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 COULD HE DO BETTER? 
 
 VOL. I. 
 
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 THE SON OF HIS FATHER. By Mrs. Oliphant, 
 
 author of ' It was a Lover and his Lass,' &c. 3 vols. 
 
 JAC OBI'S WIFE. By Adeline Sergeant, author of 
 
 ' No Saint,' ' An Open Foe,' ' Beyond Recall,' &c. 3 vols 
 
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COULD HE DO BETTER! 
 
 BY 
 
 ARTHUR A. HOFFMANN. 
 
 .... Wait, and Love himself will bring 
 The drooping flower of knowledge changed to fruit 
 Of wisdom. Wait : my faith is large in Time, 
 And that which shapes it to some perfect end.' 
 
 Tennyson. 
 
 IN THREE VOLUMES. 
 VOL. I. 
 
 LONDON: 
 
 HURST AND BLACKETT, LIMITED, 
 
 13, GREAT MARLBOROUGH STREET. 
 
 1887. 
 
 All rights reserved. 
 
8^5 
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 OF 
 
 THE FIRST VOLUME. 
 
 OHAPTEK 
 
 PAGE 
 
 I. 
 
 The Tophams 
 
 1 
 
 II. 
 
 A Family Jar .... 
 
 . 15 
 
 TIL 
 
 Mrs. Tweedy and her Husband 
 
 . 35 
 
 IV. 
 
 • Your Country Maid wouldn't Do ' 
 
 47 
 
 V. 
 
 Two Creeds 
 
 68 
 
 VI. 
 
 At First Sight 
 
 84 
 
 VII. 
 
 Unwelcome Visitors .... 
 
 . 103 
 
 VI 1 1. 
 
 ' Hang Jumper !' 
 
 121 
 
 IX. 
 
 Aunt Robby's Tea-Party . 
 
 . 146 
 
 X. 
 
 The Portrait 
 
 167 
 
 XI. 
 
 Peter Topham on Finance 
 
 189 
 
 XII. 
 
 By the River 
 
 206 
 
 XIII. 
 
 A Diplomatic Visit .... 
 
 226 
 
 XIV. 
 
 A Quiet Dinner ... 
 
 243 
 
 XV. 
 
 More Diplomacy .... 
 
 267 
 
 XVi. 
 
 Compromised 
 
 288 
 
 XVII. 
 
 A Proposal 
 
 311 
 
COULD HE DO BETTER? 
 
 CHAPTER L 
 
 THE T P H A M S. 
 
 Mr. Peter Topham, with a delicate wife, 
 two daughters to find husbands for, and a 
 small income, doubtless had a right to 
 grumble now and then, and to talk of 
 hard times. But he rarely availed himself 
 of tiiis privilege, or allowed anybody to 
 suppose him discontented with his lot. 
 Cheerfulness, on the contrary, was one of 
 Mr. Topham's strong points, and he had a 
 good many strong points ... in his own 
 
 VOL. I. B 
 
2 COULD HE DO BETTER ? 
 
 opinion. There was an inviting air of 
 prosperity about him. His alert appear- 
 ance, his brisk rubbing of hands, his knack 
 of ready assertion, were such as mark a 
 successful man. Peter Topham was not 
 successful. Quite the reverse, his career 
 had hitherto been a dead failure. But, 
 though he lost his friends, he betrayed no 
 regret ; though he saw his argosies go 
 down one after the other, he made no 
 lamentation. 
 
 This cheerfulness, which grieved people 
 of depth and feeling, sprang from various 
 causes. Health and comfort must go for 
 something to begin with, and Peter was as 
 sound as a bell, and (thanks to his wife) 
 always had a glass of good beeswing port 
 and a choice cigar. Besides, he never laid 
 hold of a difficulty, but he cheerfully pass- 
 ed it on to his wife or to his elder daughter 
 Judith, and considered the matter disposed 
 
THE TOPHAMS. 3 
 
 of as far as he Avas concerned . . . except 
 that he took credit for its ultimate settle- 
 ment, or found fault if anything chanced 
 to go wrong. This was, naturally, a 
 bracing process. 
 
 Sometimes, indeed, there would come a 
 disaster which he could not succeed in 
 shuffling entirely on to other people's 
 shoulders. Then the mainstay for his 
 good-humour was the consideration that, 
 whatever happened, he had taken the most 
 rational course. He was accustomed to 
 say that he could only do his best, and 
 that circumstances w^ere beyond his con- 
 trol . . . and they certainly w^ere. 
 
 In person Peter Topham was short and 
 stout, and he had so little neck that his 
 stand-up collars pressed his forked whiskers 
 against his smoothly-shaven double chin. 
 His hair was reddish and rather scanty, 
 but he had always called it auburn, and 
 
 B 2 
 
4 COULD HE DO BETTER ? 
 
 now made the most of it by distributing 
 the long strands with jealous care across 
 his shining crown. His voice was sharp and 
 thin. But he was proud of his conversa- 
 tional powers, and would demand atten- 
 tion for his happier eiforts by gently 
 sawing the air with his forefinger, and by 
 an appropriate attitude. 
 
 He Avas now on the shady side of fifty, 
 but no experience could wrest from him 
 the comfortable conviction that everyone 
 who differed from him was all in the 
 wrong. He showed such offenders no 
 mercy. They must be w^anting either in 
 sense or in candour, perhaps in both. Say 
 what they might, Peter was sure they 
 found his arguments unanswerable. Yet 
 nothing in his affairs proved him to be 
 much wiser than . his fellow- creatures. 
 Though he began his married life with a 
 large fortune, he had been obliged to sell 
 
THE TOPHAMS- 5 
 
 the estate in Devonshire and to retire vdth 
 a few hundreds a year to the little country 
 town of Baybridge. It was a quiet, gossip- 
 ing place, important only in this, that 
 it returned one member, a Conservative. 
 Here, true to his convictions, incurably 
 cheerful and dogmatic, lived Peter Top- 
 ham with his wife and the girls. 
 
 In choosing a wife who was not only 
 rich, but beautiful, and in every other way 
 admirable, Mr. Topham brought to light 
 such an appearance of good sense that 
 those best qualified to form an opinion put 
 the match down to chance. A few ven- 
 tured the suggestion that possibly Peter 
 had something in him after all. Every- 
 body agreed in prophesying that he would 
 waste the money first, and neglect the wife 
 to whom he owed it afterwards. 
 
 He set about wasting the money at once, 
 but, fortunately, Mrs. Topham neversuffered 
 
6 COULD HE DO BETTER ? 
 
 much from neglect. She was almost as 
 blind to Peter's ingrained selfishness as he 
 himself could be ; she observed only the 
 hundred little personal attentions that he 
 daily paid her, and shared his curious 
 belief that he was an unusually devoted 
 husband. Her affection was nourished by 
 trifles so genially offered that she never 
 allowed any suspicion that they could be 
 cheap and hollow to gain ground in her 
 mind . . . mercifully her mind was not as 
 large as her heart. She was moulded out 
 of charitable stuff, and loved to dwell on 
 kindness. And Peter was kind . . . and 
 clever ! Of course he was always right ! 
 He had been unfortunate, she thought, 
 and so wanted more love and sympathy, 
 that was all. And Maria Toj^ham deter- 
 mined that, as long as she lived, such 
 things should never be wanting to the man 
 who had cheerfully married her (and her 
 
THE TOPHAMS. 7 
 
 money) five-and-twenty years ago, and, 
 through evil report and good report, cheer- 
 fully tended her still, now that the money 
 was almost gone. 
 
 Yet Maria Topham had one grievance. 
 
 About one thing the gentle woman per- 
 mitted herself to think that Peter might 
 have been less imprudent. She cared 
 nothing for her own privations, delicate 
 in health though she was. But she did 
 care for the poverty that pressed upon her 
 children. No doubt anyone would be 
 eager to marry Judith or Annie. Of 
 course there were young men in and about 
 Baybridge. But who, worthy of either of 
 the girls, would find his way to the little 
 town. Maria, in moments of extreme de- 
 pression, had it almost in her heart to feel 
 that the various speculations of her lord 
 and master had deprived her daughters of 
 the chance of rich and handsome husbands. 
 
8 COULD HE DO BETTER i 
 
 She wished, too, that they could be better 
 dressed, and show off to greater advantage. 
 The mother sometimes took an independ- 
 ent step for the sake of the two bright, 
 fresh young girls to whom her beauty had 
 been bequeathed. 
 
 Judith, her elder daughter, had inherit- 
 ed the larger share. She was twenty- 
 three. A dark, graceful beauty, rather 
 tall, well proportioned. She was obliged 
 to be her own dressmaker ; but whatever 
 she wore was certain to be becoming and 
 in good taste. Her face was lovable, and 
 her hazel eyes met yours fearlessly. Her 
 hair, which she kept tidy, but which had a 
 will of its own to curl and frizzle, was 
 brushed well off an open forehead that 
 curved, delicately white, above the fine, 
 arched eyebrows. Her nose with two little 
 bends in it, her red lips and dim|)led 
 cheeks, and a faint, puckered crease under 
 
THE TOPHAMS. 9 
 
 her full cliin . . . softened without hiding 
 an expression of firmness that gave dignity 
 to the whole. Her nose and chin afforded 
 besides the slightest hint of meeting, and 
 this peculiarity lent an odd, sweet look of 
 premature wisdom to the face. Her sister 
 Annie would sometimes call her ' Nut- 
 crackers,' a pleasantry taken in good 
 part. 
 
 At eighteen Judith had passed through 
 a love affair. In those days when, though 
 she had ceased to be a child, she] udged every- 
 body by the standard of her own honesty 
 ... a favourite trick of hers still . . . she 
 had been cruelly deceived. A proposal 
 had been made. Judith accepted the man, 
 and worshipped the ground he trod on. 
 And then came the question of dower : 
 Judith had none but her true heart and 
 her loveliness ; and so the marriage was 
 put off, and put off, and everyone feared 
 
10 COULD HE DO BETTER ? 
 
 to tell her the truth. When at last it had 
 to be hinted that perhaps a poor Avife was 
 not looked for, Judith fired up and de- 
 fended the object of her choice. He was 
 totally unworthy of her confidence, and he 
 went his way, and for many months all 
 her life seemed a blank. 
 
 She rallied : youth, pride, her mother's 
 and her sister's tenderness, time ... all 
 these exerted healing influence. At length 
 her deserter married far beneath him, and 
 soon afterwards left the country. So, at 
 the end of five years, the wrong that had 
 been done to Judith had entirely lost its 
 power to pain. This epoch of her life has 
 been glanced at only because of its abiding 
 stress upon her character. She was not 
 likely to fall a victim to selfishness a second 
 time. 
 
 Judith had spent one season in London 
 before poverty deprived her of any further 
 
THE TOPHAMS. 1 1 
 
 opportunity of studying that great kalei- 
 doscope, Society. Being quick, sympa- 
 thetic, and a lady at heart, she had profited 
 by this brief experience. But she had not 
 had time to slide into a groove, and so, 
 while recognising what was due to her 
 dignity, remained unconventional, and 
 regarded more the spirit than the letter of 
 the social laws. 
 
 And now she had responsibilities which 
 rendered her rather unlike other girls of 
 her own age. To her all family difficulties 
 ultimately found their way ; for her father 
 was too cheerful to attend to them, and 
 her mother was not often equal to the task 
 of making both ends meet. Judith was- 
 financier, housekeeper, general manager. 
 To curb her father's extravagance so that 
 her mother might now and then have some 
 of the little comforts that ill-health de- 
 manded, to look after the servants, to write 
 
12 COULD HE DO BETTER ? 
 
 letters and to return calls . . . these were 
 some of Judith's many employments. 
 
 Peter Topham's elder daughter was a 
 standing protest against the assumption 
 that most women are more or less un- 
 reasonable. Judith was reasonable. She 
 was a standing protest also against the 
 further assumption that, if by any chance 
 a reasonable woman could be found, that 
 woman was necessarily strong-minded, dis- 
 agreeable, and a bigot. She was liked by 
 those whose good opinion was of value, 
 because in her, sound, clear sense and warm 
 feelings were held in even balance. Judith's 
 character hadw^eight; when she spoke, peo- 
 ple listened. Now and then a stranger,- 
 wondering at these qualities, which he hard- 
 ly found in her parents, would be told that 
 they perhaps descended from Peter's mo- 
 ther, who had been a woman of vigorous 
 conduct and lofty aims. 
 
THE TOPHAMS. 13^- 
 
 Annie was four years younger tlian her 
 sister, whom, on a much smaller scale, she 
 somewhat resembled in form and in feature. 
 Yet her face was a pretty face, nothing 
 more. It had none of the individuality of 
 Judith's, nothing that bore witness to the 
 habit of reflection or of self-communion. 
 Annie had little employment and few 
 resources ; she usually depended upon 
 others for help and amusement. The 
 idle, spoilt pet of the family, she expected 
 everything to be done for her, and no 
 cloud had hitherto dimmed her young 
 life. Sorrow had not yet opened her mind 
 to laro^e and tolerant views. So she was 
 subject to a host of petty failings, with a 
 touch at least of her father's selfishness ;; 
 and she was as wholly unreasonable as any^ 
 detractor of her sex could desire. She hadl 
 a merry heart, and would poke fun at 
 everybody, including her father, enjoying 
 
14 COULD HE DO BETTER? 
 
 a jest at him all the more because he never 
 suspected such a liberty could be taken. 
 Altogether, Annie Topham was a bright, 
 feather-headed, and improvable little per- 
 son . . . and a chatterbox into the 
 bargain. 
 
 Such is a brief but faithful account of 
 the Topham family. Peter was the most 
 disagreeable, Maria the most meek, while 
 Annie was the most frivolous. 
 
 Stately Judith had the clearest head 
 among them all, and the warmest heart. 
 That was admitted even in Baybridge. 
 
15 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 A FAMILY JAR. 
 
 The town-hall clock had just struck nine, 
 and, in the darkness of a last September 
 night, the wind, which had been gathering 
 force all the afternoon, rushed up the river 
 and down the broad High Street, and 
 through the narrow lanes and alleys of 
 Baybridge. It was not long in reaching 
 the outskirts, and soon moaned under the 
 Tophams' windows, and tossed the laurel 
 tops in the garden to and fro, and played 
 helter-skelter with the fallen leaves. Then 
 it died away gradually. After a pause 
 came a steady downpour of rain. 
 
16 COULD HE DO BETTER ? 
 
 A pleasant contrast to the drip, drip, 
 drip outside was the genial glow from the 
 fire in Mr. Topham's dining-room grate, as 
 it threw its ruddy beams and warm com- 
 fort on the family grouped around the 
 hearth. 
 
