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 or ILLINOIS 
 
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 WINIFRED MOUNT 
 
 VOL. I.
 
 WINIFRED MOUNT 
 
 A NOVEL 
 
 RICHARD PRYCE 
 
 AUTHOR OF 
 
 MISS maxwell's affections,' 'time and the woman, 
 
 ETC., ETC. 
 
 IN TWO VOLUMES 
 VOL. I. 
 
 llttettjuen ^ ©o. 
 
 36 ESSEX STREET, W.C. 
 
 1894
 
 
 /A5 
 
 WINIFRED MOUNT 
 
 CHAPTER I 
 
 IF happiness be as evenly distributed as some 
 men would have us think, then must Wini- 
 fred Mount hold her physical attractions, and 
 such trifling consolations as that she was well 
 fed, well clothed, well housed in the light of com- 
 pensations for the dull monotony of the life that 
 .^ was hers up to her eighteenth year. Other girls 
 \ went home for the holidays, and returned to school 
 ^ bringing with them accounts of the outer world 
 of which Winifred knew so little. Thus at second 
 -v-hand she learnt something of places where dis- 
 cipline and use made way for freedom and beauty. 
 What other knowledge she had of the world was 
 -^(gathered from books. And tlic books, while they 
 were a delight in themselves, were the source of 
 
 A
 
 2 WINIFRED MOUNT 
 
 her discontent. They were for her the fruit of 
 the tree of the knowledge of good and evil, and 
 she knew the dreariness of her lot. They told her 
 that she was in prison, that her prison was narrow, 
 and that the world, of which she could see but 
 a meagre slice as she gazed with longing and 
 wondering eyes through the straight and barred 
 windows of her prison-house, was broad and 
 sunny and decked with flowers which should be 
 hers to pluck. Others plucked them and showed 
 her bunches of sweet blossoms. 
 
 Agatha Twine, a strange girl, whose hysterical 
 tendencies had showed themselves indirectly in 
 a lack of interest in all that surrounded her at 
 home, here at Choseville, to which she had been 
 sent by the advice of a doctor, was never tired 
 of talking to Winifred of country life ; of horses 
 and hunting ; of autumn woods and the sound of 
 the gun ; of lunches with the shooters in old farm 
 houses ; of the coming and the going of guests, 
 and of the thousand things that make up the daily 
 round of easy and prosperous country life. 
 
 Elsie Luttrell told her of London. 
 
 'Your life is the same — the life of you two,' she 
 said to these girls. * You meet at each other s 
 houses. You map out your time so that all of it 
 is filled.'
 
 WINIFRED MOUNT 3 
 
 ' Are you sure you haven't any relations, Wini- 
 fred?' 
 
 ' My father,' said Winifred. 
 
 * But you must have other relations — aunts, I 
 mean (we all have aunts !), and cousins, and — and 
 things of that sort' 
 
 ' I don't know of any — things of that sort,' said 
 Winifred. 
 
 She did not smile. The topic was one of frequent 
 discussion. 
 
 ' Winifred will turn out to be a princess,' said 
 the London girl merrily. ' You have probably 
 been put here for family reasons, and when you 
 are grown up — quite grown up, I mean — they will 
 be removed, they always are half-way through the 
 book, and you will be received back into your 
 kingdom.' 
 
 ' I used to expect something once,' said Winifred, 
 ' but I have given up hoping for anything.' 
 
 She looked up at the schoolhouse as she spoke. 
 Her prison did not look uncheerful with the sun 
 blazing upon its green shutters. One of the 
 younger girls was swinging in the garden. At 
 a certain point the child swung out of the shade 
 of the trees, and then her hair made a flash of 
 gold which caught Winifred's attention. She was 
 watching for it when her friend spoke again.
 
 4 WINIFRED MOUNT 
 
 * Madame dc Valois must know.' 
 ' She knows as little as I do.' 
 
 'But you have been with her almost your whole 
 life. She must know something.' 
 
 * I don't think she knows more than she has told 
 me for all that. I was talking to her again the 
 other day. She doesn't think that my father can 
 be poor, because he has paid her very well for me 
 — " handsomely " was her word.' 
 
 * I am sure Madame de Valois' word was 
 " 'anseumly,'" said Elsie Luttrell the London girl. 
 
 She mimicked the voice and face of the school- 
 mistress as she spoke, and Agatha Twine the 
 country-house girl laughed. 
 
 Madame de Valois herself crossed the garden 
 at this moment. 
 
 'You amuse yourselves, mesdemoiselles. That 
 is right. Miss Luttrell, your music lesson at four, 
 remember. Your hat Winifred, the sun, your 
 complexion ! ' 
 
 Madame de Valois had a passion for giving 
 directions. 
 
 ' It doesn't matter much about that, madamc,' 
 said Winifred. 
 
 ' My dear, some day you think differently.' 
 
 She passed on down the path, and for five 
 minutes the girls could sec her blue shawl among
 
 WINIFRED MOUNT 5 
 
 the shrubs and flowers before it disappeared into 
 the house. 
 
 ' She's not a bad old thing,' said Elsie. ' Look, 
 girls : " Some day you tink differently." ' 
 
 In a moment Miss Luttrell's face had twisted 
 itself into a resemblance to that of Madame de 
 Valois. The likeness was creditably recognisable, 
 and Agatha and Winifred laughed. 
 
 There was something that was beguiling in the 
 expression of Winifred's face when merriment 
 took the discontented curl from her lips. The key- 
 note of her life at the period it had reached was 
 dissatisfaction, and the look of protest and mutiny 
 which her features so often wore threatened to be- 
 come habitual. This disappeared, however, com- 
 pletely when she laughed, and the potential 
 light-heartedness of her nature revealed itself 
 She was cramped in her narrow surround- 
 ings. 
 
 Elsie ought to have been an actress,' said 
 Agatha presently ; * oughtn't she, Winifred ? ' 
 
 * There isn't the least occasion for that,' said 
 Winifred. * You take to the stage as a way of 
 escape from yourself, or to use it as an outlet — 
 just as a certain type of school-girl writes poetr)-. 
 You don't want an escape from yourself if you 
 are lucky enough to live a large life. Elsie's lot
 
 6 WINIFRED MOUNT 
 
 is cast in very pleasant places, and she will find 
 plenty of scope for acting there.' 
 
 Elsie, beginning to laugh, was on the point of 
 saying that Winifred spoke like a book, when 
 something in the speaker's face caused her to be 
 less frivolous. 
 
 ' I don't know about the large life,' she said 
 instead. ' What do you call a large life, and how 
 do you know that I am going to lead it ? ' 
 
 Winifred ignored the interruption, and con- 
 tinued, — 
 
 ' I believe that nine-tenths of the women that 
 take to the stage do it for the reasons that — 
 that will perhaps make me think of it some day 
 as the one way of getting freedom/ 
 
 ' Winifred,' said Agatha, primly. 
 
 Some English dancing girls had visited Chosc- 
 ville recently, and the performance having been 
 pronounced good of its kind, and harmless, Madame 
 de Valois had taken a few of the older girls to 
 see it. Elsie Luttrell had during the last holidays 
 had a few lessons in skirt-dancing, but to W^inifred 
 the thing had all the charm of novelty. 
 
 ' It is a way,' she said, 'and I have been think- 
 ing of it lately. I have been thinking of all the 
 ways. I could dance like those girls.' 
 
 She jumped up from her seat as she spoke,
 
 WINIFRED MOUNT 7 
 
 and, humming a waltz, she moved gracefully 
 to the swaying measure of the air. She was 
 supple, and controlled with sufficient accuracy 
 the balance of her body. The lines of her figure 
 were bold and noble. The promise of her beauty 
 was unmistakable. Elsie Luttrell was moved to 
 enthusiasm. 
 
 ' I saw a photograph of Miss Boston, in the 
 holidays — the American girl that everyone was 
 talking about. She is supposed to be lovely. 
 She isn't a patch on you, Winifred.' 
 
 Miss Mount did not reply. She finished her 
 waltz. 
 
 ' Whistle that whistling tune, Agatha — the thing 
 Emmeline Blood heard at the Christie Ministrels.' 
 
 ' Di^fendtil said Miss Twine. ' I had a pMtence 
 last week for whistling.' 
 
 ' Well, then, Elsie,' said Winifred ; * though I 
 don't see, Agatha, why you should be afraid to 
 break the rules when it is your last term.' 
 
 Miss Luttrell without any ado began to whistle 
 and Winifred began to dance. Agatha Twine 
 listened and watched for a few moments in silence, 
 and then composed her lips to an O and whistled 
 too. 
 
 Winifred's skirts swung out in the quicker move- 
 ment of her steps. Her small feet played lightly
 
 8 WINIFRED MOUNT 
 
 on the smooth hiwn. An expert would have seen 
 that the scheme of the dance was unconsidered ; 
 but the charm and the grace of it were patent, 
 and potent too. 
 
 * I can't finish it/ she said, laughing. ' It ought 
 to end up with a sort of stamp at the last note 
 — a sort of staccato step. You know — ' 
 
 ' And you ought to look at the audience with 
 defiant self-approval, and w^ith a sort of surprise 
 at finding them there,' said Elsie Luttrell. ' You 
 could do that — the defiance, I mean.' 
 
 The self-approval too, thought Winifred, if she 
 knew that her art was good ; but she did not say- 
 so. She had an idea that Agatha Twine would 
 not have understood. Moreover, Agatha said at 
 this moment, — 
 
 ' What a lot of sorts ! A sort of stamp, a sort 
 of staccato step, a sort of surprise.' 
 
 * Hear me sing a song of sorts,' cried Elsie, and 
 with modestly lowered eyelids she gave a verse 
 of one of those things that periodically drive 
 London mad. The facial changes of expression 
 from primness to unrestraint as she plunged into 
 the refrain with a kick and a curious movement 
 of her elbows was wonderful. Madame de Valois 
 would have been horrified, and Elsie's end-of-the- 
 age mother would have been delighted.
 
 .WINIFRED MOUNT 9 
 
 ' How dreadful of you, Elsie/ said Agatha. 
 
 Winifred said nothing for a few moments. She 
 was looking at Elsie as if she saw her now for 
 the first time. 
 
 ' Why have you never done that before ? ' she 
 asked when at last she spoke. 
 
 Elsie shook her head. 
 
 ' I have never been able to remember the tunc/ 
 she said, smiling. ' It only came into my head 
 just now — quite suddenly.' 
 
 When four o'clock struck Miss Luttrell said 
 Bother, and went to her music lesson. Agatha 
 looked after her. 
 
 ' I hope Elsie will turn out well,' she said. 
 
 ' How middle-aged of you,' said Winifred. 
 
 There was a pause. Elsie had reached the 
 house, and at the door she glanced back and 
 gave once more the curious movement of her 
 elbows. Then she entered with downcast eyes 
 and folded hands. 
 
 ' I love Elsie/ said Winifred. 
 
 ' I like her too/ said Agatha. 
 
 There was another pause. 
 
 • Mamma doesn't care very much for her mother,' 
 said Agatha then. ' She is a widow, and she en- 
 tertains a great deal. Mamma sa)'s she is social!}' 
 successful.'
 
 lo WINIFRED MOUNT 
 
 * Socially successful ? ' 
 
 * It means having your guests asked for }'0U b}- 
 someone else/ said Agatha. 
 
 The sound of Miss Luttrell's inaccuracies on 
 the piano came from a green-shuttered window. 
 ' I love Elsie/ said Winifred again. 
 ' She will never play/ said Agatha. 
 
 * She will never want to/ said Winifred. * She 
 has splendid health and splendid spirits. She 
 will not have to go to music for consolation.' 
 
 * You look at things from such strange points 
 of view/ said Agatha. ' You take everything as 
 a weapon or a shelter or a — how shall I put it? 
 I can't quite express what I mean. You appear 
 to look at life as a fight.' 
 
 * So it is/ said Winifred. 
 
 At this period, and as the result of her unusual 
 circumstances, her place in the world seemed to 
 be that of a combatant. Her cynicism had come 
 before its time, and there was therefore the hope 
 that since it came not of maturity it might grow 
 less persistent as years should pass. There was 
 nothing in her actual life that was unhappy. 
 Madame de Valois treated her with kindness and 
 affection. She was liked by her companions, and, 
 if some of them indeed stood in awe of her, there 
 was not in the school one who did not secretly
 
 WINIFRED MOUNT ii 
 
 admire her. Yet her Hfe seemed to lack every- 
 thing. 
 
 ' We all have the right to be happy — an equal 
 right/ she said presently. ' Don't you think it is 
 an equal right ? ' 
 
 She addressed Agatha, but she looked at the 
 swing. She had been looking at it for some 
 moments before she saw that the golden-haired 
 child had given place to a bigger girl, who sat 
 clumsily in the seat, and whose black head gave 
 out no flash of colour when the sun struck it. 
 
 Agatha thought before she replied. The ques- 
 tion had a Socialistic ring, and Agatha, by inherit- 
 ance, disapproved of Socialism. She had all the 
 old views, so she fenced. 
 
 * It depends upon what is meant by happiness,* 
 she said. 
 
 Winifred knew that. She shrugged her shoulders. 
 The conversation turned to other matters. The 
 piano rattled on and presently ceased. Then Miss 
 Luttrell made her appearance and joined her 
 friends. 
 
 Agatha appealed to her on the question of 
 happiness. 
 
 * Oh,' said Winifred, 'it doesn't matter. I don't 
 know why I raised the point.' 
 
 ' And I have no opinions/ cried Elsie mcrril)- ;
 
 12 WINIFRED MOUNT 
 
 ' and I have done my practising, and I don't 
 mean to do another thing for the rest of the day. 
 To what mischief can I lend my idle hands ? Let 
 us turn Black Alice out of the swing. Come, girls. 
 Winifred, you will remember some day that I 
 told you you were a princess, and would be re- 
 stored to your kingdom. It isn't as if }'ou had 
 done anything to forfeit your rights.' 
 
 Winifred laughed. 
 
 ' I have been here since I was three,' she said.
 
 CHAPTER II 
 
 THUS stood three girls upon the threshold of 
 life. 
 
 Agatha Twine and Elsie Luttrell were leaving at 
 the end of the term. Winifred was to remain, 
 as she had remained year after }'ear at the seasons 
 that saw the breaking up of the school. It seemed 
 to be her destiny — to stay behind. 
 
 She set her teeth. 
 
 ' I will write to you every week,' said Agatha. 
 
 ' You must come and stay with us,' said Elsie. 
 
 Both girls kissed her. 
 
 The omnibus was at the door. All was con- 
 fusion and excitement, and Winifred was outside it 
 and apart. Girls ran up and down the stairs. 
 Faces were flushed and eyes sparkled. Madame 
 de Valois stood upon the steps and gave directions 
 shrilly. She was rapidly reducing to a state of 
 distraction bordering on frenzy the governess who 
 was to convoy the home-going party. Miss Vance, 
 cooling down in the train later on, and recovering 
 some of her scattered wits, allowed to herself that 
 
 13
 
 14 WINIFRED MOUNT 
 
 there had been a moment at which she had not 
 known a trunk from its owner, nor the seventeen 
 tickets from an umbrella or a packet of sandwiches. 
 All had been shaken round in her head till selection 
 and distribution were impossible. 
 
 ' You have the money for the extra in the boat,' 
 said Madame de Valois. ' Be sure you ask, and do 
 not pay too much. Now, see that you have it right 
 — the difference for the class. Of course I gave it 
 to you. Are you dreaming. Miss Vance ? I think 
 you are demented. Look in your purse, quick. 
 You will miss the train. Where is your purse? 
 Why, you put it in your bag yourself ; I saw you. 
 There it is — now, count. Two, four, six, comuie ^a — 
 and Alice Brown is not to stay on deck. You hear 
 me — and she is to wear her coat all the time, and 
 the muffler for her throat. And at Dover you are 
 to ask which part of the train is for Victoria and 
 which part for Charing Cross. You go yourself to 
 Charing Cross, and you give the young ladies who 
 go to Victoria into charge to the guard. Now, you 
 understand, and make no mistake. Now, look ! 
 look ! You leave the tickets behind if you do that. 
 Put them in your bag at once. And the money for 
 baggage. Like that. And see that no one forgets 
 her wraps. And if Nora Green is troublesome on 
 the way }'OU arc to report her to me. Now, quick,
 
 WINIFRED MOUNT 15 
 
 you must go. En voitiire^ mesdemoiselles. Good- 
 bye all of you. Now, quick, or you miss the train. 
 Where is Bertha Lane ? Quick ! ' 
 
 The girls scrambled into the omnibus. Miss 
 Vance, with flushed face and full hands and harassed 
 eyes, followed her charges into the vehicle. She 
 found presently that she had forgotten her own 
 bundle of shawls, but she had not the courage to 
 stop the driver and send back for it. Happily 
 one of the servants discovered it in time to meet 
 her with it at the station. 
 
 The scene was repeated in all its details at the 
 end of every term. 
 
 Winifred Mount, with a grim expression, watched 
 the omnibus out of sight. She waved her handker- 
 chief to Elsie Luttrell, but she did not smile. 
 
 Madame de Valois gave a sigh of relief and 
 turned into the house. Winifred went round into 
 the empty garden. It looked inexpressibly empty. 
 The silence, too, struck her with a sense of deser- 
 tion. She looked down the still paths. The swing 
 did not move. Nothing moved. The day was 
 grey. She looked up at the house. The shutters 
 were all pushed back and the windows were open. 
 Not a sign of life to be seen at one of them. 
 
 She sat down moodily on the bench where she 
 had sat with her two friends. They were on their
 
 i6 WINIFRED MOUNT 
 
 way to their bright futures, these two girls, and she 
 was left behind. Would nothing move in the empty 
 garden ? The sight of Black Alice, the unpopular 
 girl, in the swing would have been grateful. Black 
 Alice monopolised the swing. She turned the 
 smaller girls out of it habitually, and she was 
 heartily disliked amongst her schoolfellows, but 
 Winifred would have welcomed even her. The 
 solitude was horrible. Eight weeks of empty days 
 must pass before the girls returned. Eight weeks 
 of being alone. She shuddered at the thought, and 
 the expression of sullenness deepened upon her face. 
 
 There was the sound of an opening door, and 
 Winifred looked round. It was Madame de Valois 
 who approached her. Winifred rose to her feet 
 from respectful custom, but she neither smiled nor 
 did she advance to meet her. 
 
 *What would you like to do to-day?' said 
 Madame dc Valois kindly. ' I am sorry that I 
 have no holiday amusements for )-ou ; but we could 
 drive this afternoon if you like?' 
 
 * If you wish it, madame,' said Winifred. 
 
 * But it is you, my dear. It is for you.' 
 ' I do not care,' said Winifred. 
 
 * My dear, I wanted to please you.' 
 
 Madame de Valois' tone told Winifred that she 
 had been ungracious.
 
 WINIFRED MOUNT 17 
 
 ' It was kind of you to think of it,' she hastened 
 to say. ' Madame, you must forgive me to-day.' 
 
 The schoolmistress laid a gentle hand upon her 
 shoulder. 
 
 * My dear, I understand you.* 
 
 It was then, and quite suddenly, that Winifred 
 sank down upon the bench and covered her face 
 with her hands. Winifred seldom wept. She had 
 a pride that did not make tears come easily to her. 
 Madame de Valois did not remember that she had 
 ever seen her overcome before. She sat down 
 beside her, and put her arms round her. 
 
 ' How long is it to go on ? ' said Winifred, as 
 soon as her sobbing could allow her to speak 
 articulately. ' How long is it to go on ? Am I 
 to be alone all my life? Am I always to be left 
 behind? It is killing me. It is hardening me. 
 What have I done ? ' 
 
 She could not control herself. She was shaken 
 by the passion of tears that possessed her. Her 
 beautiful young body was convulsed. Madame 
 de Valois did not try to stay the outburst. It 
 scarcely surprised her, for she was not unobser- 
 vant, and she had known that sooner or later the 
 forces which she had seen at work in Winifred 
 must lead to an outward expression of her revolt. 
 She had long foreseen the effect upon a thinking 
 
 U
 
 i8 WINIFRED MOUNT 
 
 and passionate nature of the life of exile to which 
 the girl had been condemned. She had, of course, 
 her own conjectures as to the probable reason for 
 this exile, but, as Winifred supposed, she was 
 ignorant as the girl herself of the actual facts of 
 the case. 
 
 So long as Winifred was a child she had taken 
 her lot as her lot with little question. She had 
 been content with such information as Madame 
 de Valois could give her. She knew that her 
 circumstances were different from those of other 
 girls, and she accepted the contrast without com- 
 bating its justice. She even derived a certain 
 satisfaction from its mystery. She knew that she 
 had a father, but that she never wrote to him. 
 Madame de Valois had told her that, in accord- 
 ance with his wishes, as expressed in the instruc- 
 tions which he had given to her, his daughter was 
 not to communicate with him. For man}- years 
 this sufficed for Winifred. She was kindly treated, 
 she had all that she wanted in the wa}' of clothes 
 and pocket-money, and if she had not the amuse- 
 ments of other girls, she had never had them, and 
 therefore could not miss them. 
 
 But time had opened her eyes. It was inevit- 
 able. Madame de Valois had known that the day 
 must come when Winifred would demand the
 
 WINIFRED MOUNT 19 
 
 explanation which it would not be in her power 
 to give. She had indeed told her all that she 
 knew. 
 
 For long now had she watched the deepening 
 mutiny of Winifred's expression. A thousand 
 chance words, or gestures, had prepared her for 
 the storm that was brewing. Her affection for 
 her pupil was real and warm, and she saw her 
 discontent and unhappiness with concern. 
 
 ' My dear,' she said softly, ' my dear.' 
 
 She kissed the silky hair. How beautiful it was, 
 and how long. It was rich in colour and luxurious, 
 and it had waves and undulations that no hair- 
 dresser's art could have achieved. Moreover, it 
 had a lustre of which even the grey day with the 
 low clouds could not rob it. 
 
 After a time Winifred recovered her self-control. 
 
 ' I am going to write to my father,' she said. 
 
 She spoke very quietly. 
 
 Madame de Valois was perhaps prepared for 
 some active step for she made no protest. Wini- 
 fred was surprised. In her present mood opposi- 
 tion would not have been without a certain 
 attraction for her. It would have strengthened 
 her determination. She had expected to have 
 to fight for permission to carry out her project. 
 She had half wished indeed that the permission
 
 20 WINIFRED MOUNT 
 
 would be refused, and that she would have the 
 opportunity of taking the law into her own hands. 
 She was in a frame of mind for open rebellion. 
 
 As Madame de Valois did not gainsay her, she 
 proceeded. 
 
 * I am going to demand to go home. Why 
 should I be left here year after year as if I 
 belonged to nobody? It is unjust. I have stood 
 the neglect of my father long enough. I am 
 seventeen now. I am at the age when girls 
 leave school, and I am going to force my father 
 to acknowledge me.' 
 
 Winifred spoke without vehemence as yet, but 
 the trembling of her hand told how great was the 
 effort to maintain her composure. Madame de 
 Valois still preserved her silence. In truth, she 
 did not know how to reply. When, at length, she 
 answered it was with a warning that acted as an 
 irritant to Winifred's strained nerves. 
 
 * I cannot prevent your writing. I have your 
 father's instructions that he does not wish to hear 
 from you ; but if you demand his address I do not 
 see that I can withhold it. But have a care, my 
 dear, have a care. You may bring upon yourself 
 some knowledge which had best be kept from 
 you.' 
 
 ' What do you mean, madame ? '
 
 WINIFRED MOUNT 21 
 
 • I know nothing. There must be reasons, family 
 reasons. ... I cannot tell. You would not under- 
 stand . . .' 
 
 * I think I should understand,' said Winifred. 
 * I think I know what you mean. I am not a child, 
 and, in any case, it is for girls situated as I am to 
 know things before their time. Such knowledge 
 can be kept from happier girls.' 
 
 Madame de Valois looked at her in amaze- 
 ment. 
 
 And if I am what you think — and I don't care 
 if I am. I don't care ! I don't care ! I don't care ! 
 — then it seems to me that my claims upon my 
 father are but ten times greater.' 
 
 ' Winifred ! ' 
 
 Madame de Valois could say nothing else. 
 
 'Why should I care?' said Winifred, more 
 quietly. ' If it is true it is not my fault. There 
 may be children who will accept the punishment 
 of the sins of their fathers, but I am not one of 
 them. If what you think is the real explanation 
 of my circumstances, then I refuse to allow it to 
 affect my life. I refuse, that is all. I am as good 
 as girls more happily born. I am not to be 
 trampled on. I want life, and I will have it. I 
 will have it' 
 
 Madame de Valois could only look at Winifred
 
 22 WINIFRED MOUNT 
 
 and gasp. She had no words to meet the philo- 
 sophy of this girl, who, shut away from the outer 
 world, had somehow absorbed the modern spirit. 
 That this development should have proceeded un- 
 observed under her very eyes was matter enough 
 for surprise, but that Winifred's views and attitude 
 should symbolise those of the most-advanced 
 tendencies of latter day civilisation was matter for 
 a further wonder still. She had then never known 
 this girl who had grown up beside her and in her 
 care. In the light of the knowledge that had just 
 been vouchsafed to her she could only marvel, too, 
 at the recent tears. Such independence of circum- 
 stances as Winifred had just shown seemed at 
 first incompatible with the exhibition of the weaker 
 emotions. Subsequent thought, however, made 
 both phases of feeling intelligible to her. 
 
 The greyness of the day began to lift. An 
 aperture in the veil of cloud allowed a glimpse 
 of bluest sky behind. The sun struggled out 
 presently and gilded half the world. The flowers 
 and trees asserted their colours. The greens and 
 reds were most vivid. Some points of glass or 
 pebble sparkled like diamonds in the brown soil 
 of a bed. 
 
 Winifred looked down the garden and noted 
 absently the change in the day. The sunlight
 
 WINIFRED MOUNT 23 
 
 against a dark background of cloud was brilliant, 
 and insisted on a comparison to gold. Birds 
 which had been twittering began to sing. A 
 tortoiseshell cat came daintily towards Madame 
 de Valois and rubbed itself luxuriously against 
 her knees. Presently it stretched itself in the 
 sunlight on the grass at her feet. The yellow eyes 
 of the animal gleamed. 
 
 The pause which succeeded Winifred's words 
 seemed likely to last. Madame broke the silence. 
 
 ' My dear, you shall write to your father. I do 
 not think that I should be justified in preventing 
 you. I will write to him myself and tell him this. 
 I have hitherto followed implicitly his instructions, 
 but it is true what you say; you are no more a 
 child. I have known it for long, and yet it seems 
 to me as if to-day for the first time I grasp the 
 meaning. My dear, we must jump to no con- 
 clusions. Part of what has been said to-day, I 
 shall never cease to regret — never ! ' 
 
 ' I regret nothing that has been said,' said Wini- 
 fred. ' I mean to face things through life. I wish 
 things to face me. I want to see clearly. Above 
 all, I want to face the unalterable.'
 
 CHAPTER III 
 
 WINIFRED made two beginnings to her 
 letter : * My dear father,' ' Dear father,' and 
 rejected them for a third which was allowed to stand. 
 The letter that was posted ran thus : — 
 
 ' Maison Rouge, Choseville, 
 'France, \^th July. 
 
 ' Father, — Though I know from Madame de 
 Valois that it is your wish that I should not com- 
 municate with you, I have made up my mind to 
 write to you. The restrictions that you imposed 
 upon me as a child can no longer bind me. I 
 suppose that the relations between father and 
 daughter were never more curious than in our 
 case. I do not know you. If I have ever had 
 any recollection of you, and it seems to me that 
 in the early days I had some vague remembrance 
 of you, time has entirely effaced it. I don't know 
 whether you are old or young. I don't know 
 whether I have any relations but yourself All 
 
 24
 
 WINIFRED MOUNT 25 
 
 that I know is, that for more than fourteen years 
 you have ignored my existence. My mother I 
 have been told is dead ; but in the general un- 
 certainty of all that concerns me I know nothing 
 more about her. Was injustice ever greater than 
 this ! I live, and you are responsible for my life. 
 I ask you, in common fairness, to think of this. 
 I cannot tell how you will receive this letter. I 
 am writing as I feel. Remember that I am as 
 one in the dark. If I knew you I might express 
 myself differently. I cannot tell ; and so I put 
 down facts baldly. There may be circumstances 
 which, if I knew them, would throw a new light 
 upon your treatment of me. In my ignorance 
 you must forgive me if I have only seen it as 
 harsh. Father, I could love you, and there are 
 moments when I hate you. Shall I cross that 
 out or leave it? I think I will leave it. It ex- 
 presses me, and if you are a friend you will under- 
 stand ; if not, I do not care how it strikes you. I 
 must learn now what you propose for my future. 
 I am seventeen, and I believe that I am older than 
 my actual years. You will see that this is pro- 
 bable if you consider how likely it is that I have 
 had to think things out for myself I have not 
 been unhappy here. Madame de Valois has taken 
 the place of parents to me, and I love her dearly.
 
 26 WINIFRED MOUNT 
 
 But I cannot stay here. I am grown up. I have, 
 done with lesson books as lesson books. I like 
 study for its own sake but my schooldays are past, 
 and this must be recognised. I believe that you 
 are, if not rich, at least, well off. You have 
 supplied me liberally with money, and I know 
 from other girls that this school is expensive. 
 If you will not have me to live with you, I ask 
 you now to make me a settled allowance. I will 
 get a maid or a companion of some sort, and I 
 will make a life for myself I am independent 
 by nature, and I should like to travel or make a 
 home for myself in England. There is a question 
 which I must ask you. I cannot tell how you 
 will regard it, but it was inevitable that such a 
 hypothesis should suggest itself as an explanation 
 of my circumstances. Am I legitimate? I can 
 bear the answer whatever it is, but I must know. 
 Once I know my position, I shall be able to take 
 my bearings and face the future. 
 
 ' If you wish me well, do not judge me by the 
 antagonism of parts of this letter. If you are a 
 friend the antagonism is not there, and if you are 
 a foe, I don't care what you think. This is my 
 nature. 
 
 ' Father, write to mc. — Your daughter, 
 
 •Winifred Mount.'
 
 WINIFRED MOUNT 27 
 
 ' P.S. — Have you any wish to know what I am 
 like ? I am sending you a photograph which was 
 taken here the other day.' 
 
 Winifred did not show this letter to anyone. 
 She had a conviction that Madame de Valois 
 would disapprove of it, would wish to modify it, 
 would even be shocked at its bluntness. And 
 Winifred knew that she was prepared to alter 
 nothing. What she had written she had written. 
 She had but presented herself to her father in the 
 attitude that was natural to her. If at the outset 
 she offended him, then must the offence be. 
 
 Madame de Valois gave her the address. Wini- 
 fred heard it with interest — Monkswood, Priarton, 
 Cornwall. She had wondered whether it would 
 awake any slumbering memories. It did not. 
 
 * You have written respectfully, I hope,' said 
 madame. * My dear, I hope I have not been 
 wrong in permitting you to write.' 
 
 * I have written respectfully,' said Winifred. 
 ' You must not take any responsibility in the 
 matter. I think I had better tell you, with all 
 deference, that you could not have prevented my 
 writing. You could have withheld the address, but 
 I should have sought means to learn it. Oh, don't 
 think that I don't care for your wishes. I do, I
 
 28 WINIFRED MOUNT 
 
 do. What should I have done all these years but 
 for your affection and advice ? But in this matter 
 I had to act for myself.' 
 
