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 Gr4-2>5a 
 
 V.I
 
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 UNIVERSITY OF ILLINOIS LIBRARY AT URBANA-CHAMPAIGN 
 
 ■lAY 30 1885 
 
 L161— O-1096
 
 AT SOCIETY'S EXPENSE, 
 
 VOL. I.
 
 NEW NOVELS AT ALL LIBRARIES. 
 
 CHRISTINE. By Adeline Sergeant, author of ' Caspar 
 
 Brooke's Daughter,' ' Sir Anthony,' &c. 3 vols. 
 
 A HEART'S REVENGE. By B. Loftus ToTTENHA\f, author 
 
 of ' More Kin than Kind. 3 vols. 
 
 TO RIGHT THE WRONG. By Edna Lyall, author of 
 
 'Donovan,' 'We Two,' 'Knight Errant,' &c. 3 vols. 
 
 THE IDEAL ARTIST. By F. Bayford Harrison. 
 
 3 vols. 
 
 BAY RONALD. By May Crommelin. Author of ' Queenie,' 
 
 ' Orange Lily,' 'Miss Daisy Dimity,' &c. 3 vols. 
 
 LONDON: HURST & BLACKETT, LIMITED.
 
 AT SOCIETY'S EXPENSE 
 
 BY 
 
 ALGERNON GISSING 
 
 AUTHOR OF 
 
 A MOORL.\ND IDYL,' 'A VILLAGE HAMPDEN,' ETC. 
 
 'Tis an awkward thing to play with souls, 
 And matter enough to save one's own : 
 
 Yet think of my friend, and the burning coals 
 He played with for bits of stone.' 
 
 IN THREE VOLUMES. 
 VOL. L 
 
 LONDON : 
 
 HURST AND BLACKETT, LIMITED, 
 
 13, GREAT MARLBOROUGH STREET. 
 
 1894. 
 All Rights Reserved.
 
 8^^ 
 
 v.l 
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 or 
 
 THE FIRST VOLUME. 
 
 
 CHAPTKR 
 
 PAGE 
 
 
 I. 
 
 Comedians 
 
 1 
 
 \ 
 
 II. 
 III. 
 
 After many Days 
 Fate in the Cup 
 
 22 
 52 
 
 IV. 
 
 Knight- Ekkantry .... 
 
 76 
 
 c4 
 
 V. 
 
 The Man in the • IMoon ' . 
 
 90 
 
 VI. 
 
 Beatrice 
 
 110 
 
 ^ 
 
 VII. 
 
 Helen looks Forward 
 
 146 
 
 ^ 
 
 VIII. 
 
 The Journalist's Reward 
 
 181 
 
 '^ 
 
 IX. 
 
 The Scent 
 
 208 
 
 ^ 
 
 X 
 
 An Accommodation .... 
 
 223 
 
 4 
 
 XI. 
 
 Charity 
 
 249 
 
 ^5^ 
 
 XII. 
 
 New Leaves 
 
 272
 
 AT SOCIETY^S EXPENSE. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 COMEDIANS. 
 
 A SHRILL resonant laugh rose upon the 
 October breeze as it swept the dusky knobs 
 of gorse on Warren Common. The sound 
 was quickly dispersed in the obscurity of 
 the eratherino; twilight, for the wind was 
 restless and came in noisier and more per- 
 sistent gusts now that the sun had gone ; 
 but immediately thereafter two figures 
 
 VOL. I. B
 
 2 AT society's expense. 
 
 arose from a little hollow amidst the furze, 
 and came out roistering into the 023en. 
 They were women, or more probably by 
 behaviour girls, for they could only be 
 dimly seen. They still laughed and talked 
 in unreserved key. 
 
 ' What if they do know you. Bee ?' cried 
 one, in response to something that the 
 other had said in lower tone. ' They'll 
 trust us all the more.' 
 
 ' Will they ? Why, they knew all 
 about it when he turned me out, and they 
 know that the old fellow won't stump up 
 a farthing for any bill of mine ' 
 
 ' Psss ! If they won't, you'll have to go 
 and see Gertie first, that's all, old girl.' 
 
 And the speaker laughed once more. 
 
 ' I won't do that,' asserted the other, the 
 quieter of the two, with some emphasis.
 
 COMEDIANS. 6 
 
 ' You'll have to, Bee. You're not a 
 sneak. It was a fair toss.' 
 
 Then they went on for a short space in 
 silence, evidently in the direction of a 
 small house which loomed from the open 
 road-side not far off. 
 
 Approaching the smoky town of Agg- 
 thorpe by the high-road from the south- 
 east, you crossed this piece of unenclosed 
 heath-land, known to the district as War- 
 ren Common. An irregular, broken, pic- 
 turesque bit of ground it was, some mile 
 long by half as much in width, with a 
 scattered hamlet on it, three open, con- 
 verging highways across, bracken and 
 gorse-clad hillocks upon its surface, and 
 fringes of goodly trees around, which 
 latter, however, reached their nobility of 
 
 B 2
 
 4 AT society's expense. 
 
 stature in happier times, and every one of 
 which now pathetically stretched one or 
 more of its withered limbs to the poisonous 
 breezes that, with triumphant scourge, 
 swept the district surrounding this pros- 
 perous north-country centre. 
 
 It was October twilight now, but, being 
 thus neighboured, even at a brighter hour 
 Warren Common could, to the compara- 
 tive observer, offer but a begrimed ap- 
 pearance. Here leaves at their birth were 
 never green, the uncrumpling bracken 
 never brown ; how then the hawthorn- 
 blossom white, or the fragrant gorse a 
 flame of gold ? The breath of prosperity 
 had touched it, and these insignificant 
 consequences had to be accepted with a 
 few others of a somewhat more substantial 
 nature.
 
 COMEDIANS. 5 
 
 The common, nevertheless, amongst the 
 townspeople at hand, had maintained its 
 reputation for being ' in the country,' both 
 for residential and recreative purposes, 
 hence it served the inhabitants of Afjo-. 
 thorpe much as a Hampstead Heath serves 
 a larger and more highly civilized com- 
 munity elsewhere. 
 
 Amidst the fringing trees at the north 
 end lay scattered a handful of noticeable 
 residences, stone-built and well-seasoned, 
 none less than a generation old — for the 
 building speculator had not been able to 
 effect a grip upon the eligible land here- 
 about — but all gazing anxiously westward, 
 eyes and mouth agape to receive the latest 
 suggestive, reassuring whiff from that 
 reeking, but profitable, valley just in 
 front. As well as these noteworthy abodes,
 
 6 AT SOCIETY S EXPENSE. 
 
 there was a sprinkling of cottages apper- 
 taining to the meaner sort, and in a far 
 corner, by the side of one of the open 
 high-roads already mentioned, even a 
 public-house. But, as became the dignity 
 of its neighbourhood, an inoffensive hos- 
 telry now, mainly famous for innocent tea- 
 parties in the summer, retaining much of 
 its old rural aspect externally, and within 
 wholly purged from its former notoriety 
 as the resort of common thieves and 
 highwaymen. 
 
 It was towards this house that the two 
 young women moved. From the low, 
 old-fashioned bow-window at the side of 
 the doorway came the flickering light of a 
 fire burning inside, for the blind remained 
 up. The inn stood back some twenty 
 paces from the road, the intervening
 
 COMEDIANS. Y 
 
 rectangular space of grass being walled in 
 and divided by a stone pavement leading 
 from a wicket gate up to the door. Against 
 the side walls within the enclosure were 
 permanent benches, convenient for sum- 
 mer festivities. The sign-board over the 
 door was not now visible in any detail, it 
 simply becoming a small patch of greater 
 darkness on the dark house-side ; but both 
 visitors well knew the dim portrayal that 
 its surface boasted, intended to perpetuate 
 for the behoof of a sceptical posterity the 
 contours of that renowned beast of agri- 
 cultural tradition, ' The Craven Heifer.' 
 
 The more jubilant of the travellers 
 walked up with ready pace to the inn 
 door and raised the latch. The sound 
 re-echoed through the silent house, as 
 did also the steps and voices of the
 
 8 AT SOCIETY S EXPENSE. 
 
 girls as they went forward into that fire- 
 lit room. 
 
 ' Come, Bee, this will do !' cried that 
 irrepressible one, as she crouched over 
 the fender and rubbed her hands close to 
 the bars. ' I'm just about ready for tea, 
 
 aren't you, old girl ? Don't ' 
 
 There was a footstep in the stone pas- 
 sage, so the girl checked herself and rose 
 to her full height. A woman entered, and 
 peered at them in the firelight. 
 
 ' Will you let us have some tea, 
 please ?' 
 
 The speaker's tongue had suddenly 
 assumed quite an unexpected tinge of ac- 
 centual refinement, which, together with 
 the tall, dignified figure she presented 
 standing in the dim light with her back to 
 the fire, impressed the hostess dee23ly, as
 
 COMEDIANS. 9 
 
 no doubt it was intended to do. A re- 
 spectful acquiescence was instantly forth- 
 coming, and solicitous inquiry as to indi- 
 vidual needs. 
 
 ' Cold ham ? Yes, Fresh eggs gath- 
 ered just before sunset. AVould do 
 excellently.' All should be ready Avith 
 speed, and the lamp alight iu an instant. 
 
 No sooner had the step of the landlady 
 died away than the taller girl, she who had 
 acted as leader iu the undertaking, seized 
 her lighter companion by the waist and 
 whirled her round several times iu bois- 
 terous abandonment, until both at length 
 tumbled on the floor. 
 
 When the lamp was brought in there 
 was unbroken calm in the room. One of 
 the girls, sitting in a Windsor arm-chair, 
 with her feet towards the fire, was screened
 
 10 AT SOCIETY S EXPENSE. 
 
 "by an open newspaper which she seemed 
 to be reading : the other, the irrepressible,, 
 stood in pensive mood upon the hearth- 
 stone with her hands behind her back, but 
 she at once aroused herself, and conversed 
 aifably with the hostess as the latter spread 
 the cloth. 
 
 In this brief colloquy the young lady's- 
 presence there was plausibly accounted 
 for, and the widow inn-keeper, though by 
 no means the dullest-witted of the sister- 
 hood, felt fully content in her small piece 
 of professional good fortune. In the 
 stronger light which the lamp afforded, 
 she glanced now and then at the frank,, 
 handsome features of her visitor with 
 womanly interest ; nor at the countenance 
 alone, for the thin, white hand which hung 
 gracefully forward, with its jewelled fingers
 
 COMEDIANS. 11 
 
 playing in and out of the long silk glove 
 which dangled from it, was not to be 
 slighted. 
 
 The silent girl was effectually over- 
 shadowed by the engaging mien of her 
 more complaisant companion. As the con- 
 versation between the other two proceeded, 
 she had thrown away the newspaper which 
 had been screening her, but nevertheless 
 she showed no inclination to come forward 
 into the glare of familiar contact. Rub- 
 bing her hands with the gesture of one 
 under the touch of cold, she crouched over 
 the fire until the landlady had left the 
 room. Then she was aroused from her 
 attitude of humility by a fillip upon the 
 ear from the glove dangling from those 
 tapering fingers above her head. 
 
 'Up, Bee, and show your sting!' cried
 
 ] 2 AT society's expense. 
 
 the tall girl, vivaciously. ' Let us improve 
 the shining hour. Get to the ham. I'll 
 pour out, for I'm the youngest by about 
 ten years, — or is it fifteen?' 
 
 The other seemed to pout as she went 
 to her place at the table, but was twitted 
 into a laugh. Whilst she bent over the 
 table, her lighter-hearted companion drew 
 the cosy off the tea-pot, j)icking it up 
 lightly by the top between finger and 
 thumb, and placed it upon her own head 
 with theatrical gesture, letting it rest there 
 like an episcopal mitre, whilst she said, 
 with no irreverence, 
 
 ' Some hae meat, and canna eat, 
 
 And some wad eat that want it ; 
 But we hae meat and we can eat, 
 And sae the liOrd be thanket.' 
 
 Then the meal commenced. 
 
 As the girls sat with the lamp between
 
 COMEDIANS. 1 3 
 
 them, eating without speech, and it must 
 be admitted with somewhat indelicate 
 voracity, their features were for the first 
 time clearly distinguishable, and the con- 
 trasted individualities forcibly presented. 
 The one pronounced by her companion to 
 be the elder, — she who had been content, 
 if not indeed anxious, to accept the second 
 place in all proceedings within the lamp- 
 light, — judging by her appearance, seem- 
 ed but to obey the injunction impressed 
 upon her by the creative fates. Subor- 
 dination was the suo^o^estion of each natural 
 attribute. She shall serve her brethren, 
 — sisters eke and circumstances, — was 
 the inflexible decree with which the gates 
 of benio'n nothino^ness had been some 
 twenty-seven years ago barred behind her. 
 The time between then and now had been
 
 14 AT SOCIETY S EXPENSE. 
 
 but one prolonged insistence upon this 
 original edict by all whom it in the re- 
 motest degree affected, — with but small 
 consciousness of the fact, perhaps, on the 
 part of the principal subject of it, but not 
 without visible effect upon the more 
 material tissue submitted to its influence. 
 There were but scant traces of refinement 
 left about this girl, either in mould or 
 behaviour. 
 
 ' Take up the joint, Bee,' exclaimed her 
 more delicate companion through her teeth, 
 after a fierce glance at the animal methods 
 of the famished girl beside her. ' What is 
 the good of a knife and fork T 
 
 This angry facetiousness was received 
 in silence, and had no aj)parent influence 
 on the methods it was deprecating. Bee 
 devoured on, oblivious of all else in the
 
 COMEDIANS. 15 
 
 universe beyond the immediate comforts 
 of this present meal. It was, no doubt, 
 this purely animal engagement which 
 brought so prominently forward the 
 animal traits of her countenance. She had 
 not removed her hat, but had thrust it 
 upwards a little, so that the heaviness of 
 the forehead was visible, and something 
 of the carelessly kept, hay-coloured hair. 
 A pair of gaudy ear-rings played restlessly 
 about the strong jaw curves during their 
 constant exertions. 
 
 To all this her companion offered a 
 striking contrast. Her present situation 
 and jaunty behaviour scarcely suggested 
 genuine breeding, but there was none the 
 less a measure of native refinement al)out 
 all she did, which would have gone far 
 towards the conciliation of even a fastidi-
 
 16 AT society's expense. 
 
 ous observer. There was a winning grace 
 in feature and movement, kept constantly 
 alive by a restless vivacity, which perhaps 
 precluded a too critical scrutiny of the 
 actual depth beneath. 
 
 This girl had flung away her hat upon 
 entering, and thus displayed a wealth of 
 dark hair, coiled by artful negligence in 
 ' sweet disorder,' showing no approach to 
 the too precise art which is deprecated by 
 the poet. Upon taking her seat at the 
 table, too, she had unfastened the short 
 cloak Avliich she wore, and, allowing it to 
 fall back, had disclosed more clearly the 
 softly waving contours of the jDcrfected 
 woman's form. It was high spring-time 
 for her in body and soul, and perhaps oc- 
 casionally in her glance she betrayed a 
 consciousness of this rose-bud season. But
 
 COMEDIANS. 17 
 
 this did not detract. Intense life glowed 
 through every attribute of her beauty, — 
 active, aggressive life ; the meekness of ' a 
 violet by a mossy stone ' suspected in 
 none. No subjection whether to brethren, 
 sisters, or circumstances was apparent in 
 her mien or expression. A cahn, nay, 
 defiant consciousness of inexhaustible re- 
 source and self-confidence beamed from 
 her sanguine temperament. 
 
 Mere physical requirements were much 
 more rapidly appeased in this girl than 
 in her more sensual companion. It was 
 not unlikely that the others unreserved 
 display of her inordinate needs served as 
 a positive check upon the legitimate indul- 
 gence of the more intellectual one. It 
 constrained her, no doubt, to disclaim im- 
 patiently such small measure as she had 
 
 VOL. I. c
 
 18 AT society's expense. 
 
 in common with these animal propensities, 
 to decline to give way to them by the sac- 
 rifice of one jot of her self-conscions dig- 
 nity. Having recognized this, she rose 
 from the table and stood looking into the 
 fire with one foot upon the iron rim of the 
 fender. After biting her lip for some time 
 with irrepressible vexation, she burst into 
 merry laughter, and turned round with an 
 accession of tolerance visible in her features. 
 
 'Aren't you ready to go. Bee?' she 
 asked, superciliously. The other was 
 cracking a second or third egg. 
 
 ' I don't think I shall go,' was the 
 response. 
 
 ' How do you propose to pay for this 
 meal, then?' 
 
 ' Give 'em your ring — ' the speaker's 
 mouth was full as she spoke, and the
 
 COMEDIANS. 19 
 
 hearer turned away. But in a moment 
 she refacecl the table, and whilst doing so 
 had withdrawn one of the rings from her 
 hand. She then held it out, suspended 
 on the tip of her little finger. 
 
 ' Look here, Bee,' she said, with calmly- 
 set features. ' This yiu<x is worth twelve 
 or fifteen pounds ; this tea, how much ? 
 Two shillings each, I suppose. I will give 
 them the ring for it, and will receive no 
 change, mind that. But remember until 
 you die in that ditch which is digging for 
 you, that — that — what you are.' 
 
 ThercAvith the girl took up her hat from 
 a side-table, and, failing a mirror, pinned 
 it to her hair before a large framed print 
 of a former local master of the hounds. 
 Then the other leaped up, and set her 
 back firmly against the door. 
 
 c2
 
 20 AT society's expense. 
 
 ' 111 go, Helen ; I will really,' slie said^ 
 submissively. 
 
 ' Let me pass.' 
 
 'You shan't pass. You shan't give 
 them your ring. I'm going now this 
 minute. Go and sit down.' 
 
 The stately girl still waved her antag- 
 onist away, but the latter stood immov- 
 able. She began to whimper. 
 
 ' You can't take a bit of fun. I always 
 meant to go. When we tossed up Avho 
 should go, I meant to abide by it. Dar- 
 ling Helen, do sit down,' she continued in 
 tears, stepping forward to caress her com- 
 panion, who, however, eluded her touch. 
 ' Let me go. I'll jump straight into the 
 canal if you — you — give 'em your ring.' 
 
 Without a word, Helen turned on her 
 heel and retreated to the fire.
 
 COMEDIANS. 21 
 
 ' You— you won't do it ? You'll promise 
 not to give it?' 
 
 ' ril do nothing until you come back.' 
 
 ' Put it on again. Let me see you put 
 it on.' 
 
 The ring was accordingly replaced and 
 peace restored. Helen withdrew towards 
 the fireplace, pulled up a chair and sat 
 there in silence. The other hurriedly 
 straightened her hat and garments, notice- 
 ably of poorer quality and less attractive 
 cut than her friend's, and after exacting 
 one more reassurance she stole noiselessly 
 from the inn.
 
 22 
 
 CHAPTER 11. 
 
 AFTER MANY DAYS. 
 
 The wind still swept the heath, and all 
 light had faded. As Beatrice stepped on 
 to the road, she heard the loud argumen- 
 tative voices and shuffling footsteps of a 
 company of colliers approaching, on their 
 way no doubt to the town for Saturday 
 night's marketing and other social pur- 
 poses, and in order to avoid them she 
 crossed quickly to the expanse of soft turf 
 which she had to traverse. The confused
 
 AFTER MANY DAYS. 2^ 
 
 vernacular died away, and only the rest- 
 less wind remained. 
 
 At some distance, throuo^h the s^atherino: 
 darkness, numerous lights showed where 
 the town lay, but it Avas not towards them 
 that the young woman walked. When some 
 shrill whistle from the trains came to her 
 on the wind, she glanced that way, but 
 without any slackening of her pace. Then 
 by chance her eyes would be lifted to the 
 clear deep sky, cloudless now and starlit, 
 and she would see a meteor shoot across 
 the northern zenith, which startled and 
 checked her. She stood still to look, and 
 in a few seconds she saw another and 
 another. Unaccustomed to natural obser- 
 vations, this greatly alarmed her, and she 
 thought tremulously of thunderbolts and 
 cataclysms. She paused in her purpose ;
 
 24 AT SOCIETY S EXPENSE. 
 
 but being of no temperament to meet the 
 last day in heroic solitude, she presently 
 hastened forward over the short, thick 
 turf. 
 
 The gorse bushes gave her many a 
 fright, but at length she reached without 
 accident that end of the heath where the 
 larger residences clustered. She peered 
 at one obscure building after another 
 around which the trees were swaying and 
 creaking, and before one which appeared 
 larger than the rest, with high rail- 
 ings enclosing a plot of land in front 
 of it, she stood, and from the gate she 
 surveyed its roof and numerous chimneys 
 which stood out against the sky. Whilst 
 standing there, a couple of musical bells 
 chimed out three-quarters from the clock 
 in the stable turret hard by, and the clear
 
 AFTER MANY DAYS. 25 
 
 notes, as they were tossed away by the 
 wind, thrilled this particular listener with 
 particular acuteness. In one or two of 
 the upper windows lights appeared, and 
 Beatrice speculated upon them. But pre- 
 sently, mustering all her courage, she 
 entered the gateway, and slinking under 
 the shade of large shrubs, which skirted 
 the close-cut turf, she came to the side of 
 the house. 
 
 The girl's movements in the darkness 
 evinced complete familiarity with the 
 place and its appointments. With one 
 supreme effort she ran to the back of the 
 house and rang the bell. The sound re- 
 sulting from her action again alarmed her, 
 with such apparent force did it break the 
 silence brooding over the mansion. The 
 young woman's familiarity with the j)re-
 
 26 AT society's expense. 
 
 sumable movements within, added no 
 doubt largely to her sense of nervousness. 
 If he were in the house, — but a maid 
 opened the door, a perfect stranger to the 
 visitor. 
 
 ' Is Miss Crossley at home ?' 
 
 The answer was in the affirmative, but 
 modified to the extent that she could not 
 then see anybody. 
 
 ' Is she at dinner?' asked the suppliant,, 
 with undisguised solicitude. 
 
 ' Yes, — well, she's just going in. If 
 you'll give me your name, I can tell her 
 afterwards and you can come again in the 
 morning.' 
 
 ' But she is not at the table ? Do go 
 and ask her to see me. She will come — ' 
 
 The maid had scrutinized the eager 
 features closely throughout the colloquy,.
 
 AFTER MANY DAYS. 27 
 
 and seemed now to draw a conclusion. 
 The other perceived it, but the urgency 
 of the case overpowered all wish for con- 
 cealment. 
 
 ' Is it Miss Crossley's sister ?' asked the 
 housemaid. 
 
 '' Tell her secretly,' urged the other, in 
 indirect reply. ' Tell her it is Beatrice. 
 Don't let uncle or anybody else know — 
 please.' 
 
 Upon this, the maid undertook the com- 
 mission with interest and alacrity, and 
 bade the visitor enter. With much mis- 
 giving Beatrice consented to stand just 
 within the door, but could not be per- 
 suaded to enter a room. With another 
 survey, which bespoke how much of ante- 
 cedent back-stair gossip and speculation, 
 the maid-servant withdrew.
 
 28 AT society's expense. 
 
 It chanced that the lady spoken of as 
 Miss Crossley was at that moment in the 
 drawing-room with a young gentleman 
 alone. A general message was brought 
 to her there. 
 
 'Who is it, Gertrude?' asked the gen- 
 tleman, who was reclining in evening- 
 dress upon a couch with one foot aloft 
 resting upon a raised knee. ' One of your 
 pensioners ?' 
 
 ' Probably.' 
 
 ' Here, wait a minate : I feel generous 
 to-night.' Whilst the young lady stood 
 smiling, the speaker took a dainty little 
 purse from his waistcoat-pocket, and bal- 
 ancing a bright sovereign upon one of his 
 fingers held it towards her without alter- 
 ing his position. ' Give her that.' 
 
 Miss Crossley took it with ' Thank you,
 
 AFTER MANY DAYS. 29 
 
 Philip,' and left the room. In the hall 
 the maid ^ave the name which had been 
 entrusted to her, and noticed the expres- 
 sion upon her young mistress's features, 
 for construction and consideration after- 
 wards no doubt. She was instructed 
 where to bring the visitor, and she with- 
 drew. 
 
 Miss Crossley entered the room she had 
 indicated, and there, with no discernible 
 display of feeling of any kind, awaited the 
 interview. Her face, well-formed enough 
 as most women's are, without any particu- 
 lar degree of beauty about it, was of a 
 singularly colourless hue, the effect of 
 which was heightened by the black, evi- 
 dently mourning, gown which she was 
 wearing. Despite time and situation, her 
 neck and arms were covered with what
 
 30 AT SOCIETY S EXPENSE. 
 
 miglit be thought a ' needless degree of 
 scrupulosity;' but it could speedily be 
 seen that this arose from no desire to 
 screen any deficiencies of mould. All the 
 graceful charm, all the inspiriting and 
 jDoetic suggestion which for aspiring man 
 dwells in the divine subtleties of the 
 maiden's form, was here. Nor was it 
 nature's work alone. To the natural gifts 
 had been imparted the lustre of conscious 
 art, and Miss Gertrude Crossley walked 
 a very elegant creation indeed. 
 
 A sorry contrast this shamefaced sister 
 which now entered to her. Beatrice gave 
 one glance at her calm and dignified hos- 
 tess, and then, two paces within the room, 
 stood with eyes downcast. The other 
 ap23roached her kindly. 
 
 'You have been a long time coming,
 
 ATTER MANY DAYS. 31 
 
 Beatrice,' — taking one of the cold red 
 hands in her own warm white ones. 
 
 There was no reply to this, only a mute 
 questioning look. Gertrude arched her 
 €omely neck and imprinted a sisterly kiss 
 upon the florid cheek before her. It was 
 strictly a kiss of consanguinity, and even 
 by a casual beholder could not have been 
 mistaken for anything else ; but a kiss it 
 was, and as such by the visitor accepted. 
 She, at any rate, was not capable of refin- 
 ing any subtle distinctions in ostensible 
 displays of affection. To her it was what 
 it seemed, — wholly, painfully unexpected, 
 without a doubt, but all the sweeter for 
 that. AVithout comparing garments or 
 complexion, she let her cold hands meet 
 at the back of the soft warm neck and re- 
 turned the kiss with extravasrant interest.
 
 32 AT society's expense. 
 
 The graceful frame shivered beneath the 
 touch, and the grasp was quickly relaxed. 
 But a glad smile upon the features which 
 had looked so coarse just now, precluded 
 all suggestion of a misinterpretation of the 
 movement. 
 
 ' My hands are so cold, Gertie, and you 
 are so warm.' 
 
 'Yes, of course. Sit down. Come up 
 to the fire.' 
 
 ' Why have you been so long in coming ? 
 Have you not heard before ?' said Ger- 
 trude, regarding her sister seated. 
 
 The other looked puzzled, but of a 
 sudden noticed the mourning-gown. 
 
 'What! . . . Not ... Is uncle ' 
 
 ' He died more than a month ago. You 
 didn't know it?' 
 
 The announcement smote the visitor
 
 AETER MANY DAYS. 33 
 
 dumb, and she stared with glistening eyes 
 at the flame in the grate. A cold, scruti- 
 nizing glance was shot upon her from 
 above, a glance too plainly bespeaking the 
 suspicion and distrust which prompted it ; 
 but Beatrice could not see it. 
 
 ' If you did not know about it, Beatrice, 
 what made you come here to-night?' 
 
 The calm severity of the question could 
 not escape even the unstrung ear of such 
 as Beatrice this time. She looked up 
 quickly. 
 
 ' I came to beg from you, for I had no 
 money to pay for a meal.' 
 
 Gertrude unlaced her fingers and moved 
 her eyes. The dinner-bell rang, and there- 
 upon the visitor arose. 
 
 ' Stay a minute,' said the hostess, eager- 
 ly. ' I have so wanted to know about you 
 
 VOL. I. D
 
 34 AT society's expense. 
 
 — what you were doing. Have you no 
 fixed place? No kind of employment?' 
 The speaker experienced a shudder as she 
 screwed up courage to put this alarming 
 question, and, having done so, hastened 
 to modify it. ' No respectable kind of 
 employment?' 
 
 The other hung down her head as she 
 muttered, 
 
 ' I had until this morning; — at least — 
 I had — you wouldn't think it respectable, 
 but it was all I could get.' 
 
 Gertrude looked at her silently, but 
 more mildly. Positive query, in the face 
 of this, she dared not put. 
 
 'We have been with a country com- 
 pany,' began Beatrice, volubly, as if to 
 vanquish her nervousness. ' It was Tal- 
 bot's in " The Distressed Sinner." Really,
 
 AFTER MANY DAYS. 35 
 
 -Gertrude,' continued the suppliant, with a 
 whimper, ' it was not a — not a very low 
 company. But we've not been paid for 
 a week, and this morning they were sold 
 up at Wallborough, or else I'd never have 
 come to shame you. Indeed, I wouldn't.' 
 