 Dinner was over, but dessert was still 
 on the table; from which, after the old 
 fashion, the cloth had been taken aAvay, so 
 as to show the dark, rich brown of the 
 mahogany. 
 
 Before the fire, then, sat Mr. Topham, 
 his wife, and his daughters. Peter, dis- 
 playing a broad surface of dazzling shirt- 
 front, was very much at his ease in a soft 
 arm-chair, with one foot on the shining 
 fender-rail, and the other bent over and 
 lazily extended towards the glow. By his 
 knees was a dessert-plate with some wal- 
 nuts which Annie had peeled for him, and 
 a little pyramid of salt beside them. His 
 
A FAMILY JAE. 17 
 
 chubby fingers could just reacb his glass 
 of port wine on the edge of the table. 
 
 His wife was in a dark-brown silk, slightly 
 open at the throat ; for her delicate chest 
 prevented her from wearing a low dress. 
 She held a fan between her face and the 
 fire, and her mild eyes were fixed upon her 
 husband opposite as she tried to absorb the 
 wdsdom which flowed from his lips. She 
 appeared, notwithstanding, to be rather 
 anxious, and nervously handled the only 
 ornament she wore ... a small, gold locket. 
 
 Judith's beautiful neck and arms were 
 seen to advantage in a well-fitting but 
 plain black dress, the sober effect of which 
 she had relieved by a rose in her hair and 
 another at her bosom. She sat between 
 her parents, and was also evidently turning 
 something over in her mind ; while one of 
 her hands, rather red from household occu- 
 pations, if the truth must be told, mechan- 
 
 VOL. I. c 
 
18 COULD HE DO BETTER ? 
 
 ically played mth a rebellious lock of 
 Annie's hair. For Annie was on a foot- 
 stool, with her head on her sister's lap, 
 peeling some more walnuts for papa, and 
 munching one herself whenever the supply 
 exceeded the demand. 
 
 On the rug, indiiFerent to any worldly 
 cares now that bones and tit-bits had gone 
 kitchenwards, lay stretched in luxurious 
 repose a small Dachshund, called Jumper. 
 Not that he jumped or that any such 
 activity was to be expected ; but his pre- 
 decessor had been a poodle and had jumped, 
 and Annie wouldn't have the name altered. 
 So the non-jumping Jumper lay at peace, 
 though one of his hanging ears twitched 
 now and then, showing that he belonged 
 to the family, and had a right to listen 
 to the conversation, if not actually so 
 employed. 
 
 ' What a comfort,' said Mr. Topham, 
 
A FAMILY JAR. 19 
 
 drawing a red-grey whisker across his 
 smooth chin, ' to think of all that is done 
 for the suffering poor now-a-days. On a 
 night like this, for example, with the rain 
 drenching the fields and the roads, what a 
 comfort to think of retreats, poor-houses, 
 soup-kitchens, hospitals, and other charit- 
 able institutions.' 
 
 Mr. Topham, sure that he had spoken 
 with feelinof and o'ood sense, released his 
 whisker, took a sip of his '63, and waited 
 for approval. It came at once. 
 
 ' Certainly, Peter,' said his wife. ' Very 
 consoling indeed. I have no doubt the 
 poor people are grateful.' 
 
 ' They ought to be,' said Mr. Topham.' 
 
 ' I'm afraid,' interposed Judith, ' that 
 there will be many homeless wanderers 
 to-night. It's sad to think of them, 
 especially of the scantily- clad children. 
 Just listen to the rain !' 
 
 c2 
 
20 COULD HE DO BETTER ? 
 
 ^ Cats and dogs,' said Annie. ' Papa, 
 another walnut ?' 
 
 ' Homeless/ said her father, in answer to 
 Judith, ^ of course there will. You com- 
 plain because the system doesn't include 
 everybody. It doesn't pretend to. Quite 
 possibly, within our immediate neighbour- 
 hood, at this very moment, some tramp 
 finds himself unequal to the conditions for 
 prolonging his existence. — Annie, my love, 
 a couple more. — Consider, Judith, that no 
 system can be perfect. Evils exist, and 
 must be faced. I'm sure I for one have 
 borne that fact in mind.' 
 
 A smile came to Judith's lips, but it 
 vanished as she looked at her mother, and 
 noted the streaks of white above her 
 temples, and heard her say, 
 
 ' Yes, Peter, you have done your best. 
 We are all contented and hap^^y.' 
 
 ' We are happy,' answered Mr. Topham. 
 
A FAMILY JAR. 21 
 
 ^ I should be astonished to find it other- 
 wise. What have I got to complain of? 
 Nothing. I had a large fortune, which, it 
 is true, has been reduced by adverse cir- 
 cumstances that neither foresight, nor, I 
 may add, a fair degree of ability, has been 
 able to control. Yet enough remains for 
 ease, if not for luxury. Take us now as 
 we gather round the fire. We have had a 
 good dinner, we are well clothed . . . that 
 silk becomes you as much as ever, Maria 
 . . . and the young ladies have, I think, 
 no cause for anxiety of any kind. I 
 question, my dear,' concluded Mr, Topham, 
 addressing his wife, ' whether a cheque for 
 a thousand pounds, payable to P. Topham, 
 Esquire, and handed to me at this moment, 
 could make me more thoroughly happy, or 
 more grateful for the blessings I enjoy.' 
 
 He leaned back with his eyes half-closed. 
 But this time there was no echo, and its 
 
22 COULD HE DO BETTER ? 
 
 absence was so unusual as to partly rouse 
 Mr. Topham from his complacency. He 
 turned to his wife, and saw every sign of 
 distress in her thin, weary face. 
 
 ' It's nothing,' said she, hesitatingly, 
 in reply to his eager inquiry. And 
 then, plucking up courage, she said to 
 Judith, ' Perhaps you had better tell your 
 father.' 
 
 ' I can make a guess beforehand,' cried 
 Mr. Topham, playfully. 'Whenever my 
 pretty Chancellor of the Exchequer is 
 called upon, I know that advice is wanted 
 about the next budget. Well, my child ?' 
 
 Judith and her mother had been in per- 
 plexity all day, and the former was hurt 
 at her father's ill-timed banter. She 
 answered, rather tartly, that Davis had 
 that morning sent in his account for fifty- 
 three pound odd, with a peremptory 
 demand for payment. 
 
A FAMILY JAK. 23 
 
 Davis was not a grasping attorney with 
 unlimited opportunities for mischief; he 
 was simply Mr. Topham's tailor, and his 
 bill had been owing many a long day. 
 His letter had naturally been addressed to 
 Mr. Topham. But that gentleman, who 
 had become familiar with the handwriting, 
 had left the unwelcome document to be 
 opened by his wife or daughter. From 
 the deliberate manner in which he now 
 stroked his unpaid-for trousers, and from 
 the loAv, long-drawn whistle with which he 
 accompanied that operation, it may be 
 inferred that he was giving the matter his 
 most profound consideration ; a long pause 
 ensued. 
 
 ' Davis once more !' he said at length. 
 ' Fifty-three pound odd. Well, we were 
 bound to hear from him sooner or later. 
 What's distressing in the occurrence, 
 Judith?' 
 
24 COULD HE DO BETTER ? 
 
 ^Mother has had to sell her diamond 
 ring to make up the amount/ said Judith, 
 struggling for patience. 
 
 ' Indeed, Peter, I couldn't help it,' said 
 his wife, with tears in her eyes. ' You 
 mustn't be vexed. I loved the ring, and 
 let it go with a hard pang. It was the 
 first thing you gave me after Judith Avas 
 borUj and lately, when my finger got too 
 thin for it, I kept it in its place with the 
 signet-ring. Don't be vexed, Peter. Davis 
 wouldn't wait ; he wrote something about 
 proceedings. Judith thought there was no 
 time io be lost.' 
 
 ' I understand, then, that the bill is 
 paid,' said Mr. Topham. ' Now let's forget 
 all about it. That's the only true 
 philosophy. Some people mope about 
 bad luck that's coming, and others about 
 bad luck that's going. Let us be wiser. 
 Maria, I'll give you another ring some 
 
A FAMILY JAR. 25 
 
 day. Judith shall have diamonds of her 
 own, too. We must find you a hus- 
 band, Judith, with good looks and a good 
 income to boot. Matrimony,' added he. 
 with a gallant look at Maria, ' is a com- 
 pensation for the ills of life.' 
 
 Judith made no remark. But Annie, 
 who had been unusually quiet during the 
 foregoing conversation, now struck in. 
 
 ' No, no, papa, you must get me a hus- 
 band first. Jue knows very well how to 
 take care of herself. Everybody runs 
 after Jue. I'm not going to be overlook- 
 ed, I can tell you. Jue is to tell all her 
 suitors that my wedding-day is to come 
 before hers, and then they'll send their 
 younger brothers to me. I had made up 
 my mind to fall in love with Cris Parry. 
 He's been very attentive lately. But I've 
 had to resign him, for I don't think he'll 
 ever make up his mind.' 
 
26 COULD HE DO BETTER? 
 
 Annie, with more rattle than sense, was 
 nevertheless often of use in driving away 
 any little gloom that gathered on the family 
 horizon. Everybody now laughed as she 
 mentioned the name of Oris Parry, whose 
 acquaintance is to be made later on. 
 
 ^ You might do worse than marry the 
 young fellow, Annie,' said her father, who 
 was never contradicted by Oris. 
 
 ' Young, papa !' replied Annie. ' He's 
 as old as the hills.' 
 
 'His languid manner makes him seem 
 older than he is,' said Mrs. Topham. 
 
 'He's not thirty yet,' added Judith. 
 ' And a more amiable fellow never lived ; 
 though one can't help wishing he had at 
 least some energy.' 
 
 ' I like him,' said Mr. Topham, judicially, 
 ' because he's open to conviction. I was 
 talking to him on Thursday about Ireland, 
 and he expressed himself with much sound 
 
A FAMILY JAR. 27 
 
 sense ; agreed with me on every point. 
 Not tliat I set up for being a politiciany 
 but some value has now and then been 
 attached to my opinions by competent 
 judges. Yes, Parry is sensible ; an agree- 
 able contrast to that arrogant ass, Ambrose 
 Jackson. If you'll believe such a thing, 
 Maria, he took upon himself to contradict 
 me flatly about the best opposition policy, 
 and actually brought forward reasons to 
 support his extravagant ideas. I shan't 
 encourage him to call at my house.' 
 
 Judith had flushed on hearing Ambrose 
 Jackson spoken of, and she flushed still 
 more at her father's vehement injustice. 
 Though she knew Mrs. Jackson well, she 
 had met Ambrose, her son, only twice. 
 Nothing had passed between them but the 
 most common civilities that follow a formal 
 introduction. Yet she had thought a 
 good deal about Ambrose. She resembled 
 
28 COULD HE DO BETTER? 
 
 him in having a strong individuality and 
 definite aims, and was conscious that in 
 some way she had fellowship with him. 
 This feeling urged her to exclaim, 
 
 ' Compare Oris Parry with Mr. Jackson ! 
 I wonder it could be thought of! Mr. 
 Jackson may be wrong in politics, father ; 
 of course you have more experience than 
 is possible at his age. But at least you 
 will own that he has convictions, and acts 
 up to them. His can never be called 
 an idle, unmeaning existence, like Oris 
 Parry's. I, for my part, would sooner 
 have to do with a man who goes wrong 
 than with a poor creature who doesn't go 
 at all. I have sympathy for failure, none 
 for indolence. And I think, father, that 
 Mr. Jackson, whatever faults he may have, 
 is sincere and thorough.' 
 
 Mr. Topham, being always in the right, 
 had seldom any reason for losing his tem- 
 
A FAMILY JAK. 29' 
 
 per ; nor did he lose it now at this display 
 of insubordination in the bosom of his- 
 family. He roused his eyebrows in mild, 
 amused surprise, and nodded to Judith 
 almost encouragingly, as much as to say,, 
 ' Go on, my dear, go on, I will show 
 clearly that you are in the wrong when 
 the proper time comes.' 
 
 But Judith had done for the present. 
 Her mother tried to stave off any discus- 
 sion by saying that her father was ready 
 for his cigar. Up jumped Annie, and 
 soon brought the cigars, matches, and 
 little bronze ash-pan to his side. He 
 caught up his elder daughter's last words, 
 and said, 
 
 ' Sincere ? Thorough ? Not a bit of 
 it. You are easily imposed on. Ambrose 
 Jackson is a humbug, almost a hypo- 
 crite. I saw in every line of his face while 
 he was contradicting me . . . me, old 
 
30 COULD HE DO BETTER ? 
 
 enough to be his father . . . that he knows 
 he hasn't a leg to stand on. He thinks 
 push is everything. He has caught up 
 some new-fangled unformed notions which 
 he tries to pass oiF as wisdom by the help 
 of bold assertion. Sincere, indeed ! You'll 
 give him talent next ! Ambrose Jackson 
 has ambition without intellect, and is 
 equally wanting in common sense, and in 
 common honesty.' 
 
 This was Johnsonian, and Peter was 
 satisfied. Judith retorted quickly, 
 
 ^ Father, how can you be so unkind and 
 so unjust! Just because he's not of your 
 opinion !' 
 
 Judith w^as all the more angry because, 
 although it was palpable enough that her 
 father had grossly misrepresented Am- 
 brose, there was a slight leaven of truth in 
 his censure; and, once and for all, she 
 had that fellow-feeling already alluded to. 
 
A FAMILY JAR. 31 
 
 She would have said more in his defence 
 now, but a lump rose in her throat, and 
 prevented her from uttering another 
 word. 
 
 Her father replied, with undisturbed 
 equanimity, 
 
 ' What's this, Judith ? Have you fallen 
 in love with the young gentleman that 
 you champion him with so much spirit ? 
 I warn you that he is the last person I 
 should admit within my doors as a future 
 son-in-law.' 
 
 This was beyond endurance. Judith 
 rose from her seat. 
 
 ' I haven't fallen in love with Mr. Jack- 
 son, or with anyone else. I have seen 
 him only twice, and I'm far from sup- 
 posing that he has, or ever mil have, 
 any partiality for me. I have plenty of 
 fault to find with him, but where's the 
 necessit}^ for injustice ? It will, I think, 
 
32 COULD HE DO BETTER? 
 
 be time enough to refuse him admittance 
 here under the circumstances you suggest 
 when he has asked for that honour.' 
 
 'Judith!' cried her mother, ' How can 
 you forget yourself so ? Your father was 
 only in jest. You owe him more respect. 
 Beg his pardon at once.' 
 