 She kissed the Frenchwoman as she spoke. 
 
 * My dear, it is your life. I have no right to 
 influence you. God grant that good may come of 
 the step you have taken.* 
 
 A week passed. After the third day of it 
 Winifred watched the posts. She was more 
 excited as to the result of her letter than she 
 would have owned. She was a good deal alone 
 at this time, and she had much opportunity for 
 speculation and conjecture. At one moment she 
 wished that she had written more humbly ; at 
 another that she had laid even more emphasis 
 upon her sense of the injustice that had been 
 done to her. Then nervousness took possession of 
 her. She felt like one who has set some huge piece 
 of machinery in motion by the pressing of a button 
 or the drawing of a bolt, and awaits the result of 
 the action in ignorance and trembling. She had 
 known monotony, but she had known peace and 
 security. What if she had disturbed these for ever ! 
 
 It was after such a mood of despondence and 
 fear that her defiant courage came to her aid. Let 
 the future do its worst. She was strong in body 
 and in will. She could brave difficulties, and con-
 
 WINIFRED MOUNT 29 
 
 quer them too. She was equipped by nature for a 
 fight with foes stronger than any that were Hkely to 
 assail her. She had the gift of the independent spirit 
 that overrides the waves of adverse circumstance. 
 
 Madame de Valois watched her mood, but was 
 silent. Inwardly she experienced a solicitude 
 which she found it difficult to conceal, for the effect 
 of the girl's appeal or protest. From what she 
 knew of Winifred, she suspected that the letter had 
 been more in the form of protest than appeal. She 
 tried from the very short communications which 
 from time to time she had received from Mr 
 Mount to form some idea of his personality ; but 
 his correspondence with her had been so generally 
 of a business nature that it was impossible to judge 
 from it of the man. She had never seen him, and 
 she was obliged to own, after a morning spent at 
 the writing-table that held his letters, that they 
 told her nothing. 
 
 Winifred tried to read, tried to work, tried to 
 play. Her thoughts were in Cornwall. Perhaps 
 her father was writing to her at this moment, or at 
 that. Perhaps he was away and had not received 
 her letter. Perhaps he intended to ignore it as he 
 had ignored his daughter. 
 
 Was Monkswood a country place such as Agatha 
 Twine had described to her ? Was it on the coast
 
 30 WINIFRED MOUNT 
 
 or inland ? This sent her to her atlas, but Priar- 
 ton was not marked in the map. She thought that 
 Priarton must be a village, and Monkswood a small, 
 perhaps a large, estate. Probably there was no 
 train to Priarton. It amused her presently to 
 know into what details of conjecture she was 
 going when she found herself imagining note 
 paper stamped with the address, and with ' Station 
 So - and - so,' ' Telegrams, Priarton.' Was the 
 country hilly and rocky and wild ? She hoped 
 that there were hills, because Choseville and its 
 neighbourhood were flat and uninteresting. Then 
 she remembered that to form any hopes whatever 
 as to the nature of her father's home was perhaps 
 futile. She might never see it. Thus did she pass 
 the time of waiting in uncertainty. On the eighth 
 day there arrived the letter she was expecting. It 
 was directed to herself. Madame de Valois saw 
 her change colour as it was put into her hands. 
 
 But Winifred had a very marked self-control, 
 and the casual observer would have seen a girl 
 opening a letter — nothing more. Her fingers may 
 have trembled, but not a muscle of her face told 
 of the excitement that was making her heart beat 
 so loudly that she herself could hear it. Perhaps 
 the knowledge that Madame de Valois was agi- 
 tated, and was watching her keenly from behind
 
 WINIFRED MOUNT 31 
 
 the paper with which she was pretending to oc- 
 cupy herself, tended to brace her to a more 
 complete composure than would have been pos- 
 sible had she been alone. 
 
 When she had taken the sheet from its envelope 
 it was some moments before she was able to read 
 the words that moved in confusion before her 
 eyes. Individual words isolated themselves and 
 stood out from the rest. She caught her own 
 name, and by it, as it were, she tried to steady 
 herself. When the moving letters were still, she 
 read as follows : — 
 
 * MoNKswooD, Priarton, 
 Cornwall, 21st July. 
 
 ' Your letter, Winifred, has but hastened a little 
 the writing of one which I had long been con- 
 templating. Let me say at once that I admit the 
 justice of much that you have said to me, though 
 I have not been entirely a free agent in ruling the 
 circumstances that have kept us apart. I was 
 greatly pained (though very little thinking told me 
 that I could not be surprised) that the conjecture 
 which you ask me to refute or confirm should have 
 presented itself to you as a possible explanation of 
 the position in which you have found )'ourself. 
 Set )'our mind at rest upon this point at once.
 
 32 WINIFRED MOUNT 
 
 You were born in wedlock. It ought to have 
 occurred to me that some such hypothesis would 
 naturally come to the minds of those w^ho were 
 interested in you, as the result of, and to account 
 for, your prolonged separation from myself. I 
 think, had I given the subject (in this light) a 
 thought, I should have believed that your youth 
 would save you from the pain of such a surmise. 
 I am glad that you stated the question plainly. 
 I cannot adequately express the regret that I feel 
 in the knowledge that you should, even for a time, 
 have laboured under the shame of such a supposi- 
 tion. I ask you with deep contrition to forgive 
 me the consequence, which I see now it was 
 inevitable that my silence should entail. My dear 
 Winifred, what explanation shall I offer you for 
 your long exile? Your mother's death, nearly 
 fifteen years ago, was a blow to me which I never 
 recovered. It changed me, I think, from a man to 
 a stone. We had not been married four years 
 when my dear wife was taken from me. In losing 
 her I lost everything. I was alone. It would be 
 futile for me to try to tell you of the desolation 
 that possessed me. Your mother, Winifred, was, 
 I firmly think, the purest and holiest and best 
 woman that ever walked in this lower world. 
 Her soul was spotless. I never heard from her
 
 WINIFRED MOUNT 33 
 
 lips an unkind or a thoughtless word. It was a 
 privilege to be her friend, and — think of it — I was 
 her husband. The happiness that for these short 
 years I knew was a happiness that falls, I should 
 suppose, to the lot of few. Think, to have been the 
 companion of such a woman ; to have lived beside 
 her beautiful life ; and to have had her love. God 
 gave me this, and in an hour took it away. Your 
 mother died by a sudden and a painful death. 
 She bore her anguish with fortitude and resigna- 
 tion. I tell you this now, Winifred, because I 
 wish that it shall never again be spoken of be- 
 tween us. I would have died ten deaths to save 
 her, but human aid availed, and could avail, no- 
 thing. She left me. I hated life. I hated my 
 fellow creatures. I left the world in which I had 
 lived, and travelled for seven years. Then there 
 came to me a longing for England, and I came 
 back and took Monkswood, where I have lived 
 since. By my own wish I have given up all my 
 friends, and they have lost sight of me. I lead a 
 solitary life with books. I have no near neigh- 
 bours, and I fear that for you the dulness of 
 Monkswood would be intolerable. If you think 
 that you could bear it, come to me. I should 
 like to sec you. It will be hard for you to 
 believe that this is true after years of apparent 
 
 C
 
 34 WINIFRED MOUNT 
 
 neglect. My excuse is that I have shrunk frotn 
 seeing anyone who could remind me of the past 
 But for the last twelve months you have been 
 very constantly in my thoughts, and, as I said at 
 the beginning of these lines, I was contemplating 
 writing to you. Do not hate me, Winifred. 
 Write to me and tell me when you will come to 
 me — the sooner the better. I am willing to make 
 any arrangement that shall be for your happiness. 
 I am not rich, but my income is much greater 
 than my needs require, and I can give you a good 
 allowance. You shall do exactly as you like 
 about living here with me, or engaging a suitable 
 companion and travelling or settling anywhere 
 that may please you. 
 
 'Pray thank Madame de Valois on my behalf for 
 her kindness to you. I shall be writing to her 
 myself in a day or two. I wish you, Winifred, to 
 be free to come here now, or later, as may seem 
 best to you. — Your father, 
 
 * Alfred Mount. 
 
 '/*.5.— Shall I add that I am glad that you did 
 not mitigate what you spoke of as the antagonism 
 of your letter? It has helped me to know you. I 
 hope, my daughter, that the day is not far off 
 when we shall know each other better.'
 
 WINIFRED MOUNT 35 
 
 Winifred read her father's letter in silence, and, 
 when she had mastered its contents, she handed it 
 to Madame de Valois. 
 
 * You wish me to read it ? ' 
 
 * Certainly, madame.' 
 
 Not till Winifred spoke did she know how 
 deeply she was affected. The huskiness of her 
 tone sounded strange even in her own ears, and 
 Madame de Valois, unable to gather anything 
 from Winifred's face, noted the sign of her emo- 
 tion, and took the letter with trembling hands. 
 
 * I fear you have not good news,' she said, with 
 a nervous smile. 
 
 * Read,' said Winifred shortly. 
 
 But madame's spectacles were dim, and she had 
 to take them off and rub them before she could 
 see properly. 
 
 Winifred made a pretence of eating her break- 
 fast. 
 
 ' Thank God ! ' said madame below her breath 
 and Winifred knew that the good woman had 
 reached that part of the letter which set her 
 gravest fears at rest. Never did reading seem 
 so slowly done. Minutes elapsed between the 
 turning of the pages, and Winifred was chafing 
 to have her father's letter once more in her own 
 hands. Thoughts, fugitive as those of the vaguest
 
 36 WINIFRED MOUNT 
 
 dream, passed through her mind as she waited. 
 One of the canaries in the cage that hung in the 
 window was splashing in his bath, and the drops 
 were flung here and there by his yellow wings. 
 They glistened as they fell through the sunlight, 
 and reminded Winifred of the points of glass 
 that she had seen sparkling in the soil of the beds 
 in the garden at that moment of climax of re- 
 bellion that had expressed itself in the letter to her 
 father. Her father then was unknown as God is 
 unknown. Now all was different. She stood no 
 longer alone. She pictured the fifteen years of 
 his solitude. His isolation had been greater than 
 her own. She saw a grey-haired man and a 
 reading-lamp. He spoke in his letter of books. 
 The reading-lamp seemed to complete a picture, 
 and she was sure about the grey hairs. 
 
 When at length Madame de Valois looked up 
 Winifred was smiling.
 
 CHAPTER IV 
 
 WHAT will you do, Winifred?' said 
 Madame de Valois. 
 
 ' I shall go home, madame.' 
 
 Winifred spoke with her usual decision. There 
 was a pause after that Madame de Valois drank 
 her coffee, and tried to eat. The canary had 
 finished his bath, and the water which had sparkled 
 in its descent lay scattered on the polished boards 
 of the floor. 
 
 ' I shall go home,' said Winifred again. ' It is 
 what I have wished. I must see my father, and 
 know him. After that, I can arrange a life for 
 myself But I think I shall like' — she stopped 
 and changed her word — * shall love my father.' 
 
 She looked again at the letter she held. 
 
 When she could make her escape, she went up 
 to her room and locked the door. She sat down 
 beside the window, and spread the letter upon the 
 sill. She studied it almost word by word, trying 
 to realise something of the feelings of the writer. 
 She wondered whether the beginning had prc- 
 
 37
 
 38 WINIFRED MOUNT 
 
 sented as great a difficulty to him as to her in 
 the case of the letter to which this was an answer. 
 The relief which she experienced in knowing that 
 her birth was lawful surprised her somewhat. She 
 had not been conscious of the anxiety which the 
 doubtfulness of this point had occasioned her. She 
 nad truly thought that, had she discovered that 
 she was not born of marriage, she would have 
 been strong enough to refuse to recognise a brand 
 of shame. It was still possible (however plainly 
 her relief might show her that she was not indif- 
 ferent to convention) that her strength would not 
 have failed her had she been called upon to face the 
 fact of a confirmation of the suspicion that had 
 come to her, and that now was at rest for ever. 
 But her relief took the form almost of exulta- 
 tion. She could just then have sung songs of 
 triumph, as the women of old sung them in 
 moments of special elation. She was not con- 
 demned to eternal enmity with her fellow-men. 
 She had thought that her hand would be against 
 every man, and every man's hand against her. 
 The world, perhaps, would not prove such a battle- 
 field as she had expected, or, at least, she would 
 start fairly in the fight. 
 
 The plea for forgiveness that her father made 
 touched her deeply.
 
 WINIFRED MOUNT 39 
 
 From this sentence she went on to the next, 
 which spoke of her mother. She had read this 
 almost dispassionately at first, barely comprehend- 
 ing its import in her excitement. She had no 
 mother, and her thoughts in reading the letter had 
 been of the living and not of the dead. Now the 
 sadness that underlay the words smote her. A 
 sudden revelation of the beauty of the life so 
 abruptly cut short was vouchsafed to her, and her 
 eyes filled with tears. 
 
 ' Poor father,' she said to herself. * Poor father.' 
 She kissed the open sheet. When she had put 
 it away, she began to make preparations for her 
 journey. 
 
 There seemed to be no reasonable occasion for 
 delaying her departure, and Winifred arranged to 
 go to England early in the following week. She 
 telegraphed her decision that morning to Monks- 
 wood. 
 
 The next few days passed very quickly. Wini- 
 fred tried in vain to realise them. She knew that 
 since they marked the close of a period of her 
 life she would look back upon them with a certain 
 regret. The years that had passed so monoton- 
 ously at Choscvillc had, after all, not been unhappy. 
 It might be in store for her that, if on her death- 
 bed she were permitted to review her whole life,
 
 40 WINIFRED MOUNT 
 
 she would see that her childhood had been its 
 happiest time. Who could tell ? The end of it 
 was at hand. Notwithstanding the knowledge 
 that these last days ought to be accounted very 
 precious, they slipped by almost unheeded. The 
 final evening came. 
 
 Madame de Valois sat with her in the garden. 
 The talk was intermittent. The silences that fell 
 were filled by each in her own way. 
 
 What an evening it was. The sun had sunk in 
 a west made splendid by gold and red. The sky 
 was long stained with gorgeous colours. Through 
 the trees you could see masses of glowing cloud, 
 that looked like the slowly cooling ruins of some 
 burnt city. 
 
 So long as the effects lasted, they formed a 
 topic for safe comment. Later, when the bright- 
 ness vanished, and the blue of night asserted itself 
 in the summer sky, and the stars twinkled out to 
 stud it with points of light, the silences that fell 
 upon the two beings whom the morrow was to 
 part, became more frequent. A vague melancholy 
 seemed to breathe in the clear air. The leaves 
 were only softly stirred by a breeze that was lin- 
 gering rather than wanton. 
 
 Winifred could sec the swing in the gathering 
 darkness. It was one of her earliest recollections.
 
 WINIFRED MOUNT 41 
 
 Should she ever see it any more, or the tall French 
 poplars, solemn and straight as obelisks set up 
 against the sky ? She had played in this garden 
 all her life. It was dear to her even while she had 
 been rebelling against the limits of it. She had 
 longed to spread her wings and to fly beyond the 
 furthest point that her eyes could see. She had 
 beaten herself against the bars of her prison house. 
 Now she had her wish — she was free. Was she 
 glad? 
 
 ' The gain of one,' said Madame de Valois, 
 * the loss of another. That is life. But what 
 shall I do without you, Winifred ? ' 
 
 She smiled as she spoke, with tears in her eyes. 
 Her face was in shadow, so that Winifred could 
 not see her smile, but she felt it, and the tears as 
 well. 
 
 ' It is not for ever,' she said quickly. ' I shall 
 come back. It is I that shall miss you. This is 
 my home.' 
 
 Madame shook her head. 
 
 ' It is right for you to go. I think I did not 
 know how dear you were to me, that is all.' 
 
 Winifred rose and knelt beside her. A pro- 
 found pity stirred in her for the lonely woman she 
 was going to leave behind. 
 
 Madame dc Valois was crying.
 
 42 WINIFRED MOUNT 
 
 * You have been with me so long. . . . You 
 took the place in my heart of Eulalie, who died. 
 I have been cross to you sometimes, but never in 
 my heart, Winifred — never in my heart. I have 
 loved you as I loved my Eulalie. I am a school- 
 mistress. It was my duty sometimes to be cross, 
 and grim and severe, but I loved you. Oh, my 
 dear, my dear.' 
 
 Winifred's young arms pressed closely round 
 her. She laid her smooth young cheek against 
 the withered hands. Her own tears were falling. 
 
 * I am not ungrateful,' she said brokenly. ' I 
 have loved you too. No one shall take your 
 place. You have never been cross — never — never 
 — and I have been horrid often. I am horrid. I 
 think only of myself. Oh, I will come back. I 
 shall always look upon this as my home. I don't 
 want to leave you. . . .' 
 
 * My dear, it is right and natural that you should 
 go. There. See, I am all right again. I shall look 
 for your letters. They will console me. I shall 
 hope to hear of your success in the world, and 
 your happiness always. I am sure that your father 
 is a good man, and that you will love him. Now, 
 no tears more. I am a stupid old woman. A 
 life without parting would be incomplete.' 
 
 The night grew chilly. Madame de Valois
 
 WINIFRED MOUNT 43 
 
 shivered, and said that she would go into the 
 house. Winifred accompanied her to the door. 
 Jessamine grew round it. Winifred never forgot 
 the scent that hung in the air. 
 
 * I will follow you presently/ she said. 
 
 * Take care you catch not a cold,' said madame. 
 Winifred turned back into the garden. The moon 
 
 now was visible behind the cathedral. A splash 
 of silver lay upon one side of the dome. The sky 
 was wondrously high and clear. There were 
 blackest shadows under the trees. A moth some- 
 times flapped into the darkness or out of it. 
 
 The night was full of subtle and sweet scents. 
 Mignonette and heliotrope and verbena gave some 
 of them. A sweeter yet came from a sweetbriar. 
 
 Winifred's white dress trailed over the lawn. 
 The moon got clear of the cathedral, and the 
 splash of silver left the dome. The shadows in the 
 garden shifted with each minute. 
 
 There was a huge red rose growing down upon a 
 standard rose tree. It caught Winifred's attention 
 many times as she passed it. It had blossomed 
 upon the day of the going of Elsie and Agatha ; the 
 day that now was marked for her by the writing of 
 her first letter to her father. Winifred had been in- 
 strumental in saving its life a few hours since, when 
 Madame dc Valois' gardener had been cutting
 
 44 WINIFRED MOUNT 
 
 flowers for the house. Now Winifred paused 
 beside it. It was royal in colour even in the 
 moonlight. Its heart was full and rich. The 
 outer petals curled delicately round it. Madame 
 de Valois' voice sounded shrilly from a window, — 
 
 'Winifred! Winifred! Come in. It is late. 
 Come in. You will catch cold, and you must 
 rest yourself to-night for your journey to-morrow. 
 Come in, my dear. Now, quick.' 
 
 * Very well, madame.' 
 
 The window was closed. 
 
 The sacrament of Winifred's farewell to the old 
 garden was nearly complete. She took one last 
 look round. She comprehended in it the swing, 
 the trees, the flower-beds, the familiar paths. Her 
 heart grew large and went out to them all. The 
 rose was close to her. She made it the symbol of 
 the whole, and placed her hands round it. She 
 held it to her lips and pressed them deeply into 
 its gentle petals. She stood for fully a minute 
 thus, breathing the scent of the flowers and whis- 
 pering to it her good-bye. When she turned away 
 blindly a petal fell, then another, then fell a shower 
 of crimson and lay like blood upon the ground. 
 Perhaps the rose was the symbol not only of the 
 garden, but of the life that Winifred left on the 
 morrow for ever.
 
 CHAPTER V 
 
 THE train ran out of Choseville station, and 
 Winifred Mount was free. 
 The day of her emancipation was one of glori- 
 ous weather. The flat country was painted with 
 generous colours. Winifred sat at the window 
 and looked out. She had been provided by 
 Madame de Valois — to the accompaniment of a 
 thousand directions — with a work of French fiction 
 suited in character to her years rather than to her 
 knowledge of life. She did not attempt to read. 
 She held the volume affectionately for the sake of 
 the giver, and looked at the country through which 
 she passed. The servant with whom she travelled 
 sat in another compartment. Winifred had in- 
 sisted upon this arrangement. The matronly Nat- 
 alie was of a talkative disposition, and Winifred 
 wished to be alone. 
 
 The parting from Madame de Valois, when the 
 moment arrived for it, had been too hurried to be 
 keenly felt by the one who was going. The one 
 
 45
 
 46 WINIFRED MOUNT 
 
 who was left had leisure to weep. For Winifred 
 her acutest feelings had been touched on the pre- 
 vious night. The morning could not reproduce 
 the same poignancy of emotion. 
 
 Her sensations now were far more those of 
 excitement and hope than of depression or regret. 
 She was free, and life was before her. Such spirits 
 rose in her as made her eyes to glow and her face 
 to burn. She watched with lively interest the 
 places through which she passed, and the people 
 that she met upon her journey. She had travelled 
 so little. Madame de Valois moved seldom from 
 Choseville, and, during the years of Winifred's 
 sojourn there, an occasional visit to a neighbouring 
 watering-place had been the extent of her wander- 
 ings. For her, then, had been reserved all the 
 wonder and delight of a child who sees new 
 scenes, together with the faculty of ripe apprecia- 
 tion to which the child cannot have attained. All 
 things had their charm and their mystery. 
 
 Calais was reached. Natalie, all smiles and 
 alpaca, came to the door of Winifred's compart- 
 ment. 
 
 There was an hour to wait before the boat would 
 start. Winifred, more for the sake of filling time 
 and amusing herself than from a need of food, 
 ordered some lunch. Her appetite came in eating.
 
 WINIFRED MOUNT 47 
 
 She was handed a wine list, and chose the first 
 claret that bore a familiar name ; a half bottle 
 more than sufficed for the needs of herself and 
 Natalie. For the first time in her life she tasted 
 the joys of liberty. She laughed at the French- 
 woman's description of her travelling companions, 
 and listened with interest to her plans for the 
 future. 
 
 Bonne d'Enfants, said Natalie ; she would seek 
 a place like that. Choseville was dull. She had 
 enough of it, she ! But it was dull ! And a school ! 
 What could one in a school ? A nurse, that was 
 the thing for her — a nurse in a good family. For 
 a maid she was too fat — look, ha, ha, ha ! — but for a 
 nurse, what matter ? 
 
 The discontent had vanished from Winifred's 
 face. She looked splendidly young and straight 
 and fresh. All her appointments were neat and 
 perfect of their kind. Those who saw her looked 
 again. For a time she was unconscious that she 
 attracted any attention. Natalie had been aware 
 of it from the first, and felt that she shone in a 
 reflected glory. It incited her to a stout sprightli- 
 ness that struck Winifred suddenly as grotesque. 
 
 * These people stare at us,' she said coldly. 
 
 She beckoned to a waiter and paid her bill. 
 
 A man who was lunching at a table close by
 
 48 WINIFRED MOUNT 
 
 rose to make way for her to pass. Winifred had 
 noted him vaguely. She had thought that he 
 looked a gentleman, and that he was possibly of 
 the type of man that Agatha Twine and Elsie 
 Luttrell had described to her as English and 
 thoroughly unlike any that was represented at 
 Choseville. This she had thought, barely con- 
 scious that he was present, or that her ideas con- 
 cerning him had formulated themselves in her 
 mind. It was as she passed him that she caught 
 his eye by accident, and something in its expres- 
 sion told her that he had heard her words and had 
 taken them as directed personally at himself. She 
 flushed, hesitated for an instant, and left the dining- 
 room. She tried to forget this incident. 
 
 She made her way to the steamer, and took her 
 place on deck. Natalie was an uncertain sailor, 
 and went below. Winifred opened her book, but 
 it lay upon her lap unread, and the breeze from 
 the Channel played with the leaves. Her mood 
 was receptive. She saw and heard without effort, 
 and left her mind free to receive impressions. The 
 water in the quay was green as an emerald. Under 
 a boat that passed it was greener still. A thousand 
 suns were reflected and threw out dancing beams 
 that were dazzling. Some men idled near the 
 custom house. Their voices reached Winifred.
 
 WINIFRED MOUNT 49 
 
 A woman's wooden shoes made a pleasant sound 
 upon the stone. Presently the Paris train came in 
 and people began to pour into the boat. The best 
 places were quickly taken, and others were 
 sought by less fortunate passengers with fuss or 
 philosophy, according to individual tempera- 
 ment. 
 
 Winifred wondered vaguely about the people 
 that she saw. She felt herself to be separate from 
 them by reason of the mystery that surrounded 
 the future to which she was going. It surprised 
 her that she was so little nervous. She did not 
 yet look forward with any misgiving to the meet- 
 ing with her father. She had decided that she 
 would like him. She felt no fear. Her sensations 
 of the moment were clearly of pleasure. 
 
 People came and went upon the deck. A 
 volume of thick smoke issued from the funnels 
 and ascended in massive wreathings. A bell 
 sounded. Presently the vessel was in motion. 
 Calais receded ; then the coast of France. The 
 sea had not a wave. The moving surface of it was 
 flat, but evenly rugged, as if it had been cut with a 
 chisel or chipped like the flints of the stone age. 
 It was blue in the distance, with streaks of a darker 
 tone. The breeze was fresher as the shelter of the 
 land became more remote. Gulls wheeled and 
 
 D
 
 50 WINIFRED MOUNT 
 
 dipped. A broad, white trail marked the path of 
 the steamer. 
 
 Once more Winifred became conscious that she 
 attracted attention. This time it did not annoy 
 her. There was no preening and acting Natalie to 
 challenge and encourage it. Her thoughts went 
 back to Choseville, then forward to England, thence 
 they returned midway and paused at Calais. She 
 wished that the man who had risen to allow her to 
 pass had not thought that she spoke of him. She 
 could not clearly recall his face, she did not know 
 his colouring ; but his expression remained to her. 
 She wondered where he was, and in what direction 
 he was travelling. 
 
 Quite suddenly the questions answered them- 
 selves. He was sitting on deck ten or twelve yards 
 off. Winifred started as she recognised him. His 
 back was towards her, and she got but a side view 
 of his face. It was a moment or two after the 
 surprise of finding him so near to her before she 
 realised that he could not see her from his posi- 
 tion. Then she allowed herself to study him. 
 He appeared to be broad and of a fair height. He 
 was healthily sunburnt. His forehead seemed to 
 be square and low under the cap, which he had 
 I)ulled down to shade his eyes as he read. A point 
 of his moustache projected beyond the line of his
 
 WINIFRED MOUNT 51 
 
 cheek ; otherwise he was clean shaven. Winifred 
 could see one of his ears. It was small and well 
 placed. His hair was dry, and neither very curly 
 nor very straight. She decided that the hand that 
 she could see and the feet that were stretched out 
 and crossed were well bred. All this pleased her 
 She deeply regretted the incident in the Calais 
 dining-room, and wished once more that she could 
 explain. 
 
 ' I didn't mean it for you,' she said under her 
 breath ; ' I didn't mean it for you. I . . . should 
 not have minded your looking at me. You would 
 not stare rudely. And you thought I meant what 
 I said for you . . .' 
 
 The wind grew keener. The sunlight looked as 
 if it was blown about. Winifred turned up th<j 
 collar of her coat. Things that were loose flapped. 
 Bits of conversation flapped too, and reached her. 
 She fitted them into a patternless mosaic. For a 
 time this amused her. 
 
 The jerking of the machinery was like the 
 pulsing, she thought, of a great heart in the body 
 of the steamer. The smoke had ceased to pour 
 from the funnels, and they looked unoccupied. 
 The green water rushed by with a sound that had 
 a part in the music of the journey. 
 
 Winifred returned to a contemplation of the 
 
 UbRARY 
 
 UNIVEKSITY OF ILLINOIS
 
 52 WINIFRED MOUNT 
 
 stranger to whom — so she knew that he thought — 
 she had been rude. 
 
 He had changed his position. Now his profile 
 was towards her, and she saw that it was cleanly 
 cut. It pleased her to see that there was no hazi- 
 ness in the outline of his face. She forgot presently 
 that she was still looking at him. It was not till 
 afterwards, and when she found that the very 
 colour of the cloth of his coat and his cap had 
 stamped itself upon her memory, that she realised 
 how close must have been her scrutiny. 
 
 Returned two or three pages, glancing cursorily 
 at their contents, and pausing here and there at 
 some phrase that caught his attention ; then he 
 closed his book and rose. Winifred looked away, 
 but she knew none the less that he did not glance 
 in her direction. Probably both she and the 
 incident with which she was connected had long 
 since passed from his mind. When she looked 
 again he was lighting a cigar in the shelter of his 
 hands. The second match accomplished his wish, 
 and he strolled away. He was taller than she 
 thought. Then the funnel hid him. He must 
 have been one of the first to land for she did not 
 see him again. 
 
 The white coast of Dover rose above the sea. 
 Winifred saw it at undulating intervals. There
 
 WINIFRED MOUNT 53 
 
 was more motion on the English coast. A few- 
 people succumbed and went hurriedly below. It 
 seemed hardly worth while. 
 
 Winifred stood up presently to watch the rising 
 cliffs. They were vividly white in the sunlight. 
 They grew more distinct with every moment. 
 The sea rose and fell like the bosom of a sleeping 
 woman. A spar, a bit of wreckage washed by. 
 Winifred gazed after it wondering. She turned 
 again and faced the shore. That was England, and 
 her exile was finished. That was England, and 
 held her future. That was England, and England 
 was her home. A very ecstasy of hope and joy 
 possessed her. She could have sung. She could 
 have laughed aloud. But she was Winifred, and 
 it was a calm face, albeit with happy eyes, that 
 looked ahead. The wind played round her — a salt 
 wind that seemed to hold the essence of the sea. 
 Her skirts were blown back and outlined her slim 
 and straight figure. She held on her hat. The 
 sun shone upon the loose but tidy knot of silky 
 hair that showed below it. She stood alone for a 
 few moments in her part of the deck.
 
 CHAPTER VI 
 
 IT was long before Winifred's eyes closed that 
 night. She lay broad awake in her bed at the 
 hotel listening to the noise of London. In the 
 adjoining dressing-room Natalie slept aloud the 
 sleep of the complacent. 
 
 Till the first hour after midnight the roar of the 
 streets was scarcely a decreasing thing. Up to 
 midnight itself it seemed accumulative. It had a 
 charm of its own. It was for Winifred the' sound 
 of the life-blood flowing in the giant heart of the 
 world. It was as if the pulsing of the steamer had 
 but symbolised the monstrous throbbings of its 
 monstrous arteries and veins. She listened with 
 awe and wonder. 
 