 ' Don't say that, Beatrice,' replied the 
 other, magnanimously and more mildly 
 before her sister's emotion. ' It doesn't 
 shame me. It is only you I think of, your 
 welfare and haj^piness. It is dreadful to 
 think of you in such surroundings.' 
 
 ' It is all I am tit for, Gertie ; you know 
 it is all I am fit for.' 
 
 There was something pathetic in the 
 sincere vehemency of self-abasement, — 
 abasement of a ring painfully genuine, 
 and which did not re-echo the most dis- 
 tant reservation of exceptional self-righte- 
 
 d2
 
 36 AT SOCIETY S EXPENSE. 
 
 ousness. The poor girl's whole aspect 
 clamoured in confirmation of the truth and 
 justness of her assertion. But her sister's 
 hand waved it all away in gracious bene- 
 diction, or perchance aiFrighted dej)re- 
 cation. 
 
 ' Oh, Beatrice, Beatrice !' she said. 'That 
 all depends upon ourselves, you know. If 
 we seek strength in the right quarter, we 
 shall find it. Don't you believe this ?' 
 added the young lady, in response to a 
 movement of her sister's. 
 
 • I have sought it in every quarter, but 
 it never comes. I am no stronger or 
 better now than I was when uncle turned 
 me out of doors.' 
 
 The tact of Beatrice pitifully failed her, 
 or else she was more aggressively inde- 
 pendent than her previous aspect gave
 
 AFTER MANY DAYS. 37 
 
 liint of. So horror-stricken was Gertrude 
 that she drew back in silence for an instant, 
 then renewed, — 
 
 ' I have thought of you all this time 
 repenting — ' she spoke in undisguised 
 sorrow, — ' working your way patiently to 
 a respectable position again. Oh, it is 
 dreadful ! Will — will you go into a 
 Home ?' 
 
 With characteristic obtuseness the visi- 
 tor hastily misconstrued the question, — 
 interpreting it, no doubt, by the flash of 
 instinct which would have illumined the 
 situation had positions been reversed. The 
 face of Beatrice was lightened. 
 
 'With you, Gertie!' she cried. 'Oh, 
 yes, it would save me. I would do all the 
 work. Will you have a large house? 
 You won't '
 
 38 AT society's expense. 
 
 The look on the other's face checked 
 her, and Beatrice doubtless perceived her 
 error. 
 
 ' I didn't mean that,' faltered Gertrude, 
 at length ; ' not at first, at least. Of 
 course in time we might do anything. 
 Have you kept the pledge ever since you 
 signed it ?' 
 
 ^ No, I haven't,' asserted Beatrice, with 
 some bitterness. 'Oh, Gertie, you don't 
 know what it is to live with hardly 
 enough to eat ! I can't keep the pledge. 
 I shan't take it again, for it only makes 
 me feel a — a liar. I couldn't live without 
 some ' 
 
 ' Hsh — sh !' shrieked Gertrude, screen- 
 ing her ears with the white palms of her 
 hands, and turning to the lire. 
 
 'Will you give me anything?' asked
 
 AFTER MANY DAYS. 3^ 
 
 Beatrice, after a brief silence, with a 
 stronger note of independence in her ut- 
 terance. ' I won't trouble you again. I'll 
 starve rather.' 
 
 '/ daren't give you money when I know 
 what will become of it,' replied the hostess, 
 vehemently, still facing the fire. ' Oh, 
 Beatrice, I am dying to help you, but I 
 dare not give you money. Do think of 
 what your life will lead you to ! If I give 
 you money, I shall only help you to get 
 deeper, and the sin will be mine. Do 
 think of what I say!' 
 
 'Will you give me nothing to pay for a 
 meal with ?' asked Beatrice, blankly. 
 
 'i dare not; but take this. It is from 
 another, not from me ' 
 
 ' Is it from Barnard?' cried the other, 
 with unprecedented fierceness.
 
 40 AT society's expense. 
 
 ' No, it is not.' 
 
 Thereupon the suppliant, without far- 
 ther inquiry, took the sovereign from the 
 outstretched hand, and moved towards the 
 door. 
 
 ' But, Beatrice, do think again. Won't 
 you go into a comfortable Home where 
 you will ' 
 
 ' I ivill think of it.' 
 
 'And you will write to me ?' 
 
 There was no immediate response. 
 
 'You think me unkind and cruel, I 
 know,' continued Gertrude, in a tone of 
 injured resignation ; ' but I only think 
 of your welfare. I would give all the 
 money I have, if I could do you any good, 
 any real good, by it. Surely you know I 
 would ? Will you write to me soon about 
 it ? Don't wander about with — with such
 
 AFTER MANY DAYS. 41 
 
 people. Oh, Beatrice, promise me that !* 
 
 ' I must do something to live ' 
 
 'Yes, of course; but, if you don't like 
 a Home, I will get you some — some 
 employment.' 
 
 ' Situation,' interru])ted Beatrice, as it 
 seemed, not without sarcasm. 
 
 ' — some respectable employment. You 
 would be so much happier.' 
 
 ' I will see,' rejoined the elder, her nail 
 upon the well-milled coin, doubtless regu- 
 lating the degree of evasiveness in her 
 tone. 
 
 The desire of Beatrice no longer to delay 
 her sister's dinner being obvious, Ger- 
 trude, with much genuine reluctance and 
 consequently unaccustomed awkwardness, 
 ushered the visitor from the room, and 
 herself accompanied her to the back-door.
 
 42 AT society's expense. 
 
 The October wind swept in with a discon- 
 solate sough, and the luxuries of Grove 
 House were again closed to the (presum- 
 ably) impenitent's gaze. 
 
 The ' Good night ; let me hear very 
 soon,' with which she had been dismissed, 
 still played in her ears as she hurried 
 away beneath the stars. She had given it 
 no answer, — not exactly in anger or re- 
 sentment, but mere bewildering indiffer- 
 ence. It was some moments before she 
 could collect herself sufficiently to formu- 
 late any definite sensation for or against 
 her sister's behaviour towards her. For 
 very much from this casual expedition she 
 had certainly not looked. Perhaps unearned 
 benefits were not sufficiently abundant in- 
 the daily experiences of Beatrice to lead
 
 AFTEK MANY DAYS. 43 
 
 her to build largely upon the chances of 
 any such. 
 
 In the meantime, Gertrude returned 
 with hasty step to the drawing-room, and 
 apologised with some solicitude to the 
 young gentleman still recumbent there. 
 He immediately arose, touched his collar 
 and the bottom rim of his waistcoat, and 
 with ripples of facetious comment upon 
 the topic of philanthropy in general, 
 passed into the dining-room with his hand 
 lightly upon the lady's shoulder. 
 
 At table they two were alone, attended 
 by a maid : between the courses the latter 
 withdrew. A noticeable reserve held Ger- 
 trude, which for a time was played upon 
 by a careless pleasantry in Philip. A 
 faultless, moustachioed young man this^
 
 44 AT SOCIETY S EXPENSE. 
 
 upon whom the sujDerficial cynicism of 
 extreme well-being sat with a certain at- 
 tractive effect. There was an air of mild 
 deprecation in his companion, but obvi- 
 ously the banter was not irksome to her. 
 During a brief silence Philip's features 
 reflected tickling thoughts, flowing rapidly 
 on to audible laughter. Gertrude looked 
 up. 
 
 ' Poor Barnard,' exj^lained the other, 
 lightly ; ' how mad the Moon will make him ! 
 Can't you see him reading the article, 
 Gert ? I believe the old man foresaw it. 
 Gave Pildacre an advance copy of his will, 
 perhaps, for the purjDose. Why ! don't you 
 think so ?' 
 
 ' Oh, Philip, you are too shocking !' 
 ' I can't make up my mind,' Philip con- 
 tinued, pausing with a piece of bread be-
 
 AFTER MANY DAYS. 45 
 
 tween his fingers. ' Give me your advice 
 again, Gertrude. Renounce the competi- 
 tion and embrace pauperdom ; or ?' 
 
 ' It is not for me to advise. A man 
 worthy of the name ' 
 
 ' Ha ! I see,' interrupted he, Avith 
 laughter. ' But perhaps it is worth a 
 sacrifice of principle. The old man was 
 shrewd enough to depend upon that. If 
 I withdraw, Barnard simply walks in. I 
 can hardly watch that with complacency. 
 For our private satisfaction we ought to 
 put him on his trial. Don't you think 
 so ^ 
 
 ' I have full faith in your honour, 
 Philip.' 
 
 ' Thank you, Gertrude. But I am afraid 
 our ethical codes differ.' 
 
 And there was another silence.
 
 46 AT society's expense. 
 
 ' Do you ever hear of Beatrice ?' asked 
 Philip presently, when they were again 
 alone. 
 
 Gertrude jumped. Why should he have 
 put this question at this particular moment? 
 She stammered, ' Sometimes.' 
 
 ' I consider father's treatment of her 
 simply dastardly,' the gentleman went on, 
 with more seriousness than he had yet dis- 
 played. ' Xot to leave her sixpence, when 
 it was wholly through himself that she 
 came to grief! Yes, Gertrude, I assert it 
 was, wholly. What is she doing?' 
 
 This had been hitherto a screened 
 topic between them, and the sudden 
 rending of the veil disconcerted the 
 young lady. 
 
 ' I would rather not speak of it,' she said, 
 in a tone not to be mistaken.
 
 AFTER MANY DAYS. 47 
 
 ' I beg your pardon,' — and he shrugged 
 his shoulders airily. 
 
 Philip, not long at issue with the moral 
 currents, reverted to his bantering vein, 
 and all went pleasantly as before. 
 
 Meanwhile, Beatrice, gripping tightly 
 the donation of her unknown benefactor, 
 was hastening across the heath with the 
 satisfaction of immediate requirements ; any 
 suggestion of a critical outlook upon the 
 general Avorld which may have dawned 
 within her was at once removed, and she 
 rose superior to the trammels of a com- 
 parative discontent. This was the compen- 
 sating strain in the ignoble phase of the 
 young woman's development. She had so 
 much in common with the poet's mouse 
 that the present only touched her ; from
 
 48 AT society's expense. 
 
 the forward and the backward glance in- 
 cident to a more advanced organization she 
 was wholly free. 
 
 The gorse bushes now failed to startle 
 her, and the meteors which the autumn 
 wind seemed to be scattering from time to 
 time across the sky she no longer saw. 
 Her eyes travelled to the lesser lights, — 
 the material lights of that infinitesimal 
 fraction of the universe, — and in such her 
 poor dwarf soul found its fit stimulus and 
 support. Some degree of exhilaration even 
 enlivened her, — the effects of the meal, 
 doubtless, were able to assert themselves 
 unhindered. She was half whistling a tune 
 when the walls of the ' Craven Heifer ' 
 again loomed before her. 
 
 Naturally engaged in thoughts of bursting 
 triumphantly in upon her friend Helen, it
 
 AFTER MANY DAYS. 49 
 
 could not escape the notice of Beatrice 
 that the wincloAv of the room in which she 
 had left her companion Avas not as she had 
 last seen it. All the front of the house was 
 dark ; no light, even the faintest, through 
 the blinds of that window behind which, 
 surely, Helen must be. Her heart mis- 
 gave her. Had the other played her false ? 
 Broken the promises which she had exacted 
 from her? AYell she knew of her pe- 
 culiarity of temperament; well she 
 
 knew 
 
 Hastening noisily through the doorway, 
 and on to the parlour where they had re- 
 galed themselves, she found it dark and 
 unoccupied. Only the last gleeds of the 
 fire dying in the grate. It could only be a 
 trick, surely. The landlady's steps were 
 in the passage, and Beatrice turned to- 
 
 VOL. I. E
 
 50 AT society's expense. 
 
 wards the woman who came on with a 
 candle. 
 
 ' Your friend bade me tell you as she'd 
 gone on,' was the curt greeting from the 
 landlady. 
 
 Beatrice easily perceived the difference 
 of aspect in her. 
 
 ' Didn't she pay ?' she gasped. 
 
 ' Ay, ay, she paid right enough. The 
 gentleman paid, at any rate,' added the 
 woman, with a sarcasm. 
 
 The honest wonderment of the other was 
 so palpable that the woman softened. 
 
 ' You know all about it now ?' 
 
 ' I don't, Mrs. Whitak ' 
 
 The wide expansion of the other's fea- 
 tures had apparently checked Beatrice ; 
 then suffused her whole face with a blush 
 of extraordinary depth.
 
 AFTER MANY DAYS. 51 
 
 ' You, Miss Crossley, i' the company o' 
 such like ! E-eh, my !' 
 
 Beatrice instantly defied the insinua- 
 tion, and launched into a zealous and in- 
 dignant defence of her comely companion. 
 The obvious sincerity of it, if not wholly 
 convincing to the landlady's more mature 
 judgment of human affairs, at any rate al- 
 layed her resentment, and she was without 
 difficulty led to a detailed narration of the 
 course things had taken during the absence 
 of Beatrice. 
 
 E 2 
 
 UNIVERSITY Of 
 ILLINOIS LIBRARY
 
 52 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 FATE IN THE CUP. 
 
 When alone in the inn parlour, Helen had 
 cast a kindly glance upon the table which 
 she had left prematurely, with some in- 
 ward prompting, perhaps, to supplement 
 now in privacy the inadequate repast 
 which her pride had only been able to 
 allow her. If it were so, she quickly van- 
 quished the ignoble temptation, and, turn- 
 ing from the more substantial allurements, 
 she contented herself with an additional
 
 FATE IN THE CUP. 53 
 
 cup of tea. She placed her cup at the 
 edge of the table, and sat with her crossed 
 feet extended towards the fender. 
 
 It was difficult to gather from Helen's 
 mere situation and appearance any clue 
 to the inner recesses of her individual 
 world. Accepted lines failed when applied 
 to the elucidation of this personality. At 
 one moment she might have been accept- 
 ed as an accredited priestess of the con- 
 ventional ritual : at another not without 
 difficulty even as a person of mediocre 
 respectability. Reflectively, and in some- 
 thing of a masculine seated posture, she 
 stirred her tea, her elbow resting upon the 
 edge of the table. A black stalk floating 
 on the circulating surface caught her eye, 
 and as she took it on the tip of the spoon 
 she smiled.
 
 54 AT society's expense. 
 
 ' A stranger, we used to call them/ 
 she mused, with reference to the days of 
 childhood. ' What was it we used to 
 say?' 
 
 The fancy broke her reverie, and she 
 playfully placed the fragment of tea-stalk 
 upon the delicately-veined back of her 
 left hand, then smiting upon it with the 
 back of her right, said aloud, for each 
 word a blow, 
 
 * " Saturday, Sunday, Mondajr, 
 
 Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, 
 Satur " ' 
 
 The medium of augury fell to her lap, and 
 she reflected. 'Why, it is Saturday!' she 
 exclaimed aloud ; and with a laugh added^ 
 ' With a full purse my stranger come, or 
 not at all.' 
 
 Helen then picked up the newspaper
 
 FATE IN THE CUP. 55 
 
 from the floor, where Beatrice had thrown 
 it. She glanced at the title, The Aggthorj)e 
 Moon^ then to the columns. Type and 
 paper bespoke the inferior species of the 
 pi'ovincial press. It actually tore as the 
 reader opened it, and as Helen reflected, 
 for peculiar reasons, upon this fact, her 
 eye caught words which quickly banished 
 all other considerations from her mind. 
 At once she gathered herself together, 
 folded the paper into a form to be con- 
 veniently held, and read with every indi- 
 cation of absorption and surprise. This is 
 what she read : 
 
 ' THE WILL AND BENEFACTIONS OF THE LATE 
 MR. THOMAS FAINE GOLDHAWKE, J.P. 
 
 ' As promised to our readers a week or 
 two ago, we are now able to give a more
 
 56 AT SOCIETY S EXPENSE. 
 
 adequate abstract of the somewhat re- 
 markable will of the late Mr. Goldhawke, 
 of this town, than at that time appeared. 
 The will was made on the 17th of No- 
 vember last year, and Mr. Goldhawke died 
 at his residence on Warren Common on 
 the 3rd of September last, and the will 
 was proved on the 3rd of the present 
 month. The amount is declared to be 
 £394,968 2.s'. 4r/. gross, and £394,914 17^. 
 lOd. nett. 
 
 ' The deceased appoints his two sons, 
 Barnard Goldhawke, corn-factor and miller, 
 of this town, and Philip Goldhawke, of 
 the Inner Temple, barrister- at-law, as 
 trustees and executors of that his will. 
 
 ' He directs as follows : " That my body 
 shall be interred in the churchyard of 
 Eastley Parish Church, and I desire that
 
 FATE IN THE CUP. 57 
 
 all matters in connection witli my funeral 
 be as plain as possible. And I direct that 
 my trustees or trustee shall expend such 
 sums not exceeding £300 and £200 re- 
 spectively : as to the said sum of £300, 
 in placing two stained-glass windows in 
 the church of S. Wilfred's. Aggthorpe, 
 one to be in memory of my late wife and 
 the other in memory of myself; and as to 
 the said sum of £200, in placing one or 
 more stained-glass windows in the said 
 parish church of Eastley. And I also 
 direct my trustees or trustee to expend a 
 sum not exceeding £100 in the erection 
 of two granite crosses, one to be placed 
 on the grave of my late wife at the said 
 church of S. Wilfred's, and the other on 
 my own grave at the said church of 
 Eastley. I direct that my niece, Ger-
 
 58 AT SOCIETY S EXPENSE. 
 
 trude Crossley, who has proved herself 
 such a trustworthy and judicious house- 
 keeper to me for several years past, select 
 such articles as she may think proper 
 (not exceeding in the whole the value of 
 £1,000) out of my gold watches, jewellery,, 
 trinkets, books, furniture, pictures, arti- 
 cles of vertu, silver, and silver-plated 
 goods, etc. Also I bequeath to the said 
 Gertrude Crossley, and direct to be paid 
 to her as soon after death as possible, 
 free of legacy duty, the sum of £10,000." 
 
 ' The testator, in addition, bequeaths 
 the sum of £150 to the said Gertrude 
 Crossley to distribute amongst the poor 
 of Eastley, Warren Common, and neigh- 
 bourhood, at her discretion entirely. 
 
 ' With regard to the whole of the rest 
 and residue of his estate, the testator
 
 FATE IX THE CUP. 59 
 
 bequeaths it to his two executors in the 
 following noteworthy manner : " To hold 
 the said residue and the various securities 
 in which it may for the time being be 
 invested wholly upon trust for such one 
 of my said sons and executors as shall, 
 within twelve months from tlie day of my 
 death, prove to the satisfaction of William 
 Elliott Strangeways of Aggthorpe afore- 
 said, solicitor, that he is joined in lawful 
 matrimony, according to the rites of the 
 Church of England, to a lady not exceed- 
 ing the age of 25 years, possessed abso- 
 lutely of a capital sum in real or personal 
 property, or both, exceeding in amount 
 that possessed by such lady (if any) as 
 shall be in pursuance of and in accord- 
 ance with this proviso lawfully married to 
 the other of my said sons and executors ;
 
 60 AT society's expense. 
 
 and should any difference or differences 
 arise in such adjudication, with regard 
 to valuation of securities or otherwise, 
 the decision of the said William Elliott 
 ■Strangeways in any such case shall be 
 final and conclusive. Upon further trust, 
 in case neither of my said sons shall by 
 the time and in manner aforesaid, to the 
 satisfaction of the said William Elliott 
 Strangeways as aforesaid, have married, 
 to transfer the whole of the said residue 
 and the securities, etc., to the trustees for 
 the time being of the Aggthorpe Indus- 
 trial and Fine Art Institution, to be held 
 by them for such purposes in such man- 
 ner and upon such conditions as are 
 expressed and declared by a Deed Poll 
 under my hand and seal bearing date, etc., 
 and to be lodged immediately u]3on my
 
 FATE IN THE CUP. 61 
 
 decease in the hands of the Worshipful 
 the Mayor for the time being of the 
 said borough of Aggthorpe." ' 
 
 Such was the article in which Helen 
 found so profound an interest, and it per- 
 haps warranted her concluding exclamation 
 of ' Well !' Her lips and eyebrows had 
 played continually throughout the whole 
 time of its perusal, and, now that she had 
 finished it, she laid the paper in her lap 
 and beamed with an overflow of irrepres- 
 sible enjoyment. Having briefly indulged 
 the mood reflected in her features, she 
 again took up the paper, and, presumably 
 prompted by some definite mental sug- 
 gestion, traced its columns at a glance. 
 In an instant her eyes were again alight, 
 and she read eagerly. More prominent
 
 62 AT SOCIETY S EXPENSE. 
 
 type this, and the vein professedly editorial. 
 Helen read: 
 
 ' The will of Mr. Goldhawke, our late 
 well-known townsman, which in another 
 column we have given in some detail, 
 affords solid pabulum for the ruminating 
 observer of these days. At the time of 
 the o^entleman's demise, we threw a casual 
 glance in this direction, but delicacy for- 
 bade our tlwi scrutinizing personalities too 
 closely. Advisedly we reserved the few 
 remarks which duty calls upon us to make 
 until this time, when, — so rapidly alas ! do 
 the waves of current life rush past us, — 
 our deceased townsman may, without 
 affectation or offence, be said to belong to 
 the public history of this borough. 
 
 ' To the most casual observer it must 
 be plain how the trend towards socialism
 
 FATE IX THE CUP. 63 
 
 is powerfully accelerated by such a will as 
 this of Mr. Goldhawke's. Our line upon 
 this topic is sufficiently known to our 
 numerous readers. When, since the insti- 
 tution of this journal, did we in season or 
 out of season refrain from snatching a 
 moral to adorn a tale ? Never ; with con- 
 fidential challenge we assert it. Xor shall 
 we do so in this flagrant, and withal preg- 
 nant, instance. 
 
 ' AYe court not personalities, nay, we 
 do our utmost to avoid any appearance of 
 such ; but our clear duty lies before us. 
 Mr. Thomas Paine Goldhawke was well 
 known to this borough, his enterprise and 
 his eccentricities alike. A proletariat of 
 the proletariat, baptized in the name of a 
 prophet, who could foresee that such ex- 
 tremity of ignominy could be awaiting
 
 64 AT society's expense, 
 
 liim ? Originally a second-liand sack mer- 
 chant, then successively and in combination 
 corn-factor, flour-miller, and maltster, ad- 
 vanced wholly by individual cunning and 
 enterprise, what a glorious opportunity 
 was before him ! But the yawning depths 
 of this absolutely tragical omission we have 
 no present intention of sounding, we shall 
 return to it again ; let us glance merely 
 at that Avhich has actually been committed. 
 ' Our dehnition of property is well 
 known to all, and we need not here re- 
 state it. How has Mr. Goldhawke con- 
 formed to it? He has accumulated, by 
 •legal means certainly, and as a result of 
 his own individual enterprise, Avhat with- 
 out exaggeration we may call enormous 
 wealth, and how has his acquisition been 
 justified? How has he acquitted himself
 
 FATE IN THE CUP. Q5 
 
 in his stewardship ? Alas, the answer is 
 too obvious. This man has imagined his 
 possessions his own, and has, in ungarbled 
 parlance, juggled with them, gambled with 
 them from the dark and narrow limits of 
 his coffin with the sole purpose of indulg- 
 ing a morbid and misanthropic craving. 
 In his lifetime, beneficence was unknown 
 to him, in his death it is unsuspected. His 
 reply to the appeal for help in a noble 
 public undertaking not many years ago, is 
 only too well remembered : " I only con- 
 tribute to the extension and maintenance 
 of jails and lunatic asylums." Such was 
 this man throughout life, so is he in death. 
 Duly weigh it, readers, and the scandalous 
 iniquity it involves. 
 
 ' The spectacle of a very large fortune 
 accumulated in a single lifetime, the pos- 
 
 VOL. I. F
 
 66 AT society's expense. 
 
 sessor of whicli has made no provision in 
 his will for the return of any part of it to 
 the people, by whom alone he has made 
 his wealth, naturally sets us thinking. 
 Unfortunately we have not yet come to 
 put a price on the head of a millionaire, as 
 was of yore put upon the head of a wolf, 
 but this ultimate goal already looms upon 
 the horizon. Millionaires may be tem- 
 porarily allowed to exist ; but they must 
 justify their existence by proving that they 
 are capable of doing things for the public, 
 which the public cannot do for itself; 
 hence the wise millionaire will pay liberal 
 ransom not only during his life, but also 
 at his death. These men forget that they 
 are but stewards entrusted with the ad- 
 ministration of their wealth for the benefit 
 of mankind.
 
 FATE IN THE CUP. 67 
 
 ' Made no provision, we say. But the 
 ultimate trust? it may be objected. Anger 
 lis not, kind reader. Is this provision ? 
 This consummate sarcasm of an unprinci- 
 pled cynic. How he grins over in his quiet 
 grave yonder ! Industrial and Fine Art 
 Institutions, will you benefit ? Will sons 
 magnanimously decline the competitive 
 chase of gilded women that they may pro- 
 mote your interests ? Do you think it ? 
 Did he think it ? Too well we know the 
 magnanimity of the testator. His sole 
 object was to sow dissension by his life- 
 less fingers, as he had persistently done 
 by them living. His domestic quarrels 
 are notorious ; he was unwilling in his 
 ofrave to foresro them. He has endeavoured 
 to intensify the hatred of his children to- 
 wards himself; to implant irrevocable dis- 
 
 f2
 
 68 AT society's expense. 
 
 cord between them ; and to invite the con- 
 tempt and the execration of all mankind. 
 In our opinion he has admirably effected 
 his object, and we solicit a universal com- 
 mination over his ashes and his memory.' 
 
 ' Amen, amen !' cried Helen, aloud 
 through her laughter when she had finish- 
 ed the perusal of this notable provincial 
 leader. ' But poor old Bee ! Not a cent. 
 The mean scoundrel I' 
 
 This wholly unlooked-for discovery of 
 the death of Beatrice's uncle, and conse- 
 quent testamentary curiosities, afforded 
 Helen ample matter for reflection. Her 
 thouo:hts did not follow the current in- 
 dicated by the editor of the Aggthorpe 
 Moon, who, it may be here mentioned, 
 w^as none other than this young lady's 
 own father ; but they took a wholly in-
 
 FATE IN THE CUP. 69 
 
 dependent channel more accordant to the 
 sex and disposition of the reader. She 
 could not fail to follow her friend Beatrice 
 on her errand, and speculate upon her 
 reception. 
 
 Helen knew nothing of the Gold- 
 hawke household beyond what rumour 
 and talk with Beatrice had afforded her. 
 From these premisses, she found it im- 
 possible to foresee what the attitude of 
 Miss Gertrude Crossley might be. She 
 grew really curious about it. Her glance 
 flitted to and from the paper before her. 
 She grew impatient for her companion's 
 return. Above all she longed to exchange 
 words with somebody about it, and with 
 whom more profitably than with Beatrice, 
 who would be able positively to add to the 
 information. It seemed so long since she
 
 70 AT SOCIETY S EXPENSE. 
 
 had left her ; was she going to stay there 
 with her sister altogether? That would 
 imply petty treachery to herself here at 
 the inn, therefore the suggestion was in- 
 stantly rejected. Whatever her ultimate 
 arrangements, Beatrice would unquestion- 
 ably return hither to liberate Helen from 
 her dilemma. Their parting skirmish had 
 at any rate secured that. 
 
 How long Helen remained in this state 
 of eager exj)ectancy she could not have 
 determined ; it seemed a very long time 
 to her. At length a footstep was audible 
 on the pavement without, a hurried foot- 
 step, such as betokened with certainty the 
 arrival of the expected one. Helen jump- 
 ed up, and stood just within the doorway. 
 The outer door was opened, and the new- 
 comer came forward into the inn. But
 
 FATE IN THE CUP. 71 
 
 unfortunately it was a man, — as was 
 immediately obvious, a gentleman. 
 
 ' Have two young ladies called liere 
 recently?' he exclaimed, with what ap- 
 peared needless impetuosity as he burst 
 into the room. 
 
 Helen turned around and retreated to- 
 wards the fireplace. 
 
 ' Yes, and have just had tea,' she replied, 
 with her back towards him. 
 
 ' They have ! Have they gone into 
 
 Aggthorpe, or are they ' he checked 
 
 himself, stepped forward, and gazed at 
 her side-face. Then she returned the look. 
 
 ' It is you,' was his complacent com- 
 ment ; and in response to Helen's dignified 
 reserve he added, ' Pray pardon the in- 
 trusion.' 
 
 Then he fell back a pace or two, as
 
 72 AT society's expense. 
 
 though to recover his composure, and 
 there was a brief silence. 
 