 There was a pause, and a sharp struggle 
 in Judith's breast. Then she went to her 
 father, kissed his forehead, and begged 
 his pardon for having spoken hastily and 
 rudely. 
 
 He returned her caress, saying, 
 
 ' You have a good heart, ; but you 
 must be more reasonable. Really you 
 must. Break yourself of the fatal habit ' 
 of supposing that you can't make a 
 mistake. That's very odious in anybody. 
 And, rely upon it, my estimate of young 
 Jackson is correct ; I have an eye for 
 character. — There, child, no tears. 1 
 
A JAIMILY JAR. 33 
 
 forgive you. Let's hear no more about 
 
 it; 
 
 ' And now,' cried Annie, ' we'll leave 
 papa to wrap himself up in clouds of 
 smoke. Come along, mother, before the 
 puffing begins, and sets you coughing. 
 Come along, Jue. Come along, lazy old 
 Jumper. And, papa, I shall be back in 
 precisely twenty minutes, and woe be unto 
 you if I find you asleep as I did y ester- 
 day.' 
 
 ' Never fear, Annie, you'll find me read- 
 ing the Times.' 
 
 Mrs. Topham, after she had been care- 
 fully enveloped in a shawl by her attentive 
 and thoughtful husband, led the way into 
 the drawing-room. She was soon busy con- 
 soling Judith, who had still a few tears to 
 shed : then they became engrossed in a 
 settlement of certain household affairs. 
 
 Annie tried a new gavotte. Then, 
 
 VOL. I. D 
 
34 COULD HE DO BETTER ? 
 
 going into the dining-room again, she 
 found her prophecy fulfilled, and her father 
 sound asleep, with an expression of inde- 
 scribable contentment upon his features. 
 
 Later on, Judith, who was in a very 
 penitent mood, challenged her father to 
 play draughts, and let him win every game. 
 Mrs. Topham looked on, admiring her 
 husband's skill. Annie romped on the 
 hearth-rug with Jumper. And the rest of 
 the evening was spent in perfect harmony, 
 without any further allusion to Ambrose 
 Jackson and his supposed shortcomings. 
 
85 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 .AIKS. TWEEDY AND HER HUSBAND. 
 
 On our way to the Jacksons, who lived 
 more than a mile from Judith's home, we 
 must peep into a trim detached villa which 
 stood about half-way between these two 
 establishments. For it would never do to 
 overlook such an important personage as 
 Mrs. Tweedy, of Llewelyn House. 
 
 A Mr. Tweedy did exist ; there were 
 also five little Tweedys, all young ladies, 
 who ranged from four months to seven 
 years old. The father never seemed 
 anxious to impress the fact of his existence 
 on society, but his offspring took after 
 
 d2 
 
36 COULD HE DO BETTER? 
 
 their mother, and proclaimed theirs in 
 every key at all hours of the day. 
 
 On the morning after the discussion, 
 just recorded, between Judith and Mr. 
 Topham, Mr. Tweedy sat alone in his wife's 
 drawing-room, close to the open door. He 
 was busily perusing a volume on the law of 
 trespass and kindred subjects, for he had 
 once thought of adopting the law as a 
 profession ; and had lately, through his 
 wife's influence, been made a magistrate. 
 But he was studying under difficulties. 
 A new nurse had just been engaged for 
 Nora, Dora, Augusta, and Co., and Mr. 
 Tweedy was instructed to see that she 
 was up to her business, and that none of 
 the children got burnt or swallowed any- 
 thing irretrievably during their mother's 
 absence. In fact, it was with them that 
 his wife had left him, and, though he had 
 escaped from their boisterous caresses, he 
 
MES. TWEEDY AND HER HUSBAND. 37 
 
 intended to be found in their company 
 when she returned. As soon as he heard 
 his wife's quick tread on the gravel walk 
 outside, he would stroll leisurely upstairs. 
 Poor Mr. Tweedy ! 
 
 He used to have more spirit; but a series 
 of misfortunes had weighed him down. His 
 misfortunes were five in number. He was 
 fond of them, from Nora down to the latest 
 arrival, and amused them by the hour : 
 still they icere disappointments. 
 
 Mr. Tweedy was disheartened : he had 
 so longed for a boy. And people laughingly 
 said, that, if a son was born at Llewelyn 
 House, Mrs. Tweedy would no longer 
 rule the roast there. Others agreed, add- 
 ing, that, meek as he seemed, James 
 could be jealous on occasion, and that his 
 wife was fond of gadding, and had better 
 mind what she was about. A libel ! Mrs. 
 Tweedy was as good as gold. 
 
38 COULD HE DO BETTER? 
 
 That plump, brisk little woman, her 
 face aglow with health, and spirits, and 
 eagerness, came in sight, and pushed open 
 the o:arden o-ate. She had an umbrella 
 and a collection of small parcels in one 
 hand, and her purse in the other : and 
 without these accompaniments she wa& 
 seldom to be seen abroad. Gossip, good- 
 natured gossip, was Mrs. Tweedy's great 
 resource. She had the peculiarity of 
 leaving the purse, or the umbrella, or a 
 parcel, or something else belonging to her, 
 at her friends' houses. She was always 
 coming back for her property, so that you 
 never knew when Mrs. Tweedy was really 
 gone. She never wasted her conversation 
 on unattentive listeners. She chose a 
 victim, and for that victim, until she pleas- 
 ed, there was no escape. All attempts at 
 rescue she bravely repulsed. She drove 
 away any interposing party with resistless 
 
MRS. TWEEDY AND HER HUSBAND. 39 
 
 energy and charming good-humour. There 
 was no being angry with Mrs. Tweedy ; 
 even when she cooped you up in a corner, 
 and bobbed up and down mirthfully, and 
 gave point to her remarks by slight digs, 
 prods, and stabs with the crook of the 
 favourite umbrella, or familiar taps with the 
 purse and parcels. Whenever other sub- 
 jects were exhausted: her children . . . their 
 teething, ailments, nurses, accidents, clever 
 sayings, affectionate dispositions ; together 
 with James's devoted behaviour to them 
 and her own anxieties . . . provided material, 
 which, with the usual amount of repetition, 
 had all the qualities of the widow's cruse. 
 
 She panted upstairs, and took her hus- 
 band by surprise. He had just come 
 upon a nice distinction in law, and had 
 forgotten all about his charge. 
 
 ' James,' said his wife, ' didn't I leave 
 you ^viih the children ?' 
 
40 COULD HE 3)0 BETTER ? 
 
 ' Well, yes, Kitty ; I was with them till 
 just this moment ... I mean, I came down 
 a short time ago. Reading was impossible 
 with Nora and her sisters clinging to me.' 
 
 ' Sweet things all of them !' cried Mrs. 
 Tweedy, '■ such affection, even in the baby, 
 it's quite remarkable at her age. Listen, 
 now, James, I've had the most busy morn- 
 ing. First of all, I called at the Jacksons, 
 found the mother less nervous than usual, 
 and had a long talk with Ambrose. How 
 agreeable and intelligent he is, James. 
 Then I went on to Pickersgill's, and told 
 him that last Sunday's beef was a shame 
 and a scandal.' 
 
 ' So it was, Kitty : tough, stringy, bad 
 every way.' 
 
 ^That's what I told him. "Another 
 joint like that, Mr. Pickersgill," said I, ''and 
 you've seen your last order from Llewelyn 
 House." I told him that even Nora (she is 
 
]\IRS. TWEEDY AND HER HUSBAND. 41 
 
 sharp beyond her years, Jamesj said it 
 could be eaten only by savages.' 
 
 ' We ate it, my dear,' su^^gested Mr, 
 Tweedy, whose gentle melancholy caught 
 at the faintest indication of a joke. 
 
 ' Next,' said his wife, paying him no 
 attention, ' I went . . . where did I go next ? 
 yes, to the Tophams. I'm thankful to 
 say Mr. Topham was out, giving a lesson 
 in horticulture to his gardener. Those are 
 the best and dearest of girls : Judith and 
 Annie, Judith's my favourite. I shall say 
 a good word for her whenever I get the 
 chance, you may depend upon it. I 
 shouldn't wonder if she married well. 
 And she need, for I fancy, James, that 
 money's very scarce in her home. The 
 women are thrifty enough, but Peter ! 
 Their washerwoman (I met her coming 
 from Pickersgill's) told me that Mr. Top- 
 ham still wore two shirts a day regularly, 
 
42 COULD HE DO BETTER ? 
 
 and gave more trouble with his linen than 
 any other man in the parish. And then 
 the expense, James, just think of the 
 expense.' 
 
 James was decidedly of opinion that the 
 expense was unjustifiable. 
 
 ' As I came up the hill,' continued Mrs. 
 Tweedy, ' whom do you think I met ?' 
 
 ' My brother maojistrate, Mr. Tucker,' 
 guessed her husband. ' He probably put 
 you to the torture, after his fashion.' 
 
 ' No, not Mr. Tucker,' replied the little 
 woman, ' I had better luck than that. I 
 met Captain Handcock.' 
 
 ' And accepted his escort home, I dare- 
 say ?' said Mr. Tweedy. 
 
 His wife stared ; but she made no answer. 
 She took off her gloves. She was aston- 
 ished that James should address her in 
 that tone : and silence seemed the most 
 becoming. 
 
MRS. TWEEDY AND HER HUSBAND. 43' 
 
 Captain Handcock, formerly of the Bengal 
 Army, had lived some time in Baybridge, 
 where he was well known both in the 
 drawing-rooms and at the club. He was 
 a big-limbed, swaggering man of iive-and- 
 fifty or more, who, after spending his youth 
 and middle-age in, it was rumoured, no 
 very creditable manner, was at present in 
 search of a wife to take care of him in his 
 declining years. He was willing to dis- 
 pense with beauty or youth, or even good- 
 nature ; but not with a few snug hundreds 
 in the funds. Until he could find a lady 
 with this qualification, and willingness to 
 bestow it upon him, he amused himself 
 by paying civilities to any pretty woman 
 who came in his way. He had thus hon- 
 oured ]\Irs. Tweedy, and dropped a few 
 seeds of jealousy into the mind of her 
 husband. 
 
 Mr. Tweedy now repeated his question : 
 
44 COULD HE DO BETTER ? 
 
 had Captain Handcock walked part of the 
 way home with Kate. 
 
 Kate said, yes ; and that he had been 
 most entertaining, as he always was. 
 
 ' I wish,' persisted her husband, ' you 
 would keep him at a distance. I strongly 
 object to the man.' 
 
 ' Why ?' asked she, with her must pro- 
 voking air. 
 
 ' He's bad style, and I don't choose to 
 have your name associated with his.' 
 
 There is no saying how Mrs. Tweedy 
 would have faced this new attitude of her 
 husband's. For, at that moment, a piercing 
 scream came from the nursery. 
 
 The mother, who had gathered up her 
 parcels, now dropped them, gave a corres- 
 ponding shriek, and rushed upstairs to the 
 :scene of woe. Here she found that Dora, 
 w^ho had seen a conjuror lately, had suc- 
 ceeded in convincing Augusta that she 
 
MRS. TWEEDY AND HER HUSBAND. 45 
 
 (xlugusta) had swallowed a packet of 
 needles, and might expect them to come 
 out at different parts of her body as soon 
 as she began to walk. Mrs. Tweedy's 
 practical suggestion that her darling should 
 walk up and down and try, was carried out 
 with a soothing effect ; and, as her voice 
 could be heard all over the house, her 
 husband learned to his delight that the 
 noisy crew were to be washed, and taken 
 out for a walk before luncheon. 
 
 ' I declare,' said he, taking up his book 
 again, ' if it wasn't for Kitty, I'd run away,, 
 and cut the whole thing, hang me if I 
 wouldn't. There they go again ! Wash- 
 ing has begun, and they can't be whipped 
 properly, because they're girls !' 
 
 And, with profound disgust, the long- 
 suffering man shut the Babel out, and 
 hoped for, rather than expected, a quiet 
 quarter-of-an-hour. But he could not 
 
46 COULD HE DO BETTER ? 
 
 study. He might have been heard mutter- 
 ing ^Handcock,' and banging the table 
 with his book as if it were the gallant 
 captain's head. In this occupation, we 
 must leave him, and pay the intended 
 visit to Mrs. Jackson and her son Ambrose. 
 
47 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 ' YOUR COUNTRY MAID WOULDn't DO.' 
 
 3Irs. JxVCKson was a thin, fragile woman 
 with firmly marked and yet delicate 
 features. For many years she had been a 
 widow. Her marriage had been an un- 
 fortunate event in several respects. It 
 had oiven mortal offence to her own 
 family and to her husband's : to her own, 
 because the man she had chosen was as 
 unprincipled and thriftless as he was hand- 
 some and charming ; to his, because she 
 drove a richer rival from the field. But 
 Mrs. Jackson did not care whose favour 
 she forfeited, as long as she kept her 
 
48 COULD HE DO BETTER ? 
 
 husband's love. Scapegrace though he 
 was, he loved her well and truly ; until, a 
 year after their marriage, he died suddenly, 
 leaving her and their infant son slenderly 
 provided for. 
 
 Helen Jackson, hitherto accounted a 
 w^eak, dependent creature, displayed 
 courage and resource under these trying 
 circumstances. She determined to give 
 little Ambrose a good education. She 
 neglected no steps to secure his prosperity 
 in the future ; and applied to his father's 
 relations and to her own with penitent 
 humility. She was rudely repulsed. But 
 the longing to earn something, to put 
 something by for her boy, led to the dis- 
 covery that her taste for drawing and 
 painting could become profitable. At first 
 she had to undergo much disappointment 
 and weariness. But necessity quickened 
 and enlarged her powers, while experience 
 
^YOUR COUNTRY MAID WOULDn't DO.' 49 
 
 taught her the conditions of the market. 
 A demand arose for her pictures : Ambrose 
 was sent to a first-rate schooL 
 
 As the son grew up, he gave proofs of 
 considerable abihty, and so obtained what 
 had been refused to his mother's prayers : 
 the goodwill of old Mr. Jackson, his 
 grandfather. Mr. Jackson liked the lad 
 none the less for the fearless way in which 
 he resented any slight offered to his 
 mother, and at the squire's death a sum of 
 ten thousand pounds was placed in trust 
 for his grandchild. 
 