 This was London. She had read of it, had 
 thought of it, had talked of it ; but the subtle 
 glamour of it, and the m}'stcry of it, surpassed her 
 most unrestrained imaginings. It seemed to her 
 that already she had seen that which was most 
 representative of her country. The green beauties 
 of Kent as she saw them from the train filled her 
 
 54
 
 WINIFRED MOUNT 55 
 
 with pride. The squalors of the south-east ap- 
 proach to the town, hideous though they were in 
 themselves, had an interest for her. When she 
 saw a name written up upon a factory or other 
 building, she wondered about it. The very smoke 
 from the countless chimneys had its part in the 
 spell of the huge city. Acres of roofs, rapid 
 glimpses of interiors beneath them, with a room 
 here and there hung with washed clothes ; a 
 man in his shirt sleeves leaning out of a window ; 
 a woman shaking a child in a strip of garden ; a 
 bit of desolate ground on which men were beating 
 carpets ; a lark in a green cage on the wall of a 
 house ; railway bridges ; lines crossing and recross- 
 ing, tangling, knotting ; trains finding amid the 
 maze of shining rails their own direction ; a rope 
 walk, gasworks, a plumed hearse in a narrow 
 street, and streets and streets and streets ; the river, 
 steamers, and London Bridge : these are a few of 
 the things that passed before Winifred's wide eyes 
 that night. Faces, too, that she had seen on her 
 journey, or in the coffee-room where she and 
 Natalie had eaten their dinner before going out 
 together to explore, passed before her. For Wini- 
 fred had chosen a thick veil, and with the French- 
 woman sallied forth from the hotel. She had no 
 plan She called a hansom, and with difficulty
 
 56 WINIFRED MOUNT 
 
 managed to make the driver understand that he 
 should lose nothing by engaging himself to her by 
 the hour. He was stupid. Where was he to 
 drive? Winifred knew by name a few of the 
 principal streets. She gave them. He said 
 Tower Hill was not very near Park Lane. 
 
 But in the end he displayed a fair intelligence 
 in the route that he took. Once he had grasped 
 the situation, he became elaborately communica- 
 tive through the trap, in a guide-book vein. The 
 Houses of Parliament, Westminster Abbey and 
 the Aquarium were pointed out with impartiality. 
 The stores in Victoria Street, and something 
 behind a wall and called Constitootion Til shared 
 the same distinction. Winifred gathered vaguely 
 that the last had something to do with cabinet 
 ministers. A little further on was the 'Orspital 
 and Tdeparkorner. 
 
 * Tdeparkorner ? ' said Winifred upwards. 'Oh, 
 to be sure, Hyde Park. Can't we drive through 
 it?' 
 
 * All in good time, miss ; you leave it to me.' 
 He turned into Knightsbridge and pursued his 
 
 course past the barracks. He entered the Park 
 at Princes' Gate. The long summer twilight was 
 scarcely waning yet. The west was yellow behind 
 the trees. Other distances were mistily blue. The
 
 WINIFRED MOUNT 57 
 
 length and straightness of the Row in the passing 
 glimpse of it called from Winifred an exclamation 
 of wonder and delight. 
 
 * London holds the country,' she said to Natalie. 
 
 The leaves of the elms looked light and 
 feathery. A great building with points and pin- 
 nacles rose above them, and looked in the evening 
 like the palace of a king. There were rich browns 
 in the earth of the ride. 
 
 From the bridge the Serpentine looked like a 
 river. The water was dyed with colours from the 
 west. Some ducks were flying with big wings and 
 outstretched necks from one end of it to the 
 other. 
 
 'The Thames,' said Winifred to Natalie, with 
 all the certainty of conviction. * La Tamise^ 
 
 A chuckling through the open trap overhead 
 told her that she was mistaken. 
 
 ' Isn't it the Thames ? ' she asked, smiling. 
 
 ' Not exactly, miss, and it's well I 'eard you, 
 for some people might have laughed if you was 
 to went abaht saying as the Thames ran through 
 'Yde Park. No, that's the Serpentine ; that's 
 what that's. It's a artificial lyke. If you want to 
 know anything, just you arst me. Yor shor to 
 mykc a mistyke if you go tryin' to guess what 
 things are. I'm a Londoner born and bred, I am.
 
 58 WINIFRED MOUNT 
 
 So don't 'csitytc to arst me. That's the magazine 
 as yor looking at now — where the pahder's kep.' 
 
 With so well-informed a guide it is conceivable 
 that Winifred contrived to see not an inconsider- 
 able portion of London in the two hours during 
 which he was her pilot. She sought Elsie Luttrell's 
 home in Park Lane, and discovered it. A brougham 
 was at the door, and by a curious chance at the 
 moment of the approach of the hansom, in one 
 of two ladies who emerged from the house, Wini- 
 fred recognised her friend. 
 
 * Oh, I must stop. I must speak to Elsie,' she 
 cried. 
 
 Miss Luttrell caught sight of the waving 
 Winifred. 
 
 ' Of all people in the world,' she cried, with un- 
 feigned delight. ' What brings you here ? How 
 did you leave Choseville? Have you run away? 
 Why, I declare. Fat Natalie is with you. You 
 can't have run away ; at least, not very fast. Ca va 
 bien Natalie? My darling Winifred, I'm so glad 
 to see you. Mother, mother, this is Miss Mount, 
 Winifred Mount. You have often heard of her.' 
 
 Mrs Luttrell leant forward out of the brougham. 
 She was a pretty woman, with fair hair, and what 
 seemed to Winifred to be a ver)- low dress under 
 the cloak which the warmth of the night made it
 
 WINIFRED MOUNT 59 
 
 unnecessary to fasten. Her voice won Winifred 
 at once. 
 
 * Indeed I have heard of you, Miss Mount/ she 
 said, putting out her hand. ' Elsie talks of no one 
 else. I am very glad to see you. Are you staying 
 in town ? Can you lunch with us to-morrow ? ' 
 
 Winifred explained that she was going down 
 to Monkswood in the morning. 
 ' Monkswood ? ' 
 
 * My home, Elsie. I am going home.' 
 
 Miss Luttrell looked at her for a few moments 
 in silence. Winifred saw that the few days that 
 had elapsed since she had parted with her friend 
 at Choseville had made a wonderful change in 
 her appearance. Her hair was done differently, 
 and she had a grown-up air that struck Winifred 
 as enchanting. It sat upon the school-girl so 
 daintily. Elsie felt rather than noted the change 
 in Winifred herself. 
 
 ' Oh, Winifred, I'm so glad.' 
 
 ' Elsie, we shall be late,' said Mrs Luttrell. ' We 
 are going to the play. Miss Mount. You will for- 
 give us for hurrying on.' 
 
 * Couldn't you come with us ? The Twines are 
 in town. We are going to meet them at 
 the theatre — Agatha and her cousin, Percy 
 Twine.'
 
 60 WINIFRED MOUNT 
 
 The name struck Winifred. She had heard it 
 before several times. 
 
 ' I am not dressed, and I haven't a seat/ she said. 
 
 ' How am I to see you ? I want to hear every- 
 thing. Have you turned out a princess? Are 
 you restored to your kingdom ? Is your kingdom 
 restored to you ? ' 
 
 Miss Luttrell's foot was on the step of the 
 brougham. A servant stood respectfully at the 
 door waiting to close it. 
 
 ' I will write to you, Elsie.' 
 
 ' You will come and stay with me.' 
 
 *Yes, you must come and stay with us. Miss 
 Mount. Now, Elsie, dear, it is nearly nine o'clock 
 already.' 
 
 * All right, mother. I must kiss Winifred again. 
 Good-bye, Winifred. Write to me directly }'ou get 
 home. Good-bye.' 
 
 The carriage rolled away. Winifred went back 
 to her hansom. The glimpse of Elsie and her 
 smart young mother had all the charm of the 
 pleasures that come to us unexpectedly. Natalie 
 chattered. Winifred did not listen. As he turned 
 out of Hamilton Place into Piccadilly, the cabman 
 began once more to point out and to explain. 
 But after the meeting with Elsie, Winifred found 
 that her attention wandered and that her impres-
 
 WINIFRED MOUNT 6i 
 
 sions were less clear. Her thoughts followed her 
 friend to the theatre. 
 
 So Winifred lay awake that night. Her brain 
 appeared to work automatically. In a series of 
 dissolving views all that she had seen passed be- 
 fore her ; and behind and through it all was the 
 distant turmoil of London. When this ceased 
 with the small hours of the morning, she was still 
 disinclined to sleep. She was not restless. She 
 was not even tired. Her thinking seemed to be 
 done for her without effort of her own. She heard 
 the increasing hours strike. Through the curtains 
 she saw the light of dawn creeping. It was some 
 time after this that, all unconsciously, she sank 
 from alert wakefulness to dreamless slumber. 
 
 She woke while the day was still young, and 
 found, to her surprise, that she was nervous. 
 It was the reaction after the self-possession and 
 passive expectation of the day before. She ate 
 little breakfast. The coming meeting with her 
 father occupied her thoughts. She dreaded it, and 
 looked forward to it. Natalie told her that she 
 was pale. 
 
 It was with an effort that she fixed her mind 
 upon such small things of the moment as required 
 her attention. She paid her bill, and left the hotel 
 long before it was necessary. She was possessed
 
 62 WINIFRED MOUNT 
 
 by restlessness. The cab would never reach the 
 station. The train would never start. She paced 
 the platform, and bought books and papers. An 
 excursion or a school treat or something that was 
 horrid filled the station. Hot teachers marshalled 
 noisy children. A youth played a screeching con- 
 certina. Winifred recognised Elsie's Song of Sorts. 
 Nothing was picturesque. A shiny woman had 
 untied her bonnet strings. A rush was made for a 
 train. It swept the platform of its unsightly crowd. 
 
 When at length the time was come, Winifred 
 parted from Natalie, and went her unknown way. 
 
 The hours passed she knew not how. She left 
 the carriage once, and lunched hurriedly at a 
 station where a halt was made. She read. She 
 thought. She thought. She thought. She reviewed 
 her past life. She made conjectures as to the 
 life that was before her. She looked at her 
 fellow - passengers, and remembered nothing of 
 them. She looked at the country through which 
 she passed. She slept a little ; but even then her 
 brain did not rest. The day moved towards 
 evening, and still Winifred travelled. The sun was 
 about to set. Shadows fell and lengthened. The 
 country became bolder, rougher and more beautiful. 
 
 ' We must be nearly there,' she said to herself. 
 ' We ' meant herself and the train, for she was
 
 WINIFRED MOUNT 63 
 
 alone in her compartment. But when Priarton 
 was reached, she read the name with a start. Her 
 knees trembled as she rose to her feet. For a 
 moment she wished herself back at Choseville. 
 
 It was a little country station. She was the only 
 person who alighted, and a servant approached her, 
 touching his hat. 
 
 ' Are you from Monkswood ? ' she asked him. 
 Her voice had not its normal clearness. 
 
 'Yes, 'm. The trap is outside The cart will 
 bring your luggage. Mr Mount told me to say he 
 was sorry not to be able to meet you himself. He 
 isn't very well, 'm.' 
 
 Winifred said that she was sorry for that, and, 
 after identifying her trunks, followed him through 
 the gate to the road, where a boy held a smart 
 cob. 
 
 A sense of strangeness and aloofness possessed 
 her. It scarcely seemed that it was she herself who 
 was flying behind the trotting mare through a new 
 and beautiful country. The groom pointed out 
 with his whTp one or two objects, she*- knew not 
 what, of local interest. 
 
 ' My father is not ill — seriously ? ' she said 
 suddenly. 
 
 * No, 'm, but he is never very strong. He hasn't 
 been himself for some days.'
 
 64 WINIFRED MOUNT 
 
 After that there was silence, and then the sea 
 came in sight. 
 
 ' Oh, the sea,' said Winifred. ' Monkswood is near 
 the sea ? ' 
 
 *A hundred yards off, or so, 'm. The house 
 stands in a bay.' 
 
 Ten minutes later the groom said, — 
 
 * We're in Monkswood now, 'm. That's the 
 house above the trees. Steady, lady ! ' 
 
 A white rabbit crossed the road, and the mare 
 shied. 
 
 * Steady, lady,' Winifred repeated to herself, 
 with a smile, but she was not trembling because 
 the mare had shied.
 
 CHAPTER VII 
 
 Tl WINIFRED alighted mechanically. 
 
 ^ ^ 'If you wouldn't mind pulling the bell, 
 
 'm ; she won't stand.' 
 
 The handle was stiff; it was evidently little 
 used. The bell itself rang harshly, so close at 
 hand as to be startling. 
 
 The house was of red stone, and there were 
 lattice windows. Ivy and creepers covered the 
 porch. So much Winifred noted before footsteps 
 sounded within, and the door was opened by a 
 man in a striped linen coat. 
 
 Winifred entered boldly. Nervousness was ab- 
 normal with her, and she would conquer it. The 
 hall was lined with black oak, and the stairs that 
 came down into it were worn at the middle of each 
 step. 
 
 A door opened, and Winifred knew that a 
 moment would bring her face to face witli Iv. r 
 
 E
 
 66 WINIFRED MOUNT 
 
 father. She turned in the direction of the sound. 
 He took both her hands and led her into the room 
 whence he came. 
 
 ' So you are Winifred ? ' he said. 
 
 ' I am Winifred.' 
 
 ' Will you kiss me, Winifred ? ' 
 
 She did so. Then he put his hands, one on 
 each side of her face, and he pressed his lips to 
 her forehead. 
 
 She had expected to see an old man. He was 
 comparatively young — forty-five, perhaps, at the 
 outside. He was tall. He was slender and well- 
 knit. His hair and his moustache were hardly 
 grey. His eyes were so light that Winifred could 
 see the clear tracing of the iris. His nose was 
 fine and delicate. 
 
 He sat down and drew his daughter towards 
 him. She felt no fear now, nor any embarrass- 
 ment. 
 
 * I meant to meet you, Winifred, but I was ill. 
 I am not able for anything just now.' 
 
 * The groom told me. I will nurse }-ou back 
 to health — father.' 
 
 She put her hand upon his shoulder. He took 
 it in his own and held it to his lips. 
 ' Dear child ! ' he said. 
 The words were spoken against her hand.
 
 WINIFRED MOUNT 67 
 
 He asked her some questions about her journey, 
 and she gave him a brief account of it. 
 
 ' We will have supper together,' he said then. 
 * Come, I will show you your room.' 
 
 The window of it gave upon the sea. There 
 was a bowl of roses on the dressing-table, and 
 the fragrance of them was in the air. There were 
 blue walls and blue curtains. The colour sug- 
 gested the sea in one of its moods. The roses 
 were reminiscent of Choseville. Some books lay 
 on a table. 
 
 A maid-servant came in to see if she could be of 
 use. Winifred asked about her luggage. It had 
 not yet come. 
 
 * Then I will give you my keys,' she said. ' You 
 can unpack the smaller trunk when it arrives. 
 The other need not be opened yet. No, cold 
 water, please.' 
 
 She bathed her face. The water, even in the 
 twilight, took a bluish tint from the walls. It was 
 clear, and very cold. She descended to the hall, 
 refreshed and with glowing eyes and cheeks. She 
 had re-twisted her hair, and it shone as she passed 
 a tall lamp that had been lit, and that stood at the 
 foot of the stairs. She looked an embodiment of 
 youth and litheness as she came down the worn oak 
 steps. They were slippery with age and beeswax.
 
 68 WINIFRED MOUNT 
 
 Mr Mount was standing at the window in the 
 dining-room, It was a huge room, in which the 
 white table looked like a little island. 
 
 'You must want your supper, Winifred. Aren't 
 you hungry? Come and look at the view till it is 
 ready.' 
 
 She crossed the room and stood beside her father. 
 
 'Your photograph did not do you justice.' 
 
 * I am glad you think that.' 
 
 * It robbed your hair of its colour. It made you 
 look dark. You are fair. You were very fair as a 
 baby, Winifred.' 
 
 ' Was I ? I know nothing of that part of my life.' 
 
 He turned the conversation abruptly. Later 
 Winifred found that he had a habit of doing this. 
 It amounted to a trick. Later still, she found 
 that it was when a certain period of his life and 
 of her own was approached. Often it was he him- 
 self who introduced the topic, which ultimately and 
 suddenly he banished. At such moments some- 
 thing which she expressed to herself as ' impene- 
 trable' was in his face. It was baffling as the smile 
 of the sceptic ; but it was not a smile, and it held 
 off straight questions. 
 
 ' I hope you like the sea, Winifred. I spend my 
 days watching it. Do you paint ? ' 
 
 She shook her head.
 
 WINIFRED MOUNT 69 
 
 The servant in the Hnen coat — still in the linen 
 coat — announced that supper was ready. 
 
 The meal was simple in appearance, elaborate, 
 probably, in the care of its preparation. 
 
 'But I like pictures/ she said, continuing the 
 conversation where it was broken off; 'and I think 
 I have appreciation.' 
 
 ' You should have it,' he said, ' if there is any- 
 thing in heredity.' 
 
 He did not say just then whether the inheritance 
 should be from himself or her mother. 
 
 He passed his hand suddenly across his forehead. 
 Winifred thought that he held his breath for a 
 moment. 
 
 ' You must carve off the table, Dalton.' 
 
 ' Yes, sir.' 
 
 Winifred was looking at her father. 
 
 'Don't mind me, dear. I shall be all right in 
 a moment. It is — stupid to be so — good for 
 nothing.' 
 
 He poured from a small decanter which stood 
 near him a little brandy into a wine glass. His 
 hand shook. 
 
 * I had fever in Egypt some years ago. I have 
 never been right since. This man nursed me 
 through it, or I should have died there and then.' 
 
 Winifred looked over in the direction of Dalton
 
 70 WINIFRED MOUNT 
 
 who was carving at a side-table. She liked his 
 face. She looked back from him to Mr Mount. 
 Her father's voice was stronger when next he spoke. 
 
 * There, I am all right now. Don't look so con- 
 cerned about me. Tell Miss Mount that we are 
 used to these attacks, Dalton.' 
 
 ' Yes, sir.' 
 
 ' We must make a butler of him now that you 
 have come, Winifred. That striped coat must be 
 given up, Dalton.' 
 
 * Yes, sir. Chicken, sir ? ' 
 
 * You must alter nothing for me, father.' 
 
 She smiled as she spoke. She met Dalton's 
 respectful eyes with the smile on her lips, and she 
 won his faithful heart. 
 
 ' What will you drink, Winifred ? There is bur- 
 gundy and claret.' 
 
 Winifred did not know the difference, but she 
 said claret. 
 
 Mr Mount talked easily and lightly of a thou- 
 sand things, but he looked more ill than when his 
 daughter first arrived. His face was thinner than 
 she had thought, his hands longer and more 
 nervous. 
 
 The night closed in. The lamps threw a warm 
 light over the table. A few things were still visible 
 in the dusk outside the big windows. The room
 
 WINIFRED MOUNT 71 
 
 itself was obscure in the corners. There were 
 pictures on the walls, but Winifred could not see 
 their subjects. There were roses on the table in 
 flat bowls. A heavy curtain hung over a 
 door. 
 
 ' My study,' said Mr Mount. ' To-morrow I will 
 show you the house. It isn't as big as it looks. 
 This room is somewhat out of proportion to the 
 rest of the building. There isn't a drawing-room 
 — or, to speak more accurately, I haven't made one, 
 for I have had no use for it. You shall do as you 
 like. You must choose a room for a boudoir or 
 whatever you may call it for yourself I am going 
 to leave you now, Winifred. You will find the 
 chairs in the hall very comfortable if you don't 
 feel inclined to go up just yet. Please ask for 
 anything you want. There are plenty of books 
 in the house, and, dear, you must read at your own 
 risk. I should not know how to choose your books 
 for you. Everything is lying about. Good-night, 
 dear. Sleep well. I am afraid I shall not break- 
 fast with you. Order it when you like. Will you 
 have it in your room ? ' 
 
 ' I would rather come down.' 
 
 ' Well, you only have to tell Dalton. By the 
 way, you haven't a maid.' 
 
 ' No, father.'
 
 72 WINIFRED MOUNT 
 
 'You shall get one. In the meantime, Elizabeth 
 will attend to you. Good-night, dear.' 
 
 * Good-night. . . .' 
 
 There was a pause. Winifred did not move 
 away. 
 ' Father.' 
 ' Yes.' 
 
 * I am so glad to know you.' 
 
 ' My dear, we ought to have known each other 
 long ago. You must forgive me for this.' 
 
 * I think I have wanted to know you all my life,' 
 said Winifred. ' I think I have cared for you 
 always.' 
 
 ' A new life begins for us both to-day.' 
 Mr Mount lit his candle and went to his room. 
 Winifred stood for a few moments at the window, 
 and then made her way to the hall. Dalton brought 
 another lamp and placed it on a small table beside 
 one of the large wicker chairs. The door stood 
 open, and Winifred went out into the porch. The 
 night was as fair as that last night at Choseville. 
 The same moon that had splashed the dome of the 
 cathedral with silver, threw a wide stretch of danc- 
 ing light upon the sea. She sat down upon the 
 stone outer sill of one of the low windows of the 
 hall, and with her head against the lattice, and her 
 eyes upon the sea, she fell into a happy reverie.
 
 WINIFRED MOUNT 73 
 
 Her father, Elsie Luttrell, Madame de Valois had 
 a part in it — and one other. She wondered where 
 he was, this other. Perhaps some day she would 
 meet him — everything that was unlikely happened 
 in life ! — and then she would tell him that she had 
 not the intention he supposed. . . . 
 
 The wind that played round her was soft and 
 gentle. It barely even whispered to the leaves. 
 There was the recurring sound of long waves that 
 broke peacefully upon the shore. 
 
 She sat still for half an hour, thinking, watching, 
 and became sleepy. Then she went into the house. 
 Dalton met her at the foot of the stairs with a re- 
 quest for her orders for the morning. She gave 
 them, choosing nine o'clock as the hour at which 
 she would breakfast. He lit her candle for her, 
 wished her a respectful good-night, and disappeared 
 as she ascended the stairs. 
 
 She slept the night through, and woke refreshed 
 and happy when she was called. She dressed 
 leisurely spending much of her time at her open 
 window, and then went down to breakfast. 
 
 The dining-room looked even larger by day, and 
 the table more than ever like a white island. The 
 pictures caught her attention, and she sought 
 amongst them for one which might be a portrait of 
 lier mother, l^ut she did not find what she sought.
 
 74 WINIFRED MOUNT 
 
 She asked Dalton about her father's movements. 
 They were uncertain. Was he better? Yes, he 
 was better, but Dalton was making him keep very- 
 quiet Anyway his master would be down to 
 lunch ; that would be at one. Would Miss Mount 
 care to drive? The trap could be at the door in 
 a few minutes. Winifred shook her head. She 
 would not be at a loss to employ her morning. 
 She learnt the hour of the departure of letters for 
 the post and wrote fully to Madame de Valois. 
 To Elsie she promised herself she would w^ite on 
 the following day. She was in the garden when 
 her father joined her. She saw him coming to- 
 wards her with a pleasure that was in part curiosity. 
 He was as young as she had supposed on the pre- 
 ceding evening. He kissed her and answered her 
 questions as to his health. 
 
 ' Shall we go over the house ? ' 
 
 * Are you well enough ? ' 
 
 * Oh, yes. Come.' 
 
 She walked beside him. The hall and the dining- 
 room Winifred knew. The drawing-room was well- 
 shaped, and more or less empty as she had expected. 
 
 ' We must see about furnishing it,' Mr Mount 
 said. 
 
 The bedrooms were good and man}-, but natur- 
 ally interested Winifred but little. Her eyes
 
 WINIFRED MOUNT 75 
 
 scanned the walls. She sought a portrait always, 
 and did not find it. 
 
 On the first floor, and near her own room, Mr 
 Mount opened a door and led her into a corner 
 room, giving on one side on to the sea, and on the 
 other on to the garden and the country beyond. 
 The views on each hand were so wide in their range, 
 and so fine of their kind, that Winifred gave an ex- 
 clamation of delight. 
 
 ' This is the room which I thought that you would 
 probably choose for yourself,' Mr Mount said. ' If 
 you like another better you can have it. I had a 
 piano put in here on the chance of your choosing 
 this one.' 
 
 * I sha'n't see anything I like better,' said Winifred. 
 ' You must alter what you like — change the 
 
 furniture or get other furniture.' 
 
 There were many water-colours in the room, 
 some hung, some standing in their frames against 
 chairs or the wall. Winifred examined one of 
 them. She had learnt little of art at Choseville, but 
 her instinct was selective. 
 
 ' Oh i ' she said, with a long-drawn breath. 
 
 Her father was watching her closely when she 
 looked up and met his eyes. 
 
 She went from one to another of the pictures. 
 
 * Yours ? ' she said.
 
 76 WINIFRED MOUNT 
 
 He shook his head. 
 
 ' I could do nothing as beautiful as those.' 
 
 ' My mother's.' 
 
 * Your mother's, Winifred.' 
 
 Silence fell between them after that. Winifred 
 knew that the subject was closed. When Mr 
 Mount spoke again it was merely of the room. 
 
 ' You think that you will like it ? Very well, get 
 Dalton to move the furniture for you as }'0U wish. 
 You may want shelves or things put up. I want 
 you to do as you like. You need never ask me 
 about anything.' 
 
 ' Very well, father.' 
 
 She half wished at that moment that her freedom 
 were less complete. It was as if independence was 
 for ever to be her i)ortion, and she was hoping to 
 attach herself to her father. She wished to draw 
 very near to him. She thought that his manner 
 was less cordial than on the preceding night. 
 
 A few words of kindness presently dispelled 
 this fancy. 
 
 *This is to be }'our unassailable domain, dear. I 
 shall only come into it by invitation. But I shall 
 want to be asked very often.' 
 
 Winifred made some laughing rejoinder. She 
 was reassured in a moment. 
 
 The lattice windows had deep sills with cushions.
 
 WINIFRED MOUNT 77 
 
 She went over to that part of the window which 
 gave on to the sea, and sat down. The waters 
 were spread before her. While her eyes were turned 
 away from him her father contemplated her. But 
 she knew that he was looking at her. She was 
 conscious herself of taking every available oppor- 
 tunity to study him. He was standing with his 
 hands in his pockets, leaning against the piano. 
 Something boyish in the attitude made him appear 
 more than ever young to Winifred when she turned 
 from the window. 
 
 * I am delighted with the room,' she said. * The 
 window seats are enchanting. I like this one best. 
 I could never be tired of the sea. No — I like that 
 one with the trees and the hill, and the sky far 
 away behind it. I don't know which I like best. 
 And I have them both. How good to have them 
 both.' 
 
 * You will like one best one day, the other the 
 next. There is a view to suit two moods, Wini- 
 fred.' 
 
 He was smiling. 
 
 * Have you moods, too, father ? ' 
 
 He was laughing. His teeth, as they were shown, 
 were young and white as her own. 
 
 'You thought moods a feminine privilege, didn't 
 you? Yes, Winifred, I have moods, too, and I am
 
 78 WINIFRED MOUNT 
 
 oftenest in that to which a sight of the sea is the 
 one thing grateful.' 
 
 ' I think that means that you are restless.' 
 
 * Perhaps so.' 
 
 He did not explain. They left the room and 
 went down to the hall together. So much as 
 Winifred had as yet seen had little about it which 
 she could identify as the marks of the individuality 
 of the owner. Mr Mount led the way to the study. 
 It was with a strange sense of expectation that 
 Winifred crossed the threshold. 
 
 The room was shaped like that which she had 
 just chosen for her own. It lay, indeed, immedi- 
 ately below, and commanded the same prospects 
 from a different level. But this was not what 
 Winifred noted first. A portrait hung over the 
 fireplace, and she knew by intuition that she had 
 found that which she was seeking. She did not 
 immediately approach it. Some commonplaces 
 were spoken first. It seemed to Winifred that a 
 long time elapsed before she stood opposite the 
 picture. Her eyes were attracted to it as points of 
 steel to a magnet, and she was conscious only of 
 its presence in the room, while she listened to her 
 father who was saying something, she knew not 
 what, about the bookcases and the writing-table. 
 He saw the direction of her eyes. He crossed to
 
 WINIFRED MOUNT 79 
 
 the hearth, and stood before the picture. She 
 followed him. He watched her as she studied it. 
 Her first sensation was one of disappointment. 
 The face was not beautiful. It was not even pretty, 
 she thought, and at this period of Winifred's life 
 she demanded beauty from everyone. It appeared 
 to be very pale, and she demanded colour. 
 
 She stood for a long time before it. Her father 
 was looking at her still, when at length she turned 
 away from it. There was something questioning 
 in his expression. It puzzled her.
 
 C PI AFTER VIII 
 
 BUT the picture of her mother haunted 
 Winifred Mount. 
 
 She thought of it all that afternoon as she 
 wandered about the rocks on the shore. The im- 
 pression it had made upon her was deep and clear. 
 She longed to see the face again. She felt as one 
 who had wasted an opportunity. The eyes of the 
 portrait followed her. She had not at the time 
 been conscious of thinking them notable. But she 
 could not forget them. They were long eyes with 
 curved lids. She remembered the curves of the 
 eyelids. And she wished to see them again. 
 
 The expression upon her father's face possibly 
 contributed to make her think of the subject which 
 was apparently answerable for it. It also followed 
 her through the day. She felt that, standing before 
 the picture, he had been trying some experiment. 
 That had then been happening to which she had 
 not the key. Inevitably she was thrown back upon 
 
 80
 
 WINIFRED MOUNT 8i 
 
 a contemplation of her years of exile. Speculation 
 began for her anew. 
 
 The afternoon and evening passed uneventfully. 
 At a quarter to eight Winifred and her father dined 
 together, after which they sat in the hall whither 
 Dalton (in the striped coat by Winifred's request) 
 brought coffee. 
 
 ' You don't mind my smoking, Winifred ? ' 
 
 Winifred shook her head. She was glad that he 
 did not wish to leave her. 
 
 ' Do you sing ? ' he said abruptly. 
 
 How strangely little he knew of her. The thought 
 struck them both as he asked the question, 
 
 * No, but I play a little bit — like a school-girl. 
 Shall I play?' 
 
 There was a cottage piano in the hall. 
 
 She had not underrated her powers. They were 
 average — or, so, at least, Mr Mount judged them to 
 be from the example she gave of them. He told 
 her so. 
 
 ' You could do better than that,' he said, laughing. 
 
 * It was rather bad,' she said, laughing too. * But 
 I can do better — or I could. I played better a 
 month ago — a fortnight ago. I can't play when I 
 am happy ; it doesn't seem necessary.' 
 
 ' You arc happier than you were a fortnight ago?* 
 ' I am ver)- happ}-, father.'
 
 82 WINIFRED MOUNT 
 
 He was standing behind her, and she leant back 
 for a moment and rested her shining head against 
 him. 
 
 She had something to ask him, and she told 
 him so. 
 
 ' Say on, dear.' 
 
 ' When you gave me my room to-day, }ou said 
 it was to be my — what was your word ? — un- 
 approachable ? unassailable ? domain, and that you 
 would only come there when I invited you.' 
 
 ' Well ! ' 
 
 ' May I go into the study when I like ? You 
 won't find that I shall be running in and out all 
 day ; but sometimes. . . .' 
 
 ' Whenever you like.' 
 