 ' You must forgive my pursuing you like 
 this/ the gentleman re-commenced, with 
 light pleasantry. ' I could not resist the 
 impulse. As soon as I heard of the 
 disaster, I hastened to find you. I have 
 come on horseback.' 
 
 'Indeed!' returned the other, and at 
 the moment, without any preliminary an- 
 nouncement, the landlady entered. 
 
 Helen glared at her indignantly, but 
 only said, 
 
 ' Let me have your bill, please.' 
 
 ' Two shillings each, miss.' replied the 
 woman, moving the cups and plates to the 
 tray. 
 
 With consummate assurance, Helen 
 placed her hand to her pocket and produced
 
 FATE IN THE CUP. 73 
 
 a purse which to her certain knowledge con- 
 tained one well-worn farthing, kept there 
 'for luck.' But her instinct did not deceive 
 her. The farthing discharged her liabilities 
 as it had often done before. Before the 
 purse had been opened, the gentleman step- 
 ped courteously forward, and with ' Allow 
 me, Miss Ilderton,' placed the money upon 
 the table. The young lady remonstrated, 
 ultimately inclined her fair head gracious- 
 ly, and put back her purse. 
 
 The hostess left the room with a trayful 
 of things. 
 
 ' May I accompany you into Aggthorpe?' 
 asked Helen's obliging acquaintance. 
 
 Enlightened by an unex23ected flash of 
 thought, she "acquiesced and thanked him. 
 He left to have his horse stabled, and she 
 gave the necessary message for the aban-
 
 74 AT society's expense. 
 
 doned Beatrice. In a few minutes the 
 pair departed from the inn in company. 
 
 Full half an hour more elapsed ere 
 Beatrice returned. To find Helen gone, 
 and as it seemed in the company of a gen- 
 tleman, inspired her with the extremity of 
 surprise. The furthest detail that she 
 could extract from the now favourably 
 disposed hostess failed to afford her the 
 slightest glimmer of enlightenment, so that 
 she was needs content to await the interposi- 
 tion of events themselves. The converse of 
 Beatrice with the landlady of the ' Craven 
 Heifer ' seemed to arouse some possibility 
 of friendly communion between them, and 
 the former, being now left unreservedly to 
 her own devices, and by no means em- 
 barrassed by a multiplicity of beckoning 
 harbours for her tired craft, was Avithout
 
 FATE IN THE CUP. 75 
 
 difficulty persuaded to strike sail in this 
 first ' quiet rode' so unexpectedly offered 
 her. Speedily Beatrice was installed in 
 the snug seclusion of the Saturday-night 
 kitchen, a more favourable specimen of 
 which no north-country housewife could 
 boast than could Mrs. Whitaker of the 
 'Craven Heifer,' Warren Common. Here 
 under the grateful encouragement of 
 warmth of various qualities, a well-milled 
 coin in her purse, and, tell it not to the young 
 lady at dinner yonder, a tumbler on the 
 hob, Beatrice found herself capable of ex- 
 panding to a degree that she had long ago 
 considered extinct in her. To her tales 
 Mrs. Whitaker attended with matronly 
 interest and criticism.
 
 76 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 KNIGHT-ERRANTRY. 
 
 ' It was unkind of you, Miss Ilderton, to 
 deny me the pleasure of doing a small 
 service for you,' said Helen's visitor for 
 the second time, as the two walked leis- 
 urely across the heath, townwards. 
 
 ' But if the service was not acceptable 
 to me, it is surely easily explained,' was 
 the light rejoinder. 
 
 ' You know that I refuse to accept that 
 as an explanation,' said the gentleman, 
 with the utmost good humour. ' You
 
 KNIGHT-ERR AXTRY. 77 
 
 don't think that I should wish to buy 
 you, surely. Do you think because you 
 should put me under an obligation that I 
 should take a base advantage of it, and 
 attempt to impose conditions on you. 
 Naturally you cannot know much of me, 
 seeing that our acquaintance has been so 
 superficial and of but a few days' dura- 
 tion. I can only ask you to take my word 
 for it.' 
 
 Helen laughed. 
 
 ' Your experience doesn't urge you to 
 accept a man's word in such a con- 
 nection?' 
 
 ' Perhaps not. Moreover, is it custom- 
 ary to receive substantial benefits from a 
 casual acquaintance when there can be no 
 opportunity of returning them in any 
 manner whatsoever?'
 
 78 AT society's expense. 
 
 ' I had perhaps hoped that we had got 
 beyond the casualty.' 
 
 Helen did not reply to this, and it was 
 some seconds before the other resumed. 
 
 ' You told me that you had not been 
 long with that travelling company. Was 
 that your first experience of the stage ?' 
 
 ' It was.' 
 
 ' And do your experiences satisfy you, 
 may I ask ?' enquired he, with a laugh. 
 
 ^ Oh, quite, quite.' 
 
 He tried to scan her face in the ob- 
 scurity. 
 
 ' At any rate, they have the charm of 
 variety.' 
 
 ' Which your former experiences had 
 not, I presume?' 
 
 ' Not exactly. I was a governess in 
 genteel families.'
 
 KXIGIIT-ERRANTRY. 79 
 
 ' I discerned at least that you were not 
 a native of the circle in which I found 
 you. You will not return to that kind of 
 thing?' 
 
 ' I certainly know of nothing to per- 
 suade me to the contrary.' 
 
 ' Impossible, impossible ! As a freak it 
 is intelligible, but I will not believe that 
 you have any inclination to be buried in 
 such ignominy.' 
 
 There was much earnestness in his tone, 
 and Helen did not make fun of it. 
 
 ' Let us get out of the way of these 
 people,' he added, impulsively, turning 
 away over the short soft turf of the 
 common. 
 
 A group of noisy marketers came 
 alone: the road behind them. Helen fol- 
 lowed him without demur.
 
 80 AT society's expense. 
 
 ' You can't pretend, Miss Ilderton, that 
 you prefer that kind of life ?' 
 
 ' On the whole, I don't think I can : 
 but none the less my inclinations are by 
 no means towards what you would call 
 respectability.' 
 
 ' What 1 would call ! Naturally you 
 think I stickle for conventional definitions,, 
 but you are mistaken. Does this action 
 of mine suggest it? At any rate, your 
 inclinations can't be towards anything 
 savouring of baseness ; and all removed 
 from ' 
 
 ' Baseness, like respectability, is but a 
 comparative term.' 
 
 'How comparative?' he retorted. 
 
 ' Differs according to different views of 
 life. What is positive, beyond a brick or 
 — an empty purse ?'
 
 KNIGHT-ERRANTRY. 81 
 
 She laughed. 
 
 ' Very much, I hope. So you are a 
 sceptic, are you? If you come to that, 
 I see no more certainty in a brick than in 
 a moral axiom. To my dense perception 
 the solidity of worthy action is as firmly 
 established as that of a brick, or even an 
 empty purse. If you are sceptical on one 
 point, surel}' you are equally sceptical 
 upon the other. The world can have no 
 real existence about you.' 
 
 Helen lauo-hed ao^ain. 
 
 ' But you are a lawyer, you see,' she 
 said. ' That makes things seem very 
 positive to you.' 
 
 ' Then let us abandon comparative 
 terms. Is personal comfort fairly 
 positive?' 
 
 ' Moderately so, but I am by no means 
 
 VOL. I. G
 
 •82 AT SOCIETY S EXPENSE. 
 
 scrupulously fastidious about it myself. 
 My personal comfort is inextricably in- 
 volved in intellectual satisfaction. Ma- 
 terial comfort cannot exist for me without 
 the other.' 
 
 Her companion gathered some slight 
 satisfaction from this reply, however 
 deficient in his own particular strain of 
 ethics. 
 
 ' I am glad of that,' he said. ' May I 
 Avithout presumption ask how you propose 
 to adjust these two requirements in Agg- 
 thorpe to-night?' 
 
 ' Oh, yes. I have friends there. Inti- 
 mate friends whom I have known all my 
 life. I shall stay for a few days with 
 them.' 
 
 ' Certainly. Is it too impudent to ask if
 
 KNIGHT-EREANTRY. 83 
 
 you will let me know by letter when you 
 go from there and your plans.' 
 
 ' I can have no objection,' was Helen's 
 light reply. 
 
 'You will, really?' exclaimed the other, 
 betraying in his tone the surprise which 
 her acquiescence caused him. 
 
 ' I will, since you are kind enough to 
 trouble about me.' 
 
 The man felt an acute thrill of pleasure, 
 and replied with some fervour. 
 
 ' I do trouble about you. Miss Ilderton, 
 as, if you ever feel disposed to put my 
 interest to the test, you will speedily dis- 
 cover. With that promise the object of 
 my pursuit is effected, but you will allow 
 me to accompany you into the town.' 
 
 ' Thank you ; for some part of the way, 
 at any rate.' 
 
 g2
 
 84 AT society's expense. 
 
 Therewith they turned again towards 
 the high-road and walked very briskly 
 forward. 
 
 After about a quarter-of-an-hour's walk- 
 ing, past scattered houses, blighted trees 
 and hedgerows, and tumbled-down walls, 
 lamp-lights began, and by their light, and 
 by that from an occasional shop, long dreary 
 rows of new brick houses became visible, 
 giving indications of prosperous suburban 
 extensions from a manufacturing centre. 
 With a view, perhaps, to warding off the 
 more personal topics to which the conver- 
 sation constantly tended, Helen here in- 
 dulged in cynical criticism of the evi- 
 dences of progress which surrounded 
 them, — criticism necessarily somewhat 
 tinged by the temj)orary colour imparted 
 to her vision by her father's leading ar-
 
 KNIGHT-ERRANTRY. 85 
 
 tide recently perused. But, indepen- 
 dently, the young lady displayed an 
 imagination of considerable native refine- 
 ment, and, judging by bis responses, even 
 her present companion seemed to gather 
 gratification from her remarks. 
 
 At length they reached paved street- 
 ways, and passengers became more nu- 
 merous. Huge factory buildings loomed 
 upon all hands, and the atmosphere was 
 becoming more redolent of unmistakable 
 prosperity, when Helen stopped beneath 
 a lamp-post growing from the top of a low 
 wall. She leaned with her elbows upon 
 the wall and looked over. The lights 
 Avere reflected in a mass of moving black- 
 ness below, from which arose : 
 
 ' Cocytus' breath, 
 And all the poisons of the Stygian pool.'
 
 86 AT society's expense. 
 
 Helen smiled sarcastically, and pointed 
 at the gurgling flow of the semi-liquid 
 pollution, known to geographers and 
 others as the River Cloak er. At the 
 farther extremity of the bridge stood one 
 of Goldhawke's flour-mills, sending forth 
 incessantly, Saturday night though it was, 
 the restless din of its champing machin- 
 ery. Added to it was the fume and howl 
 of Goldhawke's iron-foundry, standing by 
 the river bank some short way farther down, 
 whilst scattered in near propinquity were 
 grease-works, glass-bottle factories, mungo 
 and shoddy mills, breweries, and numerous 
 other such indicia of the prosperity and 
 well-being of the town of Aggthorpe. 
 
 ' Here we will part,' said Helen at last. 
 'It is a fitting spot. Good-bye, Mr. 
 Se croft.'
 
 KNIGHT-EREANTRY. 87 
 
 Offering further thanks, the young lady 
 extended her hand. 
 
 'You will remember your promise?' said 
 the other, taking the proffered hand and 
 holding it. 
 
 ' Certainly.' 
 
 And they parted. 
 
 As this young lawyer from AVallborough 
 retraeed his steps leisurely towards the 
 ' Craven Heifer ' on AVarreii Common, he 
 had the first opportunity of calmly reflect- 
 ing upon the course he had been pursuing. 
 This interview with Helen had by no 
 means diminished the power of her fasci- 
 nation over him. Clement Secroft was 
 looked upon by his more matter-of-fact 
 acquaintance as of just a shadow too strict 
 a habit for complete sociability amongst
 
 88 AT SOCIETY S EXPENSE. 
 
 an easy-going circle ; it would therefore 
 have caused no little surprise and amuse- 
 ment, to his less rigid censors, if it could 
 have been generally known to them that 
 his sensibility had led him into this degree 
 of intercourse with a member of the dra- 
 matic company whose summary dispersal 
 was just now the main source of their con- 
 versational entertainment. Clement him- 
 self, even now in the greater clearness of 
 his vision, saw no cloud of conscientious 
 alarm on the horizon, but he did venture 
 calmly to question the wisdom of the con- 
 duct into which a mere generous impulse 
 had been able to lead him. Of this would- 
 be actress he knew positively nothing ; of 
 the conventional presumption to which 
 her position would inevitably give rise he 
 could not profess ignorance. That he was
 
 KNIGHT-ERRANTRY. 89 
 
 proceeding warily and honourably, how- 
 ever, he quickly assured himself, and from, 
 that gathered a sufficiency of immediate 
 satisfaction. He returned briskly to the 
 inn, in getting his horse underwent the 
 scrutiny of the curious Beatrice, and rode 
 away for Wallborough, a distance of some 
 eiirhteen miles from Warren Common.
 
 90 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 THE MAN IN THE ' MOON.' 
 
 Helen, in the meantime, crossed the bridge 
 at which she had dismissed her cavalier, 
 and entered the town of Aggthorpe. The 
 pavements of the broad street, illumined 
 by the glare of a continuous series of shop- 
 windows, disphiyed the customary Satur- 
 day night throng of the locality. The girl 
 seemed to glance critically about her as 
 she threaded her way amongst the eager 
 populace, and she received many inquiring
 
 THE MAN IN THE ' MOON.' 91 
 
 glances in return. General hubbub per- 
 vaded the lower atmosphere, absorbing 
 enough to eye and ear levelled to the 
 horizontal, but if by chance the face was 
 raised to the expanse between the house- 
 tops, this restless turmoil assumed more 
 fitting proportions beneath the silent glance 
 of those higher ' sleepless ministers ' ad- 
 vancing so composedly. Helen did obtain 
 such glance, and something certainly of 
 such suggestion ; but, whilst she appro- 
 priated much of the application as regarded 
 the scene around her, very little of that 
 was hers Avhich pertained to the scene 
 above. 
 
 Not for long did this mood of abstraction 
 continue. Before proceeding far along the 
 street a cry reached the ears of Helen, 
 which, despite the reference to the eter-
 
 92 AT society's expense. 
 
 nities Avhich it involved, brought her very 
 closely to the less significant concerns of 
 her own more familiar planet. 
 
 ' Mooji ! Moon /' rang in shrillest of 
 prolonged accents above the general din. 
 ' Fourth edition ! Ree-markable will of a 
 townsman ! Fullest details !' 
 
 ' Ay, it's owd Gowdhawke's,' she heard 
 from the lips of a passenger. ' A rum un 
 an' all. Has-tur seen it, Liza ?' 
 
 Helen heard the negative, the conse- 
 quent persuasion from the original speaker, 
 and saw with satisfaction the copper pro- 
 duced. This ' fourth edition ' exhilarated 
 her, and it spurred her to more speedy 
 progress. As she ascended the street, 
 many similar cries greeted her, so that 
 when she reached a small stationer's shop 
 Avith a dark, arched court beside it, over
 
 THE MAN IN THE ' MOON.' 9^ 
 
 the window of which by the lamplight 
 could be read, ' Pildacre, Bookseller, etc.,^ 
 and on the window-panes, ' Moo7i Office,*" 
 she felt in boisterous spirits. By the win- 
 dow of this shop she stood, and peered! 
 through the collection of cheap works ^ 
 stationery, and nick-nacks which was pre- 
 sented to the public gaze, endeavouring to 
 get a glimpse of the shop within. She 
 moved at times to enlarge the range of her 
 inspection, and at length seemed satisfied. 
 Then she entered. 
 
 An elderly woman was seated knitting 
 behind the counter, and she raised her 
 spectacled features as the door opened, 
 then rose expectantly as the customer ad- 
 vanced. Helen drew near with some face- 
 tious inquiry, but was checked by her 
 mother's instant exclamation.
 
 94 AT society's expense. 
 
 'Why, Nelly!' 
 
 ' Fourth edition, mother !' returned the 
 other, warding off any more expansive 
 greeting. 
 
 ' Fourth edition, my child ;' and the 
 mother's face glowed in an instant. 
 
 ' Did we begin with a second or third ?' 
 
 ' With a first, my child ! A first ! A 
 first of a thousand, and three more of five 
 hundred each ! But, Nelly ' 
 
 ' Patience, mother. We will indulge in 
 greetings presently. I must see father 
 under this intoxicating visitation. He is 
 at the press, I suppose?' 
 
 'He is, my child: working himself to 
 death, what with toil and excitement. We 
 have only got Jesse Oldroyd with us now,' 
 added the good woman, with an audible 
 sigh ; ' and it is too much for them.'
 
 THE MAN IN THE ' MOON.' 95 
 
 Ere the last sentence was completed, 
 Helen had left the shop, and her mother's 
 eyes rested wistfully upon the spot whence 
 the girl had disappeared. Mrs. Pildacre 
 sighed again, then sank upon her chair, 
 and again still lower — vanishing into those 
 depths, so mysterious and fascinating to 
 the mind of imaginative childhood, the 
 inside of a tradesman's counter. There 
 was the soft report of a cork removed, a 
 gurgle, and in a moment the journalist's 
 wife again occupied her chair, with a white 
 handkerchief to her lips. 
 
 Helen turned up the dark entry beside 
 the shop-window, and, after proceeding 
 some paces, stopped before a dark door. 
 Up above, a strong light shot from the 
 window, illuminating a patch of the high 
 brick wall opposite, and displaying there
 
 96 AT society's expense. 
 
 the shadow of a figure in constant move- 
 ment. A regular thudding sound issued 
 from the building, and appeared to shake 
 the whole structure to the very foundation. 
 The girl only lingered a few seconds, then 
 opened the door, and, finding all still dark 
 within, paused. From her familiarity with 
 the place, she knew that a flight of stairs 
 was immediately before her ; but she ex- 
 tended her hand to assure herself of the 
 fact. In doing so, she could perceive a 
 ray of light shooting from the chink round 
 the door at the head of the stairs ; then, 
 closing the door by which she had entered, 
 she ascended. The woodwork trembled 
 beneath the incessant thuds of the machin- 
 ery at work, and, above, Helen paused 
 again. She could distinctly hear a voice 
 raised within.
 
 THE MAN IN THE ' MOON.' 9 7 
 
 ' New plant, wholly new plant, Jesse, 
 affording clearer type and an enlarged 
 page : that is what we want, that is what 
 we shall have. My life begins, Jesse : 
 what fields are open to me ! Didn't I tell 
 you ?' 
 
 Some reply was made, but the distance 
 of the speaker from the door precluded 
 his words from being audible. 
 
 ' Every farthing to-night, Jesse,' came 
 in the former voice. ' Every farthing you 
 shall receive. You have saved me, Jesse, 
 and you know me for no ' 
 
 The door opened suddenly, and the 
 speaker stopped. At the next instant a 
 pair of arms, naked to the elbow, and 
 black for the greater part of that distance, 
 were flung into the air, and a wild 
 ' Hurrah !' rose above the din of the 
 
 VOL. I. H
 
 ^8 AT SOCIETY S EXPENSE. 
 
 working-room. The man clasped his 
 daughter in his arms, and his eyes were 
 tear-bound. 
 
 ' Helen !' he cried, ecstatically. ' Oh, 
 Helen ! You see my triumph. We — 
 we are on the fifth !' 
 
 The girl showed no inclination to shirk 
 his embraces, despite ink and perspir- 
 ation. 
 
 ' You come opportunely, my girl,' con- 
 tinued the printer, in a broken voice ; ' I 
 can kill the fatted calf other than in 
 hy-hyperbole. I am meditating a re- 
 moval, or an enlargement of existing 
 premises, Helen.' The man ended by 
 shouting at full voice, for he had re- 
 turned to his frame. ' But we will talk 
 of it. Now my triumph is complete, 
 absolutely complete.'
 
 THE MAN IN THE ' MOON.' 99 
 
 And the man of emotion looked for an 
 instant, with enthusiastic tenderness, upon 
 the face of his daughter. 
 
 This proprietor, editor, and printer of 
 the Aggtliorpe Moon seemed a man of well- 
 preserved middle-age. His head in great 
 part Laid; his face, thin and eager, fringed 
 with a spare, grey beard. Upon the crest 
 of his bald forehead appeared two circular 
 black daubs, one above each temple, which 
 gave him an odd and somewhat super- 
 natural appearance in his present state of 
 excitement. The explanation of these two 
 marks was soon afforded, for from time 
 to time as he worked, when presumably 
 overpowered by the intensity of reflection 
 upon the vast horizon suddenly laid bare 
 before him, he placed the tip of the thumb 
 and second finger of his right hand upon 
 
 h2
 
 too AT society's expense. 
 
 liis brow, finding, by length of habit,, 
 exactly the same spot each time. 
 
 There was about this man none of the 
 listless, mechanical abandonment so pain- 
 fully conspicuous in the ordinary, present- 
 day slaves of a machine. Nor did the 
 ignoble interest in the few rascal coun- 
 ters which his toil represented by any 
 means explain the difference. Whatever 
 the faults of Nahum Pildacre, and he con- 
 fessed to several, the misinterpretation of 
 the relative value of counters was not one 
 of them. The man at least had a soul 
 above pelf — above yours and mine, it is 
 true, every bit as much as above his own, 
 if we were foolish enough to give him the 
 opportunity of displaying it. He had a 
 more or less clear view of a horizon other 
 than that bounded by the narrow limits
 
 101 
 
 of his printing-house yard. Look at him 
 closely, and you saw this in his eye. His 
 was not the conscious eye of sordid limi- 
 tation. Call it anything but that. The- 
 oretical, sanguine, delusive, at times even 
 frenzied, eye, if you will ; but at any rate 
 a spiritual one. If he missed his golden 
 crown, it would be from over-shooting the 
 glittering points of it, not from raking 
 amidst the muck in which his feet were 
 planted. 
 
 Helen was conscious of a definite thrill 
 of exhilaration as she gazed at her father. 
 However vaguely in the matter of direc- 
 tion, she caught his spirit of artistic en- 
 thusiasm in the abstract, and felt elate 
 she knew not why. From this she felt a 
 need of action, and, pulling her gloves 
 from her delicate fingers, she fell upon
 
 102 AT society's expense. 
 
 the heap of copies fluno- from the press 
 and proceeded to fold them. Her father 
 approved with a yell of encouragement, 
 and so the work went on. 
 
 It was an eight-page paper, one sheet 
 of which Pildacre himself manipulated, 
 the other his henchman. These Helen 
 combined and folded down the centre. 
 Throughout the day, the piles had been 
 carried to the shop for distribution, the 
 division of labour not being otherwise 
 compassable ; but now, with this addi- 
 tional pair of hands, Helen herself sug- 
 gested a re-arrangement. She accord- 
 ingly fled to communicate it to her 
 mother, who, for the rest of the evening, 
 referred boys applying for copies to the 
 doorway up the yard. Here Helen sup-
 
 THE MAN IX THE ' MOON.' 103 
 
 23lied their needs, and things proceeded 
 merrily. 
 
 Although demand for the papers had, 
 apparently, for some time ceased, it ^vas 
 nearly ten o'clock before Pildacre could 
 be persuaded to forego the dazzling pros- 
 pect of yet a sixth edition. With visible 
 disappointment, he was at length con- 
 strained toAvipe his brow, and view the small 
 heap of papers whicli lingered on his hands. 
 
 ' Xevertheless, it is a triumph,' he 
 remarked, musingly, with his finger-tips 
 upon his bald forehead. ' Don't you 
 think it is a triumph, Helen, my girl ? 
 Don't you, Jesse, my man ?' 
 
 Both onlookers afforded, in unmistak- 
 able tone, the assurance expected from 
 them, and Xahum beamed before them.
 
 104: AT society's expense. 
 
 ' It is a triumph,' lie continued, reflec- 
 tively. ' An opinion of the gravest mo- 
 ment has, this day, been attended to by 
 one — two — by several thousands of intel- 
 ligent citizens, (more or less,) and it is 
 beyond the bounds of the most common 
 probability that every seed should have 
 fallen upon barren ground. It cannot 
 have done so, I say. Helen, I have a 
 future.' 
 
 ' I believe it, father.' 
 
 And each regarded the other compla- 
 cently. 
 
 The proprietor continued in his san- 
 guine vein, whilst he and his attendant 
 were tidying the work-room preparatory 
 to departure for the night. Vast journal- 
 istic enterprise, of a desperately didactic 
 kind, was formulated in ejaculatory out-
 
 THE MAN IN THE ' MOON.' 105 
 
 line, casually involving in the project the 
 outlay of capital of no niggardly propor- 
 tions. Helen heard and watched her 
 father with considerable curiosity ; as- 
 senting unreservedly to every one of his 
 numerous appeals to her, and perhaps 
 really feeling a dawn of a suspicion that 
 this poor father, whom, in the exuberance 
 of her maidenhood, she had perceived to 
 be little better than a lunatic, was, after 
 all, one of the down-trodden great ones 
 of the universe. The man Jesse, as he 
 went about his occupation, was content 
 with a continuous shrug of the shoulders. 
 At length the trio withdrew from the 
 workshop, secured it for the night, and 
 went to a side-door lower down the yard 
 which gave private entrance to the jour- 
 nalist's domestic sanctities. To Helen's
 
 106 AT society's expense. 
 
 surprise, in the dark passage witHn, her 
 father grasped her shoulder and placed 
 her against the wall, — he had done the 
 same, with the other hand, by his long- 
 suiFering assistant, — and whispered hur- 
 riedly, 'One moment — strict silence.' With 
 stealthy movement, Pildacre passed on 
 tip-toe over the worn-out matting, not seen 
 but heard, and mentally followed by the 
 other two. A door opened with sudden- 
 ness, lamplight flashed along the passage, 
 the man's shadow in it, and all again was 
 dark. The two for some moments heard 
 no more. 
 
 Having closed the door behind him, 
 Pildacre was instantly in the shop. Three 
 strides brought him to the side of the 
 woman, still sitting behind the counter;
 
 THE MAN IN THE 'MOON.' 107 
 
 and she, opening her eyes suddenly, 
 stared at him in bewilderment. To one 
 in supreme command of all faculties, 
 Xahum must at that moment have pre- 
 sented a disconcerting spectacle. His 
 brows were knit beneath that bald ex- 
 panse, flanked by the two great black 
 daubs above either temple, and his eyes 
 flashed between enthusiasm and alarm. 
 As he thrust such features eagerly for- 
 ward to his wife's face, she could be 
 excused her little display of inevitable 
 discomfiture. 
 
 ' Drunk again, my wife !' came in a des- 
 perate whisper from the printer. 
 
 ' Oh, no, Nahum ! the merest ' 
 
 But the man recoiled from the breath 
 which had assailed him.
 
 108 AT SOCIETY S EXPENSE. 
 
 ' Away instantly and get the supper . . . 
 Leave that,' he added, in a changed voice 
 of thunder. 
 
 The woman whined, and endeavoured to 
 .avoid him. 
 
 ' Leave that, I say, Theodosia !' 
 
 And Nahum seized the bottle from her 
 embraces. Therewith the startled house- 
 wife fled from his presence. 
 
 The journalist instantly plunged into 
 the secrets of the counter, but finding- 
 nothing, he went impulsively to the street 
 door." Across the pavement was the grate 
 of a sewer, and over it were passionately 
 flung the contents of the bottle. He re- 
 turned to his shop, hastily brought forth 
 the shutters, and was in a few minutes 
 again with his family.
 
 THE MAN IN THE 'mOON.' 109 
 
 ' On account, my good Jesse,' said 
 Nahum after supper, as he bade his 
 workman an affectionate farewell at the 
 door. ' On account. Good-night, and the 
 powers under all and every of their appel- 
 lations bless you eternally.'
 
 110 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 BEATRICE. 
 
 The enterprise of the editor of the Agg- 
 thorpe Moon was duly appreciated by the 
 public appealed to. Ever since the death 
 of the well-known townsman, Mr. Thomas 
 Paine Goldhawke, (and indeed for long 
 before it,) speculation had been rife upon 
 the statistical curiosities which the event 
 was to reveal, and for once nobody was 
 found curmudgeon enough to reproach the 
 deceased with being a source of disappoint-
 
 BEATRICE. Ill 
 
 ment to his neighbours. Popular rumour 
 had, of course, placed the possible total 
 very much nearer to the fascinating seven 
 figures which hold such marvellous sway 
 over the imagination of a commercial 
 community; but the testator's individual 
 methods of bequest speedily extinguished 
 any incipient grumbling that this may 
 have given rise to. Xo reasonable burgess 
 affected to feel his town disgraced by such 
 a record as that of £394,914 IT.v. lOd. 
 