 Ambrose inherited not only some of the 
 old man's money, but much of his decision 
 and energy of character. These qualities 
 were strengthened by the influences shed 
 on him from early boyhood. He could 
 not be on good terms with the world that 
 neglected his mother's goodness and worth. 
 He aspired to make himself and her in- 
 
 VOL. I. E 
 
50 COULD HE DO BETTER ? 
 
 dependent of it by some solid success, and 
 at sixteen he entered a City office with a 
 firmer determination to push his way, and 
 a more just appreciation of the diffi- 
 culties that would beset his path, than is 
 often seen in one so young. 
 
 When he came of age, the first use he 
 made of his fortune was to extract as much 
 of a promise as he could from his mother 
 that she would never again resort to her 
 brush except for amusement. By that 
 time he had become almost indispens- 
 able to his employers ; while the same 
 thoughtful activity that pleased them pro- 
 cured him many friends for his leisure 
 hours. He loved to be king of his com- 
 pany, and, though sometimes overbearing, 
 found not a few subjects obedient to his 
 rule. 
 
 A year later, an event took place which, 
 though not so profitable, promised a mder 
 
'your country maid wouldn't do.' 51 
 
 sway to his ambition ; and he eagerly 
 availed himself of the opportunity, for he 
 coveted influence and position rather than 
 money. The event was this. A bill, for 
 the better payment of a certain class of 
 public servants, had been brought forward 
 b}^ a rising politician of the day, and sup- 
 ported by the whole weight of the opposi- 
 tion. Ambrose Jackson, who had perhaps 
 more decided views upon politics than his 
 information warranted, was especially in- 
 terested in this case, as he had several 
 friends concerned. He drew up their 
 claims in a letter addressed to one of the 
 evening papers. The letter was not only 
 published, but pronounced extremely able. 
 Further contributions followed ; and their 
 author eventually made the acquaintance 
 of more than one politician of note. When 
 he was twenty-three he was offered a 
 private secretaryship, accepted, and threw 
 
 b2 
 
52 COULD HE DO BETTER ? 
 
 himself heart and soul into his new 
 vocation. 
 
 He throve as men of his stamp will always 
 thrive. Though supported by neither 
 wealth nor family, he fixed on a seat in 
 Parliament as the object of his ambition. 
 His capacity for labour was great, and he 
 possessed the useful talent of making him- 
 self useful. But, though he thus throve 
 by dint of youth, vigour, and cleverness, 
 here and there a keen-sighted observer 
 would point out the rock upon which 
 would split the fortunes of the young 
 workman, namely, his disregard, not for the 
 interest or rights, but for the feelings of 
 other people. Ambrose was honourable, 
 just, true as steel to those among Avhom he 
 had cast his lot. But the bond of union 
 was interest, not affection. As for his 
 enemies, he neither gave nor expected 
 quarter. Let the weak fall, and the 
 
*YOUR COUNTRY MAID WOULDn't DO.' 5e3 
 
 coward sink, and victory be to the wise and 
 to the strong ! 
 
 His mother alone shared his confidence, 
 lived in his ambition, and kept the lamp of 
 love alive in his heart. And she deserved 
 all the sweetness that he could lavish upon 
 her. Her state of health prevented her 
 from remaining in London where her son's 
 home must necessarily be. The discovery 
 was a blow to many a fond hope, but she 
 bore the trial bravely and judiciously. 
 The next best thing was to serve his in- 
 terests in Baybridge, where his political 
 friends had a firm footing, and where (but 
 this was still a dead secret) he hoped to 
 succeed the present member, now very old. 
 So Mrs. Jackson took a little house here, 
 made friends with all the neighbours, occu- 
 pied her leisure in the pursuit of her art, 
 and consoled herself with her son's frequent 
 visits. 
 
54 COULD HE DO BETTER ? 
 
 Mother and son had not, however, met 
 for a week, a longer interval than usual. 
 Ambrose arrived with his travelling bag 
 shortly before luncheon, and kissed his 
 mother with the utmost affection. He was 
 tender in his inquiries about her health: 
 the sorrow and over-exertion of former 
 days had given rise to a nervous dis- 
 order that seemed incurable. As Mrs. 
 Tweedy had already found out that morn- 
 ing, Mrs. Jackson was stronger than she 
 had been for some time, and Ambrose was 
 in high spirits to see how much better 
 she looked. 
 
 ' Only get strong, mother,' he said,, 
 as they sat down to luncheon. ' I will 
 answer for the rest.' 
 
 ' To see you successful and happy,. 
 Ambrose, is all I want.' 
 
 ' Everything goes well,' answered he^ 
 with a smile. ' Just before leaving town 
 
'your country maid wouldn't do.' 55 
 
 I had an oifer . . . rather a o^ood thino^, I 
 fancy. I am to supply some local reports 
 for a new paper. The pay will be good^ 
 the work nothing to an industrious man. 
 And my colleagues will be creditable 
 acquaintance.' 
 
 ' Careful as ever, Ambrose, as to whom 
 you know !' 
 
 ' Yes, mother, You understand what I 
 think about that. Years ago I made up 
 my mind to touch nothing that was not 
 excellent in its kind. You hear it said of 
 somebody, " He has not over many wits, 
 but he's a harmless good fellow." In other 
 words, the man's a fool, and nothing for my 
 market. I was asked to a dinner the other 
 day, and the wine was shocking bad. Now, 
 no one has any business to set bad wine 
 before me. He's not obliged to invite me, 
 but, if he does, I expect the same consider- 
 ation that I show to my own guests.' 
 
56 COULD HE DO BETTER ? 
 
 ^ And your little suppers, Ambrose?' 
 
 ' Are as good as money and care can 
 make them, mother. Of course a single 
 man [is not expected to entertain. But, 
 when I do ask a few friends, I give them 
 the best of everything. And I ask only 
 those who have got something to say ; I 
 won't have a dull table. But there, I 
 mustn't prose about myself the whole 
 afternoon. It's your fault, mother; for 
 you will know everything that concerns 
 me. How's old Sir Hugh ?' 
 
 Sir Hugh Danvers was the member for 
 the borough. 
 
 Mrs. Jackson was sometimes distressed 
 at the coolness with which her son regard- 
 ed the possibility of the old Conservative 
 being removed to a world where even 
 whips cease from troubling. Ambrose saAV 
 what was passing in her mind now. 
 
 ' Don't think, mother,' said he, ' I want 
 
'your country maid wouldn't do.' 57 
 
 anything to happen to the worthy gentle- 
 man. But he ought, for mere decency's 
 sake, to retire and make room for a younger 
 and more active man. I hope you keep 
 in with everybody, mother ? What visi- 
 tors have you had lately ?' 
 
 ' Mrs. Tweedy was here this morning.' 
 
 ' Ah, she's not likely to be of much use 
 to me. But she talks so much, and is so 
 well known, that it's as well to be on good 
 terms with her. And then her husband 
 (such as he is) has a sort of a standing.' 
 
 Such subjects occupied them during 
 luncheon, and then Ambrose led his 
 mother into the drawing-room, and drew 
 an arm-chair for her up to the fire. 
 
 ' The Tophams came yesterday ; the 
 girls,' said Mrs. Jackson. 
 
 ' Provincial rather !' said Ambrose. 
 '• Don't know how to dress, make their own 
 clothes, and all that sort of thing. I must 
 
58 COULD HE DO BETTPIR ? 
 
 say I like a fine, distinguislied-looking, well- 
 dressed woman.' 
 
 ' The Toj)liaras are a very good family, 
 dear boy.' 
 
 ' Yes, mother, I've no doubt. What's 
 become of Oris Parry? I haven't seen 
 him for ages.' 
 
 'He was here on Thursday, inquiring 
 after you, in his dear listless way,' said 
 Mrs. Jackson. ' Don't you agree with me, 
 Ambrose dear, that Judith Topham is a 
 remarkably handsome girl ?' 
 
 A smile flitted over the young man's 
 pleasant features, for his habit of close 
 attention often enabled him to guess what 
 others had in their thoughts, and this was 
 especially the case with his mother. He 
 now took her by the hand, and, looking her 
 fondly in the face, shook his head, and re- 
 plied, in a tone of gentle raillery, 
 
 'Mother, mother, conspiracy has no 
 
' YOUR COUNTRY MAID WOULDN't DO.' 59' 
 
 chance with me. Don't forget that I live 
 in an atmosphere of plot and intrigue.' 
 
 ^ And who is plotting now?' said his 
 mother, blushing a little though, as she 
 spoke. 
 
 *You are, mother; for my welfare of 
 course, as usual ; but still a dangerous 
 plotter. I foresee a far-reaching, well-con- 
 cocted scheme for uniting your dutiful son 
 Ambrose in the bonds of holy matrimony 
 to Miss Judith Topham. I daren't confess 
 her handsome for fearing of compromising 
 myself.' 
 
 ' How quick you are, Ambrose,' protest- 
 ed Mrs. Jackson, admiringly. 'But I'm 
 not as guilty as you suppose. I was not 
 thinking of Judith Topham exactly in 
 that way. But I should like to see yoa 
 married, and married to a good woman. 
 Who knows how long I maybe spared you.' 
 
 It was not want of heart that prevented 
 
'60 COULD HE DO BETTER ? 
 
 Ambrose from being duly impressed by 
 this reflection. It was custom. His 
 mother often chose to take this desponding 
 view of the future ; and he had learned to 
 treat it cheerfully for her sake. 
 
 ' Now, mother, what an idea ! You have 
 chosen Judith Topham because she's the 
 only young lady in the place (except her 
 sister) who doesn't look like a sack tied 
 across the middle.' 
 
 ' No, Ambrose, not altogether that. She 
 has a fine character.' 
 
 ' Agreed,' replied Ambrose, ' from the 
 little I've seen of her. But allowing her 
 to be handsome and everything else doesn't 
 prove her set apart to be Mrs. Jackson 
 junior. Really, mother, you look far 
 ahead. I have barely spoken to her. Per- 
 haps we should hate each other like poison. 
 Perhaps, probably, she would have nothing 
 to say to me.' 
 
'your country maid wouldn't do.' 61 
 
 This possibility had evidently never 
 occurred to Mrs. Jackson ; she naturally 
 thought anyone would be proud to re- 
 ceive a proposal from Ambrose. 
 
 ' You treat the matter too seriously, 
 Ambrose,' she said, and tried to turn the 
 conversation. 
 
 'And yet you were serious enough, 
 mother ; I saw it in your face.' 
 
 ' I am anxious, Ambrose.' 
 
 ' An anxiety, mother, and you have not 
 yet given me my share of it ?' said the 
 young man, with a caress. 
 
 ' I haven't liked to say much hitherto^ 
 Ambrose, for fear of vexing you. Very 
 well, I'll speak out now ... I have had more 
 than one hint lately from some of your 
 friends and supporters . . . no, no, I must 
 not mention names. They say that you 
 have energy and talent, and will push your 
 way ; but at too great a cost. They com- 
 
62 COULD HE DO BETTEE ? 
 
 plain that, though you could be charming 
 if you chose, you understand nothing of 
 the • arts of conciliation, and make an 
 enemy for every step you climb.' 
 
 Mrs. Jackson, though of a fault-finding 
 nature, very rarely ventured to find fault 
 even in this indirect manner with her son ; 
 and she waited nervously to see how he 
 would meet the implied rebuke. He re- 
 plied, somewhat hastily, 
 
 ^They are right, I do make enemies. 
 But I can hold my own against them all. 
 A fig for the man who bows to the fickle 
 opinions of chatterers and dullards. I hate 
 the bear-and-forbear, the give-and-take 
 system ; it's poor, it's weak, and it doesn't' 
 pay. I can do better. After all, I'm the 
 best judge of the means to gain my own 
 ends.' And then he added, more softly, for 
 his mother looked hurt: *But what has 
 all this got to do with marrying, and giving 
 in marriage, dearest mother?' 
 
'your country maid wouldn't do.' 63 
 
 * Everything, Ambrose. You are engao^ed 
 in a hard, unforgiving struggle. Even I, 
 who see so little of your doings, know . . . 
 forgive me, my child . . . how ready you 
 sometimes are to use an instrument, and 
 then to fling it aside. I'm not clever like 
 you; but I have ripe experience. To 
 pursue such a policy is to buy present 
 success with future unhappiness. Now if 
 you had a wife, a loving, sensible, clever 
 woman, who could heal the wounds you 
 inflict, your progress would be safer and 
 less arduous.' 
 
 Ambrose was struck with his mother's 
 earnestness. He remained for a few 
 moments in thought, with his chin on his 
 hand ; and then answered, 
 
 ' Yes, mother, you are right. I've often 
 thought it would be advisable for me to 
 marry. A woman could do so much to 
 further my plans.' 
 
 ' Besides loving you, and taking care of 
 
64 COULD HE DO BETTER ? 
 
 you, Ambrose,' said his mother, with a sup- 
 pressed sigh. 
 
 ' Of course,' replied he. ' But the thing 
 has its drawbacks. Above all, your 
 country maid wouldn't do, mother : even 
 supposing I had time to fall desperately in 
 love with her. I can imagine no greater 
 humiliation to a man wbo has risen per- 
 haps beyond expectation than to have a 
 wife unable to keep pace with him. No, 
 mother, I'll belong to you for some years 
 longer. — What time is Andrew coming for 
 you this afternoon ?' 
 
 Andrew was an old pensioner, whose 
 business it was to push Mrs. Jackson about 
 in her bath-chair. For the invalid was un- 
 equal to much walking. 
 
 ' I must stay in, dear; Andrew has 
 sprained his ankle.' 
 
 ' Never mind, mother. Get your things 
 on. I can manage as well as Andrew, I 
 
'your country maid wouldn't do.' 65 
 
 daresay. Fresh air is the one thing need- 
 ful for you.' 
 
 Mrs. Jackson objected ; what would 
 people think ? 
 
 ' What they please,' answered Ambrose, 
 lauo'hinor. 
 
 And so mother and son soon started : 
 the latter quite indifferent to public 
 opinion ; and Mrs. Jackson a little nervous, 
 and fondly proud of her escort. Only 
 once was she really wanting in courage, 
 and that was when an old-fashioned closed 
 carriage came in sight. 
 
 ' It's Mrs. Robertson,' exclaimed she. 
 
 Mrs. Robertson was a very old lady, 
 conscientious, good-natured, wealthy, and 
 much given to hospitality. 
 
 ' Mrs. Robertson won't eat us, mother,' 
 laughed Ambrose. 
 
 When the lumbering vehicle reached 
 Mrs. Jackson's bath-chair, its occupant 
 
 VOL. I. F 
 
Q6 COULD HE DO BETTER? 
 
 tup^ged energetically at the check-string : 
 the footman scrambled down, and opened 
 the window. A pinched eager face, soften- 
 ed by a bunch of white curls on each side, 
 was thrust out, and a voice shrill but 
 sweet exclaimed, 
 
 ' Mrs. Jackson, Mrs. Jackson ... is that 
 Mrs. Jackson ?' 
 