 She turned again to the piano. She was sure 
 that her father knew the reason of her wish for 
 this permission, and she wondered again why one 
 subject should be closed between them. She had 
 a strange conviction, too, that it was not inclination 
 which sealed his lips. What then ? When ten 
 o'clock struck he wished her good-night, and left 
 her. She played on for a few moments, and then 
 rose with the deliberation that marked all her 
 purposes and made her way across the hall to the 
 study. The room was in darkness, and she re- 
 turned for a candle. She lit it and retraced her
 
 WINIFRED MOUNT 83 
 
 steps. She held the light aloft as she crossed the 
 room. She wore a rigorously plain black dress. 
 It trailed along the carpet after her. There was 
 something that was ghostlike in her movement. 
 Her face and her hair were illumined. Still hold- 
 ing the candle above her head, she stood once more 
 before the picture of her mother. The pale face 
 looked even paler by night, and appeared to stand 
 out from its sombre background. Winifred stood 
 perfectly still. She did not know how long she 
 had been gazing at the portrait before the beauty 
 of her mother was revealed to her. Once she had 
 seen it, it seemed incredible that a few hours ago 
 it should have escaped her. She marvelled at the 
 disappointment which had then been hers. Her 
 soul yearned towards the dead woman, the counter- 
 feit presentment of whom had the power to move 
 her so strangely 
 
 ' Mother,' she said below her breath. ' Mother.' 
 To her fancy the lips almost smiled. She drew 
 nearer. 
 
 The waves were breaking gently on the shore in 
 the summer night. Winifred became conscious of 
 the sound. The presence of the sea proclaimed 
 itself softly all day long. It was here in the silence 
 of the evening and the cmpt}' room that the music 
 of it made itself felt. The candle flickered, then
 
 84 WINIFRED MOUNT 
 
 steadied its light ; a gust of air had blown in at the 
 door. When Winifred turned she was not alone. 
 
 Mr Mount looked for a moment at the tall, 
 straight figure holding the light aloft. In turning 
 she had twisted the short train of her dress round 
 her, and she looked taller and slimmer than in fact 
 she was. There was a suggestion of tragedy in her 
 attitude. 
 
 ' I knew you would be here,' he said. 
 
 He came across as he spoke, and stood beside her. 
 He watched her again as her eyes returned to the 
 portrait. Presently his own followed the direction 
 of hers. Then there was a long silence. It was as 
 if they were standing by a dead body. 
 
 ' She was beautiful,' Winifred said, in a low 
 voice, at last ; ' beautiful. To-day I did not think 
 so. That was why I wanted to come again and 
 see.' 
 
 Mr Mount did not make a rejoinder at once. 
 Winifred felt rather than saw that his eyes were 
 misty. 
 
 Yes, she was beautiful/ he said, after a few 
 moments. * In my sight, most beautiful. Her 
 life was beautiful, too. Her life . . .' 
 
 Did her father's face become hard at this 
 moment? She looked at him as he spoke. Slie 
 thought his mouth was grim.
 
 WINIFRED MOUNT 85 
 
 What was her name ? ' 
 
 ' Winifred.' 
 
 The answer was short. Yet, what more was 
 there to say ? She felt vaguely chilled. 
 
 * Winifred,' she repeated, for something to say ; 
 * Winifred, like mine.' 
 
 He did not answer. She became suddenly 
 conscious that the arm which was holding the 
 candle was aching. The light dropped from the 
 picture as she lowered her hand. The shadows 
 upon her own face and that of her father were 
 thrown upwards. The room looked black and 
 gloomy as she glanced round. A lamp which had 
 not been lighted stood gauntly near the writing- 
 table. 
 
 She wondered what he was thinking at that 
 moment. It became of a sudden a strange 
 thought that he was gazing, perhaps, with his 
 mind's eye upon scenes and people that she knew 
 not. He was looking at her black dress absently, 
 and she knew that he did not see it. His visions 
 were of that past in which it seemed she had no 
 part. 
 
 She took a few steps towards the door, and, 
 seeing that he did not move, she paused, expect- 
 ing him to speak. She could not leave him alone 
 in the dark. The silence lasted perhaps but a
 
 86 WINIFRED MOUNT 
 
 few moments. But it seemed very long. The 
 sound of the sea was louder than it had been when 
 she was alone. She noted trivial things — the 
 pattern of the Turkey carpet, and its softness and 
 thickness ; the sheen of her candle upon the glossy 
 leather that covered the chairs. 
 
 ' Shall I leave you a light ? ' 
 
 She had to repeat her question. She changed 
 the wording of it, as it is one's inclination to do in 
 repeating. 
 
 ' Will you have this candle ? Shall I leave it ? ' 
 
 He shook his head. 
 
 * Winifred.' 
 
 ' Yes, father.' 
 
 ' Do you remember your mother ? ' 
 
 It was the first time he had of his own accord 
 mentioned the name to her. She went back to 
 his side. 
 
 ' No, father.' 
 
 ' Not at all ? ' 
 
 ' No ; I have tried to remember. I would give a 
 great deal to remember her. I suppose it is im- 
 possible. . . .' 
 
 * You were nearly three.' 
 
 * I don't remember. I am very sorry. I only 
 remember Choscville. My life seems to have 
 begun there.'
 
 WINIFRED MOUNT 87 
 
 ' Yes, your life began there.' 
 
 Something in the mind of her father seemed to 
 be set at rest. 
 
 ' Good-night, dear, I am going up to my room.' 
 
 ' Good-night, father.' 
 
 The inclination was strong upon Winifred, then 
 and there, to ask him to talk to her of her mother. 
 But his face wore the expression which she called 
 impenetrable. The odd experience of the last few 
 minutes ended abruptly and left her puzzled.
 
 CHAPTER IX 
 
 WINIFRED let a week pass before she wrote 
 to Elsie Luttrell. During that week she 
 received many new impressions, and those of the 
 first day or two were strengthened. Her father 
 treated her with kindness and affection ; but she felt 
 that his silence regarding all that concerned her 
 dead mother was somehow a barrier between them. 
 
 She wrote openly to Elsie, far more openly 
 than she would have written to Agatha Twine, 
 though both girls knew the history of the greater 
 part of her life. 
 
 * I wonder whether he will ever tell me,' ran 
 part of her letter. * And yet, tell me what ? There 
 may be nothing to tell. Does it surprise you that 
 I want a fuller knowledge ? I think there is some- 
 thing still to tell. I want to know why he looked 
 at me as he did when I stood before my mother's 
 picture. He has looked at me in the same way 
 each time her name has been mentioned. What 
 does he expect to find in my face? Elsie, till he 
 
 88
 
 WINIFRED MOUNT 89 
 
 tells me I think I shall spend my life in trying 
 to remember. I believe that it — whatever it may 
 be — is something which it is not impossible that 
 I should recollect, and that my father watches me 
 to see whether any inkling of it dawns upon me. 
 Isn't this a strange conviction to have arrived at ? 
 It is my conviction nevertheless, and my firm con- 
 viction. Sometimes I think that one day I shall 
 remember. . . . How much he loved my mother, 
 Elsie ! I cannot put into words the look which 
 his face wore when he stood beside me the second 
 time before her picture and looked up at it himself. 
 There was reverence in it, and such sorrow and 
 such pity — it was pity, Elsie (and why pity except 
 that she died young ?) — as made my heart bleed 
 for him. If he would only talk to me about her. 
 I can understand his love for her. I have loved 
 her myself since I have seen her picture. I go 
 into the study every morning to look at it. It 
 seems more beautiful to me every day. 
 
 ' Some day you must see it, and you must know 
 my father. I am sure he will let me have you to 
 stay here if Mrs Luttrcll will let you come. I 
 don't think he is well enough just yet, and for the 
 same reason I must put off my visit to you till 
 later. Even if he were well I should not like to go 
 away at once. I want to make up to myself, and
 
 90 WINIFRED MOUNT 
 
 to him if I can, for all the years we have been sepa- 
 rated. You did not expect to hear that my father 
 was young — I mean forty something — and boyish 
 even sometimes. Elsie, I love him. I wish he 
 would tell me ! You will wonder why I do not 
 ask him, for, from all that I have told you of him, 
 you will see that he is not formidable. Well. . . . 
 I am not very easily prevented asking anything 
 that I want to know, but — I cannot ask this. He 
 prevents it in some way. He seems to know that 
 there are things which I want to ask, and I cannot 
 ask them. I cannot tell you how he does this, for 
 I do not know. He just prevents me. 
 
 ' Perhaps in time I shall remember. Yesterday 
 I thought for half a moment that something from 
 my earliest childhood was coming back to me. 
 I was looking at the water-colours which, as I told 
 you, are in my room. I was wondering when my 
 mother had painted them. There are several of 
 them (the others were easily distinguishable) which 
 seem to have been done round one spot. I know 
 so little of England that I cannot place the county 
 as north, south, east or west from the characteristics 
 which might possibly label it at once to one who 
 is familiar w^ith this country. It is very green and 
 leafy ; elms and oaks predominate, and there are 
 rich grassy fields and flowered hedges. There is
 
 WINIFRED MOUNT 91 
 
 no rock or sand or moor. All this may be com- 
 mon to twenty counties ; I cannot say. This, at 
 anyrate, is the country which my mother has trans- 
 ferred to her paper in the sketches I speak of, and 
 the spot which has formed, evidently, her favourite 
 study is the site of an old black and white house. 
 There are views of it from many aspects, and each 
 one is exquisite. I wish I could make you see the 
 delicacy and the perfectness of colouring of these 
 paintings. One or two of them are little more than 
 sketches, but most of them are minutely finished. 
 The subtlest effects of light and shade have been 
 caught and are held captive here for ever. They 
 delight me, and you know how trifling and alto- 
 gether vain is the average effort in water-colour. 
 I believe my mother to have been a great artist, 
 though she may never have been known to the 
 world. Perhaps, though, she was known to the 
 world ! This, at least, I can ask my father. . . . 
 
 ' I have asked him. He came in at that 
 moment to know if I would drive with him this 
 afternoon. I am going to do so. He is better. 
 It will be our first drive together. I got the 
 answer to the question which I asked. My 
 mother never sent anything to an exhibition. 
 But nothing further was volunteered. This in- 
 stances the relations that exist between us upon
 
 92 WINIFRED MOUNT 
 
 this one point. Why, Elsie, why ? I love him 
 I love my dead unknown mother. Why will he 
 not talk to me of her ? 
 
 * To go back. I was examining these pictures 
 of the house yesterday. There is one of them 
 that takes in the porch. There is ivy on this 
 porch, and on the side of the house. (This ivy is 
 marvellously painted.) There is a child playing in 
 this porch — a baby child of two or three. Elsie, I 
 was looking at that child, and suddenly I knew 
 that I was that child, and with this sudden know- 
 ledge I had the briefest flash of a recollection — a 
 sight — I don't know what to call it — of a lady 
 sitting on the lawn in front of the house and 
 sketching. Elsie, I think that was my mother. 
 Now I scarcely know whether this really hap- 
 pened to me yesterday, or whether it is all fancy. 
 But I am not fanciful am I ? I never was. I am 
 less fanciful even than you. The vision was so 
 fleeting, so momentary, that I could not grasp it. 
 I think the lady wore a blue dress. Had my 
 mother ever a blue dress ? Did she wear it when 
 she painted me in the porch, if, indeed, it was 
 me. (Oh, grammar, Choseville and Madame de 
 Valois !) Had I an instant's recollection then of 
 an incident in my childhood ? I vuist ask my 
 father about the blue dress. But for this I shall
 
 WINIFRED MOUNT 93 
 
 have to wait my opportunity. I must even ask it 
 point blank, because it is after the first mention of 
 my mother that the subject each time is changed. 
 That I have looked at the picture again and 
 again since yesterday I need not tell you. I have 
 hoped in vain to wrest from it a repetition of the 
 experience of yesterday. I look at the child and 
 I question it. What do you see before you, 
 child ? Is there a lawn ? Yes I know there is a 
 lawn, because that appears in another picture. Is 
 there a lady on the lawn ? She who painted the 
 picture must be there. Does she bend over her 
 work as I think I saw her bend ? Has she a blue 
 dress? But the child is silent. Oh, that I could 
 see what it — the child in the picture — sees ! 
 Some day, of course, I shall ask my father every- 
 thing, and refuse to allow the .subject to be 
 changed. You know that I like to face things. 
 But I would rather that of his own accord he 
 would tell me. If he should say there was no- 
 thing to tell that would not satisfy me. If he 
 should say, '' There is something to tell, but I will 
 not tell you," then I think the subject might rest 
 between us. I could trust my father if he asked 
 me to trust him. Some day there must come this 
 explanation, but till then his impenetrability will 
 ward off the shafts of my curiosity.
 
 94 WINIFRED MOUNT 
 
 ' Here the luncheon bell rang, and I had to break 
 off my letter. I have not been able to resume it 
 till this moment. It is ten o'clock, and my father 
 has gone to his room, and I have come to mine to 
 finish writing to you. We had our drive this after- 
 noon. My father was lighter-hearted than I had 
 seen him yet. He looked so young and hand- 
 some, Elsie. I felt as if it was a big brother who 
 was driving me. We saw some beautiful scenery. 
 The dog-cart rattled along the roads at a splendid 
 pace, and I had my first lesson in driving. There 
 do not appear to be any neighbours here. We 
 only passed one house, and the people it belongs 
 to are never there. My father chose this part of 
 the world because it was out of the way. I meant 
 to have asked one or two questions to-day, but I 
 did not. I could not jeopardise his lighter mood. 
 To-night I am very happy. I do not mind any- 
 thing to-night. It does not seem as if it mattered 
 at this moment that there should be a subject 
 closed between us. Why should it matter — one 
 subject ; is there not every other ? To-morrow, 
 of course, I shall think differently. Blue Beard's 
 chamber was, I know, the only room in the house 
 into which Fatima ardently wished to go, and to- 
 morrow I shall wish as ardently to pass the door 
 of the room that is shut to me. To-night, I say, I
 
 WINIFRED MOUNT 95 
 
 do not wish it greatly. I love my father ; that is 
 enough for me. Isn't it an extraordinary thing 
 that so short a time should have brought such 
 changes into my life? A month ago I was eating 
 my heart out at Choseville. I had nothing to 
 look forward to. Now I have all I want for the 
 present, and I am happy. Good-night, Elsie. — 
 Your affectionate, Winifred Mount. 
 
 ^ P.S. — I have just read this letter through before 
 closing it. It appears to me unconsciously to 
 have registered my states of mind very faithfully. 
 They vary, you see, as the readings of a barometer. 
 It is satisfactory to know — for you to know, dear 
 friend, Elsie — that you leave mc at Set Fair.'
 
 CHAPTER X 
 
 BY arrangement with herself, then, Winifred for- 
 bore to ask any further questions about her 
 mother. She did not even mention the blue dress. 
 She thought that as her father grew to know her 
 better, so would he take her more closely into his 
 confidence. She fancied, even as she found his 
 eyes many times fixed contemplatively upon her, 
 that he was wondering whether the time had yet 
 come for speaking to her without rescr\e. He 
 told her something of his travels. He had been 
 round the world more than once. He told her 
 about his early life. She learned incidentally that 
 she had few or no relations living but himself. 
 
 * I was an only son, and the son of an only son. 
 That limits the circle of one's near relations pretty 
 effectually. If I have any cousins they are very 
 distantly connected with me.' 
 
 * Have I none either? ' Winifred asked. 
 
 A conversation in the old garden at Choseville 
 96
 
 WINIFRED MOUNT 97 
 
 recurred to her at this moment, and she heard 
 Elsie saying, — 
 
 * But you must have other relations — aunts, I 
 mean (we all have aunts), and cousins, and things 
 of that sort/ 
 
 She smiled to herself at the recollection. She 
 hoped to hear now whether she had any ' things of 
 that sort.' 
 
 * I only knew the immediate members of your 
 mother's family, and they are dead,' Mr Mount 
 said, after a pause. ' Your uncle, her brother, did 
 not marry. He had a serious illness at the Cape, 
 and your grandmother went out to nurse him. He 
 did not recover, and she died on the journey home. 
 You have no near relations, Winifred.' 
 
 ' How much we should be to each other,' she 
 thought, but she did not say the words aloud. 
 She felt that something was gained in the receiv- 
 ing of even so slight an information as that which 
 had just been vouchsafed to her. She was sure 
 now that, as he had begun to speak of matters that 
 were indirectly connected with the past, he would 
 extend the range of his communications. She did 
 nothing to hurry matters forward. 
 
 The days passed quietly. She wrote of her 
 happiness to Madame de Valois and to her two 
 friends. She no longer thought of dancing-girls 
 
 (;
 
 98 WINIFRED MOUNT 
 
 or of the stage as an escape. Her restlessness 
 seemed a long way behind her. 
 
 Now and then some little incident marked the 
 strangeness of the relations between the girl and 
 her father. One of these owed itself indirectly to 
 the surpassing fairness of a day of late summer. 
 Winifred woke very early to find the sun dancing 
 on the sea. Birds were singing in the garden. 
 Gulls were wheeling above the green water. The 
 sky seemed the bluer for the whiteness of the 
 fleecy clouds that sailed so lightly upon it. 
 
 Winifred wished to bathe. 
 
 Why not? She looked at her watch. There 
 was more than an hour before anyone would be 
 stirring. She clad herself hastily and lightly, and 
 made her way down the silent stairs to the hall 
 door. She unfastened the bolts and turned the 
 heavy key in the great brass lock. As she was 
 crossing the threshold she remembered the swim- 
 ming bath mornings at Choseville, and certain 
 reiterated directions of Madame de Valois. She 
 gave a merry little laugh to herself and fetched 
 some biscuits from the dining-room. She took 
 them with her to the shore. She ate one and laid 
 the others down on the rock beside her towels and 
 her clothes. The rock was dry and warm. The 
 water when she stepped into it was not cold.
 
 WINIFRED MOUNT 99 
 
 She threw herself backwards luxuriously into the 
 small and curling waves. They were clear as 
 glass. She was like some water thing — a mer- 
 maid, a lorelei. The sea could not take the sheen 
 from her hair. The sun shone upon it. It was 
 full of light. The drops glistened upon the curved 
 arm which she plied above her head as she swam 
 on her side. There was no effort apparent in the 
 strength of her swimming. She was buoyant, 
 light, supple. She dived as a seal dives, and 
 reappeared on the surface calm nor breathless. 
 The sight was admirable. 
 
 At Choseville she used to be the pride of her 
 swimming mistress, far excelling, though this good 
 woman did not know it, the teacher herself 
 Winifred took as naturally to the water as a 
 Newfoundland. She had never had any fear. 
 Her self-reliance had merely taken this form of 
 outward expression amongst others that we know. 
 Her courage had been the envy of Agatha Twine 
 and the admiration of Elsie Luttrell. 
 
 'Winifred doesn't even splutter,' Miss Luttrell 
 once said, with enthusiasm. ' Look at Black Alice. 
 She gets along fast enough, but she blows like a 
 porpoise — if porpoises do blow. Winifred is as un- 
 disturbed and as much at home in the water as she 
 is out of it. I love Winifred in the baths. If I
 
 loo WINIFRED MOUNT 
 
 looked like that bathing I should go to one of 
 those French exposed places where people look at 
 you through telescopes.' 
 
 Agatha expressed her horror at Elsie's unholy 
 avowal, and stepped timidly into the water. 
 
 ' Imitate mademoiselle/ said the swimming 
 mistress; *do as she does.' 
 
 'Just as if we could/ thought the admiring Elsie, 
 as she watched the free and graceful movements of 
 her friend. 
 
 There was no one on the lonely Cornish coast to 
 spy upon Winifred or to disturb her revels. She 
 plunged, and dived, and floated, and turned, and 
 swam at her pleasure, then she returned to her 
 warm rock, where she dressed and ate her biscuits, 
 and sat for a long time combing out her shining hair. 
 
 Two hours later her father joined her as she sat 
 at breakfast. He was better he told her, and 
 smiled as he said that Dalton had allowed him to 
 get up. 
 
 ' And you are going to breakfast with me, 
 father ? ' 
 
 He nodded. 
 
 ' How nice. I'll tell Dalton to lay a place for 
 you. Oh, he has. I didn't see.' 
 
 She poured out a cup of coftee for him, asking 
 his directions the while.
 
 WINIFRED MOUNT toi 
 
 I haven't done this for you before, you see.' 
 She had some little school story about coffee, 
 and told it neatly. The point of it lay in the reply 
 of a new girl, who was asked if she would have 
 cafe au lait, and who said, ' Yes, please, cafe an lait 
 without milk.' When she looked up her father 
 was looking at her hair. It wasn't much of a story 
 perhaps, but he might have laughed. 
 
 * Your hair, Winifred ! ' 
 
 ' I've been bathing, father. I left it down to dry, 
 and I was reading when the breakfast-bell rang, 
 and I did not stop to do it up. I would not have 
 left it as it is if I had known you would be down.' 
 
 * My dear, I don't mean that. It is the length 
 and the richness of it. Stand up, Winifred.' 
 
 He rose as he spoke and went over to her. 
 ' It must be nearly a yard long,' he said. 
 He curled a tress of it round his finger. It was 
 fine, soft, glossy, and very strong. 
 
 * It is exactly a yard long,' said Winifred, smiling. 
 * The girls used to measure it at school. There 
 was one girl whose hair was longer than mine, but 
 it was dark.' 
 
 She stopped. 
 
 ' It was rather conceited of me to say ' but ' — 
 wasn't it ? ' she added as the thought struck her. 
 
 * It is full of colour and light,' he said.
 
 102 WINIFRED MOUNT 
 
 He caught more of it and twisted it round his 
 hand ; then more of it ; then all of it. 
 
 ' How thick it is. It fills my hand. How it 
 shines.' 
 
 His hand tightened upon it. Winifred trembled 
 a little unaccountably. He let it go abruptly. 
 
 The incident was curious. It seemed to her 
 that like the water-colour it should tell her some- 
 thing — that holding on by it she ought to be able 
 to reach down into that past which held the secret 
 of her life, if secret there were, and snatch there- 
 from some deep lying memory.
 
 CHAPTER XI 
 
 "\ T OW happened a thing that was disturbing, and 
 -*• ^ that had its effect in adding to the perplexi- 
 ties of Winifred. 
 
 It chanced one afternoon that Mr Mount had 
 some business which kept him to the house, and 
 necessitated the abandonment for once of the drive 
 which he was in the habit of taking daily with his 
 daughter. 
 
 Thrown on her own resources, Winifred went 
 out by herself. Air and exercise were essential to 
 her health and her comfort. She did not wish to 
 waste a day of the summer that was prolonging 
 itself so generously. There were parts of Monks- 
 wood, limited as the estate was, which she had not 
 yet explored. She walked up behind the house, 
 through a small orchard and some meadows, to the 
 woods themselves. When she had gained these, the 
 sea might have been a hundred miles away so luxu- 
 riant was the verdure. A path presented itself to 
 her, and she followed it. She had no particular 
 
 103
 
 104 WINIFRED MOUNT 
 
 destination in view, and it was as well to take one 
 direction as another. Where the soil was damp, 
 ferns were growing at the roots of the trees, 
 Winifred appreciated to the full their rich beauty 
 without experiencing the least wish to uproot them 
 or to rob them of their leaves. She had few school- 
 girlish instincts. She had never pressed flowers 
 between the leaves of her books, nor collected 
 stamps, nor crests, nor postmarks. Agatha would 
 have cried, * Oh, what lovely ferns ! I must take 
 some of them home. Do help me to dig them up.' 
 She would then have torn several from their mossy 
 beds, and at intervals these, as she wearied of the 
 weight of them, would have marked the course of 
 her walk. Agatha called this a love of nature. 
 
 Rain had fallen heavily in the night, and there 
 was a sweet, soft smell of wet earth. Winifred 
 breathed it in luxuriously. The first tints of 
 autumn had barely begun to show themselves in the 
 leaves, but a fungus here and there was crimson, 
 with white spots. Winifred pursued her way, 
 feeling rather than noting many of the beautiful 
 things which surrounded her. The path twisted 
 and turned. Sometimes the great loop of a root 
 jutted out across it. A pheasant got up near at 
 hand and startled her. She reached the other side 
 of the wood at length, and found herself in a road
 
 WINIFRED MOUNT 105 
 
 which led to Priarton. Below it ran the river, 
 which emptied and filled itself with the tides. A 
 girl was paddling about in a canoe. Winifred 
 watched her with interest. The sea must be 
 going out ; the river ran down towards the 
 coast. 
 
 Winifred looked at her watch. It was still early 
 she found, and she turned her face up stream and 
 followed the road. The river narrowed after a time. 
 Presently a stone bridge spanned it. She walked 
 up to this and leant over the wall to look at the 
 water. A line at some height above the surface 
 showed high-water mark. The water swirled 
 round the buttresses under the arch. She crossed 
 to the other side of the bridge. There the river 
 grew narrower still. It ran between rushy banks. 
 A bit of sea-weed came floating down. Winifred 
 watched it as it sped under the bridge. Then 
 something else caught her attention : it was an 
 empty canoe, moored together with a large open 
 boat, fifty yards or so above the bridge, on the 
 left and out of the current. There was a cottage 
 near at hand. Winifred wondered whether they 
 could be for hire. It seemed improbable, since 
 at this distance from the town there could be no 
 one to hire them. There could be no harm in 
 asking at anyrate. It would be pleasant, if she
 
 io6 WINIFRED MOUNT 
 
 could get the canoe, to paddle down to Priarton, 
 
 whence she could easily walk home. 
 
 She made her way to the cottage. A man was 
 
 working the patch of tilled ground which lay behind 
 
 it. A woman with a baby in her arms answered 
 Winifred's knock. Winifred, with a pleasant smile, 
 stated her business clearly. The woman didn't 
 know. The canoe wasn't theirs. She would call 
 Tom. Tom would know. 
 
 Tom came from the back of the house, carrying 
 his spade. He was a goodly young Cornishman, 
 with the frank eyes of his race. He didn't rightly 
 know either. The canoe, she was not his. It was 
 like this. A young gentleman had paddled her 
 up with the tide, but didn't care to go back against 
 the stream or to wait till the tide turned, so he 
 had left her where she was, and he (Tom) was to 
 take her back to Bill Trelawn at Priarton. 
 
 ' Well, I can take her for you to Mr William 
 Trelawn at Priarton,' said Winifred, smiling. * It 
 simplifies things very much, doesn't it ? I am Mr 
 Mount's daughter.' 
 ' Mr Mount's daughter ? ' 
 
 * Of Monkswood over there,' said Winifred. 
 
 * Be you Mr Mount's daughter ? ' said the man 
 again. 
 
 He looked at Winifred curiously. The woman
 
 WINIFRED MOUNT 107 
 
 evinced the same interest. The two looked at 
 each other. 
 
 ' Will you trust me ? ' said Winifred. 
 
 ' Yes, miss, I will' 
 
 ' You're right, Tom,' said the woman. 
 
 * I'm right,' answered her husband. 
 
 They looked at each other again. Winifred 
 could not but remark that her name had for them 
 some association which was unknown to herself. 
 The incident made her vaguely uncomfortable. It 
 was as if her appearance had dissipated a con- 
 ception which had been formed of her. 
 
 The man led her down to the place where the 
 boats were moored. She was half-minded now 
 to refuse the thing for which she had asked, but 
 his manner disarmed a resentment which, after 
 all, it would have been illogical to direct against 
 him. The foe, if foe there was, was unknown, and 
 he intended to be her champion. If it were not 
 that the situation was uncomfortable it would 
 have been entertaining. That she should need a 
 champion ! So it was in a mood that wavered 
 between wrath and amusement that she followed 
 her guide. 
 
 She studied him as she went. He was a big 
 young man, with a deep broad chest and strong 
 sunburnt arms. They were of a colour a few
 
 io8 WINIFRED MOUNT 
 
 shades redder than that of the ruddy sunburn of 
 his face. His expression was honest and open. 
 
 * You can't miss Bill Trelavvn's, miss. His boats 
 '11 be staring you in the face over agen the pier. 
 You be so good as to tell him, miss, that it's the 
 canoe Tom Undercliff was to 'a' brought him down 
 this evening. He'll know about it' 
 
 ' Very well,' said Winifred. 
 
 She feared then that she had spoken abruptly, 
 and she added, — 
 
 * I shall tell him that you were good enough to 
 give me the pleasure of paddling down in it.' 
 
 He held the canoe steady for her. 
 
 * Step into her now, miss. Step off the big boat. 
 I'm afraid I can't get her no nearer, miss. Hold 
 on to my shoulder. There, that's right.' 
 
 He put the paddle into her hand refusing to take 
 any reward for his trouble. When she looked back, 
 he was standing with his hat off looking after her. 
 As she shot under the arch of the bridge he turned 
 and went back to the cottage. 
 
 Winifred, who had only done such boating as the 
 artificial water in the gardens at Choseville pro- 
 vided, found, nevertheless, to her satisfaction, that 
 she had her tiny craft well under control, and that 
 the manipulation of the paddle presented small 
 difficulty to her deft hands. The current was
 
 WINIFRED MOUNT 109 
 
 strong at first, and carried her swiftly on to the 
 broader sheet of water which moved less rapidly. 
 Here the girl, whom she had observed from the 
 road, was still paddling about leisurely. She had 
 a book on her knees, and she was reading de- 
 sultorily. She glanced up from it as Winifred 
 passed, and looked at her inquisitively ; then, as 
 if realising her identity, with deliberate intensity. 
 The look was so prolonged and so fixed in its 
 purpose, that Winifred, with surprise, was relieved 
 when she had put sufficient distance between them 
 to be out of range of the insolent scrutiny. What 
 did it mean, this strange bold stare? Instinctively 
 she connected it with whatever it might be which 
 had caused the man and the woman at the cottaee 
 to regard her so curiously. 
 
 She paddled on and tried to forget what had 
 occurred. It was too disconcerting to be pleasant 
 food for reflection. She had the uncomfortable 
 conviction, cither that rumour must be making 
 itself busy with her name, or else that the cloud 
 under which she had at one time supposed that 
 she must be resting, and which her father had 
 dispelled in taking her home to Monkswood, was 
 a veritable cloud after all, and was known to her 
 neighbours though not to herself In spite of a 
 contrary determination, her thoughts went back to
 
 no WINIFRED MOUNT 
 
 the conjectures that had filled her mind during the 
 latter days of her years of banishment. Some- 
 thing of her old expression of rebellion and dis- 
 content found its way back into her face. 
 
 The day lost its charm for her. The surpassing 
 clearness of the water failed to delight her. When 
 she looked down she could see every stone and 
 shell that lay in the bed of the river, sometimes, 
 so greatly did the depth vary, through twelve feet of 
 water, sometimes through two, or even less. The shal- 
 lows became more frequent as the tide receded. Here 
 and there an island of pale mud appeared above the 
 surface. Some sea-gulls stood on one of these and 
 rose as Winifred's canoe approached them. Their 
 whites and greys were vivid in the bright sunlight. 
 On the right bank, woods in which were ash and 
 beech and oak, descended the hills to the water's 
 edge. Here, as at Monkswood, autumn delayed its 
 stain. 
 
 Winifred paddled absently through scenery which 
 at another time would have called forth a silent 
 but sincere token of her appreciation of it in the 
 alertness of her eyes. Her forehead wore a frown. 
 There was something that was sullen almost in the 
 expression of her lips. Her wish now was to reach 
 Priarton as soon as possible, hand over her canoe 
 to its owner, and go home. Whether or not she
 
 WINIFRED MOUNT iii 
 
 should speak to her father of what had occurred 
 she had not yet decided. She had, as you know, 
 determined to forbear for the present asking any 
 deliberate questions as to that which she thought 
 was being withheld from her knowledge ; but this 
 new feature which had developed in the mystery 
 of her position gave to it a more serious aspect. 
 If the immediate neighbourhood knew the thing 
 of which she herself was ignorant, then was the 
 falseness of that position unendurable. 
 