 Mr. Goldhawke Avas a self-made man, 
 but it was not by any means his past 
 history only which had aroused especial in- 
 terest in his personal affairs. Such social 
 curiosities were not sufficiently uncommon 
 in a manufacturing community to excite 
 extraordinary comments in themselves. 
 It was little that, in shaded byways of
 
 112 AT society's expense. 
 
 the town as well as in the echoing cor- 
 ridors of the palatial workhouse, sundry 
 ripe and hoary paupers might still be 
 heard retailing scraps of prehistoric ex- 
 perience, which made plain to any un- 
 prejudiced listener, that he, the individual 
 narrator, and this renowned deceased of 
 the money-bags, had been very much 
 nearer than brothers as they issued to- 
 2:ether in those earliest dawns of more 
 than half-a-century ago from the self-same 
 alley in their oily mechanical smocks. 
 Any mill-hand of their number might go 
 and do likewise, if he felt so determined. 
 What did engage the higher curiosities of 
 Aggthorpe was, that, in the midst of an 
 aggressively independent population, Mr. 
 Goldhawke was deemed of the eccentric. 
 In an earnest mind like that of Mr.
 
 BEATEICE. 113 
 
 Nahum Pildacre, the especial form of Lis 
 eccentricity excited, as will readily be 
 imagined, the extremity of indignation ; 
 but to neighbours of less pronounced 
 convictions it became simply an amusing^ 
 scene in the human comedy being enacted 
 about them. 
 
 Although of humble social extraction, 
 the Goldhawke family was not without 
 noteworthy record amongst its own people. 
 The father of this wealthy deceased was 
 a mill overlooker of aggressive views in 
 his day, and the baptismal name of his 
 son kept alive his defiance of the law and 
 society which had persecuted him. Jere- 
 miah GoldhaAvke was a world's martyr in 
 his way, having suffered (amongst other 
 conflicts with authority) prosecution, and 
 consequent statutory pains and penalties, 
 
 VOL. I. I
 
 114 AT society's expense. 
 
 for corrupting the subject by oiFering for 
 sale copies of the heretical ' Rights of 
 Man.' He had thereupon married, with 
 the sole purpose of obtaining a son who 
 might in name at least carry down to 
 another generation a desperate man's 
 protest against a tyrannical policy. Jere- 
 miah himself, it may be mentioned, was in 
 his turn the son of an exceptionally en- 
 thusiastic methodist of the original school. 
 From this stock, under later nineteenth 
 century influences, the nearer subject of 
 our consideration had in spite of his name 
 drifted through chartist radicalism to 
 cynical individualism and greed of the 
 most senseless and pernicious order. 
 
 The only daughter of the defiant Jere- 
 miah that had lived to maturity married a 
 small watchmaker, named Stephen Cross-
 
 BEATRICE. 115 
 
 ley, a man who, althougli of considerable 
 meclianical ingenuity, had never been 
 able to raise himself above the turbid 
 current of back street pot-house, owing 
 partly, it was reported, to an insuperable 
 proclivity to the waters circulating in 
 those quarters, and most partly, as it was 
 oftentimes hinted, to his exercising his 
 ingenuity, (b)^ written contract,) upon the 
 mechanical appliances of his capitalist 
 brother-in-law only. Of Mrs. Crossley, 
 who died early, little was known or re- 
 membered, beyond the fact that when 
 Stephen succumbed to the proclivities 
 aforesaid, she had left two girls, at a 
 helpless age, of the names of Beatrice and 
 Gertrude respectively. 
 
 The wife of the prosperous capitalist, 
 (she then still lived,) befriended these 
 
 i2
 
 116 AT society's expense. 
 
 girls secretly, and thus they received a 
 decent education and upbringing. It was^ 
 however, not until his own wife died, and 
 he found, what he himself at least con- 
 sidered, the peculative dispositions of 
 hireling domestics, that Mr. Thomas Paine 
 Goldhawke recollected the existence of 
 his two nieces. In parsimonious des- 
 peration he sought them out, and found 
 them, to his amazement, to be two very 
 presentable young ladies of nineteen and 
 seventeen years of age respectively. 
 Somewhat to the surprise of them both,, 
 this enigmatical uncle, whom they had 
 long grown to regard as an awe-inspiring 
 stranger merely, suddenly invited Beatrice,^ 
 the elder, to pay a visit to his mansion ^ 
 and gave Gertrude, the younger, to under- 
 stand that he intended to take her further
 
 BEATEICE. 117 
 
 -education under his peculiar care, witli a 
 view to her efficient equipment for such 
 course in life as her position seemed in- 
 evitably to point out. 
 
 To the majestic gloom of the house on 
 Warren Common, Beatrice Crossley accord- 
 ingly came trembling, and to her still 
 further surprise was within three months 
 ensuing installed in the responsible dig- 
 nity of housekeeper to her august uncle. 
 She had apparently given satisfaction, 
 then, to an exacting host, and, by dint of 
 a nervous solicitude to retain the favour 
 which she had so unexpectedly been able 
 to acquire, for two years things went to 
 all appearance well. 
 
 This uncle's own family consisted of 
 two sons, only one of which made his 
 father's house a residence. At the time
 
 118 AT society's expense. 
 
 of the arrival of Beatrice, this son the 
 elder, by name Barnard, was a phlegmatic 
 young man of twenty-two, thus three 
 years her senior, already deeply versed 
 in the mysteries of capital and specula- 
 tion, and perhaps, in consequence of 
 too great a similarity of temperament, 
 an object of some jealous suspicion 
 to his father. The two, neverthe- 
 less, worked well together, and their 
 affairs prospered in their joint hands. 
 The younger son Phihp, at that time 
 eighteen, had just proceeded to Oxford to 
 resume his studies, being by wholly un- 
 mercantile temperament apparently marked 
 out for the legal profession. From that 
 time forth he was seldom at home. 
 
 Old Goldhawke, nearing seventy, and 
 perceiving so many traits in his son Bar-
 
 BEATRICE. 119 
 
 nard resembling those strongest in him- 
 self, wholly overlooked others of a more 
 generous, or more definitely human ten- 
 dency. If any thought of sentimental 
 tendencies, for instance, in his son had at 
 any time occurred to him, they had doubt- 
 less been speedily grinned aAvay. So ut- 
 terly extinct was even the most common- 
 place imagination in this frozen old 
 capitalist. It was Avith nothing short of 
 amazement, therefore, that one evening, 
 returning home after the dinner-hour, 
 when he had announced it previously as 
 his intention to be absent for the night, 
 and entering the drawing-room with (as 
 some thought, premeditated) suddenness^ 
 he found his judicious niece and house- 
 keeper reclining complacently in the arms 
 of his phlegmatic son, with decanters and
 
 120 AT society's expense. 
 
 half-full wine-glasses upon a little table 
 beside them. 
 
 ' I beg your pardon,' the old gentleman 
 ejaculated, with cynical composure, and 
 politely withdrcAV. 
 
 The next morning, as father and son 
 drove to business, the former looked up 
 from his newspaper. 
 
 ' Thinking of marriage, then, Barnard,' 
 he calmly observed. 
 
 ' Oh, dear, no !' exclaimed the other, 
 colouring in spite of himself ' What 
 should make you think so ?' 
 
 'Well, last evening ' 
 
 ' I was only making a fool of myself,' 
 interposed the son. ' I have no thought 
 of marrying.' 
 
 'You were making a fool of yourself.' 
 
 And there the matter ended.
 
 BEATRICE. 121 
 
 As between father and son, at any rate ; 
 not exactly so as regarded the horrified 
 young housekeeper. It could hardly be 
 expected that one of so simple an organi- 
 zation as she should understand another 
 who ha]3pened to be constituted on lines 
 of quite abnormal complexity. Beatrice, 
 for some reason, had to confess to herself 
 the next morning that her recollection of 
 the compromising incident was of the 
 vaguest. From the very consciousness of 
 this uncertainty sprang her shame. She 
 was well aware that this was not the first 
 instance of confused recollection in her 
 recent experiences, and, awakening to the 
 significance of it, she wept bitterly over 
 the conviction. Beatrice did know, though, 
 that the previous evening her uncle had 
 detected her in some situation which could
 
 122 AT society's expense. 
 
 not be otherwise than displeasing to him, 
 and she consequently looked for his dis- 
 pleasure. This only showed how little 
 knowledge of her uncle the two years' in- 
 tercourse had been able to afford her. 
 Looked-for methods were not such as Mr. 
 Goldhawke ordinarily adopted. 
 
 One month succeeded to another, and 
 still no sort of reference had been made 
 to the occurrence. Barnard, it is true, 
 had secretly cracked jokes upon it, but the 
 reception of such jokes by his cousin had 
 not encouraged him to a repetition of his 
 facetiousness. Such fright had the inci- 
 dent occasioned the young lady, (for she 
 had heard of the proclivities and fate of 
 her father,) that she was in no danger of 
 speedily courting that mental condition 
 with which her sinister experience was in-
 
 BEATRICE. 123 
 
 separably connected. Mr. Goldhawke and 
 "his son noted that Beatrice no longer 
 allowed herself even the modest allowance 
 of wine that custom permits a lady at the 
 dinner-table. Barnard only smiled good- 
 humouredly at what he considered the 
 feminine extravagance of virtue; but Gold- 
 hawke senior saw in it cause for charac- 
 teristic suspicion of evil. He watched his 
 housekeeper very narrowly. 
 
 Beatrice encountered the casual sur- 
 prises to which she was subjected with 
 praiseworthy calmness, and even the heart- 
 less old cynic began to fear that the ex- 
 pected comedy was about to escape him. 
 Even he felt it impossible to revive the 
 matter now on the score of the old count 
 alone. Some new delinquency was on the 
 face of it indispensable.
 
 124 AT SOCIETY S EXPENSE. 
 
 Four months had elapsed, and a very 
 marked change for the better was begin- 
 ning to be perceptible in the bearing and 
 appearance of Beatrice. A more pro- 
 nounced degree of womanly sensibility and 
 refinement shone through her daily action, 
 and this not unnaturally enhanced such 
 modest measure of physical attractiveness 
 as had been given to her. Barnard again 
 became partial to her society, but his 
 cousin received his notice with bashfulness 
 and restraint. The man really meant the 
 girl no evil, and how should his thought- 
 less exuberance of well-being guess at the 
 circumstances of a less equably constructed 
 organism? During this period of struggle 
 of the spiritual womanhood for supremacy 
 over the more heavy-armed forces, it was 
 no rare occurrence for Beatrice to be tossed
 
 BEATEICE. 125 
 
 to her hardly- earn eel hours of repose over 
 a stormy sea of tears, lashed by such winds 
 of anguish as only assail the more deli- 
 cately constituted barks. 
 
 The month of July came, and Mr. Gold- 
 hawke found that he had occasion for a 
 course of the Buxton waters. If Beatrice 
 for a moment suspected the expedition, 
 her fears were dispelled, for proof became 
 positive that her uncle had in reality gone 
 there. For some days things Avent as 
 usual. Barnard w^as busy elsewhere, and 
 passed little time at home, to his cousin's 
 infinite satisfaction. She found employ- 
 ment in such varied w^omanly interests as 
 she was doinf? her utmost conscientiously 
 to cultivate, and in such share of social 
 intercourse as her uncle's misanthropic 
 habits had enabled her to attain to.
 
 126 AT society's expense. 
 
 It was the fifth day after her uncle's 
 departure, in the evening nearing the 
 dinner-hour, that Beatrice was walking 
 about the grass-plot gazing at the various 
 flowers which were displayed there. The 
 western sun, still high, smote with power 
 the close-shaven grass and the fragrant 
 bloom around, and there was the lazy call 
 of a rook sailing through the upper air. 
 The dirty brown haze which hung over 
 the town, and intercepted the promising 
 glories of the horizon, wrought no depres- 
 sion in Beatrice's mind, for she had never 
 known the heavens under any other aspect. 
 She was not aware that the sun had power 
 to fling for himself over those hills and 
 valleys of the west a down of any different 
 hue and texture from this manufactured 
 medium. Whilst holding a pink poppy
 
 BEATRICE. 127 
 
 between her fingers, and gazing absently 
 into its deptb, she Avas disturbed by a soft 
 step upon the grass behind her. 
 
 ' Sentimental, Beatrice ?' asked Barnard, 
 jocularly. 
 
 ' I have waited for you, as you said you 
 should come. Dinner is ready, I think, 
 as soon as you are.' 
 
 ' Very good.' And he ran oif with a 
 shru2f of the shoulders. 
 
 At the dinner-table Barnard was un- 
 usually complaisant. He gave Beatrice all 
 the town's news ; towards the third course 
 cracked mild jokes. He partook liberally 
 of the wine, and pressed the decanters 
 continually upon the attention of his com- 
 panion. As usual, she systematically 
 declined. 
 
 ' There is a temperance meeting at the
 
 128 AT society's expense. 
 
 Institute, I believe, to-morrow, Beatrice^ 
 — converts to the pledge are especially in- 
 vited. Signatures will be taken with the 
 collection afterwards. You had better 
 
 go. 
 
 The young lady smiled, but uneasily. 
 
 'Won't you?' 
 
 ' I think not, thank you. I hope there 
 is no necessity.' 
 
 Beatrice blushed crimson as she said it. 
 
 'Oh, I don't mean to insult you by in- 
 sinuation. Don't go as a volunteer neces- 
 sarily, but in some other capacity.' 
 
 Barnard was too jovial to construe the 
 delicate hints of mere silent expression, 
 although the features of Beatrice were 
 offering many. She tried to smile, to keep 
 her colour, to command her quivering lips, 
 but with poor success.
 
 BEATRICE. 129 
 
 ' Why not address the meeting ? You 
 might even give your experiences, ha! 
 ha!' 
 
 Beatrice gave no answer. 
 
 ' Won't you, Beaty ? Mrs. Crowther is 
 getting it up. I'll give her a word.' 
 
 Beatrice, not of a very quick imagination, 
 never fully understood facetiousness. She 
 looked at her cousin now with orenuine 
 alarm. 
 
 ' Now do, Beaty. You can equal Mrs. 
 Crowther any day — even in experiences. I 
 will see her. You know how sympathetic 
 she is. She has gone through it all. 
 They tell me it is not a month ago since 
 she was hopelessly intoxicated at a dinner 
 at Mrs. Thrale's, and was accusing all her 
 intimate friends of secret tippling in the 
 dining-room when they go to lie down. 
 
 VOL. I. . K
 
 130 AT society's expense. 
 
 Ha! ha! She will be invaluable to you, 
 my dear girl.' 
 
 • I shan't go, Barnard ; indeed, I shan't 
 go.' 
 
 Tears had already started to the eyes of 
 the susceptible girl. 
 
 ' Nonsense ; they are in need of all re- 
 cruits. Temperance is not the strong 
 point of Aggthorpe, however brilliant and 
 obvious its other virtues. You can't re- 
 fuse your help in such a good work.' 
 
 Poor Beatrice protested, with ludicrous 
 if distressful earnestness, her incapacity 
 and rlisinclination for the work, and Barn- 
 ard, perceiving how well the joke was tak- 
 ing, continued to press his argument 
 throughout the meal. 
 
 ' No self-denial is necessary, Beaty. 
 Look at Mrs. Crowther in all the dignity of
 
 BEATRICE. 131 
 
 lier ex-mayoresshood,' would the young 
 gentleman run on. ' Drunk one day at a 
 friend's table, (probably every day at her 
 own,) an apostle of the Good Templars 
 in public the next. A little hysterical 
 remorse (isn't that the word ?) watered 
 judiciously by a little more religious drivel, 
 and you are ready made. Come now, don't 
 be bashful. It need not interfere with 
 your having a glass of this sherry to-day,' 
 he would say, holding up his glass by the 
 mid- stem and regarding it against the 
 sinking sunlight. ' It isn't at all bad. 
 Come now.' 
 
 ' No, thank you, Barnard.' 
 
 So they went on, until the fruit alone 
 was before them. Then, with somewhat 
 nervous alacrity, Beatrice rose from her 
 chair, and her companion looked surprise. 
 
 k2
 
 132 AT SOCIETY S EXPENSE. 
 
 The last orange rays of the sun smote the 
 girl's features as she made the movement, 
 and the tragical earnestness of her troubled 
 face was intensified to a supernatural de- 
 gree by the momentary glare imparted to 
 it. Tlie effect might have made some im- 
 pression upon another observer, but only 
 the jocular Barnard was its witness, and he 
 enjoyed it. 
 
 ' Why, there was wine in your face at 
 that moment,' he exclaimed, hilariously. 
 ' Sit down, Beatrice.' 
 
 ' No, thank you, I want to go,' was her 
 reply, as she moved across the room some 
 paces. 
 
 ' Sit down, I tell you,' cried the man, in 
 an altered voice, also starting from his 
 chair. 
 
 Beatrice stood.
 
 BEATRICE. 133 
 
 ' I wish to go, Barnard,' — there was 
 timidity but some dignity in her tone. 
 
 ' I wish you to stay, Beatrice,' was his 
 mocking response. 
 
 After a glance into his features the girl 
 returned, and took her seat upon the chair 
 Avhich she had vacated. 
 
 ' You silly girl, what's the matter with 
 you to-night ? Here, take a banana.' 
 
 He tore one from the cluster, and almost 
 threw it at her. Beatrice took it passively, 
 and proceeded to open it upon her plate. 
 
 ' It looks uncommonly dry,' remarked 
 her companion. ' Here — you won't ?' 
 
 ' No, Barnard, I won't.' 
 
 He laughed and cracked his nuts. 
 
 After this, the talk became for a time a 
 monologue. Beatrice made no reply to his 
 merriment, but put morsel after morsel of
 
 134 AT society's expense. 
 
 the soft fragrant banana into her mouth 
 endeavouring to swallow it thus, but being 
 time after time almost choked in so doing. 
 It mattered not that it was soft, or that it 
 was her one favourite fruit, — it was hard 
 and bitter enough to her at this moment if 
 never before. 
 
 ' It's too dry to swallow, I can see,' said 
 the gentleman, perhaps really thus inter- 
 preting her behaviour ; ' you must have a 
 drop of wine. Now which will you have ? 
 I'll fetch you anything you like with my 
 own hands. What is it to be ?' 
 
 ' I Avill not have any wine, thank you.' 
 
 A frown ruffled the man's forehead this 
 time, and he again stood up. 
 
 ' Beatrice, you shall,' he cried. ' Which 
 shall it be?' 
 
 ' Barnard, I will not, I say,' she re-
 
 BEATKICE. 135 
 
 spondee] with momentary spirit, her eyes 
 flashing as she stared at him. 
 
 ' And I say you shall, miss,' returned he, 
 coolly, pouring out a glass of sherry. 
 ' Stay there, Beatrice. Sit in that chair 
 again.' 
 
 She seemed seized with a sudden power- 
 lessness, for at a touch of his hand upon 
 her shoulder she sank into the chair. He 
 paused then, and looked into her face. 
 
 'Why, what is the matter, Beaty? 
 Don't be such a baby.' 
 
 ' Are you going to ' 
 
 ' Yes, I am going to administer it like a 
 kind physician, since you don't knoAV what 
 is good for you. Now, sit still, ha ! ha ! 
 still, Beaty,' — for from sheer nervelessness 
 her frame moved somewhat in the chair. 
 Her eyes were closed as he came to her.
 
 136 AT society's expense. 
 
 ' Barnard, you don't know what you are 
 doing to me,' she exclaimed, with a mo- 
 mentary effort, as the fragrance of the wine 
 reached her nostrils. 
 
 ' Don't I ?' he remarked, drily. 
 
 In applying the wine-glass to her lips, 
 the now angry blood-red sun cast his full 
 glare upon their faces and upon the golden 
 beverage which trembled in the man's 
 lingers. The ruddy light thus unexpect- 
 edly suffusing the girl's features caused 
 Barnard to start, and so to spill some of 
 the golden drops upon the breast of Bea- 
 trice before the edge of the glass had 
 touched her lips. 
 
 For a moment after the poor girl had 
 taken the draught, she stared in utter 
 vacancy at the table before her, her hands 
 convulsively clutching the fringe of the
 
 BEATRICE. 137 
 
 table-cloth, but all the rest of her frame 
 in languid prostration. At BarnarcVs 
 voice she awakened to full consciousness, 
 and then burst into passionate tears. 
 
 This at length impressed the gentleman, 
 and he rose from his chair Avith anxiety. 
 
 ' Dearest Beatrice, don't be so ridic- 
 ulous. What possible harm can it have 
 done you? Do be reasonable.' 
 
 In alarm and perplexity he continued 
 to pour forth endearing Avords into the ear 
 of the distressed girl, but apparently with- 
 out effect. When at length he ceased 
 from his efforts, and had resumed his 
 seat, she rose hurriedly and fled from the 
 room. 
 
 During the days that followed, Barnard 
 did perceive that there had been another
 
 138 AT SOCIETY S EXPENSE. 
 
 aspect to his joke. He felt considerable 
 discomfort in the contemplation of it, and 
 as he really had some liking for his help- 
 less cousin, he was anxious to undo what 
 he felt to be the amazing consequences of 
 his own love of sport. For two or three 
 days, at length, she was invisible under 
 the plea of indisposition. On the evening 
 of the third day when he returned from 
 the town, and the maid oiFered the same 
 excuse for her young mistress's absence, 
 Barnard confronted her. 
 
 ' What is the matter with her, Black- 
 well?' 
 
 The maid hesitated ; unable to plead a 
 cold. 
 
 ' Does she have any wine ?' inquired 
 the gentleman, anxiously.
 
 BEATRICE. 13^ 
 
 The girl paused, then impulsive for 
 truth, exclaimed, 
 
 'Yes, sir, that's it.' 
 
 It was noticed that the young gentle- 
 man's dinner was barely tasted, and he 
 rose from his solitary table before half had 
 been placed before him. He withdrew to 
 the library and scribbled a note there. 
 
 ' For heaven's sake, Beatrice, resist. 
 Your uncle returns in three days, and if 
 he finds out this you know what will be 
 the consequences. See me in the morning 
 before I go.' 
 
 He rang the bell, and the same maid 
 attended. 
 
 ' Blackwell,' said Barnard, with unusual 
 gravity, ' I want you to sit up with Miss 
 Crossley to-night. Give her this note. Do
 
 140 AT society's expense. 
 
 — do everything you can for her, you 
 understand ? Simply refuse to obey her. 
 I must see her in the morning before I 
 go.' 
 
 The girl promised to undertake the 
 charge, and Barnard tried to compose him- 
 self for the evening. 
 
 In due course Mr. Goldhawke returned 
 from Buxton, and he had not been in the 
 house for twenty-four hours before he 
 perceived that his journey had not been 
 ineffectual. The change in his youthful 
 housekeeper was immediately obvious to 
 his merciless gaze, and, it has to be con- 
 fessed, he saw it with satisfaction. The 
 features of her hapless father were under 
 these conditions painfully visible in the 
 daughter, and it required nothing further
 
 BEATKICE. 141 
 
 to stir up the very dregs of the hardened 
 cynic's most malignant anger. 
 
 Although it was no part of Mr. Gold- 
 hawke's scheme to act precipitately, the 
 catastrophe could hardly have been so 
 loDO' averted but for the vehement exer- 
 tions of Barnard to assist and save his 
 cousin. If amends for such enormity were 
 possible, he did all that lay in human 
 power to make amends for the terrible 
 freak that had led to such tragic issue. 
 But his efforts were unavailing. It was 
 at the time of the autumnal equinox, 
 during the latter days of September that 
 the closing scene was enacted, and accord- 
 ing to rumour, Avhich doubtless emanated 
 with fair accuracy from below stairs, it 
 was accompanied with incidents of ex- 
 tremest brutality.
 
 142 AT society's expense. 
 
 Even Barnard himself never knew them 
 completely, for he was absent at the time 
 of the occurrence. One windy night in 
 September he was returning home at about 
 nine o'clock. It was moonlight at the 
 time, and as he entered the gateway in 
 front of Grove House, he saw some move- 
 ments which attracted his attention. Per- 
 haps it was the sting of an uneasy con- 
 science that made him turn thither with 
 such alacrity, but, from whatever cause, 
 he found there what with instinctive trepi- 
 dation he had expected. Beatrice was in 
 the hands of Blackwell. 
 
 ' He is a wicked, cruel wretch,' the maid 
 was exclaiming with ungovernable pas- 
 sion, ' and I'll never enter the house again, 
 never. To think of a man treating any 
 woman so, to say nothing of her as is his
 
 BEATRICE. 143 
 
 own flesli and blood, and to whom he 
 ought to have been a father. He'll be 
 judged for it, that he will.' 
 
 She screamed as Barnard stepped up to 
 them, but instantly she recognised him. 
 So far as her excited condition permitted, 
 she answered the young man's eager 
 inquiries, and he knew that his worst fears 
 were accomplished. It is enough that 
 Beatrice had been flung ruthlessly from 
 the doorway, and that the kind-hearted 
 house-maid had taken her own instan- 
 taneous departure with her. We need 
 inquire no further. 
 
 After exchanging a few words with the 
 girl, Barnard conducted the two to a cot- 
 tage on the common, and there made 
 arrangements for their accommodation for 
 the night. Despite the sincerity of his
 
 144 AT SOCIETY S EXPENSE. 
 
 intentions, here bis own part in the drama 
 had ended. Upon leaving the cottage he 
 had exacted a promise from Blackwell and 
 the inmates that Beatrice should not be 
 allowed to depart before he had seen her 
 in the morning ; nevertheless, when he 
 came to his appointment he was informed 
 that she had escaped him. Efforts he had 
 made then and subsequently to trace her, 
 but no particle of success had attended 
 them. Since that night neither he nor 
 his father had seen Beatrice again. 
 
 This was the manner in which Miss 
 Gertrude Crossley came to succeed her 
 sister as confidential housekeeper to the 
 wealthy proprietor of Grove House, on 
 Warren Common, some years previous to 
 the death of the old gentleman. As we
 
 BEATRICE. 145 
 
 know, the better regulated and more 
 judicious Gertrude had not read the lesson 
 amiss. 
 
 VOL. I.
 
 146 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 HELEN LOOKS FOKWARD. 
 
 The landlady of tlie ' Craven Heifer,' 
 after an evening's confidential gossip 
 Avith Beatrice over the hob, experienced 
 such an awakening of matronly sympathy 
 towards the friendless young woman, that 
 she expressed her determination to vin- 
 dicate the rejDutation of a Christian 
 country by finding room for the repro- 
 bate traveller by her own side, upon her 
 own widowed couch, for that one night 
 at any rate.
 
 HELEN LOOKS FORWARD. 147 
 
 ' It was coming to some'at,' said this 
 unsophisticated champion of her sex's 
 instincts, ' when wor ain sisters could see 
 US famishing by the road-side, and ne'er 
 howd out a hand to gie us a lift out o' 
 the slush into which they'd shoved us. 
 That an owd atheist miser, not ower-wise 
 in the intellects, should so behave, was 
 credible enough, but that anything in a 
 woman's mak could be so inhumin — eh, 
 my!' 
 
 It followed consequently that, for twelve 
 hours ensuing, the storm-tossed Beatrice 
 found such rest, alike of body and soul, 
 as had been unknown to her for many 
 a long year by-past. With the morning 
 light, however, tremors re-awakened, and 
 to all the kind landlady's urgent 
 representations the wanderer felt com- 
 
 l2
 
 148 AT SOCIETY S EXPENSE. 
 
 pelled to turn a deaf ear. The atmo- 
 sphere of Warren Common, which in her 
 hungry and penniless condition, and under 
 cover of night, had failed to assert its 
 reminiscent fangs, now in the morning 
 sunlight stung Beatrice with insupportable 
 venom. All spirit sunk within her, and 
 she marvelled how the errand of the 
 previous evening had been in any Avay 
 accomplished. It seemed to her at this 
 moment, how immeasurably, easier to lie 
 down and die in any covert ditch than to 
 gain a moment's life by any aid from that 
 appalling mansion. All her present im- 
 pulse was to fly from the place's asso- 
 ciation without, if that could be, enduring 
 one single glance of the place's hated 
 scrutiny. But the morning even refused 
 to be cloudy. In the full glare of the
 
 HELEN LOOKS FORWAKD. 149 
 
 sparkling October sunlight must she take 
 her departure, as if courting the inspec- 
 tion of every dusky gorse-knob that 
 •studded the turf of the common. The 
 only possible countervailing favour was 
 the consideration of the day being Sun- 
 day, when the human element would, at 
 any rate, be taking a few extra hours' 
 needed repose, and so add, in the least 
 possible degree, the terrors of their too 
 curious inspection. 
 