 ^ Yes, m'm,' prompted the footman, in a 
 low voice, before the lady addressed had 
 time to ansAver. 
 
 'How d'ye do, Mrs. Jackson?' continued 
 the shrill voice. ' Who's that young man 
 pushing your chair ?' 
 
 'My son Ambrose,' replied Mrs. Jack- 
 son. ' Ambrose — Mrs. Roberston.' 
 
 ' How d'ye do, Mr. Jackson ?' came from 
 the little bobbing head. ' Why don't you 
 ever come to see me ? I'm an old woman, 
 I suppose.' 
 
 Ambrose replied that he had never 
 before had the honour of an invitation. 
 
•YOUR COUNTRY MAID WOULDN't DO. 07 
 
 ^I sliall expect you,' replied old Mrs. 
 Robertson. ' I shall expect to see him, 
 Mrs. Jackson. Good-bye, Mrs. Jackson. 
 Good-bye, young gentleman.' 
 
 Back went the head, up went the 
 window, and the carriage lumbered on as 
 before. 
 
 ' Curious old lady,' said Ambrose. 
 
 ' But kind,' answered his mother. ' She 
 has a great deal of influence here among 
 the electors.' 
 
 ' I shall certainly call upon her,' said 
 Ambrose. 
 
 F 2 
 
68 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 TWO CREEDS. 
 
 Although slie knew that Ambrose was 
 only in fun when he called her a conspir- 
 ator, Mrs. Jackson had her reasons for 
 feeling rather guilty. Without his know- 
 ledo^e she had become intimate with Judith 
 Topham, the intimacy having sprung up 
 in the following manner. Mrs. Jackson 
 tried to avoid living altogether on her 
 son's bounty, and she did at least some 
 work for the picture-dealers every day, 
 and concealed the fact from Ambrose. 
 Now, she happened to mention to Judith, 
 (who shared her taste for painting), the 
 
TWO CREEDS. 69 
 
 difficulty of finding a model. Judith won- 
 dered if she could be of any use. Mrs. 
 Jackson accepted the offer thankfully, and 
 took Judith into her confidence. And 
 whenever time could be spared (Ambrose 
 being absent) her young friend came to 
 pose, and the pictures made rapid progress. 
 Notmthstanding the difference of age, a 
 firm friendship sprang up between the two 
 women. Mrs. Jackson looked forward to 
 these short but frequent visits, for on 
 many points, which her son, being a man, 
 could not understand, she received sym- 
 pathy from Judith. Judith, too, gained 
 much advantage from the intercourse ; she 
 had many difficulties to contend with, and 
 often needed advice which neither her 
 parents nor her sister was capable of giv- 
 ing. Mrs. Jackson made up for the want. 
 Ambrose was naturally often the subject 
 of Mrs. Jackson's conversation, and, as she 
 
70 COULD HE DO BETTER ? 
 
 grew familiar witli Judith's many good 
 qualities, she had day-dreams in which 
 their future flowed together. Judith was 
 impressed not so much by the mother's 
 praise of her son, as by the great care and 
 attention which he showed for her happi- 
 ness. So that, taking all together, Mrs. 
 Jackson, as we have said, had her reasons 
 for being rather guilty. 
 
 *" You have got quite a colour, mother,' 
 said Ambrose, as they finished their after- 
 noon tea. ' You must go out every day.' 
 
 ' I will, dear, it Avas so good of you . . .' 
 
 ^ No, no, I wasn't fishing for thanks. 
 And I don't deserve any ; for I'm going to 
 desert you now, for at least an hour, to 
 take a brisk walk. Without lots of exer- 
 cise, I'm never up to the mark.' 
 
 So saying, Ambrose brought his mother 
 some books which he had chosen for her 
 in London, and set out on a constitutional. 
 
TWO CREEDS. 71 
 
 It was dusk. He passed the Tweedys, 
 and smiled to see on the blind the shadow 
 of Mrs. Tweedy, who was gesticulating on 
 the other side. He passed Judith's home, 
 and wondered what strange fancy his 
 mother had taken into her head. And 
 walking on briskly, he came to the Com- 
 mon, and soon found himself in the open 
 country. 
 
 His quick firm step showed off his well- 
 built figure to perfection. It was in action 
 that Ambrose was always seen at his best. 
 In repose his dark face was somewhat 
 stern, especially when his hair fell, as it 
 often did, in loose black curls over his 
 forehead. But when animated, his eyes 
 were so bright and pleasing, and his lips 
 so suggestive of his mother's in their win- 
 ning smile, that you forgot any disagree- 
 able first impression. 
 
 Ambrose was so busy thinking about 
 
72 COULD HE DO BETTER ? 
 
 his various schemes that he went further 
 than he intended; and then suddenly 
 stopped, and looked at his watch. 
 
 ^ Six o'clock !' said he. ' This will never 
 do. I must race home.' 
 
 The roads were muddy ; so he tucked 
 the ends of his trowsers up, and start- 
 ed for home at double-time. He ran 
 faster and faster, so much so that when 
 he came to the edge of the Common, 
 where the lane took a sharp turn, he was 
 unable to check himself, and ran into 
 somebody who was hurrying towards the 
 open. 
 
 It was Judith Topham. She had a 
 paper 'parcel in her hand, and the shock 
 sent it flying into the mud. 
 
 Ambrose picked it up, and, as Judith 
 stretched out her hand for it, he recog- 
 nized her. 
 
 ' Miss Topham !' he said. ' I hardly 
 
TWO CREEDS. 73 
 
 know how to apologise for my awkward- 
 ness. I beg a thousand pardons. I made 
 sure the road was deserted, and didn't look 
 where I was running to.' 
 
 ' It doesn't matter a bit,' said Judith, 
 with a pleasant smile which her companion 
 could just note in the uncertain light. ' I 
 wasn't paying attention either. There's 
 really no harm done.' 
 
 ' You're very indulgent,' said A^mbrose, 
 as they shook hands. ' I hope your parcel 
 hasn't got wet ?' 
 
 Judith gave a little cry of alarm ; and 
 Ambrose took the parcel again, and began 
 pulling off the wet paper. 
 
 'How lucky I wrapped it up in two 
 folds,' said Judith. ' Thank you, it is all 
 right. It's Aunt Robby's table-cloth.' 
 
 ' Aunt Robby's ?' said Ambrose. 
 
 ' I thought only we poor women were 
 curious. Yes, Mrs. Robertson's ; and I can 
 
74 COULD HE DO BETTER? 
 
 assure you, though I oughtn't to be the 
 person to say so, that it's quite worth 
 seeing.' 
 
 ' That means it's your work.' said 
 Ambrose. ' My curiosity is quite uncon- 
 trolable now.' 
 
 ' There's no light,' said Judith. But 
 he pointed to a lamp some yards oiF, and 
 by its rays she showed him the corner of 
 the cloth, worked in silk. 
 
 ' Beautiful,' said Ambrose. ' You have 
 reason to be proud of it. What a bold 
 design. Rather like my mother's style.' 
 
 It was Mrs. Jackson's. But Judith held 
 her tongue about that, and wished him 
 good-night. 
 
 • Are you going to Mrs. Robertson's 
 now ?' said he. ' Then I must see you 
 safely there.' 
 
 ' But you were in such a hurry,' replied 
 Judith. 
 
TWO CREEDS. 75 
 
 ' Circumstances alter cases,' answered 
 Ambrose. ' There may be other wild 
 fellows running about the roads, for all 
 I know. You must be protected.' And, 
 Judith gladly consenting, they walked on 
 together. 
 
 ' I hope Mrs. Robertson will appreciate 
 the present in store for her,' said Ambrose, 
 ' What makes you so good-natured ?' 
 
 Judith was all the more pleased because 
 of his matter-of-fact tone, and a flush 
 which her companion could not see rose on 
 her cheek. She tried to say something 
 kind in return. 
 
 ' You are busy, too, Mr. Jackson, on a 
 larger and more important scale. I think 
 you may have many opportunities for 
 making others happy, and advancing a 
 cause you think good. But isn't the pro- 
 fession of politics difficult and hazardous T 
 
 Ambrose, too, was pleased. So seldom 
 
76 COULD HE DO BETTER ? 
 
 did any woman (except his mother) seem 
 able to enter into his ambition. He saw that 
 Judith differed from him in not regarding 
 poHtics merely as a personal advantage ; 
 but her few words made him feel that, 
 unlike, as he believed, most of her sex, she 
 had definite opinions. He therefore an- 
 swered with less reserve than he could have 
 thought possible when he had spoken of 
 ^ your country maid ' to his mother that 
 afternoon. 
 
 ' Difficult and hazardous. Miss Topham ? 
 Yes, to the waverers and the fickle-mind- 
 ed; but not to the patient, the strong, 
 and the thoughtful. Let a man find out 
 exactly what he wants to do, let him 
 determine that the thing shall be done, 
 that every day shall bring him nearer . . . 
 if it be but an inch nearer ... to his aim : 
 and hazard and difficulty are but empty 
 names ' 
 
TWO CREEDS. 77 
 
 ' I quite see,' said Judith. ' And then 
 you make friends, bound up in the same 
 cause, whose aiFection you can rely upon !' 
 
 ' No,' said the young politician, hastily. 
 ' I have no such friends. They would en- 
 cumber me. I rely upon the only person of 
 whom I can say, " He will not fail" . . . 
 upon myself Of course I don't journey 
 alone : but my fellow-travellers only give 
 me their company because it's their interest 
 to do so.' 
 
 Judith gave a start, looked up with 
 vague distrust and alarm at the dark^ 
 strong features of the speaker beside her, 
 and unconsciously moved a step away from 
 him. So she had made a mistake, after all. 
 Ambrose never had existed as she had 
 pictured him in her mind. The mistake 
 was only to be expected;, for she had seen 
 little of him, and she had never heard of 
 his faults from Mrs. Jackson. The mother 
 
78 COULD HE DO BETTER ? 
 
 was too loyal to speak of her son's short- 
 comings to anyone, and she naturally ex- 
 aggerated his virtues. Judith had hitherto 
 considered Ambrose a generous man, whose 
 enthusiasm was held in check by a keen 
 intelligence. The intelligence was there ; 
 but the enthusiasm was deplorably one- 
 sided, and the generosity, alas ! with his 
 own lips he had disavowed its possession. 
 Interest the sole guide of his life ! What 
 could be more hopeless and more dreary ? 
 Judith positively shivered. Then she 
 began to excuse him. Perhaps Ambrose 
 knew the world better than she did ; per- 
 haps in his particular path self-seeking was 
 a necessity. No ! something within her 
 forbade the supposition that all she had 
 heard and read of devotion in Public Life 
 was a mere fable ; and she said, eagerly, 
 
 ' I altogether reject your creed, Mr. 
 Jackson. Never will I believe that any 
 
TWO CREEDS. 79 
 
 cause can prosper unless its promoters for- 
 get themselves to carry it through.' 
 
 Ambrose mshed to explain that he 
 did not care a straw for any cause, unless 
 it could become a ladder for his own am- 
 bition. He wished to explain to this ter- 
 ribly out-spoken young lady that for him 
 '• politics ' was only a trade . . . like book- 
 binding or boot-making . . . sweetened by 
 the love for power and by its exercise. He 
 thought her very quixotic to talk about 
 causes, abstractions he cared little about, 
 xlndyet, though accustomed to treat others' 
 opinions with something like disdain, he 
 dared not invite the censure of the young 
 girl w^Jking at his elbow. So he kept 
 silence. 
 
 ' You are fond of history, of course,' said 
 Judith. 'My stock is likely to be poor 
 and scanty, I knoAV. But doesn't history 
 prove your creed to be false? Aren't 
 
80 COULD HE DO BETTER ? 
 
 there any examples of self-sacrificirig 
 brotherhoods in it? For instance, the 
 Abolitionists ?' 
 
 Ambrose tried to smile at this little dis- 
 play of feminine erudition ; but he was non- 
 plussed. The case, if trite, was apt. He had 
 studied history, to be sure ; and had found 
 in it all that he had sought, and deserved to 
 find : facts that might be useful to him in 
 the career he had mapped out. He knew 
 the arguments for and against the Slave 
 Trade, and the position of parties, but had 
 not noticed over-much the self-sacrificing 
 spirit of which Judith spoke. He could 
 not meet her on the higher ground she 
 had chosen ; and would not acknowledge 
 defeat. So he glossed over his failure by 
 saying that many personal motives were 
 lost to history, and that, on the other 
 hand, a great deal of false sentiment crept 
 into its pages. A poor evasion ! and he 
 
TWO CREEDS. 81 
 
 felt that Judith detected its barrenness as 
 she answered, 
 
 ' Granting your system to be the best 
 in the field you have chosen, aren't you 
 afraid of not being able to get rid of it in 
 every-day life, of its clinging to you, and 
 dragging you down ?' 
 
 ' Private life is quite a separate affair,' 
 said Ambrose ; feeling that he was still 
 losing ground, and wishing that he had 
 run against anybody else but this provin- 
 cial Miss Topham. 
 
 ' Are you sure it can be kept separate T 
 persisted Judith. She was excited herself, 
 and had no idea how far she went. 
 
 ' I never thought much of that/ confessed 
 Ambrose. ' I don't think there's any danger.' 
 
 'And I think there must be,' replied 
 Judith, more quietly, turning her eyes full 
 upon him ; ' but please forgive me for say- 
 ing so.' 
 
 YOL. T. G 
 
82 COULD HE DO BETTER? 
 
 As she finished speaking, they reached 
 Mrs. Robertson's gate. Judith, who was 
 abeady seriously taking herself to task for 
 having spoken so freely, thanked him for 
 coming so far out of his way to oblige her, 
 but did not offer to shake hands. Ambrose 
 was no less formal ; for he was vexed with 
 himself for having defended his theories 
 to Judith Topham, whose existence he had 
 not hitherto thought of hnportance. He 
 was puzzled, and, when he had lost sight of 
 her, shrugged his broad shoulders with an 
 air of discomfort, and strode down the 
 lane. 
 
 j^o wonder Ambrose was puzzled, for he 
 knew next to nothing of women. Ever since 
 he could remember, he had been too busy to 
 think about them. A time would come, he 
 never doubted, when he might look down 
 from the high position he had won, upon 
 such matters. Yes, beauty and love were 
 
TWO CREEDS. 83 
 
 very good things . . . after working hours. 
 He wondered how people could waste their 
 time among women when there was so 
 much else to do ; and he was punished by 
 a want of some of the easy graces other 
 young men had. This loss, however, was 
 fully balanced by his ignorance of fashion- 
 able vice. He would have scorned fiercely 
 the assertion that ' wild oats ' were ex- 
 cusable, fashionable . . . even laudable. 
 And to this healthy tone of mind he un- 
 questionably owed a large share of his 
 decision and energy. It made his bearing 
 manly ; and his voice had the true, clear 
 ring of a pure and fearless gentleman. 
 