 She was nearing the town. A breeze that met 
 her on this reach of the river put a ripple on the 
 water. A couple of boats were ahead of her. In 
 one of them a fisherman's little girl plied the oars 
 that her small arms could barely lift, while her father 
 smoked in the stern, now and then taking the pipe 
 from between his teeth, to throw her some word of 
 direction or encouragement. The other boat held 
 children of various ages. 
 
 The fisherman presently knocked the ashes from 
 his pipe, changed places with his little girl, and 
 with strong strokes rowed rapidly away. Winifred 
 watched him absently. She passed the other boat, 
 and, paddling mechanically, she forgot to keep to 
 the deeper water. She was moving at a certain 
 rate, when of a sudden she found herself aground 
 upon a mud bank. She made an effort to push
 
 112 WINIFRED MOUNT 
 
 off with her paddle, but the impetus of the speed 
 at which she had been going had driven her firmly 
 on to the mud. She tried once more, and again 
 in vain. Then she looked round her for some help. 
 The tide was running down quickly, and, for all 
 she knew, a few minutes might transform the bank 
 to an island upon which she would be left high 
 and dry. No danger attached itself to the situa- 
 tion, but every inconvenience. The fisherman had 
 rowed on too far ahead to make it easy for her to 
 attract his attention. She waited for the other 
 boat to come up. The mud bank, she saw, shelved 
 downwards abruptly to a couple of feet of water 
 just below her, so that it would be possible for a few 
 minutes at least for aid to approach her. She saw 
 that to try to dislodge herself unaided was useless. 
 
 She had some difficulty in attracting the atten- 
 tion of the young crew, upon whom she relied for 
 help in her predicament ; when, however, they 
 realised her position, they lost no time in coming 
 to her assistance. The rescue party consisted, she 
 found, of a lame boy of fourteen or so }'cars, and 
 three little girls of ages ranging from seven to 
 twelve. 
 
 Winifred addressed herself to the boy. 
 
 ' We'll soon get you off,' he said in answer. * We 
 often get aground ourselves like that.'
 
 WINIFRED MOUNT 113 
 
 ' I got stuck yesterday/ volunteered one of the 
 girls in a shrill treble. 
 
 ' And she had to get out of her canoe and push 
 off/ said one of the others. 
 
 'And she got her feet wet, and mamma was so 
 cross.' 
 
 Winifred laughed. The boy blushed at these 
 family disclosures, and Winifred hastened to say 
 that but for his timely aid she supposed that she 
 herself would have had to get her feet wet. 
 
 The floating of the canoe, however, was not so 
 simple a matter as he had supposed. It had driven 
 itself firmly on to the mud, and the water had fallen 
 during the last few moments. The boat drifted a 
 little bit. 
 
 ' Hold her up, Lolly,' said the boy. 
 
 ' If Bertha was here,' said one of the girls, ' she 
 could get round in her canoe to the other side of 
 the bank — it's so narrow you see — and shove. But 
 Bertha's up higher, reading.' 
 
 ' There's Bertha,' cried a sister. 
 
 ' Bertha/ screamed the youngest at the top of 
 her voice. ' Bertha ! ' 
 
 * Shut up/ said her brother. ' Don't make such a 
 row.' He turned to Winifred. * I'm afraid you 
 will have to get out,' he said. ' Can you step into 
 the boat?' 
 
 II
 
 114 WINIFRED MOUNT 
 
 She did so with his help. Her canoe floated 
 then at once. He brought it round into deeper 
 water and helped her into it. She thanked him 
 warmly. 
 
 * I don't know what I should have done without 
 your help.' 
 
 * It wasn't anything,' said the boy. ' I'm only 
 glad we were there. If it ever happens again some 
 of us are sure to be about. We are always on the 
 river. You see, our house is so near. That's the 
 Vicarage — up there on the hill' 
 
 * Oh, you are the son of the Vicar of Priarton ! ' 
 
 * Yes ; our name's Conder. I am Joseph Conder.' 
 
 * And I'm Lolly,' said one of the girls. 
 
 * Her name isn't really Lolly,' said another. 
 
 * It is Margaret Loui.se Sybil.' 
 
 'And mine is Eleanor Catherine Mary. She's 
 baby, you know,' pointing to the third. 
 
 * I'm not, really,' said the child, * I am Milicent 
 Mowbray Olive, only I'm the smallest, you 
 see.' 
 
 Winifred listened in amusement. 
 
 * And that is Bertha,' said the one called baby, 
 pointing up the stream with a round, fat finger. 
 
 * Bertha is our eldest sister.' 
 
 Winifred had forgotten for the moment the girl 
 whose insolent stare had annoyed her. Now she
 
 WINIFRED MOUNT 115 
 
 saw this girl approaching. Her stare was more 
 impudent, if possible, than before. Her words 
 were an open declaration of hostility. 
 
 * Come away, children. You are to come home 
 at once. Never mind what I mean. I say you are 
 to come at once.'
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 THE impulse was strong in Winifred then and 
 there to ask the girl what she meant by an 
 insult which was so obvious and so obviously in- 
 tentional. Her desire to confront an adversary made 
 the temptation hard to resist. But she resisted it ; 
 and, to her own gratification, she had the knowledge 
 that she did not colour, and the conviction that she 
 did not turn pale, and that she kept absolute control 
 over the muscles of her face in a position as diffi- 
 cult as any in which she had ever been placed in 
 the course of her short life. These things later, in 
 retrospect, had their resulting satisfactions. Thatshe 
 had emerged from a trying situation without a loss 
 of dignity satisfied her also. She allowed the boat 
 to move away before she herself moved. The lame 
 boy blushed painfully and raised his cap. She 
 acknowleged his politeness with a bend of her head. 
 If, however, the surface was calm, below it there 
 was a very serious disturbance. She held herself 
 in restraint till she was out of sight, lest an out- 
 
 ii6
 
 WINIFRED MOUNT 117 
 
 ward sign of it should be expressed in her back, 
 or the way she held her head, or the movement of 
 her paddle. She heard a subdued, but none the 
 less furious, battle of words taking place between 
 the lame boy who had aided her and the girl whose 
 insult still rang in her ears. 
 
 She was glad when she had given up her canoe 
 to its owner and was on the road to Monkswood. 
 
 The day was closing in. There was for the first 
 time in the air a keenness that was the breath of 
 autumn. Leaves would turn and fall in the days 
 that were to come. 
 
 Winifred passed quickly through the narrow 
 streets of Priarton, and climbed the steep hill up 
 which the road twisted. Some building operations 
 were in course of progress, and a pony and a mule 
 yoked to a cart filled with heavy stone blocked her 
 path midway. The animals strained laboriously 
 under the weight of their load. A boy with whip 
 and gentle persuasion encouraged them to their 
 task. Winifred waited for a few moments till they 
 should reach a wider bit of the road and enable her 
 to pass. Priarton now lay below her. Its roofs 
 were huddled closely together and looked like 
 those of a foreign town — a Moorish town, Winifred 
 thought, but without certain conviction, since her 
 impression could only have been traceable to some
 
 ii8 WINIFRED MOUNT 
 
 picture she had seen. From where she stood no 
 streets were to be distinguished, nor scarcely a 
 break in the crowded shelves of grey and sloping 
 slates. From a pole thrust out of the window of a 
 house hung brown drying nets. The church tower 
 stood up squarely from the midst of the clustering 
 roofs. 
 
 The boy led his uneven team to the side of the 
 road, and motioned to Winifred that there was 
 room for her to pass. She continued her way. 
 The summit, when she reached it, brought the sea 
 into view, some hundred feet below. A short stone 
 pier, little more than a breakwater, and without 
 rail or wall, jutted out into the water. The people 
 on it looked like flies. On the further side of it 
 was the mouth of the river. Beyond this trees 
 grew in the rock down to the edge almost of the 
 sea itself. The rock was of a brown colour, that 
 warmed in places to red. 
 
 Winifred followed for some three hundred yards 
 the road that skirted the cliff. A wall of stone 
 and earth, with a coastguard path along the top of 
 it, shut out the wider view of the sea. A lane 
 came down suddenly to meet the road. She took 
 this turning, and presently left it when she reached 
 the stile that marked the beginning of the path 
 across the fields that led to Monks wood.
 
 WINIFRED MOUNT 119 
 
 The restraint which she had put upon herself 
 had by this time served to mitigate something of 
 the fierceness of her wrath. Though Miss Conder 
 was now the symbol as well as the embodiment of 
 the hostile circumstances against which Winifred 
 had had to fight all her life, she had no wish to 
 hurl herself upon her and rend her. Neither did 
 her passion rend herself She walked quietly, 
 with a set mouth. She emerged presently on to 
 the high road along which she had driven to 
 Monkswood upon her arrival. She reached the 
 house without having decided whether or not she 
 should speak to her father of what had occurred. 
 
 Chance determined the matter. Her father met 
 her as she went in. She was too full of her own 
 thoughts at once to erase all expression of them 
 from her face. 
 
 * What has happened, Winifred ? ' he asked. 
 ' Nothing, father.' 
 
 She smiled, but not very convincingly. 
 
 * Tell me, Winifred.' 
 
 His daughter hesitated for a moment, and then 
 made up her mind. 
 
 ' I suppose when I am angry,' she said, ' I am 
 not very good at concealing it. A thing happened 
 this afternoon which made me very angry. Two 
 things happened — or rather two people were in-
 
 I20 WINIFRED MOUNT 
 
 strumental in letting me know that for some reason 
 or other I am a person to be regarded with distrust. 
 Oh, I am wronging one of them. The man was 
 very good. He made me feel that I was better 
 than he had been led to expect ! ' Her tone was 
 partly ironical, but partly (and unconsciously) wist- 
 ful. ' I am wronging him still/ she added after a 
 moment's pause. * He made me see that he did not 
 believe whatever it may be that he had heard of me.' 
 Then she gave her story. Mr Mount listened to 
 it gravely. When he heard her out there was 
 silence for a few moments. Winifred waited, hop- 
 ing that without active measures upon her part to 
 bring about an explanation of the situation, an 
 explanation of it would be forthcoming. Surely 
 her father would understand that knowledge would 
 be her protection. 
 
 * You are sure that by no possibility you could 
 have imagined this ? ' he said at last. 
 
 * The intention to insult me?' 
 He nodded. 
 
 ' By no possibility. It was deliberate.' 
 
 * You see, from what you fancied you had de- 
 tected in the manner of the boatman, )-ou had the 
 conviction that something had been said of you — 
 don't you think it not improbable that you exag- 
 gerated the curiosity anyone might feel in the
 
 WINIFRED MOUNT 121 
 
 appearance of a stranger into the insolence of a 
 stare ? ' 
 
 Winifred shook her head. 
 
 ' It was not fancy, father. The man and his wife 
 had heard something of me, and were surprised to 
 find me so harmless. I did not imagine this, and 
 there could be no mistake in the gratuitous rude- 
 ness of Miss Conder. Believe me, it was meditated. 
 She called the children away as if I was not a fit 
 person for them to associate with. And she meant 
 me to know it.' 
 
 A recollection of the incident caused Winifred's 
 face to flush. She recalled even a certain triumph 
 in the face of her adversary, as if the opportunity 
 to offer the insult had been grateful. 
 
 ' How vulgar and horrible it was ! ' Winifred said. 
 
 ' It was insufferable. I shall go and see Mr 
 Conder about it to-morrow.' 
 
 ' Oh, don't do that,' said Winifred. ' It would be 
 making a fuss about a thing that I want to forget. 
 I want to forget it at once.' 
 
 ' I cannot let it pass,' said Mr Mount. ' I shall 
 send a note in to Priarton to-night, to say that I 
 mean to call at the Vicarage to-morrow. He shall 
 account to me for his daughter's conduct.' 
 
 'Can't you account for it yourself ? ' said Wini- 
 fred suddenly.
 
 122 WINIFRED MOUNT 
 
 She had not intended to force matters by so 
 small a move even as that of her question. She 
 wished to recall the words almost as she spoke 
 them. But a moment showed her to her relief and 
 regret that she had not brought about the consum- 
 mation she feared and desired. The sincerity of 
 her father's answer surprised her. 
 
 * No/ he said, ' I cannot account for it at all.' 
 He looked at her wonderingly. The truth of his 
 
 assertion was not to be doubted. This seemed to 
 Winifred to disconnect the thing they were discuss- 
 ing from those other things which were withheld 
 from her. This being so, the subject lost for her its 
 more immediate importance, and she was so far able 
 to let it rest as to go up to her room to take off her 
 coat and hat. When she had done this she went 
 to her sitting-room, and, as dinner was still distant, 
 she rang for some tea. 
 
 Mr Mount called Dalton into the study, and told 
 him to shut the door. The man did as he was told, 
 and stood waiting. 
 
 ' I suppose there is a lot of gossip about Miss 
 Mount at Priarton ? ' Mr Mount said abruptly. 
 
 * There's some excitement, sir, of course.' 
 
 * What sort of things do they say ? ' 
 
 Dalton looked down sideways at his striped coat 
 and twisted one of its linen buttons.
 
 WINIFRED MOUNT 123 
 
 ' Well, sir,' he began, and paused. 
 
 Mr Mount looked annoyed. 
 
 'You may say what you have heard,' he said 
 shortly. 
 
 * Well, sir, you know there's always been a good 
 deal of talk about you, sir ; living solitary as you 
 have, sir, and not — well, not encouraging visitors, 
 they've talked about you a bit. That we must 
 almost expect' 
 
 'That, as you say, we must almost expect, 
 Dalton.' 
 
 Mr Mount was smiling. He crossed over to 
 the window as he spoke and sat down on the sill 
 with his back to it. 
 
 ' Pardon me, sir,' said Dalton, following him and 
 closing the lattice, 'you're not going to have it 
 open behind you.' 
 
 He returned to where he had been standing then, 
 and continued, — 
 
 ' Well, they've seen Miss Mount, of course, some 
 of them. The parson's lady saw her driving with 
 you, and others have met her out walking, and 
 some of 'em saw her arrive, and — and they're just 
 talking, sir, that's all.' 
 
 ' I know they're talking, and I want to know 
 what they say.' 
 
 Well, you don't go to church much, you know,
 
 124 WINIFRED MOUNT 
 
 sir, and they talk about that ; and Miss Mount 
 hasn't been to church yet, sir, and they talk about 
 that/ 
 
 ' H'm/ said Mr Mount. 
 
 He looked at Dalton thoughtfully, and then 
 turned partly round and looked out of the window. 
 
 ' Mrs Conder,' proceeded Dalton, 'gave a sort of 
 an At Home afternoon tea affair at the Rectory, and 
 a good bit of talking was done there, sir. I'm told 
 they discussed whether they should call upon Miss 
 Mount and — ' 
 
 'And?' 
 
 ' Well, they decided not to, sir. They said they 
 didn't approve of you, sir, and — ' 
 
 Dalton met his master's smiling eye and chuckled 
 respectfully. He returned to gravity a moment 
 later. 
 
 ' Mrs Conder, I hear, said that it was evident you 
 were under a cloud, sir, and then said something 
 else which Mr Conder said she'd no business to say, 
 and shut her up, I'm told, very sharp.' 
 
 ' What was it ? ' 
 
 ' Well, that they'd none of them ever heard of 
 your having a daughter, sir, and how were they to 
 know that she was your daughter?'
 
 CHAPTER XIII 
 
 IT is an evil and ill-conditioned world, perhaps, 
 apart from which a man cannot live, but wag- 
 ging tongues must make themselves busy with his 
 concerns. Winifred's father was not of the type of 
 man to care what was said or what was thought of 
 himself The inhabitants of Priarton were of a 
 class far removed from his own, and it is probable 
 that he held their opinion in supreme and conser- 
 vative contempt. But that Winifred should be 
 involved in the disfavour with which he himself 
 was regarded, and that her name should be lightly 
 spoken by slanderous and disrespectful lips, was, 
 to judge by the expression of his face, another 
 matter. 
 
 He sent for his daughter. 
 
 Winifred had recovered something of her usual 
 composure, and had settled herself comfortably on 
 a couch with a book when Dalton brought up the 
 the message. She rose at once and followed him 
 
 12;
 
 126 WINIFRED MOUNT 
 
 to the study. He opened the door of it and 
 retired. 
 
 Mr Mount was standing by the hearth. It 
 chanced that, as he stood, the light that fell 
 directly on to his face was tinged by the colour 
 of the coat-of-arms which some dead and gone 
 owner of Monkswood had emblazoned upon the 
 lattice windows. The light was not very strong, 
 and, stained faintly by the dominant blue of the 
 ground of the design, it gave to his face an 
 appearance that caused Winifred throughout the 
 interview an undefined discomfort. 
 
 * I have been speaking to Dalton,' he said, with- 
 out preamble ; * and I find that there is talk about 
 you in Priarton.' 
 
 He paused as if he expected some exclamation 
 from her, but she waited. 
 
 ' The head and front of your offence seems to be 
 that you are under the roof of a man who has 
 made it plain that he wants no visitors. My 
 isolation is at the root of the matter. No one 
 will call upon you. This I understand has been 
 settled. I am to blame for the whole thing. The 
 fact is, Winifred, I have given offence right and 
 left. Now people fight shy of me.' 
 
 Strange thoughts, fugitive, half - formulated, 
 hardly acknowledged, passed through Winifred's
 
 WINIFRED MOUNT 127 
 
 mind. The cloud hung over her father, perhaps, 
 and not over herself. His past held that which 
 made it necessary that he should shun men. 
 Almost it seemed so. 
 
 She looked at him wonderingly. The bluish 
 light upon his face laid insistent stress upon the 
 delicacy of it. Her thoughts, vague and shape- 
 less as they had been, smote her with a sense of 
 treason and disloyalty. 
 
 She went over to him and laid her head against 
 his shoulder. 
 
 * Do you think I mind ? ' she said softly. ' Do 
 you think I mind whether I am called on or 
 not?' 
 
 * I daresay you don't, just now,' said her father. 
 * But you will when the novelty of Monkswood 
 has worn off. The whole thing has been a mis- 
 take, Winifred. I ought never to have brought 
 you here.' 
 
 ' Father ! ' 
 
 * I ought to have known that the life I lead here 
 would compromise you. It isn't only the dulness 
 of the place that I mind for you. I appear to 
 have done the very thing that I wished to avoid. 
 My God, Winifred, I owe you an apology for the 
 insult which fell upon you to-day.' 
 
 He drew his hand quickly across his forehead.
 
 128 WINIFRED MOUNT 
 
 Winifred caught it and held it fast in her 
 own. 
 
 * Father, father,' she said, ' do you think I care ? 
 I don't want anyone to call upon me. Miss 
 Conder may insult me to my face again if she 
 likes. I shall probably strike her if she does, but 
 what matter.' Winifred paused and smiled at the 
 thought. * But don't say you regret having let me 
 come home, father ; don't say that. I have been 
 happier here than I have ever been in my life. 
 Ask Elsie Luttrell what I have written to her. 
 Ask Madame de Valois. I want to think that you 
 like me to be with you.' 
 
 * You know I do, Winifred.' 
 
 * Then don't talk of owing me an apology for 
 Miss Conder's ill-breeding. Let us forget it. I 
 don't mind it a bit, so long as — ' 
 
 Winifred broke off undecidedly. 
 
 * So long as what, Winifred ? ' 
 
 Her father was looking down into her face. 
 She put her two hands upon his shoulders and 
 met his eyes with her own. 
 
 ' I don't want to question you, father. I don't 
 want to make you tell mc anything that you wish 
 to keep from me. I believe that some day you 
 will trust me fully, and I am waiting for that day.' 
 
 ' What were you going to say ? '
 
 WINIFRED MOUNT 129 
 
 He did not withdraw his eyes from hers, nor 
 did she try to avert her own. 
 
 ' So long as others — the people about here, the 
 man who let me the canoe, Miss Conder — do not 
 know something of me which I do not know myself 
 
 Mr Mount was silent for a few moments. 
 
 ' They know nothing of you,' he said then 
 * What happened to-day is solely due to the fact 
 that I have given offence. Believe this, Winifred. 
 It is true. I swear this to you.' 
 
 Winifred smiled with dewy eyes. 
 
 * You needn't swear it,' she said gently. * That 
 was all that I minded — or, at anyrate, what I 
 minded most. I think, if she had known anything 
 of me I should have asked you outright to tell me, 
 because I care for nothing that I can face. Always 
 know this of me, father, I want to face things. It 
 is almost my watchword. It isn't pluck nor even 
 an empty boast. It is temperament.' 
 
 He kissed her on the forehead as she finished 
 speaking, but abruptly, and he looked at her medi- 
 tatively. 
 
 An unusual silence reigned between them that 
 evening. Mr Mount was preoccupied, and his 
 forehead wore an anxious frown. What his 
 daughter had told him had evidently disturbed 
 him not a little. Dalton at dinner, watching his 
 
 I
 
 130 WINIFRED MOUNT 
 
 master uneasily, observed that, though he helped 
 himself to such dishes as were deferentially pressed 
 upon him, he ate nothing. His plate left him 
 almost untouched. Winifred made an attempt at 
 talking, so long as the meal was in progress ; but, 
 speedily recognising the fact that, for the time 
 being, conversation was impossible, she did not 
 linger at the table while her father drank his port, 
 as was her general custom, but made her way to 
 the hall. 
 
 A fire was burning brightly on the open hearth. 
 The curtains had been drawn across the door. The 
 lamps threw a pleasant glow upon the polished 
 boards. Winifred drew a big wicker chair on to 
 the rug that lay before the blazing logs. She lay 
 back idly, without book or work, and thought. 
 
 For the first time her father had acknowledged 
 that he was keeping something from her. This 
 at least she had gained — if gain it could be 
 counted — from the events of the day. He had 
 not confessed his reticence in so many words, it 
 was true ; but, by failing to refute her statement 
 of what was at the most but a surmise, he had 
 established it as a fact. Furthermore, she had 
 thus had an opportunity of impressing upon him 
 that which to her fervent belief was the sole means 
 by which she could attain to rest.
 
 WINIFRED MOUNT 131 
 
 Mr Mount came out presently from the dining- 
 room. His face wore the same look of preoccu- 
 pation. Winifred rose and pulled a chair forward 
 for him. He sat down in it absently. Not a 
 dozen words passed between them. Winifred read 
 a book to cover her disinclination to talk, and Mr 
 Mount smoked his cigar. 
 
 So passed the evening strangely.
 
 CHAPTER XIV 
 
 THE year seemed to plunge from late summer 
 to mid-autumn. Leaves fell and were swept 
 in gusty whirlings along the roads and against the 
 windows of the house. There were heavy rains. 
 The nights became chilly, and stormy winds shook 
 the casements and banged unlatched doors. The 
 permanent sound of the sea changed from gentle 
 lappings to the thunders of surging breakers. 
 
 Winifred watched the change of the year with 
 interest and regret Dalton had kept her father 
 to his room on the day that followed that of the 
 events of the last chapters. Winifred sat with him 
 and read to him. He had wanted to drive into 
 Priarton in the morning to have an interview with 
 Mr Condcr, and he chafed at the delay. Dalton 
 refused to let his master go out on the next, and 
 Winifred prevailed upon him not to write. A 
 third, a fourth, and a fifth day passed without its 
 being possible for him to go. On the sixth, the 
 weather having somewhat improved, he expressed 
 
 132
 
 WINIFRED MOUNT 133 
 
 his determination to go. He seemed better, and 
 Dalton raised no serious opposition. 
 
 ' You must take me with you, sir,' he said, when 
 he found that Winifred was not to accompany her 
 father. 
 
 ' I suppose I am in your hands,' said Mr Mount, 
 with half irritable and half-amused resignation. 
 
 Winifred saw them start. She went back to the 
 house. The rooms looked cheerless she thought. 
 She felt oppressed. She went to her window and 
 gazed out at the sea. It was grey with angry 
 streaks of white. There was something that was de- 
 solate in the aspect of the lonely shore. The waves 
 that broke upon the rocks splashed the spray high. 
 She thought of the Channel and the stranger whom 
 she had offended. She wondered again whether 
 she would ever meet him, and in her mood of the 
 moment she said to herself that such a contingency 
 was improbable. She turned from the window and 
 went to the fire. 
 
 It was while she was standing listlessly beside 
 the hearth that two telegrams were brought to her. 
 
 ' I expect they're for the master,' said the maid 
 who handed them to her ; ' but I know he likes 
 them opened, so I thought I'd better give them to 
 you, 'm.' 
 
 Winifred looked at the two envelopes. They
 
 134 WINIFRED MOUNT 
 
 were addressed merely to ' Mount/ which gave no 
 clue as to whether it was for herself or her father 
 that they were destined. 
 
 •They are probably for Mr Mount/ she said, 
 putting them on to the mantelpiece. * I am not 
 expecting any message.' 
 
 The maid eyed them with curiosity. 
 
 * I thought perhaps you'd like to open them, 'm, 
 she said. 
 
 ' I shall leave them till Mr Mount returns/ said 
 Winifred. 
 
 Her tone conveyed an intimation of finality. 
 The maid moved towards the door. 
 
 ' It seems a pity the messenger missed the master 
 on his way/ she said. ' You see he comes by the 
 short cut across the fields. If he'd have come by 
 the road it 'd have saved a deal of time, because, 
 then, he'd been sure to meet the dog-cart. That's 
 the worst of short cuts. They're a long way round. 
 Dear, dear! to think that perhaps there's deaths 
 or catastrophies in those two bits of paper, and all 
 this time wasted.' 
 
 ' I daresay the delay is not of much importance/ 
 said Winifred. 
 
 ' Or else Mr Dalton, he always has orders to 
 open all telegrams,' said the girl, with her fingers 
 on the handle of the door. * You see, you never
 
 WINIFRED MOUNT 135 
 
 can tell what mayn't be in them. When my sister's 
 'usband died — ' 
 
 ' That will do, Elizabeth.' 
 
 Winifred turned to the fire that the maid might 
 not see her smile. When the door was closed, 
 Winifred glanced at the envelopes. She was about 
 to examine them when a sound outside warned her 
 that the girl was returning. She was determined 
 not to gratify her idle curiosity. 
 
 ' The messenger is downstairs, 'm, and perhaps 
 there's an answer. Is he to wait, 'm ? ' 
 
 ' He need not wait.' 
 
 * Or else he generally takes back the answer with 
 him.' 
 
 ' He need not wait/ said Winifred. 
 
 She smiled again, partly at her own perversity. 
 She let five minutes pass before she allowed her 
 interest in the envelopes to evince itself in a con- 
 templation of them. They were not of the yellow 
 that would have proclaimed the place of their dis- 
 patch British. Up to the moment of remarking 
 that they were from abroad Winifred had taken 
 it for granted that they were intended for her father. 
 Choseville and Madame de Valois came suddenly 
 and vividly before her. Something in the sudden- 
 ness of the thought struck her. She handled the 
 envelopes uneasily. She went over to the window
 
 136 WINIFRED MOUNT 
 
 and looked out once more at the sea. There was 
 purple in the distance. An angry cloud hung 
 menacingly low in the sky. The shingle was swept 
 back by the waves as they receded, and it gave a 
 cry as of a world in pain. Winifred opened the 
 telegrams. They were for herself They had been 
 sent at an interval of an hour, and one of them had 
 been delayed in its transit. The first she broke 
 open (which was the second in point of the order 
 of sending) told her of Madame de Valois' death ; 
 the second (which should have been the first, and 
 had been designed as a preparation for the tidings 
 contained in its fellow) of her serious illness. Thus 
 were the gates of Choseville closed for ever. 
 
 Winifred, tearless and almost unmoved, stood a 
 the window and continued to look at the sea. She 
 waited to feel emotion. She expected at every 
 moment to be seized with the grief which must be 
 hers. Madame de Valois was dead. How deep 
 was the purple of the distant sea. Madame de 
 Valois was dead. There was a thin streak of light 
 marking the horizon. That was a big wave that 
 broke then on the shore. How it sped up the 
 bank of pebbles. How they shrieked as it washed 
 them back. Madame de Valois was dead. It did 
 not appear to matter. Choseville was misty. 
 Madame herself seemed to have receded a long
 
 WINIFRED MOUNT 137 
 
 long way into the past. She was dim. Her out- 
 h'nes were hazy. Winifred could not remember 
 quite what her voice sounded like. What bird was 
 that amongst the gulls? It had a red bill. Puffins 
 were not to be seen on the coast of Cornwall, 
 and, besides, they had not red bills. Moreover, 
 puffins were big birds, and this one was scarcely 
 larger than a gull. Winifred laughed a little. What 
 had made her think of puffins? It was ridiculous. 
 Black Alice had called them pooffins one day 
 when Madame de Valois had given a half-holiday 
 to the school, that she might take her girls to hear 
 someone lecture on natural history. Madame de 
 Valois had worn the long black earrings with the 
 monstrous jet drops that jingled when she moved 
 her head. The earrings were not hazy. Winifred 
 could see them quite well. They were very old 
 fashioned, and some of the girls used to laugh at 
 them. What was Black Alice doing now? Mow 
 ' greedy ' she used to be about the swing. How 
 Elsie Luttrell enjoyed turning her out of it. How 
 irreponsible Elsie always was. Two notes recurred 
 inconsequcntly to Winifred's memory. ' Made- 
 moiselle is so sweet to-day, I think she must be ill ; 
 but then she had a bath last night, so she is not 
 quite herself;' and another, that was from Elsie, 
 banished to an attic for punishment, and describing
 
 138 WINIFRED MOUNT 
 
 the looking-glass by which she was expected to 
 dress : ' When I walk up to it my left jaw gallops 
 up the side of the frame, my right remains stationary, 
 but melts into blurred indistinctness, and my other 
 features walk sedately away in zigzags. And all 
 this for blackening my eyelashes with the head of 
 a match to see how they would look.' 
 
 Elsie was always in mischief How nice she 
 was. Madame de Valois could never be angry 
 with her for long. Madame was dead. It meant 
 very little, dead, did'n't it ? 
 
 So ran the thoughts of Winifred Mount. It 
 was in vain that she tried to realise the sadness of 
 the knowledge that she would never see the kind 
 face again. Tears seemed to have no occasion. 
 
 * Am I without any feeling ? ' she said to herself. 
 It horrified her to think so. She set herself to 
 remember the thousand and one little acts of kind- 
 ness which the schoolmistress had done her. She 
 went over many of the early years of her life, 
 selecting from each period some example of the 
 affection which had been bestowed upon her. 
 One incident was impressed firmly upon her mind. 
 As a little girl of seven she had run away in a fit 
 of uncontrolled passion from the governess who 
 was taking the school out for their walk. She had 
 hidden herself in an old tool-house in the Chose-
 
 WINIFRED MOUNT 139 
 
 ville public gardens. There she had remained till 
 hunger and darkness drove her impenitently home. 
 A search had been instituted in the meantime, and 
 the schoolhouse was in a state of tumult. Winifred 
 went up to the front door and walked boldly in. 
 She was met by a chorus of question and welcome. 
 Then by degrees she was told of the dire fate that 
 hung over her head. 
 
 * Madame said you were to go to her the minute 
 you came in/ said a girl. ' I wouldn't be you for 
 something, Winifred.' 
 
