my own was not the same. Think how it would have been, if I had told you all, and you had believed me ; you would have found excuses for me for a time— and then, by-and- by, your reason would speak again, and you would condemn me for all the harm I did. Or you would have doubted, in spite of yourself, whether, after all, I had not deceived you ; whether I had not been more guilty than I would admit. No, I could not be content with such love ; without confidence, without respect, a love from which doubt would never be far away. I could not have lived imder a love like that — we should have been miserable, Nugent. It is cruel of me to say all this now?— I hope not — I do not mean to be. Some day, perhaps, you will see that I was right, and be glad that I drew back in time.' ' That day wiU never come for me — no, not if I could live on for centuries !' he said ; 'but that will not matter to you . , . Well, there is no more to be said. I have lost you this time, for good and all, and I have no right to complain. What you have just told me is the bitterest blow of all, but I brought that, too, on myself. Forget what I was fool and coxcomb enough to say just now — a man can- not always count his words at fii'st. I have come to my senses now. I don't pretend I am resigned, or ever shall be resigned, on my own account — but on yours, I think even now I am man enough to feel that it is well that you have chosen what is best. Dear, I do sin- cerely, earnestly, wish you all happiness now and always ! ' ' Happiness ! ' she repeated ; ' that is too large a word for me now. But I shall always like to think that you were able to wish it for me, that we part as friends.' 448 THE PARIAH She held out her hand, he took it without another word of fare- well, and the next minute he had gone, he hardlj' knew how, from the house, avoiding all notice, in haste to reach some kindly solitude, some sheltered sj^ot where he would be face to face with his grief. The last word had been spoken : he had won the heart of his beautiful, self-willed, erring love, but he had not known how to keep it, and now all hope of regaining it must end ! As surely as if the future had been unfolded before his eyes, did he know that he would look upon Margot's face and hear her voice never again I And, in the first agony of that knowledge and all it implied, he envied the fate of Allen Chadwick, the poor despised outcast, whom she had never loved, never even liked, but who had at least been privileged to die for her I PRINTED Bl BPOTTISWOODE AKD CO., KEW-STREET SQUARE LONDON 'THE pariah; THE SATURDAY REVIEW:-' In "The Pariah" we are more than ever struck by the sharp iiuuitive perception and the satirical balancing of judgment which makes the author's writings such extremely entertaining reading. There is not a dull page — we might say, not a dull sentence — in it. . . . The girls are delightfully drawn, especially the bewitching JMargot and the childish Lettice. Nothing that polish and finish, clever- ness, humour, wit, and sarcasm can give is left out.' THE PALL MALL GAZETTE :— ' " The Pariah " will certainly add to Mr. Anstey's reputation. In it he for the first time puts his peculiar gifts of observation and analysis to an entirely serious use. Here we have tragedy pure and simple, designed with great originality, and worked out with extraordinary insight and skill.' VANITY FAIR : — ' Had Mr. Anstey not already made a reputation, this novel would have given him high rank as a writer who thoroughly understood and could sympathetically describe English character. . . . The book is sure to be widely read.' THE TIMES :—' Original in design, it cannot be denied that the plot is striking. . . , Especially in its early pages, some comic pencillings of human foibles will be found delightful.' WORKS BY THE SAME AUTHOR. FOURTH EDITION. Crown 8vo. 6s. THE GIANT'S ROBE. From THE PALL MALL GAZETTE. ' The main interest of the book, which is very strong indeed, begins when Vincent returns, when Harold CafTyn discovers the secret, when every page threatens to bring down doom on the head of the miserable Mark. Will he confess ':' Will he drown himself? Will Vincent denounce him? Will Caffyn inform on him? Will his wife abandon him? — we ask eagerly as we read, and cannot cease reading till the puzzle is solved in a series of exciting situations.' CHEAP EDITION. Crown Svo. 2s. 6d. VICE VERSA; OR, A LESSON TO FATHERS. From THE SATURDAY REVIEW. ' If ever there was a book made up from beginning to end of laughter, and yet not a comicbook, or a "nierry " book, or a book of jokes, or a book of pictures, or a jest book, or a tomfool book, but a perfectly sober and serious book, in the reading of which a sober man may laugh witliout sh.tme from beginning to end, it is the new book called "Vice Versa ; or, a Lesson to Fathers." . . . 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