 ' But where will you go. Miss Crossley?' 
 urged Mrs. Whitaker, in response to her 
 visitor's stubborn determination. 
 
 ' Anywhere from here. It doesn't mat- 
 ter much where.' 
 
 'Eh, but it does, lass. I can't abear 
 to think of you going about the coun- 
 try with the like o' yon. Think o'
 
 150 AT SOCIETY S EXPENSE. 
 
 your mother, lass ; think o' your mother/ 
 ' I never had a mother, Mrs. Whitaker. 
 At least, I never knew her. Besides, you 
 are quite wrong in thinking so badly of 
 Helen. Until I saw you last night, she 
 is the only being in all the world that has 
 helped to strengthen me against myself. 
 If I could always be with her she could 
 save me, I'm sure she could. She is 
 different from other people ; although she 
 is wild in her manner, she is as good as 
 she is beautiful. Really, Mrs. Whitaker, 
 she is. If you had only seen her as much 
 as I have done.' 
 
 ' Well, I weunt quarrel with you, Miss 
 Crossley, for parting words. I didn't like 
 the look on her, that's all ; nor her man- 
 ner o' going on. It Aveunt lead her to no 
 good, you'll see. But remember what I've
 
 HELEN LOOKS FORWAKD. 151 
 
 telled you. If you've a mind to settle 
 down, come to me. I'll give you a home 
 and welcome. I've no lasses o' my own, 
 and you could be a help to me.' 
 
 But Beatrice shuddered again. 
 
 ' I couldn't live here,' she said. 'I wish 
 I had never come near the place.' 
 
 ' But there's talk of their Hitting ' 
 
 ' It would make no difference. It isn't 
 them only. The place brings it all 
 back.' 
 
 ' Ay, it's only natural, I suppose, poor 
 thing,' replied the landlady, with a com- 
 miserating look. ' Well, ye'll tak that, 
 anyhow.' 
 
 ' Xo, no, Mrs. Whitaker ; indeed I 
 sha'n't ' 
 
 ' I tell you you will, lass,' asserted Mrs. 
 Whitaker, with characteristic determina-
 
 152 AT society's expense. 
 
 tion in tone and action. ' Now, put it i' 
 your pocket, and no words abaht it. And, 
 if you will go, go now before there's mony 
 folks about.' 
 
 After a little more amicable wrangling, 
 the farewell was taken, and Beatrice set 
 off once again on her aimless rambles. 
 
 Despite the blighted aspect of the lo- 
 cality, there was something of the serenity 
 of a Sunday morning in the October sun- 
 light as the young woman took her hur- 
 ried way town wards. A few children from 
 the houses not far distant had come to 
 enjoy the freedom of the Common with 
 their clean pinafores and faces, but Bea- 
 trice could encounter their glances with 
 comparative serenity. For one thing, she 
 was very fond of children, and for another 
 their tender ages could scarce carry a sug-
 
 HELEN LOOKS FORWARD. 153 
 
 gestion of those evil remembrances. A 
 man was leaning over the canal bridge 
 with his pipe, but whatever the tortures 
 which the traveller inflicted upon 
 herself in passing him, he had not 
 consciously regarded her. Xow that the 
 open Common was behind her, and the 
 road closed in to an ordinary suburban 
 highway, Beatrice felt more secure iu her 
 concealment. Although it was deserted 
 enough at this moment, the road was a 
 much frequented one, and a casual 23as- 
 senger, in the ordinary course of things, 
 received scant attention from anybody. 
 The wholly altered aspect, too, of the 
 locality served to reassure Beatrice. New 
 rows of red-brick houses, in place of the 
 green fields which she remembered, 
 blunted the edge of her associations,
 
 154 AT SOCIETY S EXPENSE. 
 
 and probably thus rendered the first 
 kindly service to any beholder since the 
 time of their erection. 
 
 The road lay long and straight before 
 her, with a human figure visible here 
 and there uj^on it, but Beatrice only 
 glanced along it occasionally. For the 
 most part, her eyes were bent to the 
 ground. At one point she came to a 
 timber-yard with a long, low brick wall 
 enclosing it, and piles of j^lanks and beams 
 within. She looked at it, and with her 
 half-glance perceived figures standing in 
 eager conversation at no great distance 
 before her. This yard she remembered 
 of old, and it renewed uneasy impressions, 
 so she shrank into herself and hurried 
 onwards. It was a man and woman talk- 
 ing there with their backs towards her.
 
 HELEN LOOKS FORWARD. 1 55 
 
 In passing, some of the man's words were 
 audible, uttered as it seemed with some 
 vehemence. 
 
 ' is the first thing — nay, it may be 
 
 said to be the only thing. Yesterday, 
 you see, we easily disposed of some thou- 
 sands of copies. It is within the limits of 
 the most scrupulous moderation to con- 
 sider that next week we shall double this. 
 I put everything at the lowest, for the 
 sake of absolute security in calculation. 
 To build upon anything but certainties 
 is disastrous. I need not hesitate to admit 
 that my own experience has drilled me 
 into this cautiousness. Noav ' 
 
 The man's voice suddenly ceased, and, 
 as the tones of it had eno-ao'ed Beatrice's 
 attention in an extraordinary degree, she 
 was constrained to glance behind her to
 
 156 AT society's expense. 
 
 learn the cause of the interruption. Both 
 speakers were staring at herself, and to 
 her amazement she perceived that one of 
 them was none other than her beloved 
 Helen. The latter grew radiant at the 
 recognition, and instantly commanded her 
 friend to pause. 
 
 ' Why, Bee ! Are you hurrying to 
 church ? The bells haven't begun yet.' 
 
 Father and daughter walked forward to 
 Beatrice, the former with some benignant 
 majesty saluting her. 
 
 ' Where are you oiF to, old girl ?' 
 
 ' Into the town,' replied Beatrice, bash- 
 fully. 
 
 ' No, no, come for a walk with us. I 
 am not going to let you slip like that. We 
 were coming to find you.' 
 
 ' But you are going '
 
 HELEN LOOKS FORWARD. 157 
 
 Beatrice ended her sentence by a glance 
 along the road she had traversed. 
 
 ' Any direction, Miss Crossley,' inter- 
 posed Mr. Pildacre, with an easy wave of 
 his hand sweeping all the points of the 
 compass. ' We are pledged to nothing.' 
 
 Accordingly, after a few more words of 
 concession and entreaty, Beatrice was 
 content to take her lot with them, mostly 
 no doubt from the impression that she had 
 not the remotest conception of what else 
 she coukl do. When they were fairly 
 under way, the journalist, who had from 
 the outset cast an occasional glance of 
 uneasiness at Beatrice, relieved himself to 
 the following purpose. 
 
 ' You eye me with suspicion, ]\Iis3 
 Crossley,— no, no, do not apologise,— it is 
 natural, inevitable. I flatter myself that
 
 158 AT society's expense. 
 
 it was a trencliant article. It was in- 
 tended to be, for nobody has yet been able 
 to accuse me of putting any consons of 
 private — private — profit or advantage, 
 before a clearly indicated public duty. 
 Force of circes has thrust me into the 
 position of a — well, without inordinate 
 presumption, I may say into the position 
 of a leader of thought in this borough and 
 purlieus adjacent, may I not, Helen ? 
 Exactly, exactly. Personal animosity, 
 Miss Crossley, is a quality unknown to 
 me. Facts and institutions I make war 
 against, not persons. You understand 
 this?' 
 
 ' Certainly,' said Beatrice, readily as- 
 senting to she hardly knew what. 
 
 ' That it — my theme, that is — should 
 chance to be embodied this week in the
 
 HELEN LOOKS FORWARD. 159 
 
 person of your lamented relative, is a 
 mere — a mere coinci-dence. — Next week 
 it might just as haply spring from my 
 own self. You understand this ? Exact- 
 ly. We understand each other perfectly. 
 No offence meant or taken. \Yell then, 
 
 Helen ' 
 
 And therewith the good man launched 
 into his own peculiar projects again, with 
 such energy and single-mindedness as to 
 preclude the interposition of any word (be- 
 yond the frequently demanded affirmative 
 from Helen,) from other lips for a good 
 half hour ensuing. There were peculi- 
 arities of vocabulary too in Mr. Pildacre 
 which frequently rendered it extremely 
 difficult for the uninitiated, like Beatrice, 
 for instance, to gather his meaning. She 
 concluded that this arose from his fre-
 
 160 AT society's expense. 
 
 quent adoption of foreign words familiar 
 to the highly cultivated, but in this she 
 was in error. The fact was that the en- 
 thusiastic journalist had, to the age of 
 forty, been by main vocation a copying 
 clerk in a lawyer's office, and from exten- 
 sive reproduction of legal drafts, abstracts 
 of title, and the like, he had acquired the 
 habit of thinking of certain words in the 
 language under their draft or contracted 
 aspect, with a mute hieroglyphical line 
 over the top of it, and frequently, in 
 impassioned debate more especially, he 
 lapsed into this contracted form of speech, 
 actually uttering the word as he would at 
 the moment have written it. Thus the 
 word premises, Avas usually articulated 
 ' premes;' consideration, ' conson;' circum- 
 stances, ' circes;' and so on : so that unless
 
 HELEN LOOKS FORWAKD. 161 
 
 one happened to be familiar with this 
 peculiar species of legal shorthand, the 
 journalist's conversation was at times 
 scarcely intelligible. 
 
 But the morning passed pleasantly to 
 Beatrice, whether she understood the en- 
 thusiast's language or not. The man's 
 genuineness of heart was apparent to all 
 who came in contact with him, and as 
 this was a quality of which the reprobate 
 thought she had experienced the wide- 
 spread dearth, she feasted in gratitude. 
 Helen, perhaps, inclined to be flippant, 
 but she displayed a solicitous respect for 
 her father's enthusiasms. Thus all were 
 in high spirits when at mid-day they 
 reached the domicile over the oflices of 
 the Moon in Finkle Street, and fully pre- 
 pared for the comparatively sumptuous 
 
 VOL. I. M
 
 162 AT SOCIETY S EXPENSE. 
 
 repast which, in honour of the visit from 
 his daughter, Pildacre had ordered to be 
 prepared for them. 
 
 Both Helen and her father determined 
 to sustain the spirits of the party in face 
 of the somewhat depressing atmosphere 
 of the journalist's house. It was notice- 
 able that, despite the professed joviality of 
 the proceedings, the inevitable concomi- 
 tant of substantial mirth was wanting. 
 No alcohol appeared upon the table, nor 
 did Mr. Pildacre find any necessity to 
 apologise for the lack of it. The good 
 man, with perhaps a suspicion of virtuous 
 ostentation, poured himself out a tumbler 
 of water, and looked at it against the light: 
 then he passed the jug to his daughter. 
 The features of the hostess meanwhile 
 wore a singular expression of perplexity,
 
 HELEN LOOKS FORWARD. 163 
 
 — tragical or ludicrous according to the 
 ethical standpoint of the beholder. 
 Beatrice, by her response to Helen's 
 action, obviously preferred water to any- 
 thing stronger. 
 
 Upon rising from the table, Mr. Pildacre 
 sank into an insecure arm-chair which 
 lurched from want of one castor; but 
 having replaced the rough wedge which 
 temporarily supplied the want, the jour- 
 nalist composed himself complacently. 
 Helen dutifully supplied him Avith his 
 tobacco box and ' churchwarden,' then 
 helped her mother to remove the dinner- 
 things. The washing-up was left for the 
 following day, as Mrs. Pildacre withdrew 
 to lie down. Helen, returning to the 
 parlour, found her father already dozing, 
 and Beatrice watching like a mouse. 
 
 m2
 
 164 AT society's expense. 
 
 The latter she beckoned from the room. 
 
 ' Sixth edition, Helen, my girl,' muttered 
 Nahum, looking up at the movements. 
 
 ' Yes, father.' 
 
 And the door was closed. 
 
 The two girls dressed for a walk and 
 went out. 
 
 ' I want to talk to you, Bee,' said Helen 
 as they Avere dressing, ' and I can't do it 
 in here.' 
 
 They passed through the deserted 
 streets of Aggthorpe, in a direction by 
 which they would soonest reach the un- 
 built-upon fields. The road, after they 
 had passed the pavement, Avas black with 
 coal-dust, and the hedges which fringed 
 it were of the same funereal hue. No 
 clusters of crimson haws, here ; no last 
 yellow and purple leaves to soothe the
 
 HELEN LOOKS FORWAED. 1 65 
 
 twiliglit preceding the winter sleep. 
 Blighted life cursed point-blank into ig- 
 noble death, unhouseled .... imaneled. 
 
 The last building which the girls passed, 
 a laro:e turreted buildino; with formidable 
 iron-railings enclosing the ground before 
 it, Avas the work-house, pitched on this 
 salubrious eminence presumably that 
 paupers might expiate their crime of 
 poverty not exactly at the cannon's mouth, 
 but at the exact level of factory-chimney 
 mouth, which is perhaps a little worse. 
 
 ' I should like to go in there and have 
 done with it,' said Beatrice, in passing the 
 edifice. 
 
 ' That isn't my ambition,' was the jovial 
 response. ' Don't get sentimental, Bee.' 
 
 ' It's not me that's getting sentimental, 
 Helen,' returned Beatrice, constantly in-
 
 166 AT society's expense. 
 
 tent iipon an explanation of her compan- 
 ion's sudden departure from the ' Craven 
 Heifer ' the previous evening. ' I don't get 
 my bills paid for me by gentlemen , at any- 
 rate.' 
 
 Helen laughed aload. 
 
 * I do ; at least I have done once, if 
 never again. That's what I want to tell 
 you about, old girl. Such a lark you 
 never knew. A real romantic infatuation. 
 The man knows nothing about me, but is 
 benevolently interested in me, that's all ; 
 you know the way. I believe he would 
 marry me to-morrow morning if I asked 
 him.' 
 
 ' But who is he ? I never knew you — ' 
 
 ' Nor I. He's a solicitor at Wall- 
 borough. A bit of religious mania I be- 
 lieve, that's the worst of it ; but not a bad
 
 HELEN LOOKS FORWARD. 167 
 
 fellow for all that. He wants to reform 
 actresses — that is, if they're pretty. He 
 won't fret about you, Bee, so don't be 
 nervous.' 
 
 ' But he can't marry all the pretty ones,' 
 commented Beatrice, pettishly. 
 
 ' I suppose he can't ; but no doubt he 
 thought I looked especially promising. 
 He came to the *' Red Lion " on Friday 
 morning to see me, in desperation, having 
 failed the night before. Poor man, he 
 yearned for my welfare.' 
 
 Beatrice scrutinized her companion, 
 never able fully to understand her hu- 
 mour, and having been made the butt of 
 her fun too frequently. 
 
 ' What if I marry him, Bee ?' 
 
 ' I should think you will, if you like 
 him.'
 
 168 AT SOCIETY S EXPENSE. 
 
 Helen again laughed merrily. 
 
 ' What a virtuosity you are ! And what 
 would become of you ?' 
 
 ' Of me ! What does that matter ? 
 Gertrude wants me to go into a Re- 
 formatory. I promised to think about 
 it.' 
 
 Helen started as if shot, then assumed 
 a theatrical posture in the roadway. 
 
 ' She asked you, Bee ! That girl who 
 calls herself your sister asked you to do 
 this ! She with her ten thousand] pounds. 
 — But what else did she propose to you ? 
 How much a week if you don't go into a 
 work-house ?' 
 
 Beatrice turned her face nervously to 
 try and hide the blush which involun- 
 tarily overspead it. Helen again put her 
 question.
 
 HELEN LOOKS FORWARD. 169 
 
 'How much, Bee?' reiterated Helen, 
 tlie muttering of Beatrice not being in- 
 telligible. 
 
 ' We are to think about it,' faltered the 
 other. ' She gave me plenty to go on 
 with.' 
 
 ' What do you call plenty?' cried Helen, 
 fiercely. ' I insist upon knowing.' 
 
 'She gave me a sovereign, just then; 
 it — it was all she had in her pocket — I 
 expect.' 
 
 Helen's lips curled and her eyes 
 flashed. 
 
 ' And told you to seek for the rest in a 
 work-house ' 
 
 ' No, no, Helen ; she never did that. 
 She was kind ; she kissed me ' 
 
 ' Don't lie to me, Bee ! She may have 
 kissed you, — Judas kissed, — every false-
 
 170 AT society's expense. 
 
 hearted scoundrel kisses ; but she was not 
 kind to you — kind to you !' exclaimed 
 Helen again, quelling Beatrice by her 
 glance. '' But let us go on.' 
 
 Somebody was coming along the road to 
 disturb them. Helen dawdled until the 
 stranger had passed. 
 
 ' I demand a promise from you, Bee, — 
 my poor Bee,' began the younger again,, 
 in a tone of mingled decision and tender- 
 ness. ' No, you must promise me without 
 consideration. You cannot judge for 
 yourself. Swear that you will never beg 
 from that house again, nor from any one 
 of the members of it. Beg from me and 
 from me only. Promise this instantly and 
 without reserve. Come !' 
 
 ' But I don't want to beg from anyone,' 
 returned Beatrice, inclined to whimper.
 
 HELEN LOOKS FORWARD. 171 
 
 ' You don't want to, Bee, but I tell 
 you that you will liave to, to the end of 
 your days. Don't kick against the in- 
 evitable. Make the best of it rather in 
 the manner I point out to you. Now,, 
 promise !' 
 
 ' Yes, I'll promise.' 
 
 ' Never to beg from anybody but me.' 
 
 ' Never to beg from anybody but you, — 
 if I ever have to beg.' 
 
 Thereupon the pair walked forward more 
 briskly. The sunshine of the morning was 
 now all obscured, and the grey blighted 
 prospect was rendered doubly sombre by 
 the louring clouds which, in unbroken 
 ridges, bore down upon the landsca^^e. The 
 path which the girls pursued attained to a 
 position of some altitude, from which could 
 be beheld the valley of the river Cloaker,
 
 172 AT society's expense. 
 
 after leaving Aggthorpe, and a wide range 
 of country beyond. A country of much 
 diversity and beauty naturally, but which 
 the exigencies of an advanced civilization 
 had ruthlessly desecrated. Blasted trees, of 
 coats uniformly sable, and limbs of rigid 
 decay, were sprinkled in the foreground 
 amidst fields no longer green ; and from 
 the gloom of the mid-distance, — ground 
 undulations there becoming as it seemed 
 earth-born clouds of a hue and texture un- 
 known to the heavens, — ranks of factory 
 and coal-pit chimneys rigid in the inflex-^ 
 ibility of death. 
 
 But the minds of the two wanderers were 
 not to be engaged with the mere landscape 
 before them. Although the currents of 
 their individual thoughts were diverse 
 enough, they had at least the power of in-
 
 HELEN LOOKS FORWARD. 173 
 
 dividual absorption in common. In Bea- 
 trice, however, such absorption was that 
 of mere aimless abandonment; whilst in 
 Helen it was of comprehensive device. 
 Thus after every period of silence the re- 
 newal of conversation lay invariably with 
 the latter. 
 
 ' That granted, then, Bee,' resumed 
 Helen, as if there had been no break, ' I 
 have something more to ask. To-morrow 
 I shall leave Aggthorpe alone, and you 
 must stay under my father's roof until you 
 hear from me. Stare as much as you like, 
 old girl ; you will do as I say. It will 
 probably not be for long, for I know you 
 do not love the neighbourhood.' 
 
 ' But, Helen, your father is not well off. 
 I shall not give him any extra burden, not 
 even for a week.'
 
 174 AT SOCIETY S EXPENSE. 
 
 ' And do you think I shall, Miss Right- 
 eousness? I know what I am doing. 
 You shan't burden him, don't fear. At 
 least not through mere weight of victuals. 
 If you do in any way, it will be through — 
 through the devil himself.' 
 
 There was such unexpected display of 
 vehemence in the conclusion that Beatrice 
 took alarm. She seized her companion's 
 hand and held it. 
 
 ' My darling Helen, I swear that it shall 
 not be through that. I won't touch one 
 single drop of anything whilst I am with 
 him; indeed I won't.' 
 
 ' How can you keep that oath ? You 
 have sworn it before, many a time.' 
 
 ' Yes, but never in exchange for kind- 
 ness like this. You know what my life 
 has been '
 
 HELEN LOOKS FORWARD. 175- 
 
 ' AVell, don't make a scene. I know that 
 you will at any rate try to keep it, Bee. 
 Perhaps you may keep it the better if I tell 
 you that the curse that is on you has been 
 upon my father, through another, most of 
 his life. It has crippled him, maddened 
 him, ruined him,' continued Helen, with in- 
 creasing vehemence, ' until now at middle 
 age he is — Oh, poor man, I can't think of 
 what he is ; it maddens nie^ too. It has 
 made his life a farce, and may yet make it 
 a tragedy. Do you understand this, Bee ? 
 Will you think of it every day, and every 
 moment of every day that you are beneath 
 his roof?' 
 
 To Helen's impetuosity was added 
 Beatrice's fervency of solemn assurance 
 equally impetuous, and for a time there- 
 after thy walked forward in silence. The
 
 176 AT SOCIETY S EXPENSE. 
 
 astonisbiing tendency of things dazzled 
 Beatrice, and she now could do little but 
 listen to the energetic outpouring of her 
 friend. Helen really dis]3layed much intel- 
 lectual activity, if not of a superlatively 
 cultivated, at least by no means of a Avh oi- 
 ly ignoble, kind. Signs of a lively imagin- 
 ation were not wanting, however tinseled 
 by the cynical flippancy of the time. At 
 length she reverted to the subject of the 
 Goldhawkes, and led Beatrice on to a dis- 
 closure of her former relations with the 
 family fuller than the outcast had hitherto 
 been willing to impart. Helen seemed to 
 pay inordinate attention to a subject which 
 must in the nature of things, one would 
 have thought, directly have concerned her 
 but little. It is true, there was a sjDice of 
 dramatic interest in all that related to the
 
 HELEN LOOKS FORWARD. 177 
 
 deceased capitalist, and perhaps it was this 
 which exercised a fascination over Helen. 
 
 In this varied discourse the ramble of 
 the girls was unexpectedly prolonged. The 
 brief autumn twilight had already deepened 
 when they were still some distance from 
 the town, and as they returned homewards 
 the orange strip between the dark cloud- 
 curtain and the western horizon was fading 
 to a dead brown. The obscurity seemed to 
 have a directly opposite effect upon the two 
 wanderers. Whilst Helen's buoyancy rose 
 to an almost senseless exhilaration, the re- 
 serve of Beatrice sank to unmitigated de- 
 spondency. Raillery in the former was of 
 no avail, so at length she was content to 
 confine herself almost exclusively to ex- 
 uberant soliloquy. 
 
 The lamps were alight in the town, and 
 
 VOL. I. N
 
 178 AT society's expense. 
 
 the bells were pealing clamorously from 
 the church steeple as the girls drew near. 
 Passengers were becoming more abundant 
 in the street, engaged upon their various 
 errands, sacred or profane. Helen scru- 
 tinized them all with a swift brief glance, 
 and occasionally allowed her features to 
 ripple into a smile. Beatrice kept her eyes 
 invariably to the ground. At length they 
 reached the entrance to the Moon yard in 
 Finkle Street, and then disappeared. 
 
 The side door was fastened, so Helen 
 knocked peremptorily. She had to repeat 
 the summons. After a brief pause there 
 w^as a sound of the latch drawn, and the 
 door opened sufficiently to display the 
 blanched features of Mrs. Pildacre by the 
 light of a candle which she held out of the
 
 HELEN LOOKS FORWARD. 179 
 
 draught. Helen jDUshed her way in rather 
 rudely. 
 
 ' What's the matter, mother?' 
 
 ' Oh, my child, my child !' 
 
 'What is the matter?' repeated Helen, 
 impatiently, brushing past her mother to- 
 wards the parlour door whence issued 
 a confused sound of voices. 
 
 Mrs. Pildacre seized her daughter's 
 arm. 
 
 'He will kill you, too, my child,' she 
 whined. ' It's Mr. GoldhaAvke — Sun-un- 
 day as it is — has come to — to m-murder 
 your father. Oh, my child, my child !' 
 
 ' Don't be ridiculous !' cried Helen, tear- 
 ing herself away from her mother's grasp, 
 for indeed the sounds within had un- 
 doubtedly at that moment changed in their 
 
 N 2
 
 180 AT SOCIETY S EXPENSE. 
 
 nature, and what at first had seemed but 
 the hot words of chiding and contention, 
 had advanced, as the old homilist per- 
 ceived them generally to do, to ' further 
 inconvenience.' The proceedings were 
 confined to tongues no longer. As Helen 
 rushed to the parlour door, Beatrice whis- 
 pered tremulously in the weeping woman's 
 ear, ' Is it Barnard ?' But the words had 
 scarcely escaped her before a masculine 
 figure, lit for a moment by the candle's 
 rays, pushed against them in the narrow- 
 ness of the passage, knocked the candle 
 to the ground, and hastened out through 
 the doorway.
 
 181 
 
 CHAPTER VIII, 
 
 THE journalist's REWARD. 
 
 The journalist's free criticism had struck 
 the two most nearly aiFected by it in a 
 totally different manner. We have had 
 a glimpse of the younger brother Philip's 
 humorous reception of it. His frank and 
 by no means ungenerous disposition had 
 developed him into a flippant, genial 
 3^oung sceptic of the contemporary school, 
 and it was only natural therefore that Mr. 
 Pildacre's fanatical principles should not
 
 182 AT society's expense. 
 
 be able to extract more tban good- 
 bumoured contempt from him. Barnard, 
 it seems, bad viewed it differently. 
 
 Tbe brothers Goldhawke did not pre- 
 tend to understand eacb other, nor had 
 they ever done so from earliest boyhood. 
 Human nature was at first to Philip 
 merely a reduplication of the various im- 
 pulses which he felt most prominent in 
 himself. The absence of this or that 
 particular faculty in any other specimen 
 of the race had not occurred to him as 
 a possible feature of the calculation. Ex- 
 perience had since made him wiser — so far, 
 that is, as mere recognition of facts could 
 lead him, — but it had not brought him any 
 accession of tolerance for his brother's 
 proclivities. Barnard was a good fellow 
 enough, but he had hitherto allowed a
 
 THE journalist's eeward. 183 
 
 clevouring commercial ambition to con- 
 sume the more human qualities dormant 
 in his nature. Philip lothed and despised 
 commerce (save as it ministered to his 
 personal requirements) and what he would 
 have called the sordid ambition involved 
 in it. 
 
 In their different attitude to the world 
 at large was involved of necessity a corre- 
 sponding attitude to the disposition of each 
 other. Philip despised his brother and 
 his propensities ; Barnard as little appre- 
 ciated the light proclivities of Philip, and 
 was in no way propitiated by the contempt 
 with which he knew his own to be re- 
 garded. The unprincipled testator had 
 unquestionably played upon these differ- 
 ing constitutions in such a w^ay as his 
 shrewdness assured him would be effect-
 
 184 AT society's expense. 
 
 ual. Had either brother been gifted with 
 the least bit of additional intellect, no 
 doubt the jDroject had failed ; but seeing 
 that both were consumed with the normal 
 proportion of pride in the first place, the 
 chances of its success seemed established. 
 Since their father's death, neither had 
 spoken a word to the other of the com- 
 petition which the will had instituted be- 
 tween them. 
 
 Philip as a man of some humour, and 
 of still more natural indolence withal, had 
 hardly yet been able to regard his own 
 position in the matrimonial competition, 
 so absorbed was he in the contemplation 
 of the predicament of his brother. From 
 this point of view he felt it a duty to take 
 up the pursuit seriously, however person- 
 ally inconvenient, with the sole purpose
 
 THE journalist's REWARD. 185 
 
 of enjoying liis brother's tactics. Still he 
 liked to banter Gertrude with propositions 
 as to his own proper course of conduct, 
 for that such propositions were banter 
 to her seemed to be tacitly understood by 
 both of them. 
 
 The month, then, that had elapsed since 
 Mr. Goldhawke's death had not been 
 devoted to indiscriminate mourning. Dur- 
 ing the whole of that time Philip had 
 resided at Grove House, for the most 
 part with Gertrude alone, for Barnard had 
 found it necessary to be much absent. He 
 had, however, returned on this Sunday 
 afternon, after the appearance of the 
 notable article in the Moon on the pre- 
 vious day. 
 
 Miss Crossley, returning from church, 
 had found Philip smoking cigarettes in
 
 186 AT SOCIETY S EXPENSE. 
 
 the room which had been the private 
 sanctum of Mr. Goldhawke the elder. 
 With a glance of much gravity she saw 
 him lower to his knee the paper-backed 
 volume which he had been reading, but 
 no audible comment was passed upon it. 
 Perhaps her own prayer and hymn-books 
 were of set purpose held rather prominent- 
 ly forward, but if any reproof were in- 
 tended, it was accepted with all Philip'^ 
 customary silent good-humour. 
 