 ' I don't care/ said Winifred. 
 
 She strode with an ostentatious indifference as 
 to what might await her to the door of madame's 
 room. No one ever knew what passed during the 
 interview which there took place. When Winifred 
 emerged thence she was crying softly. 
 
 She thought now of the rebuke which had been 
 suddenly cut short by the yearning cry of the 
 administrator of it, and of the opening of the 
 arms into which she had cast her contrite little 
 body. 
 
 Madame was dead. 
 
 Winifred thought of the last day at Choseville ; 
 the garden ; the tender silence of the evening ; the 
 rose. 
 
 How grotesque it was to try to feci sorry. She
 
 I40 WINIFRED MOUNT 
 
 smiled absently. The cloud had deepened above 
 the sea. She began to hear again the thunder of 
 the waves. There was another sound. 
 
 She listened. It was the sound of wheels on the 
 gravel. She opened her window and looked out. 
 It was the dog-cart returning. Something must 
 have been forgotten. There had not been time 
 for the drive into Priarton and back to be accom- 
 plished. She hurried down to the hall, conscious 
 of something within her that was more than mere 
 curiosity. The dog-cart came into sight on the 
 drive as she reached the door. She caught her 
 breath. Dalton held the reins, and her father was 
 leaning heavily against his shoulder, while with one 
 arm his servant supported him as best he could. 
 
 Then Winifred knew that her father was dead, 
 and that she stood alone.
 
 CHAPTER XV 
 
 OOME thirteen months later, Lady Lambeth, a 
 ^ woman well known in London, and then 
 emerging from the second year of her widowhood, 
 had her attention arrested by the beauty of a girl 
 in deep mourning, who sat two pews ahead of her 
 in the church in which she was wont to worship. 
 
 The small excitements attendant upon Lord 
 Lambeth's death, excitements dreary enough in 
 themselves, but occupying in their nature, were 
 long since over, and Lady Lambeth, wearied and 
 in her prime, looked about for some diversion. 
 
 Sunday after Sunday came the girl in black to 
 St Sloane's Church. She was tall, slender, but not 
 thin, and very fair. Perhaps the deep black of her 
 clothes made her fairness the more fair. Her com- 
 plexion had that rose-petal delicacy that some- 
 times accompanies vigorous health. 
 
 Lady Lambeth speculated about her through 
 many psalms, many h'tanics, many sermons. She 
 
 141
 
 142 WINIFRED MOUNT 
 
 contemplated her closely. The resolute mouth 
 appealed to her love of strength. She was not 
 very firm herself, and her own opinions, to her own 
 knowledge, took their colour to some extent from 
 those of her friends, a thing which seemed to her 
 to be rather contemptible, and consequently (or 
 oddly, if you will) she had a great reverence for 
 such qualities as courage, steadfastness, and the 
 like. To these she would have added uprightness 
 and truth. Generations of worldly ancestors per- 
 haps had their part in the strain of polite insin- 
 cerity which she herself deplored, and which lent 
 her manner so much of its superficial charm. She 
 was conscious of the inherence of her tendencies 
 and did not take active measures to make herself 
 what she was not. But it was just that which she 
 was not that she admired in others. She found 
 herself looking forward to Sunday mornings for 
 the sight of the lonely girl whose beauty so much 
 impressed her. She herself knew not what soli- 
 tude meant. She was (also by inheritance of taste) 
 a confirmed entertainer. The embassy at Fhillipo- 
 politzburg had therefore furnished her with an 
 excuse for indulging her hospitable inclinations 
 to the top of her bent, and her life in the diplo- 
 matic days had been very full. 
 
 After Lord Lambeth's death, which followed
 
 WINIFRED MOUNT 143 
 
 closely upon his resignation, his widow's drawing- 
 room in Park Street continued to be the resort of 
 her numberless friends. Lady Lambeth lived, and 
 had always lived, in a crowd ; and, out of it, at a 
 moment when her weeds forbade her to join in its 
 amusements, she looked at the isolation of Wini- 
 fred Mount with wonder and admiration. 
 
 But Lady Lambeth had what a certain Maud 
 Athol (and in this Miss Athol was unconsciously 
 the mouthpiece of very many other of Lady Lam- 
 beth's acquaintance) described as a passion for 
 * running ' girls, and it was the loneliness of Wini- 
 fred which, while it had had its potent attraction 
 for her, she dearly wished to remedy. She was 
 never so happy as when she was piloting some 
 creditable debutante through a season, and she had 
 a reputation for ' discovering ' beauties. To three 
 portionless or otherwise handicapped girls, singled 
 out, however, from among the daughters of men by 
 virtue of their beauty, had she given such advan- 
 tages as without her would never have reached 
 them. The last of the three she had married a 
 few years previously to the young peer who later 
 succeeded Lord Lambeth at the embassy at Philh'po- 
 politzburg, and she was feeling unemployed. 
 
 To Lady Lambeth, then, in this case, came the 
 sight of the unknown Winifred Mount. She did
 
 144 WINIFRED MOUNT 
 
 not realise how keen her interest in the lonely girl, 
 whose only companion seemed to be the maid who 
 sometimes accompanied her, had grown, till a chance 
 Sunday found the place in which she always ex- 
 pected to see her empty. She was stricken almost 
 with dismay. She watched for her, even turning 
 round more than once till such time as, by the 
 rules of the church, vacant seats were appropriated 
 by the general public. Then she looked about her, 
 peering down long avenues of heads till she was 
 blocked in her search by the hat of some woman 
 which closed the vista, as houses or a wall close a 
 blind alley. She caught here and there at some 
 black-robed figure or some gleam of shining hair ; 
 but they did not belong to Winifred. By the end 
 of the second lesson Lady Lambeth was assured 
 that the face she sought was not within the radius 
 commanded by her own seat. She behaved oddly 
 upon this Sunday in question. She sat down 
 occasionally while others stood, or stood up before 
 the exact moment of the rising of others. Her 
 search was not rewarded. After the service she 
 lingered at the door, shaking hands absently with 
 her friends, and looking at the throng of people 
 emerging from the great red building. 
 
 It was not an unusual thing for members of the 
 congregation of St Sloanc's to crave a few moment's
 
 WINIFRED MOUNT 145 
 
 audience with their vicar in the vestry at the close 
 of the service. 
 
 A friend of Lady Lambeth touched the arm of a 
 paid and patient companion, — 
 
 ' I am sure, poor dear thing, she felt that she 
 had had a special message in his allusion to child- 
 lessness. Did you notice her face while I was 
 talking to her? I don't think she heard a word 
 I said. She was looking back at the door in a 
 sort of rapt way — (Really, Miss Thing, how stupid 
 you are. I told you to stop the halfpenny omni- 
 bus ; that's the penny one. We will go down to 
 the corner where they start.) — a rapt way. I am 
 sure she had sent in to him to know if he would 
 see her.' 
 
 Thus did one, at least, of the acquaintances of 
 Lady Lambeth account for her loitering. In point 
 of fact, the allusion to childlessness had escaped her. 
 She watched the last worshipper leave the building, 
 and then went home depressed to Park Street. 
 Her anxiety was not inconsiderable until the re- 
 appearance of Winifred in her accustomed chair on 
 the next Sunday morning set at rest the fear lest 
 she should have gone. 
 
 Since Winifred lived in a flat in Sloane Street, it 
 had not been difficult to learn cither her address or 
 her name, but here Lady Lambeth's information 
 
 K
 
 146 WINIFRED MOUNT 
 
 stopped short. She pointed her out to one or two 
 of her own friends who were unanimous in their 
 praise of her beauty, but who were equally ignorant 
 of her antecedents. Then Lady Lambeth, since 
 she was discreet, and saw that it might compromise 
 Winifred to draw attention to her isolation, ceased 
 to make inquiries. She cast about for some con- 
 ventional method of forming her acquaintance. 
 
 Winifred herself meanwhile was all unconscious of 
 the interest she evoked in one who was a stranger to 
 her. The loneliness of the year that had elapsed 
 since her father's death, and that had seen her fare- 
 well to Monkswood and her settlement in London 
 had been unspeakable. The Luttrells had been 
 away from Park Lane for a considerable part of it, 
 and Winifred had found herself without a friend. 
 She had occupied herself as best she could in the 
 arrangement and decoration of the flat she had 
 taken. This filled her thoughts for a time. But 
 there came a day when all was done, and she sat 
 down with idle hands and wondered to what good 
 were her labours. 
 
 Out of the emptiness of her life she watched the 
 lives of others. She saw happy girls — they looked 
 happy — shopping in Bond Street ; stepping out of 
 their carriages ; walking with their parents, or their 
 brothers, or their friends. She longed to attach
 
 WINIFRED MOUNT 147 
 
 herself to some human being. When the Luttrells 
 returned to London she watched the life of Elsie. 
 
 Miss Luttrell's success socially had been assured 
 since the night of her first ball. Had she wished it 
 she might have changed her lot long since, but, for 
 whatever reason, she had hitherto resolutely refused 
 to marry. 
 
 Perhaps Winifred's leisure allowed her to remark 
 small things which, under other circumstances, 
 would have escaped her. Be this as it may, an 
 idea formed itself in her mind one day when she 
 was at the Luttrells. She had observed that, while 
 Agatha Twine did not write much to Elsie, nor gush- 
 ingly of her, Elsie seemed to be attracted to every- 
 thing connected directly or indirectly with the 
 Twines, and spoke often of Agatha and kindly,. 
 
 Mrs Luttrell, on this particular day, was writing 
 notes in a little room off the drawing-room where 
 Winifred and Elsie were sitting. The talk had 
 turned upon Agatha, from whom it chanced that 
 Winifred had heard that morning. 
 
 ' She wrote from a place called White Acton,' 
 Winifred said. 
 
 The expression of Elsie's face thereupon called 
 Winifred's own attention to the name. A strange 
 moment followed. Two things seemed to be happen- 
 ing. She knew them to be unconnected. The name
 
 148 WINIFRED MOUNT 
 
 evidently had some association for Elsie, but it 
 awoke also a vague and elusive emotion in herself. 
 
 * Why has it a familiar sound to me ? ' she said. 
 
 The girls looked at each other curiously. Wini- 
 fred in a flash, and involuntarily, went through, in 
 retrospect, some of the emotions she had experi- 
 enced at Monkswood. Without consequence (ap- 
 parent to herself) she thought of a water-colour 
 and her mother's portrait. 
 
 * I cannot say,' said Elsie. 
 
 Her voice called Winifred's thoughts from her- 
 self to her friend, and to a further remarking of her 
 expression. 
 
 * White Acton belongs to Agatha's cousin, Percy 
 Twine,' Elsie said. 
 
 The words seemed to be drawn from her against 
 her inclination. 
 
 Then Winifred, putting aside the intangible and 
 and fleeting sensation she herself had momentarily 
 felt, noted only the demeanour of Elsie and formed 
 her conjecture. The next few sentences that were 
 spoken strengthened it. 
 
 ' Agatha disapproves of me,' Elsie said. ' She 
 thinks that our set is noisy. Perhaps it is. Do 
 you remember how I shocked her at Choseville 
 when I sang the thing I always call now a Song of 
 Sorts?'
 
 WINIFRED MOUNT 149 
 
 She broke into a laugh. 
 
 ' I can kick higher now, Winifred. You don't 
 know how I have improved.' 
 
 She became suddenly grave. 
 I wonder how much harm can be done to you 
 by one person who disapproves of you ? You 
 don't think any real harm could be done, do you ? ' 
 
 Winifred, thinking of her own wish to fight her 
 enemies, and of Miss Conder, was about to reply. 
 But it chanced that this was the moment when a 
 turning point was to be reached in her life, and 
 when Lady Lambeth's search was to be ended.
 
 CHAPTER XVI 
 
 WINIFRED and Elsie would probably have 
 continued to talk when Mrs Luttrell came 
 forward from the inner room to receive her visitor, 
 but Lady Lambeth contrived that the conversation 
 should be general. Several times she singled out 
 Winifred to address to her a trifling remark, and 
 once she asked her opinion definitely upon some 
 topic of current interest. 
 
 From that moment, so it seemed to Winifred 
 afterwards, dated her friendship with the widow of 
 the late ambassador at Phillipopolitzburg. It was 
 then, at least, that she looked at Lady Lambeth to 
 see what manner of woman she was. The kind- 
 ness of the face attracted her. There was a subtle 
 air of worldlincss and of love of life that in the 
 dulness of the days upon which she had now 
 fallen had its fascination. Winifred, in her loneli- 
 ness, seemed to be outside all the things which gave 
 to existence its joy. 
 
 150
 
 WINIFRED MOUNT 
 
 151 
 
 Lady Lambeth's weeds could not rob her seduc- 
 tive figure of its symbolism. Winifred instinctively 
 felt her to be the outward expression of much for 
 which she longed. 
 
 Lady Lambeth, upon her part, was in a little 
 flutter of suppressed excitement. She had ceased 
 to expect, in the course of her daily round of 
 visits, to hear anything of the stranger who oc- 
 cupied her thoughts so persistently. It was the 
 mere chance (so far as she knew) of having seen 
 by her visiting-book that she had not called at 
 the Luttrells for some time that took her to Park 
 Lane that afternoon, and, much as she liked Mrs 
 Luttrell and Elsie, a certain perversity of mood 
 had even made her hope, when she saw her foot- 
 man standing at the door after ringing the bell, 
 that the answer he would bring to her would be 
 * Not at home.' 
 
 It was almost with a start that, in the girl who 
 sat talking to Elsie at the moment she herself was 
 announced, she recognised Winifred Mount. 
 
 When the half-hour after five was struck, Wini- 
 fred began to draw on her gloves, and presently 
 rose to go. Lady Lambeth rose too. 
 
 ' Won't you let me give you a lift ? ' she said, 
 'if our directions are at all the same. Which way 
 do you go ? '
 
 152 WINIFRED MOUNT 
 
 * That is very kind of you,' said Winifred. She 
 hesitated for a moment, and then answered 
 frankly, * I live in Sloane Street.' 
 
 ' And that is my way/ said Lady Lambeth. * I 
 am going to the Ventnors in Lennox Gardens.' 
 
 She decided her direction with her pleasant 
 smile, and no hesitation whatever. 
 
 A couple of minutes later Winifred stepped into 
 Lady Lambeth's dainty brougham. It expressed 
 its owner just as its owner expressed the world in 
 which she lived. A red book was dominant in 
 Winifred's impression. 
 
 Lady Lambeth launched out in praise of the 
 Luttrells. 
 
 ' Elsie is my dear friend,' said Winifred. 
 
 ' You have known her a long time ? ' 
 
 ' We were at school together — at Choseville.' 
 
 * Now, let me see,' said Lady Lambeth ; ' I know 
 something of Choseville. There is a school there 
 kept by — dear me, how I forget names — it is the 
 name of a queen. . . .' 
 
 * Madame de Valois.' 
 
 ' That's it. She should be Marguerite. Is 
 she ? ' 
 
 * She is dead,' said Winifred ; ' and she was not 
 Marguerite. She was Caroline.' 
 
 'So you were at school there— and Elsie Lut-
 
 WINIFRED MOUNT 153 
 
 trell. I didn't know that. Was Lady Twine's 
 daughter there with you ? ' 
 
 ' Agatha ? ' said Winifred. * Oh, yes.' 
 
 ' The Twines are old friends of mine/ said Lady 
 Lambeth. * How has Agatha turned out ? How 
 has she grown up? I always thought her the 
 least bit prim.' 
 
 Winifred laughed. 
 
 ' Still ? ' said Lady Lambeth. 
 
 ' Conventional is the word, I think,' said Wini- 
 fred, smiling. 
 
 A sight of the Park gates reminded her suddenly 
 of her first drive in London. She had seen the 
 same bit of the town many hundred times since 
 then, but for some reason at this moment it re- 
 called to her the hopefulness of that day. Then 
 Choseville had been behind her, and before her an 
 untravelled country. Part of this country she had 
 since explored. Monkswood was behind her. 
 She stood more lonely now than before. 
 
 She heard Lady Lambeth's voice through the 
 reverie into which she had fallen. As she heard it, 
 it seemed to her once more that the future might 
 yet hold for her some good. 
 
 At the door of the red brick building, which 
 contained Winifred's home, Lady Lambeth took 
 her hand. She retained it for some moments.
 
 154 WINIFRED MOUNT 
 
 ' Won't you come and see me ? ' she said. 
 
 Winifred expressed the pleasure which the invi- 
 tation gave her. 
 
 ' No. 99A. You can't miss it. When will you 
 come ? ' 
 
 ' I — have no engagements,' said Winifred. 
 
 ' To-morrow ! I should like to fix a day, that I 
 might make a point of being in. I should not like 
 to miss you.' 
 
 * You are very good.' 
 
 * To-morrow, then. At what o'clock ? Won't 
 you lunch with me? That will be best; I want 
 to talk to you. I will ask no one else. Will you 
 come ? ' 
 
 ' Indeed, I will,' said Winifred. 
 
 The brougham drove off. A lift deposited Wini- 
 fred at her own door. She rang, and was admitted 
 by Dalton. 
 
 The drawing-room did not look so empty that 
 evening she thought. The warm glow of the fire- 
 light gave cheerful suggestion to its comfort A 
 pile of books stood on a low table near a deep 
 couch. There were many flowers. A huge white 
 chrysanthemum looked like a ball of curled ostrich 
 feathers. Winifred paused beside the table on 
 which it stood and marvelled at its whiteness. 
 
 At eight o'clock she went into the dining-room
 
 WINIFRED MOUNT 155 
 
 and ate her solitary dinner, Dalton attending with 
 ceremony. By half-past eight she was back again 
 in the drawing-room. She settled herself by the 
 fire with her books. 
 
 The evening, like every other evening, passed 
 without event. Sometimes Winifred was fretful, 
 and then the hours of loneliness were horrible ; 
 sometimes she was restless, and then they seemed 
 unending; sometimes she was sad, and her eyes 
 would fill with tears. The dulness was irksome 
 to her. It was an ugly fate which had condemned 
 her to solitude. More than once she turned her 
 thoughts to the stage — but without conviction. 
 She went to see pictures, and wished that she could 
 paint. She read a great deal, and wondered whether 
 she could write. She chose a name for a central 
 figure. She thought that she would like to write 
 about someone called Pamela. She wrote the word 
 on two or three sheets of notepaper, and there, 
 happily perhaps, her essay stopped. ' I w-ant an 
 interest,' she said to herself The pursuit of one 
 baffled her. She had thought at one time of look- 
 ing out for a companion, but the days and the wrecks 
 and the months went by and she could not make 
 up her mind to share her life with a stranger. The 
 sort of woman she would like would be difficult to 
 find, and to have about her a spirit uncongenial tu
 
 iS6 WINIFRED MOUNT 
 
 her would be insupportable. Hitherto, therefore, 
 she had lived alone, attended by her maid, another 
 woman servant, and Dalton. She had long since 
 talked out her case with Mrs Luttrell. 
 
 Mrs Luttrell had all the modern views, and re- 
 garded Winifred's position as picturesque and 
 attractive. She said that it symbolised the new 
 independence of women. There was as yet no 
 feminine equivalent for bachelor. Winifred lived 
 a bachelor life in bachelor rooms ; a term would 
 have to be invented. 
 
 * I think you ought to smoke,' said Elsie's 
 mother. 
 
 * But I don't care for it,' said Winifred. 
 
 ' And later on you must give small parties,' said 
 Mrs Luttrell ; ' you might get a reputation for little 
 dinners.' 
 
 ' It sounds nice,' Winifred said to herself with 
 a sigh; *but it seems to me that it is not in- 
 dependence that I symbolise so much as 
 loneliness.' 
 
 She had felt strange things in the room where 
 she now sat. Life had seemed to her a mystery 
 so inexplicable that at times the wish to have done 
 with it all had been allowed to form itself in her 
 mind. She had looked forward as she used to look 
 forward at Choseville, and she had seen a vista, long
 
 WINIFRED MOUNT 157 
 
 or short, of empty days ; or she had looked at her 
 hands and wondered whether there was any mean- 
 ing in their shape and texture, and in the h'ncs 
 which she saw marked in her palms. 
 
 * Am I always going to stand on the threshold 
 of life ? ' she asked herself suddenly. The years 
 that were gone had been thus spent she thought. 
 They had been a time of waiting. But hope ran 
 high within her to-night. She felt that this mystic 
 threshold was about to be crossed. What lay 
 upon the other side ? Welcome? Rebuff? What 
 matter, so that she should pass the portal ! 
 
 A vague excitement possessed her. The turn- 
 ing point was perhaps reached. She put down her 
 book and went to the window. She drew the cur- 
 tains and looked up Sloane Street. Lights dotted 
 the night. Lights flashed on cabs and carriages. 
 Lights shone so high from the windows of the 
 huge building that was red in the daytime, and 
 that defined Knightsbridge, that they seemed to 
 be lights in the sky itself, where the stars were 
 lesser lights. How the lights hurried across the 
 top of the street. There was movement in the 
 darkness, a movement of lights. That was like 
 life. 
 
 Many an hour had Winifred spent at this upper 
 window looking down upon the street. The interest
 
 158 WINIFRED MOUNT 
 
 of it was unending, if sometimes it was disquieting. 
 When it told her that she was apart from, and out- 
 side all that made existence a thing that was estim- 
 able and to be desired, then it was disquieting. 
 When she could regard it objectively it gave her 
 pleasure, as a book which is absorbing can take 
 one's thoughts and give one solace. Once while 
 the story of the street was beguiling her solitude in 
 such a way, an incident gave her a sudden thrust of 
 pain. She was witness to an accident. A dog-cart 
 containing two men was run into by a hansom, and 
 one of the men was thrown heavily to the ground. 
 A crowd collected, during the thronging of which 
 Winifred could see little for the press. Then the 
 crowd broke, and when the dog-cart emerged from 
 it the man who had been thrown out of it was 
 leaning against his companion. 
 
 Winifred lived again through the moment that 
 gave back to her her father dead, and in that 
 atom of time realised the loss she had sustained. 
 There were hours and days in which she could not 
 gauge it. 
 
 Her loneliness, and perhaps a certain modernity 
 in her nature, drove her to introspection. She was 
 philosophical, rebellious, resigned, unreasonable and 
 the like, and the unlike by turns. She despaired, 
 and she hoped.
 
 WINIFRED MOUNT 159 
 
 On the night of which I write, the movement in 
 the street harmonised with the elation of her mood. 
 Presently, in her contemplation of the things that 
 passed, she lost sight of herself
 
 CHAPTER XVII 
 
 THE house in Park Street was big and sump- 
 tuous. It had a square hall, whence the 
 staircase mounted to a landing which ran as a 
 gallery across the width of the quadrangle. 
 
 Winifred, as she followed the butler up the wide 
 marble steps, was impressed but not awed. She 
 had, as we know, mixed little with the world, but 
 her self-possession was inherent. A line of suffi- 
 ciently creditable ancestors, ignorant as she was 
 of their names, or their modes of life, or aught that 
 concerned them, had steadily accumulated for her 
 a quality of which the outward signs were, surprise 
 at nothing, and the accepting of luxury, ease, atten- 
 tion, respect, as her due. She could none the less 
 have met hardship bravely had necessity so ruled. 
 
 Lady Lambeth received her in her boudoir. 
 This was a small yellow room with blue hangings. 
 A portrait of the late ambassador at Phillipopolitz- 
 burg hung on one of the walls. There were a great 
 
 i6o
 
 WINIFRED MOUNT i6i 
 
 many photographs framed and unframed upon the 
 tables and ledges and shelves. There were photo- 
 graphs in gold brocade screens upon the top of the 
 piano. Winifred gathered from this that Lady 
 Lambeth was fond of music, but not musical. All 
 the chairs were deep and comfortable. A lounge 
 with huge silk cushions and a lamp above it 
 suggested reading and indolence. The lower half 
 of the room was lined with bookcases. There 
 were books in abundance. They lay about. Some 
 French books by their yellow binding reminded 
 Winifred of a certain shop window at Choseville. 
 
 There were a few moments of restraint after the 
 first greeting was over. Each remembered how 
 slight was her acquaintance with the other. Wini- 
 fred was thinking with wonder of her sensations of 
 the night before ; Lady Lambeth was hoping that 
 no disappointment was in store for her. 
 
 A small thing re-established the rapport between 
 them. An Angora kitten, which was playing on 
 the rug before the fire, suddenly ran up Winifred's 
 dress and climbed with embedded claws to her 
 shoulder. 
 
 'You dear little thing,' said Winifred, nestling 
 her cheek against the soft long fur. 
 
 * Oh, don't you mind ? ' said Lady Lambeth. 
 * Doesn't it bore you ! ' 
 
 L
 
 i62 WINIFRED MOUNT 
 
 ' No/ said Winifred ; ' I like kittens.' 
 
 There was a pause. 
 
 'But they wound one a little sometimes,' she 
 added. 
 
 ' Is she sticking her claws into you ? ' said Lady 
 Lambeth. ' Don't let her. She will scratch you.' 
 
 * I didn't mean that,' said Winifred ; (* and she is 
 not scratching me,' she put in as an after thought, 
 and with a smile.) * I meant — ' 
 
 * But I know what you meant,' said Lady Lam- 
 beth quickly. * They are like most of the beautiful 
 things that one loves. They give nothing in return. 
 I am not sure that they even se laissent aimer! 
 
 The kitten jumped down. 
 
 Winifred wondered whether it was the late am- 
 bassador at Phillipopolitzburg whom Lady Lam- 
 beth had loved, and whether he had been active or 
 passive in his affections. However this might be, 
 she felt herself once more drawn towards his 
 widow. 
 
 ' Fickle little friend,' she said to the kitten. 
 
 Lady Lambeth helped her to divest herself of 
 her coat, and luncheon was announced. They went 
 to the dining-room. There was a friendliness in the 
 smallness of the table that had been laid for them. 
 The room itself was very large, and the furniture 
 was somehwat ponderous. The small table gave to
 
 WINIFRED MOUNT 163 
 
 the meal a sense of intimacy without which the 
 two (or one of them) might have felt the size of the 
 room to be oppressive. 
 
 Lady Lambeth spoke again of the Luttrells and 
 the Twines. A common subject would introduce 
 others. The school at Choseville and the propriety 
 of Agatha were touched upon once more. A course 
 of London, a season, a little knocking about, Lady 
 Lambeth thought, would relieve Miss Twine of a 
 primness that was out of date. Then London 
 became the topic of conversation. Lady Lambeth 
 mentioned one or two names. 
 
 Winifred shook her head. 
 
 * I don't know anybody,' she said frankly. 
 
 Lady Lambeth thought this odd, but did not say 
 so. The king and Lady Lambeth's newest friend 
 could do no wrong. 
 
 Winifred's hat cast a shadow over her eyes. 
 ' Bewildering ' was a term which was applied to 
 them later, when Miss Mount did know people and 
 was known of them in London. They were clear 
 as spring water and blue as a forget-me-not. When 
 she raised her head, so that the light smote them, 
 Lady Lambeth could see the exquisite delicacy of 
 the tracing of the irises. 
 
 ' Aren't you always being photographed ? ' she 
 said, smiling.
 
 i64 WINIFRED MOUNT 
 
 ' I was photographed two years ago at Chose- 
 ville,' said Winifred 
 
 * And you haven't been done by any of the big 
 people in London ? My dear — you must forgive 
 me and remember that I am sitting opposite to you, 
 so that I see you all the time ! — my dear, if I were 
 like you, I think I should spend my time in being 
 photographed.' 
 
 Winifred was pleased and laughed. 
 
 * To what good ? ' she said, ' I have no one to 
 give them to.' 
 
 ' You must have friends.' 
 
 ' A few school girls. I — know very few 
 people at all, Lady Lambeth.' 
 
 Her tone changed. Something of melancholy in 
 it or in the words themselves made Lady Lambeth 
 look at the girl's black dress. From that she looked 
 at the crape upon her own sleeve, and thought that 
 mourning should make a bond between them. 
 
 ' You have lost someone you loved ? ' she said 
 gently. 
 
 ' My father,' said Winifred. 
 
 Lady Lambeth murmured something which 
 Winifred took for the sympathy for which it was 
 intended. A few moments passed in silence. A 
 servant handed a dish and filled the pause. The 
 kitten, which had made its way into the room, played
 
 WINIFRED MOUNT 165 
 
 round the august legs of a footman. He looked 
 straight ahead in lofty unconsciousness. His ex- 
 pression struck Winifred as comical, and she had an 
 inclination to laugh. By so little was merriment 
 divorced from sadness. 
 
 Friendship established itself between the woman 
 and the girl. It built itself quickly, but the 
 materials were sound and the labour was honest. 
 
 ' You don't know how long I have been wishing 
 to know you,' said Lady Lambeth.' 
 
 ' Me ? ' said Winifred. 
 
 Lady Lambeth inclined her head slowly. 
 
 ' But you had never seen me till yesterday ? ' 
 
 ' Oh, but I had ! ' 
 
 ' Where ? How ? ' 
 
 ' I knew where you lived even.' 
 
 Again, how ? 
 
 Winifred was smiling, with her eyebrows raised 
 in question. 
 
 ' I had the curiosity to find out. It wasn't 
 curiosity quite. May I say interest? You don't 
 know how you have interested me, do interest 
 me.' 
 
 ' I wonder why,' said Winifred. ' I have nearly 
 lost all interest in myself.' 
 
 ' Let us go back to my sitting-room,' said Lady 
 Lambeth.
 
 i66 WINIFRED MOUNT 
 
 She put her hand lightly on the girl's arm. 
 They crossed the big hall and ascended the stairs. 
 
 ' Don't you pity me in this empty house ? ' 
 
 * I pity anyone who lives alone.' 
 
 At the top of the stairs Winifred paused to look 
 down. A big palm spread its leaves below her. 
 The ubiquitous kitten played round the base of a 
 pillar. It struck Winifred that it came to much 
 the same thing as playing round the legs of a foot- 
 man. Some portraits faced her, a Gainsborough, 
 a Sir Joshua, and a third that had not a name. 
 
 Lady Lambeth indicated the last. 
 
 ' My mother,' she said. 
 
 Winifred said yes. She felt that she should say 
 something more. 
 
 * What a sweet face,' she said. ' You have her 
 eyes. Lady Lambeth. Aren't you thought like her ? ' 
 
 ' Yes, there was a likeness.' 
 
 ' I hardly knew my mother,' said Winifred ; ' I 
 was so young when she died — not quite three. I 
 try to remember her. Sometimes I think that I do 
 almost. I should like to remember her. Do you 
 think it would be possible ? ' 
 
 ' It is said that we never really forget anything.' 
 
 Winifred turned from the picture to her hostess. 
 
 ' Then perhaps I shall remember,' she said ; but 
 she seemed to be speaking partly to herself.
 
 WINIFRED MOUNT 167 
 
 They made their way to the blue and yellow 
 room. Lady Lambeth drew up two large wicker 
 chairs to the fire. 
 
 * I am not at home to anyone,' she told the ser- 
 vant who brought in coffee. 
 
 Winifred settled herself comfortably amongst the 
 cushions. The thought that life was no longer to 
 be a lonely thing gained with her. 
 
 * Tell me where you had seen me, Lady Lam- 
 beth ? ' she said presently. 
 
 * I sit near you in church.' 
 