 While he is hurrying home, we will 
 follow Judith into the cheery presence of 
 old Aunt Robby, where a surprise awaits 
 her. 
 
84 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 AT yiEST SIGHT. 
 
 Mrs. Robertson's clock struck the half- 
 hour : half-past six. Blind-man's holiday, 
 which she observed regularly every even- 
 ing, was over some time ago ; and the 
 curtains were drawn in front of the closed 
 shutters ; and the lamps were lit, and a 
 blazing and a crackling came from the 
 thick logs piled across the iron dragons on 
 the hearth. A little on one side of the 
 rug, so as not to shut the warmth out from 
 Aunt Robby in her easy chair, stood a tall 
 man of about forty-five. He had a long 
 chestnut beard, chestnut hair just turning 
 
AT FIRST SIGHT. 85 
 
 grey, and, in spite of every care to hide the 
 truth, somewhat thin on the crown. He 
 was dressed rather smartly, especially for 
 Baybridge, as if he preferred to pass for 
 thirty, and had no desire to be mistaken 
 for a married man. He was, in truth, a 
 bachelor, named William Sutton; and he 
 had come on a visit to Mrs. Robertson, at 
 the Elms. 
 
 Will Sutton was an orphan, and had 
 been a ward in Chancery. When he be- 
 came his own master, he plunged head- 
 long, first into pleasure, then into extrava- 
 gance, and then into riotous living. This 
 lasted for a few golden years. Then trouble 
 and ill-health came on wings, while at a 
 foot's pace followed repentance. 
 
 There is perhaps no greater martyrdom 
 on earth, than to start from the dream of 
 lawless pleasure . . . say at thirty-five . . . 
 and to find the heart empty and callous, 
 
S6 COULD HE DO BETTER ? 
 
 and that most precious gift, health, vilely 
 cast away. Repair is possible in other 
 things. Will, by dint of rigid economy 
 (and some timber- felling), saved the estate 
 of his fathers. But the glow, the ardour, 
 the rejoicing in one's strength . . . could 
 these return ? 
 
 Friends went, too, as they so often will ; 
 for a sick man is out of sight, and . . . 
 the proverb holds good. The reformed 
 spendthrift sought consolation, not al- 
 together in vain, from books and from art ; 
 and strength from milder climates. Years 
 passed. The fruits of restraint ripened; 
 health returned. But Will Sutton had no 
 ties. Clever, amiable, and affectionate, he 
 was almost alone in the world, without an 
 aim, feeling, except on rare occasions when 
 old flames would burst forth, that his 
 day had gone, that his sun had set in 
 clouds. 
 
AT FIRST SIGHT. 87 
 
 He Avas one of the ' unclassed ;' too 
 
 numerous among us. 
 
 * "Will, I hope you are comfortable, and 
 have everything you want,' said his hostess. 
 ' I shall expect you to stay a long time ; be- 
 cause I must learn to be as fond of you as 
 I was of your father. He knew how to pay 
 a compliment ; no one danced the minuet 
 like your father. What a handsome lad 
 he was, well, well-a-day! Do you hear, 
 Will, I shall expect you to stay a very long 
 time.' 
 
 ' You quite spoil me. Aunt Robby, and 
 you'll never get rid of me,' said Will. 
 
 ' I shall make some one else spoil you,' 
 was the answer. For the kindly gentle- 
 woman was not tired of match-making, 
 even after the practice of nearly half-a- 
 century. 
 
 ^Too late! Aunt Robby,' murmured 
 Will Sutton, as, perhaps, chances he had 
 
88 COULD HE DO BETTER ? 
 
 recklessly tossed aside rose in his memory. 
 The words gave the key-note of his exist- 
 ence. He had always been too late. 
 
 ' Tut, tut, a good-looking man in the 
 prime of life,' piped Aunt Robby, ' I'll not 
 listen to such croaking. Fiddlesticks, Will. 
 Now I've got you at the Elms, I shall 
 show you to all the young ladies in Bay- 
 bridge. Oh, I shall. I have a tea-party to- 
 morrow on purpose. The Tophams will 
 be here. You've not forgotten Judith and 
 Annie, Will ?' 
 
 ' Forgotten my old friends ? I should 
 think not,' said Mr. Sutton. ' What a time 
 it is since we've met. They were mere 
 slips of children, then ; fresh and joyous 
 creatures, that used to play me a thousand 
 tricks. Judith has grown handsome, I 
 daresay ?' 
 
 ' You shall judge for yourself,' exclaimed 
 the old lady, hearing the hall-door bell ring. 
 
AT FIRST SIGHT. 89 
 
 ' That's Juditli ; I forgot (in the excitement 
 of your coming, Will) that she hadn't been 
 here to-day. She seldom lets a day pass 
 without a visit to old Aunt Robby, and so 
 that must be Judith. No, no, she wouldn't 
 disappoint the old woman. Quick, quick, 
 Will ! hide behind that screen. Can I 
 look as if you weren't there^ I wonder.' 
 
 Sutton smiled at her garrulous delight, 
 and went into hiding as she bade him. 
 Not a moment too soon ; for in ran Judith 
 exclaiming, 
 
 ' Here I am, Aunt Robby.' 
 
 Mrs. Robertson had no relations in the 
 world ; but in Baybridge she was every- 
 where known as ' Aunt ' Robby, a title she 
 deserved by the affectionate interest she 
 took in everybody's welfare. 
 
 'Here I am,' said Judith, ' after all sorts 
 of adventures.' And, holding the table- 
 cloth behind her back, she added, ' I've a 
 
90 COULD HE DO BETTEE ? 
 
 surprise for you, Aunt Robby. Guess?' 
 
 ' A surprise !' tittered the venerable 
 dame, chuckling at the thought of the 
 bearded man so cunningly hid behind the 
 screen, ' a surprise, have you ? He, he ! so 
 have I, Jue. We'll see who's the best 
 hand at surprises.' 
 
 ' Mine,' said Judith, ' is this table-cloth 
 for your birthday ; there it is, ready for 
 your tea-party to-morrow.' 
 
 And she unpacked her treasure, and let 
 the gay border fall invitingly over the edge 
 of the table. 
 
 ' Oh, the dear, thoughtful child,' said 
 Aunt Robby. ' Let me see. Roses and 
 forget-me-nots ! Oh, dear, oh, dear. My 
 old favourites too. None of the new- 
 fangled things that don't mean anything. 
 Kiss me, child, for the beau-ti-ful present. 
 Where are ray spectacles ? Now ! Beau- 
 ti-ful, Judith ! How evenly you've work- 
 
AT FIRST SIGHT. 91 
 
 ed it, pet. With my glasses, I thank good- 
 ness my sight's as clear as ever it was, 
 though I'm getting an old woman now. 
 My birthday ! ah, Jue, I remember your first 
 birthday ; what a fine baby you were, and 
 the gentlest of them all, to be sure.' 
 
 Aunt Robby was so taken up with the 
 birthday present that she forgot all about 
 Will Sutton. The old dame had a lively 
 imagination (which was to play havoc 
 later on), and she was shrewd enough 
 when she could bring her mind to bear 
 upon any one matter. The time had long 
 gone by when she could think (as one 
 says) of two things at once. She was now 
 thinking that the table-cloth must have 
 cost much more than Judith could afford, 
 and wondering how, without offence, she 
 could prevent the girl from being a loser 
 by the generosity. So Will Sutton was 
 altogether forgotten, and there is no saying 
 
'92 COULD HE DO BETTER ? 
 
 how long he must have stayed where he 
 was, but for Judith's question, 
 
 ' Now, Aunt Robby, what surprise have 
 you T 
 
 ' Gracious !' said the ancient lady, ' I had 
 forgotten all about him. Well, well, I'm 
 getting to be an old w^oman now. Jue, 
 my child, just pull the screen a little 
 forward.' 
 
 Judith obeyed. The bearded man came 
 forth with outstretched hand. 
 
 ' Don't you recognise me, Judith ?' he 
 asked. 
 
 Miss Topham was rather startled at this 
 sudden apparition. She raised her eyes 
 gravely, and shook her head. Evidently 
 she had no idea who he was. 
 
 'Not know Will Sutton?' cried Aunt 
 Eobby, who had expected things would 
 take quite a different turn. 
 
 ^ Will !' exclaimed Judith. ' Of course 
 
AT FIEST SIGHT. 93~ 
 
 it is. Please forgive me/ she went on, 
 takino' his hand, ' but you are so ... I 
 mean it is so long ago, we are both so 
 changed.' 
 
 ' Are you going only to shake hands ? 
 After thirteen years' separation ! Kiss her 
 at once, Will,' said Mrs. Robertson. 
 
 It would be hard to say who looked the 
 most embarrassed, the elderly man with 
 his grave air, or the blushing girl he had 
 formerly known so well. But Judith had 
 no nonsense about her ; Will was a very 
 old friend, and Aunt Robby would never 
 let , them off. So she held her cheek to 
 Will, and he touched it reverently with 
 his lips. The mistress of the Elms laughed, 
 well pleased, and made them sit down, one 
 on each side of her easy-chair. 
 
 'Where have you been all this time; 
 and why have you so seldom written ?' 
 asked Judith. 
 
^94 COULD HE DO BETTER ? 
 
 ' I ought to have written more often,' he an- 
 swered, ' you were all often in my thoughts. 
 I've been a great deal abroad ; for my home's 
 the loneliest place for me without kith or 
 kin. In fact, I've only just come from 
 Dresden. I stayed a week at Radalls to 
 see that everything was in order, and then 
 came to Aunt Hobby's.' 
 
 'After staying away from the Elms for ^ve 
 long years,' complained old Mrs. Robertson. 
 
 ' And we have been four years at Bay- 
 bridge,' said Judith ; ' how time flies ! And 
 now. Will, you must tell me all about 
 Higher oft.' 
 
 Highcroft was the country-house where 
 Judith had been born and brought up. 
 It has been already mentioned that her 
 one disappointment, of which Highcroft 
 had been the scene, was forgotten. No- 
 thing but sweet memories clung to those 
 haunts of her childhood. Nothing of the 
 
AT FIRST SIGHT. 95 
 
 worry and anxiety that were now her 
 clail}^ lot had reached her in those sunny 
 days. She and Annie had wandered arm- 
 in-arm along the river bank, listened with 
 awe to the dull boom of the Salmon Leap, 
 and stopped for the cool spray to beat on 
 their cheeks and hair. Little Annie had 
 gone to sleep in her lap in the silence of 
 the woods. The children knew every 
 green lane, every sparkling brook, every 
 favoured spot for the primrose and violet. 
 Judith's thoughts Avent a long way back 
 to when Will himself was brilliant and 
 gay, and patronisingly gracious to a small 
 mite like her, and she repeated : 
 ' Tell me all about Highcroft, Will' 
 He first asked after her parents and her 
 sister, and then answered, 
 
 ' Highcroft is sadly changed, Judith. In 
 the first place . . . dare I tell you ? . . . 
 they have slain Goliath.' 
 
96 COULD HE DO BETTER? 
 
 Goliatli was the name given to a giant 
 beech, the pride of Highcroft, which had 
 stood between the study windows and the 
 river, at the foot of the hill. 
 
 ' The wretches !' exclaimed Judith. 
 
 ' Perhaps nothing better could be ex- 
 pected from the new owner,' said Will, who 
 had some pride of birth. 'He was "in 
 tallow," I believe. He has pulled down 
 the old boat-house, too, and built another 
 with a spire and a gilt weather-cock.' 
 
 Aunt Robby shook her head at this 
 enumeration of the tallow-merchant's enor- 
 mities. Judith said, impatiently, 
 
 ' Stop, Will. I had a longing to see 
 Hiofhcroft once ao^ain. but I'm cured now. 
 For the future I shall be content in quiet 
 Baybridge.' 
 
 ' Is it so quiet ?' said Will, smiling. 
 ' You spoke of all sorts of adventures on 
 your way to the Elms this evening.' 
 
AT FIRST SIGHT. 97 
 
 ' So she did,' cried Aunt Robby, ^ so she 
 did. She is beginning to have secrets, Will, 
 you see. We shall have her marrying one 
 o^ these days.' 
 
 Judith blushed ; but she parried the old 
 lady's attack by saying, merrily, 
 
 ' I shall marry no one but Will.' 
 
 To be told this by an uncommonly 
 pretty woman ought to be pleasant enough. 
 Not always. Mr. William Sutton by no 
 means relished Judith's innocent sally, be- 
 cause it seemed to imply that he was so 
 much her senior that the jest could be 
 made without any hazard or possibility 
 of misunderstanding. His head drooped. 
 — Judith, after a great pretence of mystery 
 to amuse Aunt Robby, described her chance 
 meeting with Ambrose Jackson. 
 
 ' Jackson,' said the old lady, ^ Ambrose 
 Jackson ; so you met him ? I did too, 
 Judith. He's coming to see me.' 
 
 VOL. I. H 
 
98 COULD PIE DO BETTER ? 
 
 ' I tliouglit you didn't like him,' said 
 Judith. For Mrs. Robertson, usually so 
 kind, had spoken severely about Ambrose 
 in her hearino;. 
 
 ' No more I did, Jue,' replied Aunt 
 Robby, ' but I've asked him to come now. 
 He's attentive to his mother, I see, and 
 perhaps I have done him a wrong. A man 
 may have faults, but, if you can get at his 
 heart at all, there's hope, my dear. Mr. 
 Jackson will be civil enough to me, maybe.' 
 
 ' Oh, I'm sure he will,' said Judith. 
 
 ' I mean, child, he knows I can be of use 
 to him. Ho, ho, I see what he'll want by- 
 and-by.' 
 
 ' A wife ?' suggested Will, with a smile. ' 
 
 ' You mustn't make fun of an old woman, 
 sir,' said Aunt Robby. ' A wife ! No. Mr. 
 Jackson doesn't care about women, I pro- 
 mise you.' 
 