 ' Good seruion. Dude?' 
 
 ' I don't go to church for the ser- 
 mon, Philip, as I have had to tell you 
 before.' 
 
 ' But you don't come out before it^ 
 nevertheless,' was his pleasant rejoinder. 
 
 ' Really, Philip, what a singular re- 
 mark !'
 
 THE journalist's REWARD. 187 
 
 ' I'm reading a tale here about a fellow 
 not half unlike myself, — with reference, 
 I mean, to you know — the competition. 
 Ha, ha ! But he ' 
 
 ' Indeed !' 
 
 ' Wait a bit, Gertrude ! It isn't in 
 French, really. ''' The Price of a Wife :" 
 have you read it?' 
 
 But Gertrude escaped, and Philip 
 hummed a tune. 
 
 In the afternoon Miss Crossley appeared 
 in more pliant mood, and her companion 
 was ready to take advantage of it. They 
 were strolling about the premises, the 
 gentleman smoking a cigar, and flinging 
 jokes to the noisy rooks. 
 
 'Well, I suppose I must myself begin 
 to beat the covers,' he said, glancing at his 
 companion's features.
 
 188 AT society's expense. 
 
 Gertrude was but too plainly ignorant 
 of his meaning. 
 
 ' Barnard has already had undue start ; 
 don't you think so, Gertrude?' 
 
 ' How can I have an opinion on the 
 subject?' 
 
 ' The worst is that there are no prefer- 
 ential covers to beat. I wonder where Bar- 
 nard's scent lies, — do you know. Dude?' 
 
 ' Philip, don't be so flippant on such a 
 subject.' 
 
 The gentleman laughed. 
 
 ' One would naturally feel disposed to 
 turn to the elect, but that I fear the elect 
 will view the terms with suspicion. I 
 suppose I must scent mungo at Wadsett. 
 A fifty thousand portion is nothing there, 
 I understand. You will grant your bless- 
 ing upon my enterprise ?'
 
 THE journalist's REWARD. 189 
 
 ' The heart of a noble enterprise is a 
 blessino',' rejoined Gertrude, turning epi- 
 grammatic for the nonce. 
 
 'And conversely, the heart of an ignoble 
 
 one a ? Ha, ha ! You are quite a 
 
 sage, old girl. You must have been 
 reading Plato lately. But you wish me 
 well?' 
 
 'You know it, Philip.' 
 
 'And I you, Gertrude. What are you 
 going to do?' 
 
 'Oh, that doesn't matter,' she said, 
 lightly, avoiding his glance. 
 
 He took her shoulder kindly and made 
 her face him. 
 
 ' It does matter, dear girl. You know 
 it matters to me. I am a self-constituted 
 brother to you, and I want to ' 
 
 They were within sight of the front
 
 190 AT SOCIETY S EXPENSE. 
 
 gate, and at the sound of a vehicle both 
 turned in that direction. A hansom had 
 just drawn up there, and a gentleman was 
 alighting from it. 
 
 ' Barnard,' said Philip, with a twinkle. 
 ^ He got the newspaper, then.' 
 
 Both walked towards the new-comer. 
 
 The features of Mr. Barnard Goldhawke 
 were set as he approached the pair, wear- 
 ing a look which seemed natural to his 
 clean-shaven countenance. Civilly he 
 shook hands with them both, and for a 
 minute or two they endeavoured to sustain 
 an interchange of small-talk. 
 
 Barnard was only about thirty now, and 
 he looked a handsome enough man of the 
 world. His devotion to magnificent com- 
 mercial enterprise had imprinted a some- 
 what elderly look upon his face, and his
 
 THE JOURNALIST S EEWARD. 191 
 
 manner was habitually taciturn. He had 
 never greatly cultivated social intercourse, 
 although he was said to be a genial enough 
 fellow if you could thaw him. Some pro- 
 nounced him to be the successor to his 
 father, but others knew that this did him 
 gross injustice. Commercially ambitious 
 he was to extravagance, but this taint had 
 not as yet extinguished his human quali- 
 ties, only obscured them. That he had 
 never wholly abandoned the search for the 
 hapless Beatrice, in whose fate he felt 
 such an uncomfortable interest, argued 
 some human susceptibility in him. More- 
 over, a devotion to his commercial ideals, 
 arid enough as they were, perhaps gave 
 evidence of more natural potentiality than 
 lurked in all the hollow smooth-faced 
 negation of the well-fed Philip.
 
 192 AT society's expense. 
 
 Barnard could not long sustain the pre- 
 tence at conversation. He brought it to 
 abrupt termination by producing a news- 
 paper from his pocket, and thrusting it 
 towards his brother. 
 
 ' Have you seen that?' 
 
 Paper and type too plainly bespoke the 
 Moon. 
 
 ' I have,' said Philip, with a smile. 
 
 The brother could scarce disguise his 
 irritation at the man's nonchalant bearing. 
 
 'And have you thrashed Pildacre ?' 
 
 'Well ... I haven't. That, in fact, 
 never occurred to me as an inevitable 
 conclusion.' 
 
 A look from the elder was all his re- 
 sponse, and he strode towards the house. 
 When Barnard was fairly beyond earshot, 
 Philip burst into unrestrained laughter, in
 
 THE JOURNALIST S REWARD. ly:^ 
 
 which Gertrude felt compelled to join. 
 Between the young lady and her elder 
 cousin real cordiality had never been 
 established (some attributed this to mis- 
 understanding upon the subject of the 
 unfortunate sister's delinquencies) ; and so 
 perhaps Philip's mirth proved the more 
 readily infectious. 
 
 ' Some effect I looked for, but scarcely 
 this,' was Philip's comment ; and he and 
 Gertrude parted. 
 
 A short time later the two brothers were 
 together in the smoking-room, the elder 
 pacing the floor impatiently. 
 
 ' I should have thouo^ht the most di^ni- 
 fied course lay in ignoring the poor devil,' 
 Philip was saying, severely restraining his 
 laughter. ' It is a legitimate catch-penny. 
 
 VOL. I.
 
 194 AT SOCIETY S EXPENSE. 
 
 Could one expect him to resist it ?' 
 ' Expect him ! What do you mean, 
 man ? It is meant for a deliberate insult 
 to me personally.' 
 
 '■ I wasn't aware of that. I knew the 
 man wasn't within possible range of in- 
 sulting me, so it only amused me.' 
 
 'Amused you?' cried Barnard, angrily. 
 ' What serves to anger you, then, in the 
 world which you inhabit?' 
 
 ' I am afraid I don't exactly know. But 
 I don't suppose we shall greatly improve 
 the situation by discussing it. If you take 
 
 my advice, you'll just ' 
 
 ' I didn't ask for your advice.' 
 'Very good. I thought you did.' 
 And, closing the door behind him, 
 Philip heard no more. 
 
 Until sunset Barnard remained alone in
 
 THE journalist's REWARD. 195 
 
 the same room. He confessed to more 
 local association in his native district than 
 Phihp was able to, and this no doubt had 
 some eifect upon his susceptibility to local 
 ridicule. His fathers will under any 
 aspect exasperated him beyond utterance, 
 but to see it thus flaunted verbatim in 
 the puldic gaze almost maddened him. 
 What his secret ruminations were nobody 
 knew, nobody inquired. It was obsen^ed, 
 though, that when the western horizon 
 was colouring, — that horizon in face of 
 which Helen and Beatrice were at that 
 moment walking, — Barnard issued forth 
 and went, as was supposed, townwards. 
 
 There was a field-path to the town from 
 this point, which, after sundry meander- 
 ings, brought one to the bridge over the 
 river Cloaker, at the lower part of the 
 
 o2
 
 196 AT SOCIETY S EXPENSE. 
 
 town — the place at which Helen had dis- 
 missed her enthusiastic cavalier, Mr. 
 Clement Secroft. This was the path 
 which Barnard was taking. When he 
 reached the town bridge, — he had, with 
 obvious intention, lingered at certain 
 points of his walk as the daylight was 
 stubborn, — when at the bridge the twi- 
 light was deepening and the lamps were 
 already alight, so that he would have 
 little difficulty in escaping observation, 
 such clearly being his intention. The 
 church bells were pealing over the town, 
 and passengers were becoming more num- 
 erous on the pavement. The gentleman 
 walked at a brisk pace up the long 
 broad Finkle Street, observing other pas- 
 sengers sufficiently to escape collision 
 with them, but nothing' more. At a cer-
 
 THE journalist's REWARD. 197 
 
 tain point his pace was slackened, and he 
 looked critically at the house fronts on 
 the pavement. The shutters were up at 
 the office of the Moon^ and no lights ap- 
 peared in the windows above it, but as a 
 lamp-post stood directly opposite the good 
 journalist's doorway, there was no diffi- 
 culty in speedily identifying Mr. Pildacre's 
 commercial and domestic quarters. 
 
 Into the dark entry, accordingly, the 
 well-known capitalist plunged, and great 
 Avas the pity that none of his interested 
 fellow-townsfolk chanced to recognize him 
 as he did so. The house-door was on the 
 shaded side of the wav, and for a moment 
 Mr. Goldhawke had to grope along the 
 wall to discover it. Once fairly con- 
 fronted, however, he disdained to spend 
 further time in seeking for the bell-knob,
 
 198 AT society's expense. 
 
 so knocked loudly with the handle of his 
 stick. Response was speedily forthcom- 
 ing. Mr. Pildacre was at home, and the 
 visitor entered. 
 
 Not until he was within the passage 
 did Mrs. Pildacre recognise to whom it 
 was she had the honour of speaking ; and^ 
 when she did so, her composure left 
 her. 
 
 ' Mr. Goldhawke !' she exclaimed, in a 
 tone of consternation. 
 
 ' Yes, it is,' resjDonded her visitor, with 
 significant decision, and followed her 
 towards the parlour. 
 
 Possibly the journalist had felt qualms 
 at the strange masculine tones within his 
 doorway ; for, although his legal know- 
 ledge was sufficient to assure him that 
 Sunday was a dies non in matters of ordi-
 
 THE JOUKNALISt's REWARD. 10^ 
 
 nary process, his life-long experience had 
 perhaps worked him up to the moiiientary 
 expectation of what was beyond the or- 
 dinary. He had stood screened within 
 the parlour doorway, Avith his head bent 
 nervously forward to put, if at all that 
 were possible, a favourable construction 
 upon the unknown accents. His wife's 
 exclamation gave him the clue he was in 
 need of, and immediately he felt the 
 courage of an enthusiast. It was before 
 the clamouring of creditors only that the 
 virtue of ]\Ir. Pildacre's convictions was 
 able to desert hhn. AVith a tug at the 
 bottom rim of his waistcoat, and an ad- 
 justment of the shoulders, the editor of 
 the Moon advanced boldly to meet his 
 critic. 
 
 ' Mr. Goldhawke, did I hear?' he asked,
 
 200 AT society's expense. 
 
 with the bland assurance of an EngUsh- 
 man within his castle. 
 
 ' You did, sir.' 
 
 And the two turned abruptly to the 
 parlour. The housewife, naturally, took 
 up her position outside the door. 
 
 The journalist's politeness was rejected 
 without ceremony by the visitor, and not 
 the most innocent of editors could mistake 
 the attitude of his guest. 
 
 ' You are proprietor, editor, and printer 
 of this filthy rag, I understand,' observed 
 Mr. Goldhawke, holding from the tips of 
 thumb and forefinger a crumpled speci- 
 men of the second edition of the jour- 
 nalist's now famous issue of the previous 
 day. 
 
 ' I am proprietor, editor, and printer, 
 sir, of nothing meriting such uncleanly
 
 THE journalist's REWARD. 201 
 
 epithets,' returned Xahum, mildly, but 
 with no want of firm dignity in tone and 
 bearing. ' I am the instrument, humble 
 and unfortunately devoid enough of such 
 talents as are requisite ' 
 
 ' You wrote and issued this scurrilous 
 libel upon — upon my family, I presume. 
 You had the requisite talents for that.' 
 
 ' I will not pretend to misunderstand 
 your reference. Acting upon a principle 
 which has become a religion to me, I 
 wrote and issued certain strictures upon 
 a piece of more or less public behaviour 
 on the part of a gentleman of note in 
 this borough ; if, in the fulfilment of such 
 duty ' 
 
 ' Duty, you scoundrel !' cried Gold- 
 hawke, angrily. ' It is an infamous libel, 
 and, on the part of a fellow like you, a
 
 202 AT SOCIETY S EXPENSE. 
 
 piece of especially damned insolence. I 
 am quite aware that it is directed against 
 me personally, therefore it is with me 
 personally that you will have to settle. 
 You will begin this instant with a hum- 
 ble apology to me — on your knees. Down 
 at once, sir!' 
 
 ' If my words can technically be brought 
 under the appellation libel,' began Pil- 
 dacre, waiving with dignity the immediate 
 issue sought by his antagonist, ' you knoAV 
 how to obtain reparation, Mr. Goldhawke. 
 I contend that the reflections which mere 
 public duty called upon me to make — 
 you will not lose sight of the responsible 
 position into which natural circes have 
 thrust me, sir — I contend that in the 
 position which I occupy '
 
 THE JOURNALIST S REWARD. 203 
 
 ' Damn your position !' cried Goldhawke, 
 with an impetuosity wliicli caused the 
 journahst to recede a pace or two pre- 
 paratively. ' Your position at this mo- 
 ment, I tell you, is to be at my feet upon 
 the floor ' 
 
 ' In view of the work which I have had 
 entrusted to me,' interposed the journalist, 
 ' I may say, without presumption, that a 
 reversal of the relative attitudes proposed 
 by you would better meet the requirements 
 
 of the Beware what you are about, 
 
 sir !' exclaimed Pildacre, stepping hastily 
 backwards to place the table between 
 himself and his incensed visitor. 
 
 ' I will beware,' returned the other,, 
 forcibly, advancing with direful intent 
 obvious alike in face and movement.
 
 204 AT society's expense. 
 
 ' I have done my duty,' cried the jour- 
 nalist, rounding the corner of the table 
 "with noticeable alacrity. 
 
 'And I will do mine,' was the retort of 
 him in pursuit. 
 
 ' Mr. Goldhawke — ' Pildacre ducked and 
 darted round a corner — ' I don't know 
 what is your intention, Mr. Goldhawke. I 
 
 am not a pugilist. I am not a Stand 
 
 back, sir !' 
 
 A violent cut across the shoulder from 
 the walking-stick of the visitor gave the 
 journalist the resolution necessary for con- 
 fronting his assailant. His resolution, how- 
 ever, unattended by the proper pugilis- 
 tic accompaniments, was unavailing, and 
 proved no match for the ferocious attack 
 with which Barnard instantly assailed him. 
 
 Mr. Pildacre was not exactly a muscular
 
 THE journalist's REWARD. 205' 
 
 man, but his submission to such io^no- 
 minious treatment at the hands of a man 
 like Barnard Goldhawke must have ars^ued 
 an exceptional degree of physical cowar- 
 dice. Muscular retaliation seemed to find 
 no place in the journalist's intention ; all 
 his efforts were directed to possible secur- 
 ity beneath the table. At length he ob- 
 tained this, and his assailant, considering 
 his errand sufficiently accomplished, utter- 
 ing anathemas of a violent order, turned 
 and left the chamber. 
 
 Any movements outside were of course 
 inaudible to the two so engaged in the 
 parlour ; the return of Helen and Beatrice, 
 therefore, at the moment of the pursuit 
 round the table having become critical, 
 was unknown to them. As Goldhawke 
 brushed past the women in the passage^
 
 206 AT society's expense. 
 
 knocking the candle from the hand of Mrs. 
 Pildacre in his exit, he paid no heed to 
 the figures which were standing there. 
 
 Both Helen and Beatrice had seen his 
 face in the candlelight before it was ex- 
 tinguished, and the latter exjDerienced a 
 singular thrill of emotion as she recog- 
 nized the features, and then felt the figure 
 knock against herself. Helen was, for the 
 moment, wholly taken up with anxiety for 
 the safety of her father, and, hurrying 
 forward to the room, looked anxiously 
 around her. 
 
 'Father!' she exclaimed, the journalist 
 being still screened between the legs of 
 the table. 
 
 ' Helen, my girl,' responded the man, 
 with piteous alacrity, as it seemed, revived 
 at once by the sweetness of the unex-
 
 THE JOUPvXxVLIST's REWARD. 207 
 
 pectecl accents, ' you witness my humilia- 
 tion even as you were a party to my 
 triumph.' 
 
 As he spoke, he came creeping out into 
 the open. 
 
 'What, has that man dared ' 
 
 ' A trifle, Helen. An inevitable result 
 of fulfilling a duty in the face of an un- 
 principled world. Phew!' 
 
 Helen took her father's arm and helped 
 him to the chair. Then the other two 
 entered.
 
 208 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 THE SCENT. 
 
 ^ " Fiat justitia," ' murmured the sorely- 
 bruised journalist, as he adjusted himself, 
 with the least possible suffering, to the 
 angles of the well-worn arm-chair. ' I 
 will do my duty, Helen, though a hundred 
 ruffians should assault and batter, nay, 
 should inflict upon me bodily harm to the 
 technical extent of mayhem.' 
 
 • Certainly you will, father,' replied the 
 girl, who was standing apart in a state of 
 engrossing meditation.
 
 THE SCENT. 209 
 
 ' My remedy against him might be 
 severe : I might without difficulty, with 
 positive justice, as most would hold, seek 
 for the utmost rigour of the law. My 
 right, I say, empowers me thus far. But^ 
 Helen, I waive it. From no temporal 
 hands will I seek reparation. To suffer 
 in the cause of virtue, I lay no claims per- 
 sonally, God knows ; but the cause, the 
 cause, — it is virtue. To suffer for it is a 
 reward Avhich my poor efforts have hardly 
 merited.' 
 
 ' You have a duty, Nahum,' interposed 
 the housewife, whimpering ; ' you have a 
 duty to a wife and family, as well as to 
 virtue and the cause.' 
 
 ' Silence, woman !' roared the journalist. 
 ' Tempt me not. Are you calculating 
 already the vile advantages to be ex- 
 
 VOL. I. p
 
 210 AT SOCIETY S EXPENSE. 
 
 pressed from such — ho, phew! — from such 
 an incident? Would you fatten upon black- 
 mail ? Aroint thee, witch !* 
 
 ' I think that when your family is in 
 want of the necessaries of — — ' 
 
 ' — of death, damnation, and hell !' 
 shrieked Pildacre, drowning the word with 
 which his Avife had seen fit to conclude. 
 ^ Do not blaspheme, woman !' 
 
 Helen glanced at her friend Beatrice 
 with a mere upward ripple of the brow by 
 way of light emphatic comment upon the 
 significance of the conversation. Beatrice 
 was still trembling. 
 
 ' You shall not want for the necessaries 
 of life, mother,' interposed Helen, with 
 noticeable composure. 'I will see to that, 
 at any rate. I wholly agree with you, 
 father,' she Avent on, placing her hand
 
 THE SCENT. 211 
 
 upon the back of the chair in which he 
 was sitting, and looking down upon his 
 bald head reflectively. ' It would be ig- 
 nominious to seek for mere penal satisfac- 
 tion from such a ruffian. As you say, 
 pursue your duty as heretofore, and forget 
 the existence of him.' 
 
 In pain as the journalist was, this 
 speech acted like magic upon him. What 
 the faith of Kadijah was to the prophet 
 of the faithful, Helen's encouragement was 
 to Xahum Pildacre at this moment. He 
 felt renewed confidence in himself. Tears 
 started to his eyes as he regarded Helen, 
 ^nd with unrestrained emotion he pressed 
 his daughter passionately to his heart. 
 All kept silence, and in silence the jour- 
 nalist resumed his seat. 
 
 Beyond these few words to her father, 
 
 r 2
 
 212 AT society's expense. 
 
 Helen betrayed nothing of the effect the 
 scene had had upon her. That it had not 
 merely come and gone like any other of 
 the odd experiences of her daily life, her 
 occasional conduct seemed to indicate. 
 An unusual degree of thoughtfulness ^vas 
 uj)on her, although she made an effort 
 from time to time to gloss it over by 
 exceptional hilarity. Only Beatrice noticed 
 Helen closely. She had accustomed her- 
 self of late to a solicitous perusal of her 
 friend's countenance, but she had not 
 hitherto discerned any expression which 
 seemed to go beyond the range of comedy. 
 But Avhen she now caught Helen's eyes in 
 a far-off glance, she thought something 
 more was to be perceived there. 
 
 Later, the two girls were alone washing 
 up the tea things. Mrs. Pildacre, un-
 
 THE SCENT. 213 
 
 nerved by the shock, had gone to lie 
 down : the journalist groaned in his arm- 
 chair. 
 
 ' What — what are you thinking about, 
 Helen ?' ventured Beatrice, her eyes bent 
 timidly to the vessel that her hands were 
 engaged with. 
 
 Helen started as though aroused from 
 slumber. 
 
 ' Yes !' she cried, with heedless irrele- 
 vance. ' What did you say. Bee ?' 
 
 The other repeated her question, raising 
 her eyes this time. 
 
 ' Thinking about ? Wait and see, old 
 girl. T shall leave here to-night. Bee.' 
 
 ' To-night ! Then I ' 
 
 ' — Will stay here. You have given me 
 your promise. You know what you 
 promised?'
 
 214 AT society's expense. 
 
 Helen looked fixedly into her com- 
 panion's eyes. 
 
 ' Yes, yes, I know. And I will keep it, 
 I swear I will.' 
 
 ' All right, Bee. I shall trust you. It 
 is for your own good, mind.' 
 
 Then Helen relapsed into silence, and 
 in this way the remainder of their work 
 was accomplished. 
 
 ' Helen, my girl, be seated. I have 
 much to talk about, very much. It is 
 good of you to come here : like a ray 
 of ' 
 
 ' Is it right?' interposed the daughter, 
 nodding towards a time-piece upon which 
 her eye had rested. 
 
 ' Half-an-hour fast. We have a good 
 evening before us. If I could only tell 
 YOU '
 
 THE SCENT. 215 
 
 ' Can you lend me a sovereign, father ?' 
 
 • Twenty, my own girl,' hastily ejacu- 
 lated the journalist, thrusting his hand 
 into a pocket of imaginary profundity. 
 ' At least — But, be seated — we can talk 
 of ' 
 
 ' What's this, Bee ? Bah, nonsense !' 
 
 With tremulous ecstasy, Beatrice had 
 thrust her sovereign secretly into Helen's 
 hand. 
 
 'You shall, Helen?' cried the giver, 
 passionatel3\ starting back from her friend's 
 advances. 
 
 ' Well, yes, I will, Bee.' 
 
 The transaction ended, and they all sat 
 down. 
 
 For half-an-hour the journalist ha- 
 rangued them. The great privilege of
 
 216 AT SOCIETY S EXPENSE. 
 
 martyrdom seemed to liave touched new 
 veins in him, and he worked them en- 
 thusiastically. Groans were interspersed, 
 the result of any needful gesticulation 
 which the subject.matter occasioned, but 
 they served rather to develop than to 
 interfere with the threads of the impas- 
 sioned discourse. Necessarily, when the 
 interruption came, the effect of it was 
 tragic. Nahum's hands were uplifted, and 
 his features assumed an expression of 
 blank despair. 
 
 ' To-night, Helen !' was all he could 
 utter. 
 
 ' It is necessary that I go to-night, 
 father, else you know that I should 
 stay.' 
 
 The journalist offered no syllable of 
 expostulation ; the effect upon him was
 
 THE SCENT. 217 
 
 too complete for that. As Helen hur- 
 riedly got together such few things as she 
 needed, even she did not quite realize the 
 state of collapse from which her f^ither 
 suffered. His exuberance, the joint fleet- 
 ing effect of last night's five editions, and 
 his daughter's reappearance had no in- 
 dependent ground to stand upon. At the 
 moment of such reverse as this, he could 
 see it clearly, and the sense of overwhelm- 
 ing liabilities gathering round him, like 
 the flowing tide around a lonely rock, 
 settled irresistibly upon him. In this 
 light, the five editions what were they ? 
 Xot enough even to meet the accumulat- 
 ing arrears of his long-suffering Jesse, to 
 
 say nothing of But Helen was going. 
 
 Such sleep as Mr. Pildacre was to 
 obtain throughout the night ensuing, he
 
 218 AT society's expense. 
 
 obtained in that same uneasy posture in 
 liis arm-chair. 
 
 Helen had left no time to spare, for as 
 she entered the station, the train for 
 Wallborough was drawing up at the 
 platform. Hastily she booked, and took 
 her seat. Doors were slammed and the 
 train started. 
 
 The girl sat alone in her compartment 
 in a tremulous state of cogitation. The 
 world seemed to totter about her under 
 the weight of her impulsive resolution. 
 Every incident of the last two days 
 thronged confusedly through her heated 
 brain, but all seemed to afford encourage- 
 ment and stimulus for what she had in 
 hand. 
 
 Helen's mind, wholly freed from the 
 restraints of self-curbing principle, mount-
 
 THE SCENT. 219 
 
 eel to the most extravagant heights of 
 sensational or dramatic imagination. She 
 had had an excellent education at the 
 Girls' High School of her native to^vn, 
 and had shown herself competent to reap 
 to the full the benefit of such modern 
 advantages. From that she had advanced 
 to a governess-ship in a family of social 
 distinction, and had in that capacity also 
 acquitted herself to the infinite appro- 
 bation of her superiors. The step from 
 that to a place on the boards of a pro- 
 vincial theatrical company may seem an 
 odd one, nevertheless it had been taken. 
 In that capacity Helen had hardly had 
 a fair trial, as circumstances had prema- 
 turely cut short her experiences before 
 even she herself was fully aware of her 
 histrionic abilities. Now, yet another
 
 220 AT society's expense. 
 
 attraction had of a sudden engaged her, 
 and upon this her imagination had fast- 
 ened with an engrossing power Avhich bid 
 fair to echpse all the rest. 
 
 The matrimonial competition which the 
 Goldhawke will had instituted between 
 the two brothers had, in the first place, 
 appealed irresistibly to Helen's sense of 
 humour, and, in an instant following, to 
 her instinctive craving for sensation. She 
 was not of a sentimental constitution, 
 therefore, up to the present time, the 
 matrimonial aspect of life had only pre- 
 sented itself to her in its strategic or 
 purely dramatic character. It was an act 
 of life by no means to be neglected, see- 
 ing the glowing possibilities which it un- 
 doubtedly presented ; but which never- 
 theless, in the face of her immediate
 
 THE SCENT. 221 
 
 circumstances, had not yet come within 
 the practical range of her engagements. 
 Two clays had been sufficient to effect a 
 change in all this. 
 
 Love of adventure was strong in Helen ; 
 love of her father was still stronger. If 
 the former could be indulged at the same 
 time that the latter was being promoted, 
 she felt that she had alighted upon an 
 ideal set of circumstances, of which no- 
 thing but malign fate should deprive her. 
 Her blood boiled at the consideration of 
 the indignities to which her father had 
 that night been subjected, and her sense 
 of dramatic, rather than ethical, justice 
 clamoured for revenge against the per- 
 petrator. Xo wonder that the temptation 
 proved irresistible, and that Helen decided 
 to launch upon an enterprise in which
 
 222 AT society's expense. 
 
 so much of her nature would be in- 
 volved. 
 
 As the train rattled on its way only the 
 exhilarating successful aspect of the pro- 
 ject assailed her. Given one or two 
 preliminaries of success, how consummate 
 would be her triumph ! Barnard's ab- 
 sorbing commercial ambition was matter 
 of universal comment. Were he indiffer- 
 ent to it, the triumph would be paltry. 
 But, in the face of such powerful induce- 
 ment, the victory of a penniless schemer, 
 and she the daughter of the editor of the 
 Moon^ assumed positively royal propor- 
 tions, and was a consummation worthy of 
 superhuman effort to accomplish.
 
 '22?j 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 AX ACCOMMODATION. 
 
 Shortly after nine o'clock that night, as 
 Clement Secroft was sitting witli his 
 mother in the quietude of a well-ordered 
 Sabbath, the maid entered with a note 
 for him. He looked up from his book and 
 took the letter. 
 
 'Not business to-night, Clement ?' said 
 the lady. 
 
 ' Nothing, I exp " He stopped, and 
 
 the expression of his face changed. With
 
 224 AT society's expense. 
 
 the obvious intention of passing some- 
 thing oiF, he got up and looked at his 
 watch. ' Only a little after nine. I had 
 better go to-night.' 
 
 ' I am sure it can stay, my dear boy. 
 You will do it better in the morning.' 
 