 The admission was sufficiently prosaic. 
 
 * Let me confess at once that I have tried to find 
 out something about you — ' 
 
 ' Something about me — ' said Winifred. 
 
 ' Oh, don't misunderstand me,' Lady Lambeth 
 hastened to say ; * someone who knew you — some- 
 one through whom I could get to know you. I 
 have wanted to know you so much. You mustn't 
 mind that. I often watched you walking home 
 from church. I have held back on purpose. Then 
 I met you at Mrs Luttrell's. I could not let you 
 slip. I invented my visit to Lady Ventnor, who is 
 out of town (as I feared Mrs Luttrell might know), 
 to make your direction mine. Now, are you angry? 
 Do you dislike me ?' 
 
 ' How could I be angry ? ' said Winifred.
 
 1 68 WINIFRED MOUNT 
 
 She looked into the fire, smiling absently. It 
 was pleasant (after a year of solitude, and of realis- 
 ing with a gripping at the heart that she belonged 
 to nobody, that her weal or her woe were of insignifi- 
 cant import) to find that someone had been watching 
 her life with well-wishing concern. The warmth of 
 the room, the colour, the restfulness of the chair in 
 which she sat, the fragrance of the coffee, the scent 
 of some violets massed in a flat bowl, all had their 
 part in the emotions of the moment. She raised 
 her eyes presently from the glowing coals and met 
 Lady Lambeth's kind look. 
 
 * You give me some hope,' Winifred said ; ' you 
 make me very glad. You don't know how black 
 the future has looked sometimes. I am so awfully 
 alone. I have not a relation in the world — ' 
 
 ' Won't you tell me ? ' 
 
 * I think I have been alone all my life. I lived 
 at school. I never went home for the holidays. 
 Madame de Valois was my only friend. I loved 
 her. But it was dreadful never to go home. The 
 loneliness was not so dreadful then. I know that 
 now. I was waiting, and there was something 
 before me. Lately there has seemed to be nothing 
 before me.' 
 
 * But your father ? ' 
 
 ' I went to him at last. I had a few weeks of
 
 WINIFRED MOUNT 169 
 
 great happiness. We had never known each other 
 till then, or we should never have been separated. I 
 loved him. . . . Oh dearly, dearly ! He was not to 
 blame for not having me home. I don't know why 
 he did not, but he was not to blame. I know that. 
 He would have told me his reasons if he had lived, 
 but he died.' 
 
 What a meagre story it was. Winifred told it 
 in all its bareness. She did not try to explain. If 
 her friendship with Lady Lambeth was to progress 
 it should stand upon a fair basis. There was an 
 analogy between her honesty and her wish to face 
 her antagonists. 
 
 ' And so I am alone,' she added after a pause. 
 
 Lady Lambeth leant forward and put her hand 
 gently on the girl's arm. 
 
 Will you forgive me if I ask you a question ? ' 
 
 * Yes, of course ; I think I know what it will be. 
 The great grief of my father's life was the death 
 of my mother.' 
 
 ' They were on good terms.' 
 
 * He worshipped her.' 
 
 Lady Lambeth was convinced of Winifred's sin- 
 cerity. At the least the girl herself believed the 
 thing she stated, and this was enough for so modern 
 a woman as Lady Lambeth. 
 
 'So that's my story,' said Winifred. I stand,
 
 170 WINIFRED MOUNT 
 
 alone, you see, and I have to make a life for my- 
 self.' 
 
 ' Will you let me help you ? ' 
 
 * Do you think me extraordinary for telling you 
 so much about myself?' 
 
 The thought struck Winifred that 'so little' 
 would have expressed the case she had stated 
 just as well.
 
 CHAPTER XVIII 
 
 GIRLS were not often rude (or even indifferent) 
 to Percy Twine, and a certain speech which 
 he had once overheard, and which he had taken as 
 levelled deliberately at him by lips which he had 
 been admiring, for this reason, perhaps, recurred to 
 him at undetermined intervals. He remembered the 
 speech and the face of the speaker at odd moments. 
 The recollection was fugitive or fixed. Sometimes 
 the tone of the voice was recalled, sometimes the 
 words alone. 
 
 At twenty-six Percy Twine, an orphan, an only 
 son, and rich at that, found the world a pleasant 
 place enough. It met him on every hand with such 
 smiling approval that had it spoilt him it could in 
 fairness have expected little else. But in a frank 
 nature, oddly mixed with a knowledge of life, and 
 a very nice discernment, lay his protection. Lady 
 Twine, to whom Percy was uniformly delightful, had 
 a vague impression that her nephew read her like 
 a book, and that, fresh and ingenuous as was his face, 
 
 171
 
 172 WINIFRED MOUNT 
 
 and enchanting as was his manner, an elusive smile 
 flitted disconcertingly about his sleeve when she 
 trotted out the virtues of Agatha. Agatha had 
 such tact. Percy, with grave mouth and dancing 
 eyes, agreed readily. Agatha could receive and 
 entertain a roomful of guests when Lady Twine 
 had one of her headaches. How few girls could 
 do that ! And Agatha had none of the tastes of 
 the day. She did not do skirt-dancing nor sing 
 equivocally to the banjo. That was true said Percy, 
 and talked about the weather. Lady Twine could 
 make the weather lead back to Agatha. 
 
 Percy could draw off. Occasionally he met the 
 advances of his aunt with open banter, she but 
 partially taking the meaning of much that he said, 
 his uncle keenly appreciative, Agatha, when she 
 was by, alternately blushing and frowning. The 
 banter, incompletely as she understood it in its 
 subtler phases, Lady Twine found more easy to 
 meet than the twinkling of eyes in a grave face. 
 
 Agatha sometimes said to herself that she wished 
 that her mother would not meddle. She had a 
 certain faith in her own attractions, and would have 
 preferred to let them take their chance. But Lady 
 Twine believed in assisting providence. Her own 
 mother had assisted providence in the capture of 
 Sir William, and the wish to help was inherent
 
 WINIFRED MOUNT 173 
 
 Agatha had a shrewd suspicion that the aid 
 tendered to the powers that be had its result 
 in the paucity and the shortness of the visits of 
 Percy to Twinecombe (pronounced, be it here said, 
 Twickom) and the long intervals that elapsed 
 between the invitations which he sent to them 
 for White Acton. To be sure he spent a good 
 deal of his time abroad. He was of a more or 
 less roving disposition, and change for him spelt 
 charm. But he was not so much away from home, 
 Agatha was sure, as he would have had his Twine- 
 combe relations suppose, and there were house 
 parties at White Acton to which they were not 
 invited. 
 
 White Acton, was, in point of fact, a black and 
 white Acton. It had gables and long, low rooms. 
 Percy, smoked out of his father's place in Lanca- 
 shire by the uprising of a thousand chimneys, had, 
 on attaining his majority, sold his interest in the 
 profitable ironworks which had enriched his pro- 
 genitors, and retired from a grimy country, where 
 the earth was cinder and the trees were painted 
 with coal dust, to a country which was green and 
 natural. White Acton, owing to certain structural 
 inconveniences, had been for some years in the 
 market when Percy decided to buy it and make 
 it his home. Ample leisure, since he had severed
 
 174 WINIFRED MOUNT 
 
 his connection with the works, and ample means 
 enabled him to set about altering such parts of the 
 house as needed reconstruction or improvement. 
 He built a big dining-room, a billiard-room, added 
 some bedrooms, and enlarged the stables. When 
 this was done, he found that he had one of the 
 most charming of the small properties in the 
 neighbourhood , and that, though he was a settler, 
 he was speedily received into the inmost of the 
 inner sets. He had, of course, friends in the 
 county when he chose it as his abode. He came, 
 then, to a land ready to receive him. He expected 
 its hands ; it extended its arms. He wished some- 
 times that people would not make it so very ob- 
 vious to him that it was demanded of him that he 
 should marry. He told himself that he was very 
 happy as he was, and that he enjoyed his inde- 
 pendence. The fact, indeed, that marriage was 
 expected of him tended to make him nurse his 
 freedom the more fondly. The young women of 
 the county found him frank, open, a dear friend, a 
 good comrade, and, within certain limits, even in- 
 cautious, but he was not to be trapped. He had a 
 very fair knowledge of how close to the fire he 
 might venture himself without singeing his wings. 
 Occasionally he wondered whether he had any to
 
 WINIFRED MOUNT 
 
 75 
 
 Once, strangely enough, when he had been specu- 
 lating upon this nice point, there recurred to him 
 the face of the girl who had made the rude speech. 
 
 Lady Twine, in the first instance, had invited 
 herself to White Acton. This was before Agatha 
 left school, and as an aunt and a mother. Lady 
 Twine thought it her duty to explore the land. 
 
 She told Percy that women were designing, if 
 he knew what she meant. She instanced three, 
 and issued warnings. Miss Cubson, the daughter 
 of the M. F. H., would, she thought, like to install 
 herself at White Acton. Percy listened with grave 
 attention, and duly reported to his aunt a year later 
 the marriage of the lady in question to the son of 
 a wealthy peer. A Miss Brown (her name was 
 Brown-Lymington, but Lady Twine insisted upon 
 calling her Miss Brown) was another of those under 
 suspicion of conspiring at the consortship of White 
 Acton. Percy knew at the time that Miss Brown- 
 Lymington thought the sun rose and set in a friend 
 of his own to whom she was at that moment engaged. 
 He did not enlighten his aunt upon the state of the 
 case, nor upon that of the third lady, who, since she 
 was already the wife of a neighbouring squire, could 
 scarcely, except by such means as murder or di- 
 vorce, have designs upon the new-comer. There 
 were those who had, but Lady Twine had not
 
 176 WINIFRED MOUNT 
 
 chanced upon them, and Percy laughed a good 
 deal. The years went by. Agatha left school. 
 Percy Twine was still unmarried. 
 
 This was satisfactory, but it was also very serious. 
 Either Agatha must secure her cousin, or else other 
 young men must be asked to the house and en- 
 couraged. Agatha herself, having been thrown 
 deliberately at his head, now had the misfortune 
 to fall in love with him. Lady Twine saw the 
 symptoms with approval and alarm. 
 
 She sounded her daughter as to what had passed 
 between them. Nothing had passed between them. 
 Agatha changed the conversation. She spoke of 
 Elsie Luttrell. She had twice mentioned Miss 
 Luttrell's name directly after that of Percy Twine. 
 
 ' We ought to ask her here/ 
 
 Lady Twine raised her aristocratic nose, and 
 said that she did not care much for Mrs Luttrell. 
 
 * She allows her daughter to dance in public,' she 
 said, in much the same tone as might have been 
 employed to announce that Miss Luttrell was 
 allowed to jump through hoops or to stand on 
 her head. 
 
 Percy Twine had spoken of the dancing of Miss 
 Luttrell (to whom Agatha had introduced him on 
 the occasion of a certain theatre party which we 
 heard of at the time, and may or may not remem-
 
 WINIFRED MOUNT 177 
 
 ber) as a thing of exquisite grace and perfect re- 
 straint and refinement. 
 
 Since that night, which was that of the arrival 
 of Winifred Mount in England, Miss Luttrell and 
 Percy had met several times in London. In town, 
 less was expected of him than at White Acton or 
 Twinecombe, and in the friendship which in a very 
 short time established itself between Percy and 
 the girl who was allowed to dance in public, he 
 gave himself more freedom than he could permit 
 to himself in such friendships as were jealously 
 watched. Agatha, whose instincts were reliable 
 if her views were somewhat narrow, had a suffi- 
 ciently clear conception of the state of the case. 
 She was quick to recognise in Elsie Luttrell a rival. 
 She had enough intuitive discernment to know 
 that, as a rival, Elsie must be important, but she 
 had not the generosity to continue to like her 
 school friend. 
 
 She agreed with her mother in her disapproval 
 of Mrs Luttrell, and included Elsie in the disap- 
 probation which she expressed. To Percy she 
 dared once, but not again, to do more than covertly 
 hint that the house in Park Lane was a little bit 
 noisy. 
 
 ' Poor Elsie,' she said (it was while she and 
 Lady Twine were paying the visit to White Acton, 
 
 M
 
 178 WINIFRED MOUNT 
 
 which was mentioned indirectly in a recent chap- 
 ter); 'poor Elsie, I hope she won't become fast. 
 Two or three people have told mamma they don't 
 like the set they meet at Mrs Luttrell's.' 
 
 Percy said Mrs Luttrell's parties were charm- 
 ing. 
 
 * It's different for a man,' said Agatha. ' I know 
 Lady Hurlingham was very indignant at being 
 asked to dinner to meet Mrs — well, I won't men- 
 tion names. . . .' 
 
 Percy said he thought he knew whom his cousin 
 meant. Mrs Luttrell, he further said, had been 
 very kind to the lady in question. 
 
 * She helped her to tide over a very delicate 
 crisis. Practically, through the kindness of Mrs 
 Luttrell, a woman in a false and cruel position 
 was enabled to get out of it and was reinstated.' 
 
 Agatha raised her eyebrows. She had not 
 known, she said, that Mrs Luttrell's name would 
 have carried so much weight. She was very glad 
 to hear it. But she had only repeated what she 
 had heard, and Lady Hurlingham had said that 
 she should not go to the house again. 
 
 Percy suggested that Lady Hurlingham was 
 notoriously pig-headed. 
 
 ' Still, it is dreadful for Elsie,' said Agatha, with 
 the uncomfortable conviction that the deliberate
 
 WINIFRED MOUNT 179 
 
 passage-at-arms with her cousin had done her 
 own cause little good. ' Poor Elsie ! She used to 
 be quite a nice girl.' 
 
 ' She takes you for her friend/ Percy said quietly. 
 
 Agatha flushed to the roots of her hair. She 
 knew that she was laid bare before him. She had 
 not a rag with which to cover herself from his eyes. 
 She left White Acton with her mother at the end 
 of the visit for which they had been asked, know- 
 ing that its term was practically so much time lost. 
 
 The wish to retrieve such grace in his eyes as 
 she felt herself to have forfeited evinced itself in 
 a note which Percy Twine received from her a 
 month or two later. A big ball was about to take 
 place in the neighbourhood of Twinecombe. Her 
 mother was making up a party for it. Elsie Lut- 
 trell was amongst those who were coming ; would 
 he come ? 
 
 Percy Twine was alone at White Acton. He 
 had been intending to go abroad for the rest of the 
 winter, and was wavering between Algiers and 
 Biarritz. People wanted him to join them at each 
 place. There was nothing to prevent him from 
 going to Twinecombe first for a week. So he 
 decided to accept the invitation.
 
 CHAPTER XIX 
 
 A FEW days later, Percy Twine, in a monstrous 
 coat that suggested comfortable travelling, 
 collected the books and papers with which he had 
 beguiled the hours of his journey, threw his rug to 
 a porter, described his portmanteau, and emerged 
 from the train on to the platform of the station for 
 Twinecombe. 
 
 Sir William, driving a fine pair of bays, was 
 there to meet him, and gave him a hearty wel- 
 come. Percy saw that his luggage was safely put 
 into the cart, which already held the trunks of an 
 earlier arrival, and swung himself up into the 
 phaeton beside his uncle. 
 
 The usual questions of greeting were exchanged. 
 Percy had had an easy journey. Cold ? Yes ; but 
 he was armed against it. How was Aunt Victoria? 
 Well. And Agatha ? Fairly well. 
 
 I So
 
 WINIFRED MOUNT i8i 
 
 ' Hope you've brought your dancing legs with 
 you, my boy. You won't have much rest. I am 
 glad to say your aunt has got together a very 
 creditable lot of girls. Miss Luttrell, Agatha's 
 friend, is as pretty a young woman as I've seen 
 for many a day — that was her luggage in the 
 cart' 
 
 Percy said something about his uncle as a judge 
 of young women. It tickled Sir William hugely. 
 He didn't mind admitting, he said, that there was 
 a time .... Well ! . . . . 
 
 Percy risked a remark anent his aunt. 
 
 ' H'm, yes,' said his uncle. 
 
 There had been a sprinkling of snow in the 
 morning. The roads and the fields were lightly 
 covered with it. Over it blew a keen wind that 
 had shaken the fine powder partly off the trees 
 and hedges, and that made Percy's cheeks to 
 tingle. The pale beams of a declining sun slanted 
 down from the west, and colours were vivid. Here 
 the twigs had the tints and the lustre of copper. 
 The breast of a robin perched on a gate was in- 
 sistently red against the snow, and the blue of the 
 smoke rising from a cottage chimney was intense. 
 It arrested Percy's attention, and, incidentally, he 
 marvelled that this filmy, wreathing thing, exquisite 
 in changing form and colour, should be called by a
 
 i82 WINIFRED MOUNT 
 
 common name with the soot-laden outpouring of 
 the chimneys that had driven him from his early 
 home to White Acton. 
 
 The horses trotted evenly along the road, that 
 gave out a sound as their hoofs struck it, despite 
 the layer of snow. This was too thinly sprinkled, 
 and too powdery in its nature to muffle the pleasant 
 noise, except where the wind had swept up the 
 frozen particles to a deeper drift. 
 
 Sir William talked ahead. The horses had been 
 roughed that morning. Yes, they went well to- 
 gether, didn't they ? The near one had a way of 
 throwing out his hindquarters going down hill, but 
 the driver meant to break him of it. It was a 
 small thing. And look at his action on the flat 
 Percy duly admired it. 
 
 ' Your aunt wanted to have 'em out to-night for 
 the ball. I think I see myself sending my carriage 
 horses to be put in a draughty stable, with lord 
 knows what other beasts, and then to wait for an 
 hour, perhaps, in the snow at four o'clock in the 
 morning ! I know what girls are when they get to 
 a ball — carriage at the door and the young women 
 not to be got together for at least another 
 half - dozen dances. No, no, my boy ! I 
 have hired the omnibus from the *' Cap and 
 Bells. " '
 
 WINIFRED MOUNT 183 
 
 Twinecombe came into sight, then disappeared 
 as the road crossed a bridge, to reappear at a bend 
 five minutes later. It rose out of trees on the side 
 of a hill. The river ran below it, in the valley. A 
 winding drive led upwards, through larches and 
 firs, out of which some pigeons flew deeper into 
 the wood as the carriage turned in at the lodge 
 gates. 
 
 In the drawing-room, half-an-hour later, when 
 Lady Twine was pouring out tea and platitudes, 
 Percy, watching Agatha who did not look well, he 
 thought, and Elsie who did, gathered that, though 
 Miss Luttrell had been invited to the house, and 
 he himself had been definitely asked to meet her, 
 his cousin was not the less inimical to her school 
 friend. Relations, indeed, struck him as being 
 somewhat strained between them. 
 
 Agatha's sweetness had in it an after-taste that 
 was not sweet. Miss Luttrell was bafflingly good- 
 tempered. She felt, perhaps, that the manner of 
 her meeting with Percy was under observation, and 
 she greeted him with frank good-will. They had 
 met last in London. She reminded him of the 
 occasion. 
 
 * You danced,' said Percy, * and how the Arch- 
 bishop of Yorkbury applauded you. I can hear 
 him now.'
 
 i84 WINIFRED MOUNT 
 
 Agatha pricked up her ears at the mention of 
 His Grace. 
 
 ' I always wonder,' she said to one of the party 
 as she gave him her cup, — ' I always wonder 
 whether it was a skirt dance that the daughter 
 of Herod ias danced before Herod. They were so 
 much civilised, even in those days.' 
 
 The man she addressed, unconscious that he was 
 championing any one, said something (trite enough 
 to be worthy of Lady Twine herself) about the 
 dancing of Miriam, the lawgiver's sister. 
 
 Sir William brought matters to safer levels by 
 announcing the hour at which the omnibus would 
 start for the ball, and in the course of the next few 
 moments a new-comer, speaking of Twinecombe, 
 pronounced it as it was spelt. 
 
 * Twickom,' said Lady Twine, giving the syllables 
 their accustomed value. * It is called Twickom.' 
 
 It would be difficult to say on what superior 
 grounds Agatha's mother derived satisfaction from 
 the accident that she lived in a place the name of 
 which was not to be given as it was spelt. But so 
 it was. 
 
 * What are you writing on your cuff?' said 
 Agatha to her cousin. 
 
 An essay, he said, in the anti-phonetic manner 
 of a certain sporting paper.
 
 WINIFRED MOUNT 185 
 
 Agatha read : — 
 
 ' There was a young man once at Twinecombe, 
 Who said " Roses ! behold I will pinecombe." 
 But the roses said " No, 
 Take your hands off, sir. Go ! 
 If you don't, with our thorns we will prinecombe." ' 
 
 Agatha looked at Percy and laughed. She 
 sighed a moment later as she thought how im- 
 probable would such conduct be on the part of 
 one rose she knew. 
 
 The game caught on. Pencils and scraps of 
 paper were found. 
 
 Lady Twine could not be made to understand. 
 
 * But what does pinecombe mean ? And oughtn't 
 the word to be cone, not combe ? Surely pinecone 
 is the word.' 
 
 Percy explained to her that pinecombe repre- 
 sented pick 'em. 
 
 * And I never heard of prinecombe,' said Lady 
 Twine. 
 
 * It's prick 'em, mamma,' said Agatha. 
 
 Her head was aching and she bit the end of her 
 pencil as she sought vainly for a ryhme. Elsie was 
 writing rapidly, and smiling a little as she wrote. 
 Her smile distracted Agatha's attention ; so did the 
 movements of Lady Twine, who had crossed over 
 to a bookcase and was running her eye along a 
 line of volumes. 
 
 N
 
 i86 WINIFRED MOUNT 
 
 There was more or less silence in the room. 
 The pencils were plied softly. Elsie tapped hers 
 against her shining teeth, when she had put down 
 her paper. Agatha, who wished to embody some 
 meaning in her lines, had not got further than 
 
 * There was a young man once at Twinecombe,' 
 
 when Percy consulted his watch and cried, — 
 
 * Time ! ' 
 
 She gave an exclamation of impatience. 
 
 ' I beg your pardon,' said Percy. 
 
 ' Nothing,' said Agatha shortly. 
 
 Their eyes met. 
 
 The verses that were handed round and that 
 caused so much amusement were, it must be 
 admitted, sufficiently indifferent. In one, the lines 
 had the feet of a centipede. In another construc- 
 tion, sense and metre were pushed to the wall in the 
 struggle to fit in words that would rhyme. A list 
 of such words was written down the margin of 
 the paper, and the poet, it seemed, had chosen 
 therefrom at random. Some had local allusions. 
 Agatha's had in intention, but Agatha's had not 
 got beyond the first line, and so did not exist. 
 
 A verse that was typical enough had refer- 
 ence to an incident which had occurred in the 
 summer, —
 
 WINIFRED MOUNT 187 
 
 • There was an old person of Twinecombe 
 Who was worried by wasps, and to flinecombe, 
 His handkerchief took out, 
 The wasps, on the look-out, 
 Said " Stings ! into you we will, stinecombe." ' 
 
 ' Old person ? ' cried Sir William. ' How dare 
 you? Who wrote that ? You, Miss Luttrell ? By 
 George, if you did, you shall give me the first dance 
 at the ball to-night. How did you know I was 
 stung in the summer ? Beggars ! I killed 'em both.' 
 
 Miss Luttrell, laughing, shook her head. 
 
 * But you shall have your dance, Sir William.' 
 Percy broke in to spout, — 
 
 * There was a young lady at Twinecombe 
 Who, when asked for some dances, said " Pinecombe." ' 
 
 * You wrote it yourself, you young reprobate,' said 
 his uncle. ' Old person, indeed ! I can't threaten to 
 dance with ye, Percy. I've a good mind to leave 
 you behind.' 
 
 * Put him on the roof,' said someone. 
 
 * Where I would smoke in peace,' said Percy. 
 Here Lady Twine interrupted the banter, to say 
 
 that she had looked the matter out in the diction- 
 ary and that pinecombe was incorrect. The word, 
 as she had known all along, was cone. 
 
 There remained one more verse to read. It 
 was Miss Luttrell's, and, written in an extravagant
 
 i88 WINIFRED MOUNT 
 
 mood, for which the attitude of Agatha was partly 
 responsible, it ran, — 
 
 ' There was a young lady at Twinecombe 
 Who said '* Ceilings ! you just see me kinecombe." 
 Each man winked his eye, 
 But the ladies said " Fie ! 
 Such manners, up where did you pinecombe." ' 
 
 But as Percy held out his hand for it, Miss Lut- 
 trell changed her mind, and, instead of giving him 
 the paper, she tore it up. 
 
 Agatha looked at her inquiringly. 
 
 END OF VOL. I. 
 
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 extra gilt ornament. Js. dd. 
 
 ' Mr. Kipling's verse is strong, vivid, full of character. . . . Unmista k able genius 
 rings in every line.' — Times. 
 
 'The disreputable lingo of Cockayne is henceforth justified before the world ; for a 
 man of genius has taken it in hand, and has shown, beyond all cavilling, that in 
 its way it also is a medium for literature. You are grateful, and you say to 
 yourself, half in envy and half in admiration : " Here is a book ; here, or one is a 
 Dutchman, is one of the books of the year." ' — National Observer. 
 
 ' "Barrack -Room Ballads" conuins some of the best work that Mr. Kipling has 
 ever done, which is saying a good deal. " Fuzzy-Wuzzy," " Gunga Din," and 
 " Tommy," are, in our opinion, altogether superior to anything of the kind that 
 English literature has hitherto produced.' — Athenctutn. 
 
 ' These ballads are as wonderful in their descriptive power as they are vigorous in 
 their dramatic force. There are few ballads in the English language more 
 stirring than "The Ballad of East and West," worthy to stand by the Border 
 ballads of Scott' — Spectator. 
 
 ' The ballads teem with imagination, they palpitate with emotion. We read them 
 with laughter and tears ; the metres throb in our pulses, the cunningly ordered 
 words tingle with life ; and if this be not poetry, what isV— Pall Mail Gazette. 
 
 Henley. LYRA HEROICA : An Anthology selected from the 
 
 best English Verse of the i6th, 17th, i8th, and 19th Centuries. By 
 
 William Ernest Henley, Author of * A Book of Verse,' 'Views 
 
 and Reviews,' etc. Crown Svo. Stamped gilt buckraniy gilt tof>, 
 
 edges uncut. 6s. 
 
 Mr. Henley has brought to the task of selection an instinct alike for poetry and for 
 chivalry which seems to us quite wonderfully, and even unerringly, right.' — 
 Guardian. 
 
 Tomson. A SUMMER NIGHT, AND OTHER POEMS. By 
 
 Graham R. Tomson. With Frontispiece by A. Tomson. Fcap. 
 
 Svo. y. 6d. 
 
 An edition on hand-made paper, limited to 50 copies, los. 6d. net. 
 
 ' Mrs. Tomson holds perhaps the very highest rank among poetesses of English birth. 
 This selection will help her reputation.' — Black and ly/iitt. 
 
 Ibsen. BRAND. A Drama by Henrik Ibsen. Translated by 
 William Wilson. Crown Svo. Second Edition. 3^.6^. 
 
 'The greatest world-poem of the nineteenth century next to "Faust." "Brand" 
 will have an astonishing interest for Englishmen. It is in the same set with 
 "Agamemnon," with " Lear," with the literature that we now instinctively regard 
 as high and holy.'— Daily Chronicle.
 
 Messrs. Methuen's List 9 
 
 "Q." GREEN BAYS: Verses and Parodies. By " Q.,» Author 
 of ' Dead Man's Rock ' etc. Second Edition. Fcap. %vo. 3^. dd. 
 ' The verses display a rare and versatile gift of parody, great command of metre, and 
 a very pretty turn of humour.' — Times. 
 
 "A.G." VERSES TO ORDER. By"A. G." Cr.Zvo. 2s.ed. 
 net. 
 
 A small volume of verse by a writer whose initials are well known to Oxford men. 
 ' A capital specimen of light academic poetry. These verses are very bright and 
 engaging, easy and sufficiently witty.' — St. James s Gazette. 
 
 Hosken. VERSES BY THE WAY. By J. D. Hosken. 
 Printed on laid paper, and bound in buckram, gilt top. 5x. 
 A small edition on hand-made paper. Price \2s. 6d. net, 
 A Volume of Lyrics and Sonnets by J. D. Hosken, the Postman Poet, of Helston, 
 Cornwall, whose interesting career is now more or less well known to the literary 
 public. Q, the Author of 'The Splendid Spur,' etc., writes a critical and 
 biographical introduction. 
 
 Scott. THE MAGIC HOUSE AND OTHER VERSES. By 
 Duncan C, Scott. Extra Post ^vo, bound in buckram. 55. 
 
 Langbridge. BALLADS OF THE BRAVE: Poems of Chivalry, 
 Enterprise, Courage, and Constancy, from the Earliest Times to the 
 Present Day. Edited, with Notes, by Rev. F. Langbridge. 
 Crown 8vo. Buckram ^s. 6d. School Edition, 2s. 6d. 
 'A very happy conception happily carried out. These " Ballads of the Brave" are 
 intended to suit the real tastes of boys, and will suit the taste of the great majority. 
 — Spectator. 'The book is full of splendid things.' — World. 
 
 General Literature 
 
 Collingwood. JOHN RUSKIN : His Life and Work. By 
 W. G. Collingwood, M.A., late Scholar of University College, 
 Oxford, Author of the * Art Teaching of John Ruskin,' Editor of 
 Mr. Ruskin's Poems. 2 vols. Svo. 32^. Second Edition. 
 This important work is written by Mr. Collingwood, who has been for some years 
 Mr. Ruskin's private secretary, and who has had unique advantages in obtaining 
 materials for this book from Mr. Ruskin himself and from his friends. It contains 
 a large amount of new matter, and of letters which have never been published, 
 and is, in fact, a full and authoritative biography of Mr. Ruskin. The book 
 contains numerous portraits of Mr. Ruskin, including a coloured one from a 
 A2
 
 10 Messrs. Methuen's List 
 
 water-colour portrait by himself, and also 13 sketches, never before published, by 
 
 Mr. Ruskin and Mr. Arthur Severn. A bibliography Is added. 
 ' No more magnificent volumes have been published for a long time. . . .'—Times. 
 'This most lovingly written and most profoundly interesting book.' — Daily News. 
 ' It is long since we have had a biography with such varied delights of substance 
 
 and of form. Such a book is a pleasure for the day, and a joy for ever.' — Daily 
 
 Chronicle. 
 * Mr. Ruskin could not well have been more fortunate in his biographer.' — Globe. 
 ' A noble monument of a noble subject. One of the most beautiful books about one 
 
 of the noblest lives of our century.' — Glasgow Herald. 
 
 Gladstone. THE SPEECHES AND PUBLIC ADDRESSES 
 OF THE RT. HON. W. E. GLADSTONE, M.P. With Notes 
 and Introductions. Edited by A. W. Hutton, M.A. (Librarian of 
 the Gladstone Library), and H. J. Cohen, M.A. With Portraits. 
 8w. Vol. X. I2s. 6d. 
 
 RusselL THE LIFE OF ADMIRAL LORD COLLING- 
 WOOD. By W. Clark Russell, Author of * The Wreck of the 
 Grosvenor.' With Illustrations by F. Brangvvyn. 2>vo. i^s. 
 
 'A really good hook.'— Sahtrday Review. 
 
 ' A most excellent and wholesome book, which we should like to see in the hands of 
 every boy in the country.' — Si. James's Gazette. 
 