 Mrs. Robertson evidently had an inkling 
 
AT FIRST SIGHT. 99 
 
 of Ambrose's intention to contest Bay- 
 bridge, and indeed the news was generally 
 known next day. While the old lady's 
 friends were coaxing her to tell what Am- 
 brose would want, it struck seven. Up 
 jumped Judith. 
 
 ' I must be off or I shall be late for 
 dinner, and father will be vexed,' said she. 
 'Good-night, Aunt Robby.' 
 
 ' Must you go, child ? Very well ; Will 
 shall see you home.' 
 
 Will went for his hat. The friends 
 started. 
 
 Judith was in great spirits. She took 
 her companion's arm, and, noticing that 
 he was rather solemn, asked him many 
 questions about himself, and his travels, 
 and his home in Surrey . . . till she chased 
 away his gloom. Of his past life she knew 
 much, and pitied him j and so her tone was 
 unusually cordial. 
 
 h2 
 
1 00 COULD HE DO BETTER ? 
 
 ' I wish I could ask you to come in,' she 
 said, as they reached her home. ' It seems 
 unkind not to do so, but father . . .' 
 
 Judith stopped short. It was so hard 
 to explain, and yet it had so often to 
 be acknowledged, how seldom her father 
 cared for anybody's convenience but his 
 own. Her companion understood, and put 
 her at her ease by saying, 
 
 ' Who could think of taking you by storm 
 at this hour of the night, Judith ? Not I. 
 But before you go I have a favour to ask.' 
 
 ' Yes, Will, anything.' 
 
 ' We are such old friends,' he began. 
 ' You mustn't be angry, but Aunt Robby 
 has told me something of your father's 
 misfortunes. Don't turn away like that, 
 Judith. I know what poverty is. If I 
 can ever be of use. There, there, old 
 friend, we understand each other. You're 
 not going to be oifended.' 
 
AT FIRST SIGHT. 101 
 
 'OiFencled? No, Will; do you think 
 kindness is so plentiful that I can aiford 
 to throw it away?' 
 
 ' And, if you are in need, you promise ?' 
 
 ' I promise to ask for your help, and will 
 love you for it.' 
 
 In another moment Will was standing 
 alone in the dark. 
 
 He was grieved by Judith's artless words. 
 They made him look, with a shudder, down 
 the chasm that severed him, not only from 
 her, but from all that was still young and 
 beautiful. To see Judith, whom he had part- 
 ed from in short frock and crimson sash, now 
 transformed into a woman, forced him to 
 realize more vividly than he had yet done 
 how these years, while moulding her grace 
 and beauty, had left their sterner mark upon 
 him . . . with his wasted life, and unsatisfied 
 hungering after happiness. Judith had 
 i not recognised him, and he dared not think 
 
102 COULD HE DO BETTER? 
 
 that strange. He had grown a beard, his 
 hair had turned grey, his complexion had 
 lost its bloom ; his forehead was lined, not 
 honourably with thought, but with care. 
 If salutary, what more painful than to look 
 back like this, and dimly see, in blurred 
 outlines, a picture of what might have 
 been. Will's heart ached. He bitterly 
 cursed the sins of his youth. Some bright 
 young fellow would come one morning 
 and carry off Judith ; he was once such an 
 one. As Will walked back to the Elms, 
 his head sank lower and lower on his 
 breast. Judith's last words rang in his 
 ears, ' I will love you for it.' He felt 
 that his life was changed. 
 
103 
 
 CHAPTER YII. 
 
 UNWELCOME VISITOKS. 
 
 It was not known for a certainty how 
 Nicholas Tucker had raked a fortune to- 
 gether. He had followed so many occu- 
 pations in so many parts of the world that 
 it was difficult to class him. Baybridge, 
 after many years, had given up the at- 
 tempt, and took him as he was. And he 
 was unquestionably a wealthy man, though 
 he chose to live simply, in spite of the 
 repeated protests of his two middle-aged 
 daughters, Elizabeth and Clementina. 
 
 Nicholas was a tall, thin old man. He 
 wore a beard as long as Will Sutton's, and 
 
104 COULD HE DO BETTER? 
 
 nearly white. His head was smooth and 
 shining to a degree. His face was weather- 
 stained, and disfigured by scars, creases, 
 and wrinkles on the loose, hanging skin, 
 his half-open eyes, which saw everything, 
 being darkened by shaggy eyebrows. He 
 wore good clothes, but they hung all awry 
 on his shrunken limbs. Not a prepossess- 
 ing appearance by any means. 
 
 He had been almost everywhere, and had 
 done almost everything. He had tried his 
 hand at sheep-farming and gold-digging. 
 He had tried the wine trade at the Cape. 
 Versatile Nicholas had tried finance too ; 
 he had promoted companies on both sides 
 of the water, with varying success. Event- 
 ually, it was from the Brazils that he re- 
 turned with his pile. Here he was, the 
 rough, ill-mannered fellow, settled down 
 into respectability with his ponderous 
 wealth, and with his Spartan tastes. 
 
UNWELCO:\IE VISITORS. 105 
 
 Mr. Tucker never entertained ; but he 
 was charitably disposed (or it suited him to 
 appear so) and had built some schools and 
 a church, and in other ways made use of 
 his opportunities. Though not a general 
 favourite, he got on pretty well with his 
 neighbours. His chief failing in their eyes 
 was an incurable habit of asking questions, 
 he must know everybody else's affairs, even 
 to the most trifling details. But Nicholas 
 could be good-natured, and, as on rare 
 occasions he showed feeling, he passed for 
 a rough diamond. He was pitied, besides, 
 for being the father of the Misses Tucker. 
 It was supposed that no worldly prosperity 
 could prove a set-off against this misfor- 
 tune. Why did not he give the spinsters a 
 heavy nugget a-piece, and see the last of 
 their sour, spiteful faces ? 
 
 Elizabeth and Clementina Tucker knew 
 perfectly well why, and the knowledge 
 
106 COULD HE DO BETTER ? 
 
 caused their cup of bitterness to run over. 
 These ladies, answering to Ambrose Jack- 
 son's description of most of the women in 
 Baybridge, had been born in some out- 
 landish place, and sent home for their educa- 
 tion. They grew up, and nothing was heard 
 of their father, but he had given each of them 
 five thousand pounds that nobody else could 
 lay a finger on. One happy day came news of 
 Nicholas Tucker's prosperous return. The 
 dear girls hurried to Plymouth with open 
 arms. But they were met by a shabbily- 
 dressed man imploring charity . Miss Tucker 
 wondered what her father ' had been about.' 
 He murmured the words ' unfortunate 
 speculation.' Miss Tucker believed in 
 Consols, and went home. Her sister fol- 
 lowed; but relented so far as to send a 
 cheque for ten pounds, hoping that her 
 ' dear Papa would retrieve his losses, and 
 come back to his loving child Clementina.' 
 
UNWELCOME VISITOES. 107 
 
 Mr. Tucker then threw off the mask, and be- 
 hold, a Dives ! Imagine the dismay and the 
 repentance of his affectionate daughters ! 
 
 A reconciliation took place more easily 
 than they could have hoped ; but it was 
 totally unattended with profit to them- 
 selves. The old man's revenge was cruel. 
 Fabulous wealth, and nothing but a dull 
 life in Baybridge ! Prospects held out 
 Tantalus-like, and never grasped ! Inter- 
 ested suitors, and not a single lover ! 
 Their father still transacted a great deal of 
 business, by correspondence and by fre- 
 quent visits to London ; but he actually 
 suspected his children, and deprived them 
 of any opportunity of becoming acquainted 
 with his affairs. It was hard to bear, and 
 sometimes they railed even at him. 
 
 A rapid sketch has been given of this 
 respectable family, because, when Ambrose 
 
108 COULD HE DO BETTER? 
 
 -Jackson reached home after his unexpected 
 walk with Judith Topham, he heard, to his 
 infinite disgust, the disagreeable voices of 
 Miss Tucker and her sister in full concert. 
 Ambrose knew what his mother must be 
 putting up with, and entering, found 
 Nicholas and his two daughters in pos- 
 session. 
 
 Mrs. Jackson welcomed her son with a 
 look that said, ' It isn't my fault they're 
 here.' And Ambrose smiled as though he 
 would answer, ' A bad lot, but I'll do my 
 best to be civil.' 
 
 This Avould be difficult; for between 
 Ambrose and the Misses Tucker there was 
 no love lost. They had spread their nets 
 for him in vain. They had thrown out 
 hints of the convenience of a large dower 
 to an ambitious man. Of course each had 
 acted without the connivance of the other, 
 and with the greatest delicacy. But, when 
 
UNWELCOME VISITOES. 109 
 
 Ambrose had taken hardly any pains to 
 veil his contempt, a partial confession took 
 place between Elizabeth and Clementina, 
 and they agreed to hate Ambrose with a 
 mortal hatred, and to find out his vulner- 
 able point, and to wound him there. They 
 smiled on him now, and Miss Tucker 
 exclaimed, 
 
 ' I'm afraid you find us here at a very 
 unseasonable hour, Mr. Jackson ?' 
 
 Mr. Jackson said ' Not at all,' and tried 
 to look as if he meant it. 
 
 ' I'm sure we feel like intruders,' said 
 Miss Clementina, who often acted as echo 
 to her sister. 
 
 *We are very pleased to see you all,* 
 said Mrs. Jackson, rather sharply, for she 
 had been obliged to say the same thing 
 several times already. 
 
 ^This is how we come to be here, Mr. 
 Jackson,' continued Miss Tucker. 'AYe 
 
110 COULD HE DO BETTER ? 
 
 were passing the house without a thought 
 of venturing in, when dearest Clementina 
 saw . . . for the blind had not been pulled 
 down . . . Mrs. Jackson sitting over the fire, 
 leaning her head upon her hand. She 
 looked so lonely that we felt we must go 
 in ; didn't we, Clem ?' 
 
 'Yes, Mrs. Jackson looked so lonely,' 
 said the echo. 
 
 ' How unfortunate that your son's busi- 
 ness should take him so often from you, 
 Mrs. Jackson,' said Miss Tucker. 
 
 ' I am never lonely,' protested Mrs. Jack- 
 son. ' Ambrose offered to give up politics 
 and to settle down into country life to be 
 near me. I was proud to receive the oifer, 
 but can you suppose I would allow the 
 sacrifice ? No.' 
 
 Ambrose's heart smote him when he re- 
 membered how feebly the sacrifice had 
 been insisted on, and he bent forward and 
 
UNWELCOME VISITORS. Ill 
 
 kissed her forehead. He saw Miss Tucker 
 sneer, but he would have done so in the 
 presence of a dozen Miss Tuckers. 
 
 Nicholas prevented any further remarks 
 from his daughters for the present by rap- 
 ping on the floor with his stick, a signal 
 they dared not disobey. 
 
 ' Where have you come from, Mr. Jack- 
 son ?' said he. 
 
 ' I've been for a constitutional,' said 
 Ambrose, determining to answer every 
 question, as the shortest way of escape. 
 * Which road did you take?' 
 ' The road to the Common.' 
 'And how far did you get?' 
 ' To the group of pines on the left.' 
 ' Roads empty? Did you meet anyone ?' 
 Ambrose paused. There was no particu- 
 lar reason to prevent him from saying that 
 he had met Judith Topham. But he did 
 not want to throw her name down for 
 
112 COULD HE DO BETTER ? 
 
 these hawks to peck at. He said that he 
 had met somebody, and tried to turn the 
 conversation. He ought to have known 
 Mr. Tucker better. 
 
 ' Who was it you met ?' persisted that 
 gentleman. 
 
 ' Miss Topham,' said Ambrose. 
 
 ' Indeed !' said Miss Tucker. 
 
 ' Indeed !' said Miss Clementina. 
 
 ' Had a talk with her, eh ?' was Mr. 
 Tucker s next inquiry. 
 
 ' Yes,' said Ambrose, not knowing 
 whether to laugh or to be angry. 
 
 ' And a Avalk?' said Mr. Tucker. 
 
 ' Miss Topham was going to Mrs. Rob- 
 ertson's,' said Ambrose. ' I met her at the 
 cross-roads and accompanied her as far as 
 the Elms. And now you know all about 
 that important occurrence.' 
 
 Nicholas was going to ask what the sub- 
 ject of their conversation had been, but the 
 
UNWELCOME VISITORS. 113 
 
 expression on Ambrose's face clieckecl even 
 him, and he kept silence. Not so his 
 daughters . . . while there was a young and 
 pretty woman for their tongues to pull to 
 pieces. Their attack on poor Judith was 
 commenced in a manner so masterly as 
 to suggest great experience in similar 
 operations. 
 
 ' Some people,' said Elizabeth, smiling, 
 ' find fault with Miss Topham's manners, 
 and call them provincial ' (here Ambrose 
 winced slightly), ' but for my part I think 
 Judith a sweet-mannered girl, and very 
 refined for one in her circumstances of life. 
 Of course her surroundings must be taken 
 into consideration. One has no right to 
 expect too much. She passes muster very 
 well in a country drawing-room.' 
 
 'I think Miss Topham would be welcome 
 anywhere,' interposed Mrs. Jackson. 
 
 ' Of course she would,' said Clementina. 
 
 VOL. I. I 
 
114 COULD HE DO BETTER? 
 
 ^ I think she's very attractive, and when I 
 heard somebody say the other afternoon 
 that her looks were going, I contradicted 
 him immediately. Everybody may not ad- 
 mire her so much as I do, but, still, no one 
 can call Judith Topham common-looking.' 
 
 * Certainly not,' said Ambrose, with 
 emphasis. 
 
 *I even think she has quite a distin- 
 guished air; but then Judith's a great 
 favourite with me. I always say, what a 
 pity she should be so poor.' 
 
 ' Wretchedly poor, I'm afraid,' said Miss 
 Tucker, ' perhaps that accounts for her 
 pride. Not that I blame her on that ac- 
 count : pride is sometimes very becoming 
 in people who have little else.' 
 
 ' I often think you're quite proud your- 
 self, Lizzie,' said Nicholas. ' You're not 
 good-looking, girls, either of you ; but 
 you're good-natured or nothing. Been 
 
UNWELCOME VISITORS. 115 
 
 painting anything lately, Mrs. Jackson ?' 
 
 And a rigorous cross-examination fol- 
 lowed ; and Mrs. Jackson had to prevaricate 
 sadly to keep her secret from Ambrose 
 about the big picture on which she was 
 eno^ao'ed. 
 
 It was half-past seven by this time, and 
 the parlour-maid, who had kept in the 
 background in hopes that the unwelcome 
 visitors would take their departure, felt 
 herself obliged to announce that supper 
 was ready. 
 