 ' Not business, mother. Works of mercy 
 and necessity, you know, are excepted.' 
 And, with a little laugh, he left the room. 
 Putting his head in again, he said, 'I don't 
 think I shall be long, but if after ten don't 
 stay, mother.' 
 
 In a minute or two the front door was 
 closed. 
 
 It was a breezy, starlight night, and 
 Clement walked briskly to the hotel from 
 which Helen's note was directed. She 
 had said to-morrow morning at nine 
 o'clock, but he had another engagement
 
 AN ACCOMMODATION. 225 
 
 at that time, or at any rate imagined that 
 he had, and the present moment seemed 
 very much more convenient. In all sin- 
 cerity, Helen was not in the least ex- 
 pecting this. She had composed herself 
 in the ladies' drawing-room quite com- 
 fortably, and was engaged in perusing 
 the pages of a fashionable weekly news- 
 paper, sacred to the interests of a verv 
 feminine constituency. 
 
 With idle complacency Helen turned 
 the leaves, and, to do her justice, found 
 the subjects treated of incomparably dull. 
 She did not belong to this orthodox 
 feminine constituency for which the paper 
 existed. Whatever life was to her, (and 
 Avhat it was it would have been difficult 
 to formulate,) obviously it was not the 
 pitiful vacuity abhorred of milliners' and 
 
 VOL. I. Q
 
 226 AT society's expense. 
 
 society rinsings. Something else was in 
 possession, sufficiently powerful to rej)el 
 this insidious current. It chanced that, 
 before throwing aside the paper, Helen's 
 eyes fell upon the advertisement pages. 
 The perusal of an item or two aroused 
 her, and she proceeded with additional 
 interest. 
 
 Various wants and offers tickled her 
 imagination, and from the bare announce- 
 ment of facts, of more or less ludicrous 
 significance, Helen involuntarily evolved 
 successive chapters of family history of 
 the greatest possible interest and diversity. 
 One particular paragraph had just ar- 
 rested her, when an attendant entered and 
 brought over to her a tray bearing a 
 gentleman's card. Despite her surprise, 
 Helen took it with well-bred calmness.
 
 AX ACCOMMODATION. 227 
 
 'The gentleman is waiting, ma'am.' 
 
 ' Yes, one moment.' 
 
 Looking again at the paper in her lap, 
 Helen re-reacl the advertisement which 
 had last engaged her ; then, with a com- 
 placent smile, rose from her couch and 
 followed the attendant. 
 
 In a private room she found ]\Ir. 
 Clement Secroft, and she greeted him 
 with dignity. 
 
 ' Do forgive my troubling you, Mr. 
 Secroft. I had no thought of seeing you 
 to-night.' 
 
 ' You know. Miss Ilderton, that it is a 
 pleasure for me to wait upon you. I am 
 engaged in the morning.' 
 
 ' I am afraid you will think this action 
 of mine strange, and probably indelicate,' 
 began Helen, with a winning propriety of 
 
 q2
 
 228 AT SOCIETY S EXPENSE. 
 
 demeanour which fascinated the young 
 lawyer ; ' but my lonely position compels 
 me to take strange courses. I have a 
 matter of importance to consult you about, 
 and I thouo'ht it could be done more 
 thoroughly and easily in conversation 
 than by letter. You Avill not misunder- 
 stand me, Mr. Secroft T 
 
 ' I hope not,' assented the other, with 
 undisguised cordiaUty. 
 
 ' I have urgent need of a thousand 
 pounds,' Helen continued, with frank 
 alacrity, fixing her calm maidenly gaze 
 upon Clement's face ; ' in order to repair 
 a very great wrong. The amount startles 
 you, I see,' she went on, lightly, ' but the 
 suggestion is not so ridiculous as it may 
 appear. My acquaintance with you does 
 not warrant a request that you should
 
 AN ACCOMMODATION. 229 
 
 help me to such a sum, I know too well ; 
 but I have no where else to turn, for no- 
 body else would receive a mere word by 
 way of security. However, my impudence 
 is not so great as it may appear. In twelve 
 months, Mr. Secroft, I can repay the 
 money with proper interest upon it. Can 
 you help me ?' 
 
 Clement could not disguise from him- 
 self that he was staggered. The collapse 
 of a company of country players had been 
 the means of introducting him to this 
 young lady : his consequent sentimental 
 interest in her was unbounded certainly : 
 but — a thousand pounds. It was more 
 than he expected. He possessed the 
 sum, it was true, and could speedily rea- 
 lize it ; but principled though he was, and 
 in love, he was after all of legal training,
 
 230 AT society's expense. 
 
 not without some knowledge of life, and 
 human. The security was questionable. 
 Helen still looked at him, and he at her. 
 She was beautiful, — very beautiful, Clem- 
 ent thought, with this slight additional 
 colour, especially, and, for one instant, 
 from her eyes he drew an unworthy sug- 
 gestion. A thousand pounds was not too 
 
 much to 
 
 ^ Helen ' 
 
 But his soul stifled the thought. To 
 call her wife he would not buy her. 
 
 ' 1 am not sure that I can raise the 
 
 money.' 
 
 He only said this to gather time for 
 thought ; and Helen knew that his words 
 were by no means final. The delay was 
 natural and what she had expected. In 
 fact, the whole of his struggle was clearly
 
 AN ACCOMMODATION. 261 
 
 leo^ible to her. and, although not suffi- 
 ciently inhuman to regard it Avith indif- 
 ference, there was a more powerful emo- 
 tion stirring her, of effects apparently 
 grossly selfish, but for which in reality 
 she would gladly have given her own 
 body to the flames, had circumstances 
 demanded such oblation. Wilfully she 
 in no way ministered to his emotion, but 
 at the cost of anything or anybody she 
 Avould minister to her own. 
 
 ^ Are you not ?' 
 
 No doubt, if Clement had been worldly 
 Avise, he would here have closed his ears 
 and fled from her presence. But he did 
 not. — He inhaled the ravishing tones, — 
 just then so sweetly solicitous, so an- 
 xiously dependent, — and dwelt upon them. 
 The poor man's good principles were very
 
 232 AT society's expense. 
 
 traitors to him. A man of the world 
 could have faced her calmly. He knew 
 quite well that he was already vanquished, 
 but there was still delay. 
 
 ^ Take a chair, Miss Ilderton ... A 
 thousand pounds, you said.' 
 
 ' With no security.' 
 
 ' No security !' he exclaimed, artlessly, 
 or with artfulness supreme. ' You gave 
 your word.' 
 
 ' Does that suffice ? I did not know 
 money could be raised so easily. But yes, 
 you have my word.' 
 
 ' It is security for me. When do you 
 want the money ?' 
 
 ' At the earliest moment possible.' 
 
 ' You shall have it on Tuesday morning. 
 But do you wish it in cash ?' 
 
 ' Mr. Secroft ' Helen began, but
 
 AN ACCOMMODATIOX. 233 
 
 instantly checked the effusive impulse. 
 
 'I ' 
 
 ' What were you going to say, Helen ?' 
 ' Nothing,' laughed she, lightly. ' I 
 can't thank you for your kindness.' 
 
 To say that the young lady was amazed 
 at her success in such extraordinary de- 
 mands would not be strictly accurate. 
 From the beginning to the end of her 
 project nothing but success seemed pos- 
 sible to her, upon no adverse conditions 
 could her sano-uine nature base a mo- 
 ment's calculation. To such conclusion 
 had all her experiences tended. Never- 
 theless, in much desired assurance there 
 is generally an element of pleasurable 
 astonishment. Yet once again was Clem- 
 ent sorely tempted ; needless to repeat 
 that he triumphed. It is the man of
 
 234 AT society's expense. 
 
 principle's duty to pay in this world : 
 the inevitable essence of his tempera- 
 ment: the acknowledged privilege of 
 virtue. 
 
 ' That is thanks enough,' he remarked^ 
 and his eyes were removed from her 
 features. 
 
 There was nothing base in Helen's 
 nature, however overweighted with the 
 frivolous, hence his reckless generosity 
 really touched her. 
 
 ' You ask no questions,' she said, win- 
 ningly; 'lay down no conditions. How 
 do you know that I am not seeking the 
 money for the worst of purposes ?' 
 
 ' Simply because I don't think you cap- 
 able of the worst of purposes. Further- 
 more, you yourself have stated for what 
 you want it. To repair a great wrong
 
 AN ACCOMMODATION. 235 
 
 cannot but be amongst the very best of 
 purposes.' 
 
 Inwardly Helen's nature trembled. She 
 knew how she was trifling with him. 
 
 • But there are various methods of re- 
 paration. AVhat if mine were vindictive?' 
 
 He looked up at her. 
 
 ' I don't think, — but I don't care if they 
 are.' 
 
 Helen felt guilty of her evil influence, 
 but such sense sat lightly upon her just 
 now. 
 
 ' To go further, Mr. Secroft, I must tell 
 you that I have expectations of a consid- 
 erable amount of property in connection 
 with which, some time during the next 
 twelve months, I may require your pro- 
 fessional assistance. I may ask for 
 it?'
 
 236 AT society's expense. 
 
 ' Clients are not unwelcome to me,' said 
 the younoj lawyer, pleasantly. 
 
 Nevertheless, her statement disquieted 
 him. Anything more than a simple state- 
 ment of facts, in the present instance, his 
 instinct did not lead him to look for. His 
 heart sank merely at the thought of his 
 not being in such supreme command as 
 circumstances had hitherto seemed to 
 suggest to him. One or two other cases 
 of social somersault had, singularly, been 
 engaging his attention of late. To do jus- 
 tice to one side at least of Clement's nature 
 he undoubtedly preferred to think of Helen 
 penniless. 
 
 ' For the present,' the young lady con- 
 tinued, with well-bred nonchalance, ' I am 
 going to stay with some friends in the 
 country, but I shall be for a short time
 
 AX ACCOMMODATION. 237 
 
 in London first, and I want to ask you, 
 Mr. Secroft, if you will open an account 
 for me at a London bank with this money 
 we are speaking of.' 
 
 Clement felt at this point an unpleasant 
 twinge. For an instant it seemed as 
 though his unclouded reason flashed full 
 upon the situation, and revealed the gos- 
 samer threads which were fast spinnino; 
 about him. But he looked again at her, 
 and everything was altered. 
 
 ' Certainly ; my London agents will in- 
 troduce you to the and Bank.' 
 
 ' Thank you.' 
 
 Helen did not this time slip into undue 
 effusiveness. 
 
 ' In this case,' said Secroft, ' my cheque 
 will be sufficient. You shall have that in 
 the morning.'
 
 238 AT society's expense. 
 
 So far as mere business was concerned, 
 this concluded the interview. Nor indeed 
 were the succeeding generalities long 
 indulged in. After making his wholly 
 unconditional concessions, Clement felt 
 unaccountably depressed. Tender per- 
 sonalities, or any hint at such, were, under 
 the circumstances, obviously forbidden. 
 Perhaps it was this enforced repression 
 that most affected the young lawyer 
 The interview seemed wasted. 
 
 So in a short time Mr. Secroft left the 
 hotel, and Helen returned to the drawing- 
 room. 
 
 Once alone, and Clement felt the full 
 force of the predicament. The wind was 
 blowing freely, and although in his ab- 
 sorption his steps had instinctively brought 
 him to his own door, when before it he
 
 AN ACCOMMODATIOX. 239 
 
 huiTiecI on. The large clock of the parish 
 church chmied the quarters, — a quarter 
 to ten. It was early yet. But, early 
 or late, what mattered it? He hurried 
 on. 
 
 The full madness of his behaviour was 
 now apparent to him. That the girl was 
 fooling him he had no doubt. Such im- 
 ]josition was of every-day occurrence : he 
 knew it, but was powerless. How could 
 she be other than a base adventurer ? She 
 had not even taken the trouble to depart 
 Irom the traditional methods ; to invent 
 some tolerably new mode of effecting her 
 plausible extortion. Her brilliant as- 
 pirations might at least have sharpened 
 her faculties. Clement laughed, as it 
 seemed, with real malignity. He felt a 
 momentary vigour.
 
 240 AT society's expense. 
 
 Wandering on in this embittered state 
 of revolt, of a sudden lie discovered that 
 it was by no means Helen that he railed 
 at, but his own imbecile, miserable self : 
 his own principled nature that at heart he 
 was reviling. He did not care for the 
 lucre, of that he was tolerably assured, 
 but who save a lunatic would refuse the 
 good it might buy him? The situation 
 was his own. Some fruit of it, at least, 
 should be his own also. Each moment 
 confirmed it. Speedily arguments ap- 
 peared by which the desired fruit became 
 a virtue. This attained, how far could it 
 not bear him ? With it, sublimated to a 
 resolution, Clement ultimately sought his 
 home. 
 
 Here the virtue still sustained him, and, 
 reduced to practical proportions, before
 
 AN ACCOMMODATION. 241 
 
 he retired for the night it had taken this 
 written shape : 
 
 ' Dear Miss Ilderton, 
 
 ' My feelings towards you have 
 not been disguised, however strongly 
 circumstances have compelled me to sup- 
 press them. After our interview to-night 
 I need suppress them no longer. In place 
 of what I had promised to send you, may 
 I offer more^ and in so doing undertake 
 personally, as a sacred charge, the repar- 
 ation which you have at heart ? I await 
 your permission for another meeting after 
 eleven o'clock in the morning. 
 ' Yours always, 
 
 ' Clement Secroft.' 
 
 Fit and promising as this seemed under 
 
 VOL. I. R
 
 242 AT society's expense. 
 
 the frame of mind already referred to, to 
 the spiritual vision of the morning it 
 appeared altogether different. Hurrying 
 to a last perusal, with a view to an im- 
 mediate delivery of the important letter, 
 Clement was amazed at his last night's 
 arguments. They had lost vitality. The 
 consequence was that the flames had the 
 letter, and the lawyer could find but small 
 appetite for his breakfast. 
 
 From his office he wrote a few quite 
 different words to accompany the cheque, 
 and a clerk delivered it. 
 
 Before receiving this communication, 
 Helen had had a short walk in the streets 
 of Wallborough. It was quite possible 
 that another inhabitant or two, besides 
 the sentimental solicitor, might recollect
 
 AN ACCOMMODATION. 24:6 
 
 her features, so the young hndy avoided 
 all unnecessary publicity. The particular 
 establishment she was in search of was 
 not of commonly reputable resort, but 
 fortunately it was not situated in a main 
 thoroughfare, so thus far circumstances 
 aided her. Helen was blessed Avith a 
 pre-eminently prepossessing exterior, and 
 possibly in some measure, on such ac- 
 count the world was rendered generally 
 smooth about her. From the establish- 
 ment in question to the hotel, she returned 
 richer by two Bank of England notes to 
 the amount of ten pounrds, and poorer by 
 two or three trinkets to perhaps twice 
 the value. For the time being, a very 
 reasonable compromise. 
 
 Helen now really felt in very satis- 
 factory plight. Activity of this sort was 
 
 n2
 
 244 AT society's expense. 
 
 the breath of life to her, and when sus- 
 tained by what she herself felt to be 
 comprehensive scope for really important 
 development, the situation presented life 
 in a very piquant and desirable aspect. 
 She had but just risen from the breakfast- 
 table when Mr. Secroft's letter was brought 
 in to her. It required all the young 
 lady's vigour to rejDress the tremulous 
 tendency of the fingers as they closed 
 upon the envelope, but repress it she did. 
 She was intent upon convincing even 
 herself that she possessed every qualifi- 
 cation necessary for the new part she had 
 chosen, — or which, as she herself might 
 have said, had been forced upon her. 
 
 When, ao'ain alone, she handled the 
 negotiable instrument, some inward emo- 
 tion was visible upon her features. She
 
 AN ACCOMMODATION. 245 
 
 held the slight paper at arm's length, and, 
 with her head a little to one side, show- 
 ered sparkling rays upon it. In bold, 
 legal hand appeared the words ' one 
 thousand pounds,' and it might well have 
 been that, to such a gaze, some senti- 
 mental halo illumined the poor, matter-of- 
 fact specimen of caligraphy. It was a 
 pity at least that the writer could not be 
 a witness to the exhibition, for the legiti- 
 mate presumption to which Helen's be- 
 haviour would have given rise seemed 
 undoubtedly his due. But perhaps the 
 conclusion would have been too much for 
 him, for, when her divine eyes had been 
 sufficiently feasted, Helen deliberately 
 raised Clement's writing to her diviner 
 lips and kissed — the signature. So un- 
 doubtedly it seemed, Clement, and let us
 
 246 AT SOCIETY S EXPENSE. 
 
 hope that the good spirits conveyed the 
 sense of the enravishing conjunction to 
 your souL 
 
 Once again Helen issued from the hotel 
 doorway, and this time sought an estab- 
 lishment of more accredited respectability. 
 With a thousand pounds in her pocket, 
 the young lady felt, and no doubt justi- 
 fiably, that she could in all seriousness 
 enter upon the new part she had chosen, 
 and make her actual appearance and con- 
 duct accord in the world's eye with the 
 select patronymic she had adopted. She 
 had only ten pounds actually available 
 at the moment, it was true, but with a 
 portion of this she could command a little 
 of the more immediately requisite assist- 
 ance. New gloves, new hat and jacket, 
 dainty shoes, and so on, would tempo-
 
 AN ACCOMMODATIOX. 247 
 
 rarily gloss over some of the most trouble- 
 some defects. These things were readily 
 obtainable, and, in the course of an hour 
 or more, Miss Ilderton was again at her 
 hotel. 
 
 This time she made request for her 
 account, and whilst it was in preparation 
 she withdrew with alacrity to the drawing- 
 room, and snatched up a paper from a 
 table. It was the paper which had en- 
 gaged her the previous evening, and in 
 it she at once turned to the advertisement 
 which had last attracted her. A piece of 
 paper drawn from her pocket was placed 
 beside it, and it could readily be seen that 
 Helen was simply comparing a copy of 
 the advertisement previously made with 
 the original. What she read was this : 
 
 ' The widow of a baeonet, residing in
 
 248 AT SOCIETY S EXPENSE. 
 
 the family mansion in the country, will 
 receive a young lady as guest. Society 
 of the county. Terms £800 a-year. Apply 
 28694 B.' 
 
 Making very sure of the index number, 
 and of the address of the office of the 
 paper, she threw it aside, and put her 
 own memorandum in her pocket again. 
 She discharged her liabilities, and finally 
 left the hotel. 
 
 Within half-an-hour Helen Avas com- 
 fortably established in the corner of a 
 first-class compartment of a London ex- 
 press, with a ticket for King's Cross in 
 her pocket, and the assurance and dignity 
 of the wealthy Miss Ilderton to carry her 
 forward.
 
 249 
 
 CHAPTER XL 
 
 CHAEITY. 
 
 That result of Mr. Barnard Goldhawke's 
 evening walk was never generally known, 
 for although, in the coolness of retrospect, 
 he daily expected some further develop- 
 ment of the incident, no peace-officer ever 
 waited upon him. The journalist kept 
 true to his disinterested resolution, and 
 was content with the privilege of mar- 
 tyrdom. 
 
 Barnard himself felt some shame of his
 
 250 AT society's expense. 
 
 vehement behaviour when the first irri- 
 tation had subsided ; and he found some 
 means of indirectly recompensing the 
 sufferer for the outrage perpetrated upon 
 him. Pildacre did not, it is true, take any 
 extraordinary measures for proving the 
 source of this unexpected benevolence, 
 but, since it seemed like a direct act of 
 approbation on the part of providence in 
 favour of his social endeavours, he ac- 
 cepted it with humility, and prosecuted 
 his ideal with redoubled fervour. 
 
 Nor was this the only encouragement 
 which illumined the Moon office at this 
 time. Throughout the days that followed 
 there came also some indirect signs of 
 Helen's enigmatical activity. In the first 
 place, Beatrice received a letter (dated 
 with the vaguest liberality from ' London '
 
 CHARITY. 251 
 
 only) to say tliat all went well, and that 
 the writer enclosed ten pounds, which 
 sum the recipient herself would apply in 
 providing ' the necessaries of life ' for the 
 household of which she was, for the time 
 being, a member. A week or two later, 
 the journalist himself received a communi- 
 cation, from an altogether different part 
 of the country, but with address, for any 
 jDractical purposes, quite as indeterminate 
 — by which he was bidden to be of good 
 cheer, to moderate for the present his 
 propagandist zeal, and to apply the en- 
 closed sum of twenty pounds to the more 
 pressing of strictly immediate demands, 
 not less than five pounds of which was to 
 go to the ' long-suffering Jesse.' And so 
 the dark months proceeded. 
 
 Highly important as this practical out-
 
 252 AT society's expense. 
 
 come of Helen's movements was to the 
 journalist and to Beatrice alike, inevit- 
 ably it served but in the main to pique 
 their curiosity. Pildacre had reached 
 the pass at which twenty pounds of 
 ready money seems a very considerable 
 sum, and consequently he had a not un- 
 natural wish to discover how such a sum 
 was to be acquired in such an inconsider- 
 able period of time. He could but specu- 
 late, however; for, as he thought, with 
 her characteristic thoughtlessness, the girl 
 had not even given him an address to 
 Avhich he could send an acknowledgment 
 of the gift. 
 
 ' What a girl !' exclaimed Nahum to 
 Beatrice, in j)rivacy, stroking his forehead. 
 ' But it is partly inherited. Don't you 
 see, Miss Beatrice, in certain respects —
 
 CHARITY. 253 
 
 strong family likeness ? You do ? Ha, 
 ha! You are a rogue, Miss B., you are 
 a rogue. It is a temperament superior 
 to a grovelling universe, be assured of 
 it.' 
 
 The presence of Beatrice in the journal- 
 ist's household, too, effected considerable 
 improvement in the circumstances of Pil- 
 dacre's life as much as in those of the life 
 of Beatrice herself. The duties which she 
 eagerly undertook, and even initiated, acted 
 as an invigorating stimulus to what of her 
 womanhood remained with her, just as the 
 spectacle of the journalist's wife served as 
 a constant appalling reminder of what 
 might possibly await herself. Helen had 
 not judged her friend amiss. 
 
 Of necessity Beatrice thought much of 
 the inmates of Grove House and of the as-
 
 254 AT society's expense. 
 
 sociations which the neighbourhood of that 
 place inevitably aroused in her. But, even 
 had there been no promise to Helen, she 
 felt no inducement to a renewed inter- 
 course with that locaUty. She seldom left 
 the precincts of the Moon office, and then 
 always after dark, in the company of the 
 journah'st. Nevertheless, it was not pos- 
 sible to escape rumour of what was going 
 on about her, — all the less so seeing the 
 public ethical duties of Mr. Pildacre, — and 
 so news of the Goldhawke family did oc- 
 casionally reach her. 
 
 It was one day after Christmas that Pil- 
 dacre was discussing with Beatrice a sub- 
 ject which was to form the topic of his 
 principal leader in the issue of the Moon 
 that week. The consideration aiForded the
 
 CHARITY. 255 
 
 vouno; woman thoufrht of a minoied kind, 
 
 »/ O *—' CD J 
 
 for it once more centred in that august 
 mansion on Warren Common. 
 
 ' It is an admirable undertaking, Miss 
 Bee,' exclaimed the journalist, with enthu- 
 siasm, ' and one which I myself view with 
 especial satisfaction. You will not forget 
 an incident which celebrated the golden day 
 upon which you and I had the happiness 
 to foregather, as our northern bard has it, 
 under one common roof. This excellent 
 undertaking aiFords me an admirable op- 
 portunity of proving an assertion I then 
 made bold to make to you, — to prove, in 
 fact, my supreme disinterestedness in the 
 work which 1 have been impelled to carry 
 forward. I am wholly unbiassed, save in 
 antagonism to injustice, extortion, or greed.
 
 256 AT society's expense. 
 
 Fraternity is my sufficient watcliword. 
 Liberty I do not view with undivided en- 
 thusiasm ; v/hilst Equality seems to me a 
 diabolical delusion : but Fraternity, my 
 dear Miss Bee, — that is the key ' to the 
 social and every other problem of our 
 planet.' 
 
 Beatrice listened, as she always did in 
 such colloquies, with silent and profound 
 respect. 
 
 ' Your sister must be an admirable 
 woman, my dear,' Pildacre pursued, in 
 some confidence. ' A woman that could 
 regenerate the universe. Do you feel 
 obliofed to hold aloof from her ? Foro^ive 
 me if I say that it seems hardly kind in 
 you. Old misfortunes are forgotten. She 
 is yearning to embrace you, — I stake the 
 w^hole of my sagacity upon it, — pining to
 
 CHARITY. 257 
 
 lavish tenderness and luxury upon you, — 
 her only sister, I believe ? Yes, a woman 
 of that heart ' 
 
 ' Don't talk of that, Mr. Pildacre, please,' 
 interposed Beatrice, tremulously. ' I cannot 
 go there yet. I am far, far happier here.' 
 
 ' Happier — here !' said the journalist, in 
 uncertain voice, viewing the shamefaced 
 girl with tenderest enthusiasm, and plant- 
 ing the palm of his right hand upon his 
 expansive forehead. ' Here, in this — this 
 reeking hovel, amongst — amongst ' 
 
 ' The kindest and best of people ' 
 
 ' Beatrice, you unnerve me. Deliberate- 
 ly to elect ' 
 
 ' Do not talk of it, please, Mr. Pildacre.' 
 
 ' Miss Crossley, I must speak of it,' cried 
 
 the man, vehemently. ' It is to be sjDoken 
 
 of in words scintillating with ' 
 
 VOL. I. s
 
 258 AT society's expense. 
 
 And Mr. Pildacre plunged into an en- 
 thusiastic eulogy of womanhood in the ab- 
 stract and concrete, with especial reference 
 to the case under immediate consideration, 
 which kept poor Beatrice in a state of burn- 
 ing uneasiness for five minutes without 
 cessation. Her only refuge lay in diverting 
 the conversation to the one countervailing 
 enthusiasm — Helen, and by this means she 
 found the deliverance she wanted. 
 
 The subject from which this conversation 
 had arisen was simply a piece of philanthro- 
 pic exercise on the part of Miss Gertrude 
 Crossley which had obtained considerable 
 local attention. It really arose out of that 
 sum of one, hundred and fifty pounds be- 
 queathed by old GoldhaAvke to the poor of 
 his parish at the discretion of his judicious 
 niece and housekeeper. The zeal of Miss
 
 CHARITY. 259 
 
 Gertrude Crossley in good works was well 
 known amongst the inhabitants of Eastley, 
 Warren Common, and that neighbourhood 
 generally. In the lifetime of her uncle, 
 there had been a kind of open secrecy about 
 her philanthropy, the old squire's testy 
 scruples upon such a score being apparent- 
 ly propitiated by the flimsy fiction offered 
 to him, whilst it is just possible that the 
 warning aggressiveness of his later age ac- 
 quiesced tacitly in the popular approbation 
 which accrued to his establishment from 
 his niece's clandestine operations. 
 
 The recognition which Gertrude's efforts 
 received from the old man's testamentary 
 dispositions had amused Philip. He still 
 lingered about Grove House in facetious in- 
 decision, unwilling to forego the amusement 
 which he saw in store for him, and yet un- 
 
 s2
 
 260 AT society's expense. 
 
 able to gather the slightest clue to his 
 brother Barnard's tactics in the matter of 
 the competition. Day by clay he became 
 more firmly convinced that his well-rooted 
 inclinations wholly precluded his participa- 
 tion in the quest save in the way of a stim- 
 ulating decoy to his more phlegmatic and 
 taciturn, but as he well knew consumedly 
 proud and ambitious brother. It was only 
 this reflection that prevented Philip's being 
 the first to broach an amicable settlement 
 of the matter, and, in very truth, it wa& 
 only an insurmountable abhorrence of a pos- 
 sible misconstruction which prevented Barn- 
 ard's doing the same. Second only to the 
 latter's contempt for his father's testamen- 
 tary flippancy, was his resolution to defeat 
 the old cynic's contemplated amusement, 
 in case such immoral sport was permitted
 
 CHARITY. 261 
 
 to the departed ; but he could not for the 
 life of him hit upon a plan which seemed 
 to quadrate with his fraternal dignity. He 
 had not yet seen the woman who had so 
 much as reconciled him to the thought of 
 matrimony, so that he was wholly free 
 from one aspect of his brother's situation, 
 and to do him justice he was sufficiently 
 resolved to sacrifice no jot of his personal 
 contentment in such a matter for all the 
 wealth of the Indies. 
 
 It was in the face of this dilemma that 
 the time passed, and it is difficult to say 
 how much more of the stipulated twelve 
 months might not similarly have slipped 
 by, but for this benefaction of one hundred 
 and fifty pounds to the poor of Eastley. 
 Unpromising as was the item, it at length 
 very effectually cut the knot.
 