 Clark. THE COLLEGES OF OXFORD : Their History and 
 
 their Traditions. By Members of the University. Edited by A. 
 
 Clark, M.A., Fellow and Tutor of Lincoln College. Zvo. 12s. 6d. 
 ' Whethar the reader approaches the book as a patriotic member of a college, as an 
 
 antiquary, or as a student of the organic growth of college foundation, it will amply 
 
 reward his attention.' — Times. 
 'A delightful book, learned and lively.' — Academy. 
 ' A work which will certainly be appealed to for many years as the standard book on 
 
 the Colleges of Oxford.' — Athefueum. 
 
 Wells. OXFORD AND OXFORD LIFE. By Members of 
 the University. Edited by J. Wells, M.A., Fellow and Tutor of 
 Wadham College. Crown 2>vo. 3.C. 6d. 
 
 This work contains an account of life at Oxford— intellectual, social, and religious — 
 a careful estimate of necessary expenses, a review of recent changes, a statement 
 of the present position of the University, and chapters on Women's Education, 
 aids to study, and University Extension. 
 
 'We congratulate Mr. Wells on the production of a readable and intelligent account 
 of Oxford as it is at the present time, written by persons who are, with hardly an 
 exception, possessed of a close acquaintance with the system and life of the 
 University.'— /4 thena:um.
 
 Messrs. Methuen's List ii 
 
 Perrens. THE HISTORY OF FLORENCE FROM THE 
 TIME OF THE MEDICIS TO THE FALL OF THE 
 REPUBLIC. By F. T. Perrens. Translated by Hannah 
 Lynch. In three volumes. Vol. I, Zvo. \2s. 6d. 
 
 This is a translation from the French of the best history of Florence in existence. 
 This volume covers a period of profound interest — political and literary — and 
 is written with great vivacity. 
 This is a standard book by an honest and intelligent historian, who has deserved 
 well of his countrj'men, and of all who are interested in Italian history.' — Man- 
 chester Guardian. 
 
 Browning. GUELPHS AND GHIBELLINES : A Short History 
 of Mediseval Italy, a.d. 1250-1409. By Oscar Browning, Fellow 
 and Tutor of King's College, Cambridge. Second Edition. Crown 
 Svo. 5j. 
 
 'A very able book.' — IVestminster Gazette. 
 'A vivid picture of medseival Italy.' — Standard. 
 
 O'Grady. THE STORY OF IRELAND. By Standisii 
 O'Grady, Author of ' Finn and his Companions.' Cr. Svo. 2s. 6d. 
 
 ' Novel and very fascinating history. Wonderfully alluring.' — Cork Examiner. 
 
 'Most delightful, most stimulating. Its racy humour, its original imaginings, its 
 perfectly unique history, make it one of the freshest, breeziest volumes.' — 
 Methodist Times. 
 
 'A survey at once graphic, acute, and quaintly written.' — Times. 
 
 Dixon. ENGLISH POETRY FROM BLAKE TO BROWN- 
 ING. By W. M. Dixon, M.A. Crown Zvo. zs. 6d. 
 
 A Popular Account of the Poetry of the Century. 
 
 ' Scholarly in conception, and full of sound and suggestive criticism.' — Times. 
 'The book is remarkable for freshness of thought expressed in graceful language.'— 
 Manchester Examiner. 
 
 Bowden. THE EXAMPLE OF BUDDHA: Being Quota- 
 tions from Buddhist Literature for each Day in the Year. Compiled 
 by E. M. Bowden. With Preface by Sir Edwin Arnold. Third 
 Edition. 16//10. 2s. 6d. 
 
 Ditchfield. OUR ENGLISH VILLAGES : Their Story and 
 their Antiquities. By P. H. Ditchfield, M.A., F.R.M.S., Rector 
 of Barkham, Berks. Post Svo. 2s. 6d. Illustrated. 
 ' An extremely amusing and interesting little book, which should find a place in 
 every parochial XUnr^ry. '—Cuan/ian.
 
 12 Messrs. Methuen's List 
 
 Ditchfield. OLD ENGLISH SPORTS. By P. H. Ditch- 
 field, M.A. Crown 8vo. 2s. 6d. Illustrated. 
 'A charming account of old English Shorts.'— Morning Post. 
 
 Massee. A MONOGRAPH OF THE MYXOGASTRES. By 
 
 George Massee. With 12 Coloured Plates. RoyalZvo. \%s. mt. 
 
 •A work much in advance of any book in the language treating of this group of 
 organisms. It is indispensable to every student of the Mxyogastres. The 
 coloured plates deserve high praise for their accuracy and execution.' — Nature. 
 
 Bushill. PROFIT SHARING AND THE LABOUR QUES- 
 TION. By T. W. BUSHILL, a Profit Sharing Employer. With an 
 Introduction by Sedley Taylor, Author of ' Profit Sharing between 
 Capital and Labour.' Crown Svo. 2s. 6d. 
 
 John Beever. PRACTICAL FLY-FISHING, Founded on 
 Nature, by John Beever, late of the Thwaite House, Coniston. A 
 New Edition, with a Memoir of the Author by W. G. Collingwood, 
 M.A., Author of 'The Life and Work of John Ruskin,' etc. Also 
 additional Notes and a chapter on Char-Fishing, by A. and A. R. 
 Severn. With a specially designed title-page. Crown Svo. 3^. 6d. 
 A little book on Fly-Fishing by an old friend of Mr. Ruskin. It has been out of 
 print for some time, and being still much in request, is now issued with a Memoir 
 of the Author by W. G. Collingwood. 
 
 Theology 
 
 Driver. SERMONS ON SUBJECTS CONNECTED WITH 
 
 THE OLD TESTAMENT. By S. R. Driver, D.D., Canon of 
 
 Christ Church, Regius Professor of Hebrew in the University of 
 
 Oxford. Crown Svo. 6s. 
 
 'A welcome companion to the author's famous ' Introduction.' No man can read these 
 discourses without feeling that Dr. Driver is fully alive to the deeper teaching of 
 the Old Testament.' — Guardian. 
 
 Cheyne. FOUNDERS OF OLD TESTAMENT CRITICISM: 
 Biographical, Descriptive, and Critical Studies. By T. K. Cheyne, 
 D.D., Oriel Professor of the Interpretation of Holy Scripture at 
 Oxford. Lar^e crown Svo. ys. 6d. 
 
 This important book is a historical sketch of O.T. Criticism in the form of biographi- 
 cal studies from the days of Eichhorn to those of Driver and Robertson Smith. 
 It is the only book of its kind in English. 
 
 ' The volume is one of great interest and value. It displays all the author's well- 
 known ability and learning, and its opportune publication h.as laid all students ot 
 theology, and specially of Bible criticism, under weighty oblig.-ition.' — Scotsman 
 
 'A very learned .ind instructive worV.'— Times.
 
 Messrs. Methuen's List 13 
 
 Prior. CAMBRIDGE SERMONS. Edited by C. H. Prior, 
 
 M. A. , Fellow and Tutor of Pembroke College. Crown 8w. 6s, 
 A volume of sermons preached before the University of Cambridge by various 
 
 preachers, including the Archbishop of Canterbury and Bishop Westcott. 
 ' A representative collection. Bishop Westcott's is a noble seimoa.'— Guardian. 
 ' Full of thoughtfulness and dignity.'— J? ecord. 
 
 Bume. PARSON AND PEASANT: Chapters of their 
 Natural History. By J. B. Burne, M.A. Cr. Svo. 5^. 
 ' " Parson and Peasant " is a book not only to be interested in, but to learn something 
 from — a book which may prove a help to many a clergyman, and broaden the 
 hearts and ripen the charity of laymen.' — Derby Mercury. 
 
 Cunningham. THE PATH TOWARDS KNOWLEDGE: 
 Essays on Questions of the Day. By W. Cunningham, D.D., 
 Fellow of Trinity College, Cambridge, Professor of Economics at 
 King's College, London. Crown 2>vo. 45. 6d. 
 Essays on Marriage and Population, Socialism, Money, Education, Positivism, etc. 
 
 James. CURIOSITIES OF CHRISTIAN HISTORY PRIOR 
 
 TO THE REFORMATION. By Croake James, Author of 
 * Curiosities of Law and Lawyers.' Crown Svo. ys. 6d. 
 ' This volume contains a great deal of quaint and curious matter, affording some 
 "particulars of the interesting persons, episodes, and events from the Christian's 
 point of view during the first fourteen centuries." Wherever we dip into his pages 
 we find something worth dipping into.'— /o/m Bull. 
 
 Lock. THE LIFE OF JOHN KEBLE. By Walter Lock, 
 M.A. With Portrait from a painting by George Richmond, R.A. 
 Crown Svo. Buckram 5^. Fifth Edition. 
 ' A fine portrait of one of the most saintly characters of our age, and a valuable con- 
 tribution to the history of that Oxford Movement.' — Times. 
 
 Kaufmann. CHARLES KINGSLEY. By M. Kaufmann, 
 M.A. Crown Svo. Buckram, ^s. 
 A biography of Kingsley, especially dealing with his achievements in social reform. 
 ' The author has cert.^inly gone about his work with conscientiousness and industry.' — 
 Shejjfield Daily Telegraph. 
 
 Oliphant. THOMAS CHALMERS : A Biography. By Mrs. 
 Olithant. With Portrait. Crown Svo. Buckram, 5.^ 
 ' A well-executed biography, worthy of its author and of the remarkable man who is 
 its subject. Mrs. Oliphant relates lucidly and dramatically the important part 
 which Chalmers played in the memorable secession.' — Times.
 
 14 Messrs. Methuen's List 
 
 Leaders of Religion 
 
 Edited by H. C. BEECHING, M.A. With Portrait, crown Svo. 2s. 6d. 
 
 A series of short biographies of the most prominent leaders . ^ 
 
 of religious life and thought. 11^ 
 
 The following are ready— ^^j 
 
 CARDINAL NEWMAN. By R. H. Hutton. 
 
 • Few who read this book will fail to be struck by the wonderful insight it displays 
 into the nature of the Cardinal's genius and the spirit of his life.'— Wilfrid 
 Ward, in the Tai/et. 
 
 ' Full of knowledge, excellent in melhod, and intelligent in criticism. We regard it 
 as wholly admirahlc.'— Academy. 
 
 JOHN WESLEY. By J. H. Overton, M.A. 
 
 ' It is well done : the story is clearly told, proportion is duly observed, and there is 
 no lack either of discrimination or of sympathy.' — Manchester Guardian. 
 
 BISHOP WILBERFORCE. By G. W. Daniel, M.A. 
 CHARLES SIMEON. By H. C. G. Moule, M.A. 
 CARDINAL MANNING. By A. W. Hutton, M.A. 
 Other volumes will be announced in due course. 
 
 WORKS BY S. BARING GOULD. 
 
 OLD COUNTRY LIFE. With Sixty-seven Illustrations by 
 W. Parkinson, F. D. Bedford, and F. Masey. Large Crown 
 Svo, cloth super extra, top edge gilt, los. 6d. Fourth and Cheaper 
 Edition. 6s. 
 ' " Old Country Life," as healthy wholesome reading, full of hrttry life and move- 
 ment, full of quaint stories vigorously told, will not be excelled by any book to be 
 published throughout the year. Sound, hearty, and English to the core. '— ffVr/</. 
 
 HISTORIC ODDITIES AND STRANGE EVENTS. T/i/rd 
 Edition. Crown Svo. 6s. 
 ' A collection of exciting and entertaining chapters. The whole volume is delightful 
 reading. ' — Titnes. 
 
 FREAKS OF FANATICISM. Third Edition. Crown Svo. 6s. 
 
 ' Mr, Baring Gould has a keen eye for colour and effect, and the subjects he has 
 chosen give ample scope to his descriptive and analytic faculties. A perfectly 
 fascinating hook.'— Scottish Leader.
 
 Messrs. Methuen's List 15 
 
 SONGS OF THE WEST: Traditional Ballads and Songs of 
 the West of England, with their Traditional Melodies. Collected 
 by S. Baring Gould, M.A., and H. Fleetwood Sheppard, 
 M.A. Arranged for Voice and Piano. In 4 Parts (containing 25 
 Songs each). Parts /., //., ///., 3^. each. Part IV.^ ^s. In one 
 Vol., roan, \^s. 
 'A rich and varied collection of humour, pathos, grace, and poetic {2.ncy'— Saturday 
 Review. 
 
 YORKSHIRE ODDITIES AND STRANGE EVENTS. 
 Foiirth Edition. Crown 8vo. 6s. 
 
 STRANGE SURVIVALS AND SUPERSTITIONS. With 
 
 Illustrations. By S. Baring Gould. CrozvnSvo. Second Edition. 
 6s. 
 
 A book on such subjects as Foundations, Gables, Holes, Gallows, Raising the Hat, Old 
 Ballads, etc. etc. It traces in a most interesting manner their origin and history. 
 
 ' We have read Mr. Baring Gould's book from beginning to end. It is full of quaint 
 and various information, and there is not a dull page in it' — Notes and Queries. 
 
 THE TRAGEDY OF THE CAESARS: The 
 
 Emperors of the Julian and Claudian Lines. With numerous Illus- 
 trations from Busts, Gems, Cameos, etc. By S. Baring Gould, 
 Author of ' Mehalah,' etc. Second Edition. 2 vols. Royal Zvo. '^os. 
 ' A most splendid and fascinating book on a subject of undying interest. The great 
 feature of the book is the use the author has made of the existing portraits of the 
 Caesars, and the admirable critical subtlety he has exhibited in dealing with this 
 line of research. It is brilliantly written, and the illustrations are supplied on a 
 scale of profuse magnificence.' — Daily Chronicle. 
 ' The volumes will in no sense disappoint the general reader. Indeed, in their way, 
 there is nothing in any sense so good in English. . . . Mr. Earing Gould has 
 presented his narrative in such away as not to make one dull ^s.'g^.'—Athenaum. 
 
 MR. BARING GOULD'S NOVELS. 
 
 'To say that a book is by the author of "Mehalah" is to imply that it contains a 
 stori' cast on strong lines, containing dramatic possibilities, vivid and sympathetic 
 descriptions of Nature, and a wealth of ingenious imagery.' — Speaker. 
 
 'That whatever Mr. Baring Gould writes is well worth reading, is a conclusion that 
 may be very generally accepted. His views of life are fresh and vigorous, his 
 language pointed and characteristic, the incidents of which he m.ikes use are 
 striking and original, his characters are life-like, and though somewhat e.xcep- 
 tional people, are drawn and coloured with artistic force. Add to this that his 
 descriptions of scenes and scenery are painted with the loving eyes and skilled 
 hands of a master of his art, that he is always fresh and never dull, and under 
 such conditions it is no wonder that readers have gained confidence both in bis 
 power of amusing and satisfying them, and that year by year his popularity 
 widens.'— C<7«>7 Circular.
 
 i6 Messrs. Methuen's List 
 
 IN THE ROAR OF THE SEA : A Tale of the Cornish Coast. 
 New Edition. 6s. 
 
 MRS. CURGENVEN OF CURGENVEN. Third Edition. 6s. 
 
 A powerful and characteristic story of Devon life. The 'Graphic' speaks of it as a 
 novel of vigorous hutnour and sustained power ; the ' Sussex Daily News ' says 
 that the swing- of the narrative is splendid', and the 'Speaker' mentions its 
 bright imaginative power. 
 
 CHEAP JACK ZITA. By S. Baring Gould. Crown Zvo. 6s. 
 
 A Romance of the Ely Fen District in 1815. 
 
 ' A powerful drama of human passion.' — Westminster Gazette. 
 
 ' A story worthy the author.' — National Observer. 
 
 ARM I NELL: A Social Romance. A^ew Edition. Crown %vo. 
 Zs. 6d. 
 
 URITH: A Story of Dartmoor. Third Edition. CrownZvo. is.6d. 
 
 ' The author is at his best.' — Times. 
 
 ' He has nearly reached the high water-mark of " Mehalah." '—National Observer. 
 
 MARGERY OF QUETHER, and other Stories. Crown 8vo. 
 3s. 6d. 
 
 JACQUETTA, and other Stories. Crown 8vo. 35. 6d. 
 
 Fiction 
 
 8IX SHILLING NOVELS 
 
 Corelli. BARABBAS : A DREAM OF THE WORLD'S 
 TRAGEDY. By Marie Corelli, Author of * A Romance of Two 
 Worlds,' 'Vendetta,' etc. Seventh Edition. Crown Svo. 6s. 
 Miss Corelli's new romance has been received with much disapprobation by the 
 secular papers, and with warm welcome by the religious papers. By the former 
 she has been accused of blasphemy and bad taste; 'a gory nightmare' ; 'a hideous 
 travesty'; 'grotesque vulgarisation'; 'unworthy of criticism'; 'vulgar redun- 
 dancy'; 'sickening details' — these are some of the secular flowers of speech. 
 On the other hand, the 'Guardian' praises 'the dignity of its conceptions, the 
 reserve round the Central Figure, the fine imagerj* of the scene and circumstance, 
 so much that is elevating and devout ' ; the ' Illustrated Church News ' styles the 
 book ' reverent and artistic, broad based on the rock of our common nature, and 
 appealing to what is best in it ' ; the ' Christian World ' says it is written ' by one 
 who has more than conventional reverence, who has tried to tell the story that it 
 may be read again with open and attentive eyes ' ; the ' Church of England 
 Pulpit' welcomes *a book which teems with faith without any appearance of 
 irreverence.'
 
 Messrs. Methuen's List 17 
 
 Benson. DODO : A DETAIL OF THE DAY. By E. F. 
 Benson. Crown Svo. Thirteenth Edition, ds. 
 A story of society by a new writer, full of interest and power, which has attracted 
 by its brilliance universal attention. The best critics were cordial in their 
 praise. The ' Guardian ' spoke of ' Dody ' as unusually clever and interesting ; 
 the ' Spectator ' called it a delightfully -witty sketch of society ; the ' Speaker ' 
 said the dialogue was a perpetual feast of epigram and paradox \ the 
 'Athenseum' spoke of the author as a "writer of quite exceptional ability; 
 the ' Academy ' praised his amazing cleverness ; the ' World ' said the book was 
 brilliantly "written \ and half-a-dozen papers declared there was not a dull page 
 in the book 
 
 Norris. HIS GRACE. By W. E. Norris, Author of 
 ' Mademoiselle de Mersac. ' Third Edition. Crown Svo. 6s. 
 
 An edition in one volume of a novel which in its two volume form quickly ran through 
 two editions. 
 
 'The characters are delineated by the author with his characteristic skill and 
 vivacity, and the story is told with that ease of manners and Thackerayean in- 
 sight which give strength of flavour to Mr. Norris's novels No one can depict 
 the Englishwoman of the better classes with more subtlety.' — Glasgow Herald. 
 
 ' Mr. Norris has drawn a really fine character in the Duke of Hurstbourne, at once 
 unconventional and very true to the conventionalities of life, weak and strong in 
 a breath, capable of inane follies and heroic decisions, yet not so definitely por- 
 trayed as to relieve a reader of the necessity of study on his own behalf.' — 
 A thenctuin. 
 
 Parker. MRS. FALCHION. By Gilbert Parker, Author of 
 • Pierre and His People.' New Edition in one volume, ds. 
 Mr. Parker's second book has received a warm welcome. The ' Athenaeum ' called 
 it a splendid study of character ; the ' Pall Mall Gazette ' spoke of the writing as 
 but little behind anything that has been done by any writer of our titne ; the 
 •St. James" called it a very striking and admirable novel \ and the 'West- 
 minster Gazette ' applied to it the epithet oi distinguished. 
 
 Parker. PIERRE AND HIS PEOPLE. By Gilbert 
 Parker. Crown Svo. Buckram. 6s. 
 ' Stories happily conceived and finely executed. There is strength and genius in Mr. 
 Parker's style.'— Z^a/Zy Telegraph. 
 
 Anthony Hope. A CHANGE OF AIR : A Novel. By 
 Anthony Hope, Author of 'Mr. Witt's Widow,' etc. i vol. 
 Crown Svo. 6s. 
 
 A bright story by Mr. Hope, who has, the Athen^rum says, 'a decided outlook and 
 
 individuality of his own.' 
 •A graceful, vivacious comedy, true to human nature. The characters aie liaccd 
 
 with a masterly hand.' — Times.
 
 i8 Messrs. Methuen's List 
 
 Pryce. TIME AND THE WOMAN. By Richard Pryce, 
 Author of * Miss Maxwell's Affections,' * The Quiet Mrs. Fleming,' 
 etc. New and Cheaper Edition. Crown Zvo. 6s. 
 
 ' Mr. Pryce's work recalls the style of OcUv« Feuillet, by its clearness, conciseness, 
 its literary reserve.'— ^M^«^«;«. 
 
 Gray. ELS A. A Novel. By E. M 'Queen Gray. Cro7unZvo. 6s. 
 
 'A charming novel. The characters are not only powerful sketches, but minutely 
 and carefully finished portraits.' — Guardian. 
 
 Marriott Watson. DIOGENES OF LONDON and other 
 Sketches. By H. B. Marriott Watson, Author of 'The Web 
 of the Spider.' Crown 2>vo. Buckram. 6s. 
 
 ' By all those who delight in the uses of words, who rate the exercise of prose above 
 the exercise of verse, who rejoice in all proofs of its delicacy and its strength, who 
 belicTC that English prose is chief among the moulds of thought, by these 
 Mr. Marriott Watson's book will be welcomed.'— iVaZ/Vna/ Obitrver. 
 
 Gilclirist. THE STONE DRAGON. By Murray Gilchrist. 
 
 Crown Svfi. Buckram. 6s. 
 
 A volume of stories of power so weird and original as to ensure them a ready welcome. 
 
 'The author's faults are atoned for by certain positive and admirable merits. The 
 
 romances have not their counterpart in modern literature, and to read them is a 
 
 unique cxp^ritnct.'— National Observer. 
 
 THREE-AND-8IXPENNY NOVELS 
 
 Norris. A DEPLORABLE AFFAIR. By W. E. NORRis, 
 Author of * His Grace.' Crown 8vo. 3J. 6d. 
 
 •What with its interesting story, its graceful manner, and its perpetual good 
 humour, the book is as enjoyable as any that has come from its author's pen.' — 
 Scotsman. 
 
 Pearce. JACO TRELOAR. By J. H. Pearce, Author of 
 'Esther Pentreath.* New Edition. Crown Svo. y.6d. 
 
 A tragic story of Cornish life by a writer of remarkable power, whose first novel has 
 
 been highly praised by Mr. Gladstone. 
 The 'Spectator' speaks of Mr. Pearce as a zvn'ter of exceptional f>otver\ the 'Daily 
 
 Telegraph ' calls it pozver/ul and picturesque \ the ' Birmingham Post ' asserts 
 
 that it is a novel of high quality.
 
 Messrs. Methuen's List 19 
 
 Esm6 Stuart. A WOMAN OF FORTY. By EsM^ Stuart, 
 Author of 'Muriel's Marriage,' 'Virginie's Husband,' etc. New 
 Edition. Crown 8vo. 35. 6d. 
 'The story is well written, and some of the scenes show great dramatic power.'— 
 Daily Chronicle. 
 
 Fenn. THE STAR GAZERS. By G. Manville Fenn, 
 Author of ' Eli's Children,' etc. New Edition, Cr. Svo. 35. 6d. 
 
 ' A stirring romance.' — IVestern Morning News. 
 
 ' Told with all the dramatic power for which Mr. Fenn is conspicuous.' — Bradford 
 Observer, 
 
 Dickinson. A VICAR'S WIFE. By Evelyn Dickinson. 
 
 Crown Svo. 3J. 6d. 
 
 Prowse. THE POISON OF ASPS. By R. Orton Prowse. 
 
 Crown Svo. p. 6d. 
 
 Lynn Linton. THE TRUE HISTORY OF JOSHUA DAVID- 
 SON, Christian and Communist. By E. Lynn Linton. Eleventh 
 Edition. Post Svo. is. 
 
 3/6 
 
 Methuen's Novel Series 
 
 A series of copyright Novels, by well-known Authors, 
 bound in red buckram, at the price of three shillings and 
 sixpence. The first volumes are : — 
 
 1. JACQUETTA. By S. Baring Gould, Author of ' Mehalah, 
 
 etc. 
 
 2. ARM I NELL : A Social Romance. By S. Baring Gould 
 
 Author of ' Mehalah,' etc. 
 
 3. MARGERY OF QUETHER. By S. Baring Gould. 
 
 4. URITH. By S. Baring Gould. 
 
 5. DERRICK VAUGHAN, NOVELIST. With Portrait of 
 
 Author. By Edna Lyall, Author of ' Donovan,' etc. 
 
 6. JACK'S FATHER. By W. E. NORRIS. 
 
 Other Volumes will be announced in due course.
 
 2/6 
 
 20 Messrs. Methuen's List 
 
 HALF-CROWN NOVELS 
 
 A Series of Novels by popular Authors y taslejully 
 bound in cloth. 
 
 I THE PLAN OF CAMPAIGN. By F. Mabel Robinson. 
 
 2. DISENCHANTMENT. By F. Mabel Robinson. 
 
 3. MR. BUTLER'S WARD. By F. Mabel Robinson. 
 
 4. HOVENDEN, V.C. By F. Mabel Robinson. 
 
 5. ELI'S CHILDREN. By G. Manville Fenn. 
 
 6. A DOUBLE KNOT. By G. Manville Fenn. 
 
 7. DISARMED. By M. Betham Edwards. 
 
 8. A LOST ILLUSION. By Leslie Keith. 
 
 9. A MARRIAGE AT SEA. By W. Clark Russell. 
 
 10. IN TENT AND BUNGALOW. By the Author of 'Indian 
 
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 11. MY STEWARDSHIP. By E. M'Queen Gray. 
 
 12. A REVEREND GENTLEMAN. By J. M. Cobban. 
 
 13. THE STORY OF CHRIS. By Rowland Grey. 
 
 Other volumes will be announced in due course. 
 
 Books for Boys and Girls 
 
 Baring Gould. THE ICELANDER'S SWORD. By S. 
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 A stirring story of Iceland, written for boys by the author of ' In the Roar of the Sea. 
 
 CuthelL TWO LITTLE CHILDREN AND CHING. By 
 Edith E. Cuthell. Profusely Illustrated. Crown %vo. Cloth, 
 gilt edges. 6s. 
 Another story, with a dog hero, by tlie author of the very popular ' Only a Guard- 
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 Blake. TODDLEBEN'S HERO. By M. M. Blake, Author of 
 ♦The Siege of Norwich Castle.' With 36 Illustrations. Crown 
 Zvo. 5j. 
 A story of military life for children.
 
 Messrs. Methuen's List 21 
 
 CutheU. ONLY A GUARD-ROOM DOG. By Mrs. Cuthell. 
 With 16 Illustrations by W. Parkinson. Square Crown Zvo. 6s. 
 
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 can be warmly recommended.' — Standard. 
 
 Collingwood. THE DOCTOR OF THE JULIET. By Harry 
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 Illustrated by Gordon Browne. Crown Hvo. $s. 6d. 
 
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 the way in which they are produced.' — Guardian. 
 
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 The Peacock Library 
 
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 1. A PINCH OF EXPERIENCE. By L. B. Walford. 
 
 2. THE RED GRANGE. By Mrs. MoLESWORTH. 
 
 3. THE SECRET OF MADAME DE MONLUC. By the 
 
 Author of * Mdle Mori.' 
 
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 5. OUT OF THE FASHION. By L. T. Meade. 
 
 6. A GIRL OF THE PEOPLE. By L. T. Meade. 
 
 7. HEPSY GIPSY. By L. T. Meade. 
 
 8. THE HONOURABLE MISS. By L. T. Meade. 
 
 9. MY LAND OF BEULAH. By Mrs. Leith Adams.
 
 22 Messrs. Methuen's List 
 
 University Extension Series 
 
 A series of books on historical, literary, and scientific subjects, suitable 
 for extension students and home reading circles. Each volume is com- 
 plete in itself, and the subjects are treated by competent writers in a 
 broad and philosophic spirit. 
 
 Edited by J. E. SYMES, M.A., 
 
 Principal of University College, Nottingham. 
 
 Crown Svo. Price {with so?ne exceptions) 2s. 6d. 
 
 The following volumes are ready : — 
 
 THE INDUSTRIAL HISTORY OF ENGLAND. By H. DE 
 B. GiBBiNS, M.A., late Scholar of Wadham College, Oxon., Cobden 
 Prizeman. Third Edition. With Maps and Plans. 3^. 
 
 'A compact and clear story of our industrial development. A study of this concise 
 but luminous book cannot fail to give the reader a clear insight into the principal 
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 A HISTORY OF ENGLISH POLITICAL ECONOMY. By 
 
 L. L. Price, M.A., Fellov^r of Oriel College, Oxon. 
 
 PROBLEMS OF POVERTY : An Inquiry into the Industrial 
 Conditions of the Poor. By J. A. HOBSON, M.A. 
 
 VICTORIAN POETS. By A. Sharp. 
 
 THE FRENCH REVOLUTION. By J. E. Symes, M.A. 
 
 PSYCHOLOGY. By F. S. Granger, M.A., Lecturer in Philo- 
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 AIR AND WATER. Professor V. B. Lewes, M.A. Illustrated. 
 
 THE CHEMISTRY OF LIFE AND HEALTH. By C. W. 
 
 KiMMiNS, M.A. Camb. Illustrated. 
 
 THE MECHANICS OF DAILY LIFE. By V. P. Sells, M.A. 
 Illustrated.
 
 Messrs. Methuen's List 23 
 
 ENGLISH SOCIAL REFORMERS. H. de B. Gibbins, M.A. 
 
 ENGLISH TRADE AND FINANCE IN THE SEVEN- 
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 THE CHEMISTRY OF FIRE. The Elementary Principles of 
 
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 An exposition of the Elementary Prmciples of Chemistry. 
 
 A TEXT-BOOK OF AGRICULTURAL BOTANY. By M. C. 
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 Edited by H. de B. GIBBINS, M.A. 
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 Social Questions of To-day 
 
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 TRADE UNIONISM— NEW AND OLD. By G. Howell, 
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 THE CO-OPERATIVE MOVEMENT TO-DAY. By G. J. 
 Holyoake, Author of • The History of Co-operation.'
 
 24 Messrs. Methuen's List 
 
 MUTUAL THRIFT. By Rev. J. Frome Wilkinson, M.A., 
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 PROBLEMS OF POVERTY : An Inquiry into the Industrial 
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 THE COMMERCE OF NATIONS. By C. F. Bastable, 
 
 M.A., Professor of Economics at Trinity College, Dublin. 
 
 THE ALIEN INVASION. By W. H. Wilkins, B.A., Secretary 
 to the Society for Preventing the Immigration of Destitute Aliens. 
 
 THE RURAL EXODUS. By P. Anderson Graham. 
 
 LAND NATIONALIZATION. By Harold Cox, B.A. 
 
 A SHORTER WORKING DAY. By H. de B. Gibbins 
 and R. A. Hadfield, of the Hecla Works, Sheffield. 
 
 BACK TO THE LAND : An Inquiry into the Cure for Rural 
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 Rdinburyh: T. and A. Constahi.k, rrinters to Iter Mulesty.