 262 AT society's expense. 
 
 ' A hundred and fifty pounds, Dude/ 
 said Philip one day, some time before 
 Christmas, whilst fingering his after-dinner 
 cigar, his good-humoured eyes bent upon 
 the young lady before him. ' What will 
 you do Avith it ? The everlasting coals and 
 blankets?' 
 
 ' There can be few tilings more useful to 
 poor people in cold weather.' 
 
 ' Goals evaporate, certainly ; but how 
 about blankets ? I was under the impres- 
 sion that they lasted a lifetime. Now, for 
 a given number of years, to my knowledge, 
 you have been disjDensing blankets to the 
 poor of a strictly limited area. If all the 
 inhabitants of that area are poor, they must 
 by this time have received several pairs of 
 blankets apiece. Doesn't this conduce to, 
 what might appear to some, dishonesty?
 
 CHARITY. 2G3 
 
 Better give tlie cash. You can't realize 
 much, I believe, on second-hand blankets, 
 even if they have never been used.' 
 
 'Oh, you are dreadful,' exclaimed the 
 young lady, laughing in spite of herself. 
 ' My poor don't do such things.' 
 
 ' Xo, I don't reflect upon them for a 
 moment. I should hardly exj^ect them to 
 be merely human, after these late years of 
 extraordinary manipulation. I have no 
 doubt that they keep especial chests for 
 blankets. But just think of it, Gertrude. 
 I would say nothing in disparagement of 
 blankets, mind : you will understand that. 
 But with this magnificent legacy why not 
 excogitate some really original method of 
 serving them ?' 
 
 ' Unfortunately, I have nothing original 
 about me, Philip.'
 
 264 AT SOCIETY S EXPENSE. 
 
 ' That may be all the better for you, my 
 dear girl. Take somebody else's original 
 idea, then. The air is full of them now-a- 
 days.' 
 
 ' Turn them all into atheists, for 
 example.' 
 
 'Well, hardly. I don't see that they 
 would greatly benefit by that method.' 
 
 ' I am glad you can see so much, 
 Philip.' 
 
 'You would rather have doubted it?' 
 hiughed the young gentleman. 'No, I 
 didn't refer to any speculative teaching. 
 Keep to the practical, by all means. But 
 even in that, Gertrude ' 
 
 He paused, with his eyes still bent in in- 
 terest upon her. She, conscious of his 
 gaze, looked down as long as she was able ; 
 but at length, as though to check his mis-
 
 CHARITY. 265 
 
 chievous intention, Gertrude raised her 
 eyes witli assumed composure. 
 
 'Even in that ?' 
 
 She reddened, and Philip chuckled 
 good humouredly. 
 
 ' If you are going to tease ' 
 
 ' No, dear girl, I am not going to 
 tease. Stay, Dude : ' and he caught 
 her hand, but instantly flung it away 
 in playfulness. ' Honestly, I am seri- 
 ous. Why not try some modern 
 methods ? ' 
 
 ' I don't like modern methods. The old, 
 I am convinced, are better.' 
 
 ' For an old world, yes ; but the world 
 is new now. You would get quite interest- 
 ed, Gertrude, if you would only try what I 
 suggest. It would serve as a tonic to your 
 ethical palate.'
 
 266 AT society's expense. 
 
 ' But you have not suggested anything. 
 Tell me definitely ' 
 
 'Oh, I didn't mean absolutely to pro- 
 pound a scheme. How could I, a — well, 
 if I may, it seems to me that you might 
 j)rovide your poor with something outside 
 their own sordid considerations. Humanize 
 them by giving them something rational 
 to think about.' 
 
 ' I always talk ' 
 
 ' Precisely,' exclaimed Philip, in good- 
 humoured interruption. ' I wouldn't dis- 
 parage your talking on any account. I 
 know it to be of the most fascinating de- 
 scription. But in addition even to that, 
 Gertrude. There is that house, now, that 
 old Wilkins used to have. Decent size, 
 good position, rent moderate, — thirty or 
 thirty-five, I suppose. I'll guarantee you
 
 CHAKITY. 267 
 
 that myself. Why not take it, and rig it 
 up as a kind of women's and children's 
 club ? Public nursery for wet days, you 
 know, and so on. Wouldn't something of 
 that sort be an improvement on the un- 
 necessary blankets ?' 
 
 Gertrude looked up thoughtfully, but 
 with a twinkle of pleasure in her eyes. 
 
 ' It would do very nicely, but I hardly 
 feel capable of conducting such a place.' 
 
 ' Rubbish ! Td help you myself to get 
 it going ; it will give me something to do. 
 And wouldn't the Reverend Adolphus, 
 that's all, if you only tell him what he has 
 to do !' 
 
 ' You would, Philip !' 
 
 ' Even I would, Gertrude. My bene- 
 ficence astonishes you ?' 
 
 He was taking up another cigar from
 
 268 AT society's expense. 
 
 the mantelpiece, so it was only his back 
 that received that special glance of hers. 
 When he looked around she was merely 
 thoughtful. 
 
 They discussed the scheme for half an 
 hour ensuing, formulated details of it, and 
 aroused themselves to such a degree of in- 
 terest in what had originally been the out- 
 come of Philip's banter alone, that it was 
 with difficulty they postponed their visit to 
 the house referred to until the light of the 
 morning. 
 
 Thus it was that the undertaking, which, 
 upon its public announcement, had been 
 able to arouse the enthusiasm of an idealist 
 like Pildacre, was initiated. When the 
 place was opened in the new year, the 
 journalist, who was his own re23orter as 
 his own everything else, was present in
 
 CHARITY 269 
 
 person to construct his report. A very 
 glowing one he made of it, despite the 
 fact that only the day before he had had 
 judgment in a debtor's case in the county 
 court o'o airainst him. 
 
 PhiUp had announced his intention to 
 Gertrude of departing the day before this 
 ceremony, but the young lady had made 
 no secret of her dismay. 
 
 ' Just one day more, Phihp ; it is really 
 indispensable,' she said, Avith more hardi- 
 hood than she generally displayed in refer- 
 ence to his movements. ' Everybody will 
 be dreadfully disappointed.' 
 
 The gentleman shrugged his shoulders^ 
 and disclaimed solicitude with reference to 
 public sentiment. 
 
 ' Of course, I don't mean that. But 
 it will be so very much nicer. Why,
 
 270 AT society's expense. 
 
 Philip, everything is owing to you !' 
 
 ' Bah, bah ! Don't be ridiculous. But 
 — will you be disappointed, Gertrude?' 
 
 ' Of course I shall — dreadfully.' 
 
 She had made her answer impulsively 
 without having turned in his direction. 
 In an instant she heard his footstep on the 
 carpet, and knew that he was behind 
 her. 
 
 ' Why will you be disappointed — dread- 
 ully ? Tell me now explicitly.' 
 
 His action for a moment disconcerted 
 her, but she knew the instant need of 
 composure. 
 
 ' Isn't it natural ?' she exclaimed, turn- 
 ing round to face him. 
 
 ' Not particularly,' was his mercilessly 
 €Ool rejoinder. 
 
 ' You know you have been the heart
 
 CHAPvITY. 271 
 
 and soul of it all. It would have had 
 no beginning without you. Blankets, 
 remember.' 
 
 ' You wish me to stay, Gertrude ?' 
 
 ' Certainly I do, very much indeed. You 
 will?' 
 
 ' Of course I will for that — but 
 here ' 
 
 Gertrude did not know how it happened. 
 There was a hrm hand upon her, and she 
 seemed to be falling backwards, but into 
 the easiest posture of repose. She was 
 powerless, and for a moment his lips 
 were planted upon her own.
 
 272 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 NEW LEAVES. 
 
 As already mentioned, througli the ser- 
 vices of the Aggthorpe Moon and other 
 more influential representatives of the 
 provincial press, the little Eastley Institute 
 had been widely noised abroad. Many 
 ladies of philanthropic tendencies in 
 various parts of the country communicated 
 with the originators of the scheme with a 
 view to eliciting details of organisation, 
 and so on, for adoj^tion in their own local-
 
 NEW LEAVES. 273 
 
 ities, and in the weeks succeeding the 
 opening many even made a pilgrimage to 
 Warren Common to personally inspect the 
 premises in working order. Seeing that 
 these visitors were almost exclusively 
 ladies of the most unimpeachable social 
 pretensions, the result afforded undisguised 
 gratification to one or two of the inmates 
 of Grove House, who naturally occupied 
 a prominent position in the connection. 
 
 Xone of these incidents, however, had 
 afforded such plenitude of satisfaction as 
 a note one day received from an aristo- 
 cratic neighbour in the country, not far 
 from Aggthorpe : to wit, Mrs. Collingwood 
 Milverton, of Croftwick Hall. Miss Cross- 
 ley had, under some possible circum- 
 stances, ' met ' this lady, although of 
 course on no general terms of social 
 
 VOL. I. T
 
 274 AT society's expense. 
 
 equality with her. Indeed, (3 wing to the 
 peculiar temperament and reputation of 
 the deceased Goldhawke, the social inter- 
 course of the younger generation had 
 never been of such order as under other 
 circumstances their wealth would un- 
 doubtedly have commanded. This ex- 
 plained much of the undisguised enthu- 
 siasm with which the condescension of 
 the great lady had been received at Grove 
 House. Mrs. Milverton had, in fact, 
 trusted that Miss Crossley would permit 
 her to bring, on some convenient day, two 
 ladies, her friends, to inspect ' your ad- 
 mirable institution at Eastley,' — ladies, 
 it was mentioned, who had been drawn 
 hither from some distance by the wide- 
 spread reputation of Miss Crossley's 
 philanthropic enterprise.
 
 NEW LEAVES. 275 
 
 It chanced that Philip was absent when 
 this exhiLarating missive came to Grove 
 House, but a communication quickly 
 brought him down to Aggthorpe. He 
 approved of Gertrude's acknowledgment 
 of the application, in which she had made 
 reference to Mrs. Milverton's kind in- 
 quiry, expressed what happiness it would 
 give her to show that lady and any of 
 her friends the very little she was doing, 
 and hoped, in conclusion, that it might be 
 convenient for Mrs. Milverton and her 
 friends to partake of luncheon at Grove 
 House on the occasion of their visit to 
 Eastley. 
 
 The modesty and general fitness of the 
 response gave satisfaction to the ladies at 
 Groftwick Hall, and upon the day ap- 
 pointed, the party set forth with kindly 
 
 T 2
 
 276 AT society's expense. 
 
 feelings towards the oddly-situated young 
 housekeeper on Warren Common. It 
 appeared that Mrs. Milverton's visitors 
 knew nothing of the Goldhawke family, 
 had not even heard of the notorious will 
 of the old capitalist, so that their hostess 
 had had to acquaint them with such out- 
 lines of the family history as were known 
 to herself It had naturally aroused con- 
 siderable interest in the hearers, and they 
 went to the interview Avith an addition 
 to their merely philanthropic emotions. 
 
 ' But I understand that the younger 
 generation is quite free from this taint 
 of vulgarity,' Mrs. Milverton had con- 
 cluded, ' and I am glad to hear that that 
 ridiculous, and indeed indelicate will, is 
 to be ignored by the two brothers. It 
 seems that they have too much sense
 
 NEW LEAVES. 277 
 
 to submit to such a deo;radino; com- 
 petition.' 
 
 ' I should think so indeed,' assented 
 the elder of the ladies addressed. 
 
 Mrs. Milverton did but emphasize the 
 common impression; although, as we know 
 indeed, the two brothers whom the sin- 
 gular will affected had not as yet come to 
 such explicit understanding, however wish- 
 ful both might be for the consummation. 
 They were undoubtedly now nearer to it 
 than at any moment previously, for when 
 Philip came doAvn in response to Ger- 
 trude's information, he had resolved defi- 
 nitely to engage himself to his fair cousin, 
 and therewith to openly abandon the 
 ignoble competition which the will had 
 instituted. Singularly enough, Barnard 
 had, under diff'erent circumstances, at
 
 278 AT society's expense. 
 
 length been able to confront the inevit- 
 able, and had resolved to avail himself of 
 this meeting with his brother to come to 
 some definite arrangement. So lie had 
 at least before the personal interview with 
 Philip ; but, as soon as they encountered, 
 lie decided to put it off until the following 
 day. 
 
 Gertrude held but little intercourse 
 with Barnard, hence with characteristic 
 reticence she had not mentioned to him 
 the great lady*s condescension. At the 
 dinner-table, however, on the evenins: 
 before the eventful day, she disclosed 
 it. 
 
 • Mrs. Milverton from Croftwick, and 
 some friends of hers, are oroincr to have 
 luncheon here to-morrow, Barnard. Would 
 you care to meet them ?'
 
 NEW LEAVES. 279 
 
 ' Mrs. Milvertoii !' 
 
 Gertrude explained to him. 
 
 ' Certainly ; I shall make a point of being 
 here to meet them.' 
 
 The ready response perhaps surprised 
 the two others, for they had no glimmer- 
 ing of an understanding of Barnard. By 
 them he was always thought to share his 
 father's temperament in matters soeial. 
 If, in reality, this had ever to any extent 
 been the case, it was not now in the least 
 degree applicable, for Barnard was making 
 a positive study of the sociable qualities. 
 It seemed as though that contempt which 
 his father's will had inspired in him was 
 extending to much else in which the old 
 man had been implicated. Barnard had 
 not, of course, betrayed to his two un- 
 sympathetic companions all the pleasure
 
 280 AT society's expense. 
 
 that their announcement had given him. 
 Philip interposed some appropriate com- 
 ment, and all three discussed the matter 
 in harmony. 
 
 The following day broke favourably, 
 and throughout the morning the yellow 
 sun, from a brown, wintry haze, celebrated 
 the approach of the visitors. Barnard 
 seemed in good spirits at the breakfast- 
 table, having, in fact, resolved once again 
 to get through that nauseating business 
 with Philip. He had to go into the town 
 for an hour or two, but, before going, he 
 said to his brother, 
 
 ' You won't leave before the evening ?' 
 
 ' Oh, no ; not for a day or two probably,' 
 replied Philip, and mused. 
 
 ' I want to talk to you to-night.' 
 
 ' Very good.'
 
 NEW LEAVES. 281 
 
 Gertrude glanced frequently from the 
 window during the morning, in nervous 
 expectation of the arrival. Philip was 
 naturally the calmest member of the 
 household, and the obvious perturbation 
 of his cousin amused him. Peeping into 
 the drawing-room upon one occasion, hav- 
 ing seen Gertrude creep in there a few 
 minutes previously, he found her with 
 her back towards him at the window. He 
 left his slippers in the doorway, and stole 
 lip to her. 
 
 ' Are their majesties in ' 
 
 ' Oh, Philip !' cried Gertrude, and they 
 laughed. 
 
 ' It is really like a royal family affair, 
 Dude. Hadn't we better stand bare- 
 headed at the gateway ?' 
 
 ' Well, you know, I am not accustomed
 
 282 AT society's expense. 
 
 to such people. It is all very well for 
 you ' 
 
 ' You will outshine them all, Gertrude,' 
 he said, scanning her affectionately ; and 
 her scrupulous preparations had made her 
 an object to be looked upon. ' Be yourself, 
 old girl, and I assure you they will all fall 
 in love with you.' 
 
 She turned her face away before his 
 fixed gaze, mindful of a recent incident ; 
 but at another glance towards the window 
 they both took to flight. 
 
 At the preliminary meeting, Barnard 
 did not appear. It was arranged that 
 Philip and Gertrude should conduct the 
 party to their famous institute, and all 
 return to luncheon. Philip, too, had faith- 
 fully promised his cousin to be with her 
 in the drawing-room as a support in the
 
 NEW LEAVES. 283 
 
 first encounter ; but, as he had been sur- 
 prised without his shoes, this part of the 
 compact could not be strictly adhered to. 
 Gertrude was alone when the ladies were 
 shown in to her, but no Philip could have 
 helped her to additional gracefulness. 
 
 After a kindly greeting on the part of 
 Mrs. Milverton, 'my two friends, Lady 
 Ivelet and Miss Ilderton,' were duly in- 
 troduced to the young hostess, and when 
 Philip, in a few minutes, entered, the 
 conversation was proceeding graciously. 
 
 That the visitors were of some social 
 distinction it was not difficult to perceive. 
 Lady Ivelet, whom Philip had appro- 
 priated, was a dignified lady of comely 
 middle-age. She had a little mole on her 
 right cheek, a complexion fresh and with- 
 out wrinkle, and silver hair ; in dress
 
 284 AT SOCIETY S EXPENSE. 
 
 unostentatiously tasteful. She regard- 
 ed Philip benignly, and more so as 
 his conversation proceeded. Oh, how 
 poor Gertrude envied her complacent 
 cousin ! 
 
 ' Lady Ivelet,' she heard him saying, 
 easily, ' you are, I believe, a neighbour 
 of Colonel Saltway, at the Pines ?' 
 
 ' Certainly,' was the vivacious rejoinder. 
 'And you, Mr. Goldhawke, are a friend of 
 the colonel's ?' 
 
 ' Well, no. I may not claim that hon- 
 our ; but he has a nephew Charles, who 
 is a friend of mine. We were together at 
 Oxford, and in the Temj^le ' 
 
 ' Oh, yes. Mr. Saltway has mentioned — ' 
 
 Mrs. Milverton, and the young lady 
 introduced as Miss Ilderton, devoted 
 themselves to Gertrude. The latter of
 
 NEW LEAVES. 285 
 
 the visitors had attracted Miss Crossley's 
 immediate attention, for she was young, 
 obviously no older than herself, but of a 
 most impressive beauty. She naturally 
 took only a side-place in the conversation, 
 but from that her well-bred graciousness 
 and affability were sufficiently obvious. 
 If Gertrude felt any uneasiness in the 
 interview, now that the original shock was 
 over, it must have been from the ease and 
 beauty of this rival that she drew it. 
 Situated as she Avas, the young lady would 
 scarcely have been human had she not 
 been compelled to cast a glance occasion- 
 ally upon her cousin Philip, to learn the 
 direction of his eyes. However, she man- 
 aged herself as well as she could, and all 
 seemed to go with perfect smoothness and 
 propriety.
 
 286 AT society's expense. 
 
 It was but a short distance to what 
 Philip called the Reformatory, so the 
 ladies wished to walk. Lady Ivelet, being 
 apparently the person for whom the expe- 
 dition had been undertaken, was naturally 
 engrossed in philanthropic details, and 
 she took possession of Gertrude on the 
 road. Philip accompanied the two other 
 ladies at a short distance behind. The 
 locality was as much rural as the prox- 
 imity of a prosperous manufacturing town 
 would admit of, and, so far as natural 
 objects were visibLe through a covering of 
 coal-dust and other deposited carbon, they 
 undoubtedly inclined to be picturesque. 
 There was a shaded lane, with blighted 
 trees over-arching ; a blackened church- 
 tower peeping at one point through the 
 branches, with a cluster of ivy about it ;
 
 NEW LEAVES. 287 
 
 meadows sloping down to a row of willow- 
 trees, with a sliiggisli, turbid river and a 
 railway-embankment below. 
 
 ' You will find this a contrast to Ivelet, 
 I fear, Miss Ilderton,' remarked Philip, 
 smiling, as they went along. 
 
 ' Shocking, Mr. Goldhawke. Mrs. Mil- 
 verton has already had too much of my 
 opinion upon that topic, so I must not 
 say what I am tempted to. But at least,' 
 she added, briskly, ' how different it would 
 all be if there was any general effort 
 like yours here to counteract the evil 
 influences.' 
 
 ' But you don't approve of the English 
 abandonment to introspection,' interposed 
 Mrs. Milverton. 
 
 ' Is this the outcome of it ?' 
 
 ' Mr. Goldhawke will not misunderstand
 
 288 AT SOCIETY S EXPENSE. 
 
 me if I say, certainly it is. People used 
 to be content, I think, with doing what 
 they liked without questionings or coun- 
 teracting.' 
 
 ' I suppose they did,' laughed Philip, 
 ' But I am afraid we are now born ques- 
 tioning and counteracting. Would you 
 wish it altered, Miss Ilderton ?' 
 
 ' I have hardly made up my mind about 
 it. I think we have all caught a little of 
 the philanthropic infection.' 
 
 ' You connect philanthropy with our 
 malady, then ?' 
 
 ' Certainly I do. It is one of the prin- 
 cipal symptoms ; because I suppose it is 
 one of the most obvious outlets for the 
 superfluous energy ]3rompted by a restless 
 conscience.' 
 
 Philip became interested. This was
 
 NEW LEAVES. 289 
 
 not his e very-day kind of conversation. 
 
 ' But the altered conditions of life 
 naturally incite to philanthropy, do they 
 not?' 
 
 ' Undoubtedly they do, but we practise 
 it without there being direct material in- 
 citement. I was talking to Colonel Salt- 
 way a few days ago about this, and he, 
 you know, thinks it an unmitigated evil. 
 He prides himself on being old-fashioned. 
 He would not hear of the application of 
 what he calls urban methods to a rural 
 community. I had said that in England 
 your obviously neglected part was the 
 country.' 
 
 ' You are a valuable supporter of the 
 radical programme. Miss Hderton,' inter- 
 posed the lady listener. 
 
 ' Am I ? I wasn't aware of it. I don't 
 
 VOL. I. U
 
 290 AT society's expense. 
 
 see how an obvious programme can be the 
 property of a political party. In fact, I 
 think such parties ought to be strictly 
 kept out of it. Social combinations are 
 what you really require ; like this of yours 
 in fact, Mr. Goldhawke,' said Miss Ilder- 
 ton, as they approached the house which 
 was their destination, and at the gate of 
 which Gertrude and her companion were 
 awaiting the others. 
 
 An enthusiastic hour was spent at the 
 Reformatory in examination of every 
 detail of its management. By the direc- 
 tion of Lady Ivelet, Miss Ilderton took 
 copious notes of what she saw there, in 
 her little scented pocket-diary, and ques- 
 tioned largely. 
 
 Nevertheless, it was an anxious hour 
 for Gertrude. The fascination exercised
 
 NEW LEAVES. 291 
 
 by the younger visitor over Philip was 
 obvious enough to the keen eyes of his 
 cousin, and, from having been enravish- 
 ingly fair and charming, the innocent Miss 
 Ilderton had become the incarnation of 
 every species of enormity. Gertrude had 
 jumped to the conclusion that this was 
 the kind of girl that of all others she held 
 in utter abhorrence ; and, as a concatena- 
 tion, she considered that Philip ought to 
 have the same feeUng as herself, and — 
 show it ; or at least refrain from such an 
 exasperating display of complaisance in 
 her very presence. 
 
 To aggravate matters, on the return 
 journey Miss Ilderton took possession of 
 Gertrude as a companion, whilst the other 
 three came on behind. Now, despite the 
 
 apparent community of philanthropic in- 
 
 u2
 
 292 AT society's expense. 
 
 terest, to say nothino; of such obvious 
 affability and condescension on the part 
 of the visitor, the conversation between 
 the two young ladies proceeded with some 
 want of spontaneity. That such should 
 be the case with Gertrude was only natu- 
 ral, but with Miss Ilderton ? Subtle 
 enough are the psychical influences and 
 communications, so we are now taught. 
 Was it possible, therefore, that more of 
 Gertrude's antipathy than she herself 
 could have suspected Avas but the recip- 
 rocation of occult sensations strongly 
 enough existent, with whatever force re- 
 pressed, in her brilliant companion ? Did 
 Miss Ilderton behold, through this refined 
 and tender philanthropist, a sister hun- 
 gering amidst the most sordid circum- 
 stances ? Did she hear, ringing through
 
 NEW LEAVES. 293 
 
 lier melodramatic instincts, the words 
 ^ Pledge,' ' A Home,' and ten thousand 
 pounds of legacy? It is not impossible, 
 surely ; for, whatever the power we may 
 wield over our external, sartorial aspect, 
 the emotions of the mind are not so en- 
 tirely under our command. What a con- 
 trast this seemed to the poor, defeated 
 Beatrice ! If, at times, Miss Ilderton's 
 teeth did actually encounter, her be- 
 haviour was heroic. She was geniality 
 incarnate. And everything was so de- 
 lightful. The sympathetic knowledge dis- 
 played ; the enthusiasm in the cause of 
 sisters. 
 
 ' For are not all women our sisters ?' 
 asked Miss Ilderton, emphatically, ' as 
 much as, or even more than, those who 
 have an actual title to the epithet.'
 
 294 AT society's expense. 
 
 An innocent enough remark under some 
 circumstances, but one which, neverthe- 
 less, at the jDresent moment was hardly op- 
 portune, and which made Gertrude almost 
 start, and quite scan her companion's- 
 features uneasily. But unruffled, inno- 
 cent enthusiasm alone was apparent there. 
 Gertrude's irrevocable repugnance was 
 confirmed, however. 
 
 In the meantime, Mr. Barnard Gold- 
 hawke had been making somewhat scru- 
 pulous preparations for his reception of 
 the ladies ; and, when he considered his 
 toilet completed, he had taken up a safe 
 position at a window with his 023era- 
 glasses. Thus it came that he had been 
 considerably impressed by the mien 
 and appearance of one at least of the
 
 NEW LEAVES. 295 
 
 visitors before actually encountering them. 
 In the course of the luncheon, Philip 
 and Gertrude awakened to the fact that 
 Barnard was conversing with positive dis- 
 tinction. It chanced that he had the op- 
 portunity of addressing the greater share 
 of his remarks to the fascinating Miss 
 Ilderton, and her sympathetic reception 
 of his conversation seemed to stimulate 
 his powers to a degree hitherto unsus- 
 pected. So unexpected and startling was 
 this revelation of an unknown element in 
 the gentleman, that the other two were in 
 a great measure disconcerted by it, and 
 cut but very poor figures in comparison, 
 Barnard was himself as surprised as any 
 of them. Never had he known himself 
 to possess such fluency of speech and 
 such versatility of intellect, and he con-
 
 296 AT SOCIETY S EXPENSE. 
 
 sciously rejoiced in the accomplisliments. 
 Barnard was in fact, unknown even to 
 himself, at that moment confronting a 
 new world — a world of which he had 
 hitherto never suspected the existence. 
 His soul had, upon some unaccountable 
 impulse, got a glimpse beyond the para- 
 lyzing medium of commercial speculation 
 and aggrandisement, and sundry of his 
 human faculties had consequently for the 
 iirst time found a possible field of action. 
 This, doubtless, was all the explanation 
 of the notable change in him. Moreover, 
 not possessing the veneer of a social 
 education, there was a more obvious ring 
 of sincerity about whatever he felt called 
 upon to say, than there was in his 
 brother's more polished and orthodox 
 commonplaces, for instance. iVnd, in
 
 NEW LEAVES. 297 
 
 such company, this by no means was 
 without its effect. 
 
 With the introduction of this new and 
 unlooked-for element, as well as of the 
 tastefully-proportioned luncheon provided, 
 the ladies felt their visit to be very agree- 
 ably completed. As they drove home- 
 wards, they were loud in the praises of 
 one at least of the households which those 
 of their condition are apt to regard some- 
 what superciliously, and one which, more- 
 over, certain of them had hitherto re- 
 garded with positive contempt. Miss 
 Ilderton, for her part, — who had through- 
 out been so singularly frank and affable — 
 was noticeably reserved, but this, too, 
 was speedily altered, and she took her 
 proper part in the enthusiasm. 
 
 When Philip and Gertrude were alone,
 
 298 AT SOCIETY S EXPENSE. 
 
 they could talk of nothing but the devel- 
 opment of Barnard. It seemed to have 
 bred some measure of discontent in them, 
 as though he had trespassed on their 
 domains. They were at the height of 
 their discussion when Barnard himself 
 entered to their company. Something 
 appeared to betray to him the situation, 
 and a ripple of impatience crossed his 
 features. 
 
 ' I only came to say, Gertrude,' he re- 
 marked, calmly, ' that I shall be away for 
 a few days.' 
 
 And he turned on his heel. 
 
 'You don't want to see me?' said 
 Philip. 
 
 ' Oh, never mind. It will do some 
 other time.' 
 
 Barnard's errand had been for some-
 
 NEW LEAVES. 299 
 
 thing very different, but circumstances 
 had once more repressed him. 
 
 ' In love with her to a certainty,' 
 laughed Philip, a minute or two later. 
 ' Nor can I exactly wonder. Certainly 
 she is the most fascinating woman that it 
 has been my lot to encounter. So culti- 
 vated, emancipated ' 
 
 But Gertrude left him to his enthusiastic 
 reflections . Strangely enough, that day 
 Philip also took his departure. 
 
 END OF TPIE FIRST VOLUME. 
 
 London : Printed by Duncan Macdonald^ Blenheim House, W,
 
 UNIVERSITY OF ILLIN0I9-URBANA 
 
 3 0112 045854871