 Nicholas did not stir. But the Misses 
 Tucker rose, and exclaimed in chorus, 
 ' Could it be so late, how very thoughtless 
 of them ; but the time had passed so agree- 
 abl}^' Mrs. Jackson had no choice but to 
 regret not being able to ask them to stay, 
 as she and her son never dined late, but 
 contented themselves with supper. 
 
 ' Anything will do for us,' said Nicholas, 
 
 i2 
 
116 COULD HE DO BETTER ? 
 
 'You're not particular, are you, girls? 
 We don't have many delicacies at home, 
 Mrs. Jackson.' 
 
 ' Oh, dear no,' said Clementina, ' papa is 
 quite an anchorite.' 
 
 Mrs. Jackson hoped they would stay . . . 
 at least she said so. 
 
 ' If you're sure we're not putting you 
 to any inconvenience,' said Elizabeth. 
 
 '■ Please, don't let us be in the way,' said 
 Clementina. ' Elizabeth dearest, perhaps 
 Mrs. Jackson would rather not.' 
 
 ' As Mrs. Jackson has been so kind as to 
 ask us, Clem, perhaps ' 
 
 ' Please say no more about it,' said Mrs. 
 Jackson. ' You are heartily welcome.' 
 
 And so they stayed ; and the Misses 
 Tucker found fault with everything that 
 was set before them. Notwithstanding, 
 they showed excellent appetites, and con- 
 sequently talked less. Their father began 
 
UNWELCOME VISITORS. 117 
 
 to cross-examine Ambrose about his occu- 
 pation and prospects. 
 
 Ambrose could be firm enough when he 
 pleased ; and on these points proved quite 
 a match for Nicholas. But he had no ob- 
 jection to ventilate some of his theories on 
 the science of life, and he met Avith an 
 unexpected and powerful rebuke from his 
 listener. 
 
 ' It won't do, Jackson, it won't do. Now 
 look 'ee. I'm an old flint maybe, but I'd 
 like to do you a good turn. Listen to this 
 story. I had a pal once, about your age, 
 plenty of brains, and as honest as you are 
 now. Well, he started in life with this 
 motto — " Take care of Number One." Well, 
 he took care of Number One. He had 
 many promising schemes afoot, and follow- 
 ed them up with industry and intelligence 
 no end; but somehow, just when he should 
 have grasped the prize, another man came, 
 
118 COULD HE DO BETTER ? 
 
 sayinp^, " It's mine. I've been taking care 
 of Number One as well." However, he 
 didn't lose heart, and one day (it was on 
 the other side of the water) he turned up 
 trumps. That was the beginning of a for- 
 tune. At last, when he had heaped up a 
 fairish pile, he said, " I've got money, and 
 now I want love." As he'd always been 
 taking care of Number One, and neglecting 
 all the other numbers, he had no right to 
 ask for love : he bought it. He married. 
 The woman got all she could out of him^ 
 and went off with a younger and hand- 
 somer man : she had taken care of Number 
 One. But she left him two children, and 
 he determined they shouldn't go the same 
 road, so he sent them home to be brought 
 up fitly. Then he got into trouble and 
 was detained for some years ; but he kept 
 his money, and the moment he was set at 
 liberty hastened to England. He put his 
 
UNWELCOME VISITORS. 119 
 
 children to tlie test. They loved Number 
 One ; it was in the very blood. My pal 
 had wealth then, but no love ; success, but 
 no happiness. And be sure, Jackson, the 
 same fate, in some form or other, is in keep- 
 ing for you or anyone else who thinks 
 only of Xuniber One.' 
 
 Nicholas half rose from his seat, and 
 spoke with more feeling than could be 
 expected from such a cynical old man. 
 His daughters trembled, knowing the truth 
 of his story. Ambrose was struck, but not 
 convinced. 
 
 Mrs. Jackson at last got rid of the trio, 
 after having had to assure Elizabeth several 
 times that the visit was welcome and 
 opportune. 
 
 ' Ambrose,' she said, ' I'm rather sorry 
 you told them that you had met Judith 
 Topham.' 
 
 ' How could I help it, mother ? Is it 
 
120 COULD HE DO BETTER? 
 
 treason to meet a young lady in Baybridge?' 
 ' Those women will say anything,' answer- 
 ed Mrs. Jackson, nervously. 
 
 'What does it matter what they say?' 
 replied the independent Ambrose. 
 
121 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 HANG JUMPER 
 
 Christopher Parry was, we have heard, 
 the laziest and slowest of men, and so there 
 is a propriety in his being the last person 
 of note, belonging to society at Baybridge, 
 whose acquaintance is yet to be made. 
 Everybody knew Cris ; everybody took him 
 into confidence, even Ambrose, but then, 
 to be sure, they had been at the same 
 school together. Cris, with his lanky 
 figure, and his languid manners, hardly did 
 anything else but read the papers, pay 
 visits, and listen to gossip, and drawl out a 
 word now and then . . . and dress. 
 
122 COULD HE DO BETTER? 
 
 Strictly speaking, though a man can 
 exist without an aim, he must have some- 
 thing to give a centre to his daily life. 
 Will Sutton, for example, had no aim, but 
 his thoughts grouped themselves morbidly 
 around one poignant regret. Oris had no 
 aim either, and as the harmless fellow had 
 nothing very serious to repent of, and 
 rivalled Mr. Topham in offering the cold 
 shoulder to responsibility and care, he had 
 leisure to bestow his almost undivided 
 attention on the study of personal adorn- 
 ment, a process which, with the assistance 
 of Lloyd his valet, he had elevated to the 
 dignity of a fine art. He dressed well, not 
 so much to attract notice (for who was 
 there in Baybridge ?) as to feel that he ivas 
 well-dressed. A well-dressed man, he 
 opined, was his own reward. Lloyd, who 
 had perquisites whenever the fashion 
 changed, and who contrived that the 
 
' HANG JUMPER !' 123' 
 
 fashion should change pretty often, had 
 adopted precisely the same views. 
 
 Oris, who was a faithful patron of the 
 Baybridge Club, where he betted on rub- 
 bers that he was too indolent to pla}^, 
 seldom went to bed before the small hours. 
 His instructions to Lloyd were to look in 
 at nine in the morning, with a cup of 
 chocolate, and to read aloud the summary 
 of news and the fashionable marriages from 
 the Morning Post^ during which time the 
 chocolate imparted strength for the labours 
 of the toilette. Some minutes before ten, 
 wrapped up in his Turkish dressing-gown, 
 he would surrender his chin to his valet, 
 and consider that the duties of the day 
 had fairly begun with the first lather of 
 the scented cream. 
 
 On the day following the Tuckers' visit 
 to Mrs. Jackson, Lloyd had safely l)rought 
 his master to an advanced stage, having 
 
124 COULD HE DO BETTER? 
 
 parted the golden perfumed hair with the 
 necessary exactness. He now paused a 
 moment, and still with uplifted comb, as if 
 to show that he was not forgetting his 
 office, hazarded this remark, 
 
 ^ If you please, sir, pointed toes is agen 
 going out/ 
 
 This may be translated to mean that 
 Cris, if he meant to be fashionable, must 
 have new shoes ; and that Lloyd, unless 
 his interests were to suffer neglect, must 
 have the old ones. 
 
 ' Very well — I shan't have to be 
 measured.' 
 
 ' Oh, no occasion, sir.' And the comb 
 was at work again. 
 
 At about eleven Cris was nearly ready 
 for his morning walk ; he was helped into 
 his great-coat ; gloves, hat, and walking- 
 stick were respectfully handed ; and Lloyd 
 delivered himself of the usual formula : 
 
HANG JUMPER !' 125 
 
 ' Anything more for the present, sir?' 
 
 ' Yes. — The cheroots.' 
 
 The obsequious attendant brought one 
 upon a plate. 
 
 ' The box,' said his master. And the 
 box Avas brought and its contents examined 
 with unusual interest, so it seemed to 
 Lloyd, with his guilty conscience. 
 
 ' These cheroots are choice — and rare,' 
 said Mr. Parry ; adding, ' I think it well 
 to remind you, that I can smoke the rest 
 myself, without inconvenience.' 
 
 ' Oh, I shouldn't presume, sir ' 
 
 ' Don't lie, Lloyd. Lying bores me. You 
 have smoked some of these. I expect you 
 to pilfer. But if you will confine your 
 operations to any articles of clothing I am 
 not likely, in your opinion, to miss ; to any 
 expensive trifles that strike your fancy; or, 
 possibly, in moderation, to any loose coin 
 lying about — I shall be obliged. Don't 
 
126 COULD HE DO BETTER ? 
 
 touch my cigars again. Understand? 
 That will be all now.' 
 
 Mr. Lloyd retired with some confusion. 
 
 ' Confound that 'ere scoffing way of his,' 
 he muttered. ' I can't abear it ; makes me 
 think somehow he ain't the fool I take him 
 for. Expects me to pilfer ! Fancy ad- 
 dressin' in that style a gentleman of my 
 standin' and morals. Dash it, if he hasn't 
 made me feel almost ashamed of myself; 
 go on at this rate, and I should lose all my 
 self-respect in a fortnight. Just for the 
 sake of a weed or two !' 
 
 Whenever Oris Parry glanced in the 
 long pier-glass at his carefully-arrayed 
 figure and his pleasant face, he thought of 
 marriage. The thought came naturally, 
 for, though he liked the freedom of a 
 bachelor's life now, he had no intention of 
 always living in single blessedness. An 
 old bachelor, crabbed, gouty, and home- 
 
' HANG JUMPER !' 127 
 
 less, was his pet aversion. Surely the true 
 Avisdom was to remain single as long as one 
 dared, and then, with the first symptom of 
 coming age, to marry. 
 
 Cris was in love. Sweet, winning Annie 
 Topham had crept snugly into a corner of 
 the indolent but kindly heart. He felt 
 almost sure that she would never ' bore a 
 fellow ' and more than once he had been 
 on the brink of a proposal. But he had 
 shrunk back from the responsibility of the 
 new relation, and from its risks. Suppose, 
 like James Tweedy, he should come to own 
 five such awful children, with their nurses, 
 squalls, accidents, and racket. The bare 
 idea of this possibility was more than 
 enough to make Cris carry that spirit of 
 procrastination which ruled all his other 
 doings into the matter of courtship). 
 
 ' Time enough when we both get older,' 
 he would say. 
 
128 COULD HE DO BETTER ? 
 
 But this morning, while giving a last 
 touch to his glossy hair, he saw, or imagin- 
 ed he saw, something that filled him with 
 direst alarm. 
 
 ' Lloyd,' he cried, ' Lloyd.' 
 
 ' Sir,' answered that functionary, appear- 
 ing with the magical speed which was one 
 of his most valuable qualities. 
 
 Oris had partly recovered from the shock, 
 and he said, almost calmly, as he sat down. 
 
 ' Lloyd, just look, will you. I almost 
 fancied — ah ! — turning grey.' 
 
 Lloyd obeyed; examined the curling, 
 golden locks with the air of a connoisseur, 
 and delivered his verdict. 
 
 'Just a leetle grey — might he recom-' 
 mend a preparation — not a dye — now in 
 general use among the 'igh nobility, 
 including his late master. Lord George 
 Rolfe?' 
 
 Oris assented, and then strolled out of 
 
' HANG JUMPER !' 129 
 
 the house. The road was frozen hard. 
 The sunbeams danced on the frost in the 
 hedges. The air was keen and delightfuL 
 Cris felt his spirits rise. 
 
 ' I'll put it off no longer,' was his reflec- 
 tion. ' If I got grey, gad ! she might refuse 
 me. Little coax ! I'll ask her this very day.' 
 
 And, having thus valiantly made up his 
 mind, (a thing that seldom happened to 
 Cris, and might even now prove delusive), 
 he directed his steps to Annie's home. He 
 had not gone far before he met a diminu- 
 tive man muffled up to the chin, looking 
 very cross. Cris extended a finger. 
 
 ' How do, Tweedy ? Bored ?' 
 
 ' Bored !' cried Mrs. Tweedy's husband, 
 thrusting his clenched fist into the palm 
 of his other hand, ' I'm a desperate man.' 
 
 Cris remembered that great soother 
 tobacco, and held out his cigar-case ; hook- 
 ed his arm in his friend's, and said : 
 
 VOL. I. K 
 
130 COULD HE DO BETTER? 
 
 ' Come my way. Tell me all about it.' 
 
 ' It's a gloomy subject,' replied James 
 Tweedy. ' All, Parry, you young fellows 
 never know when you're well oiF. You're 
 single, listen to experience ; take my 
 advice, never marry.' 
 
 Oris kept silence, thinking all the time 
 of the question he was going to ask 
 iVnnie. 
 
 ' Because,' continued the other, ' the 
 moment your wife w^alks in at the door, 
 peace, comfort, freedom fly out at the 
 window.' 
 
 A puff of smoke, followed by a long- 
 drawn ^Ah!' was the protest of Christopher 
 Parry against this abominable heresy. 
 
 ' You can't believe me,' said Harry, 
 'you haven't made the experiment. Be- 
 fore 1 married I w^as comfortable. I could 
 choose my own hours, friends, occupa- 
 tions, amusement. I could go to the 
 
' HANG JUMPER !' 131 
 
 €lub when I liked, and come back when I 
 liked; 
 
 '■ Of course,' drawled Oris, ' I should be 
 very fond of my wife and that, but I should 
 have my own Avay, you know/ 
 
 ' You. Avouldn't,' retorted Tweedy. ' Not 
 if you were ever so amiable. Take my 
 case, for example. Now, I'm not a very 
 severe man.' 
 
 ' Not very,' was the answer, with the 
 faintest possible smile. 
 
 ' I don't expect much — luckily. From 
 morning (five o'clock, when the baby 
 awakes) till night, when the whole crew are 
 being washed . . . never was so much soap- 
 ing with so little to show for it . . . my 
 house is a terrific Tower of Babel. If we 
 all spoke different languages the confusion 
 couldn't be more deplorable. I never know 
 what time breakfast is, or what time lunch- 
 eon is, or what time anything else is. If I 
 
 k2 
 
132 COULD HE DO BETTER? 
 
 light a pipe in my study (which belongs 
 to everybody else) down comes a maid, 
 "Please, sir, missus says ivould you. mind," 
 and out goes the pipe ! Or, if I slip into 
 into the garden, my wife calls, " James, 
 James, whei^e are you ! Would you mind 
 listening at the foot of the staircase in case 
 baby cries ?" Oh, it's no laughing matter. 
 Parry. It's tragedy !' 
 
 Oris was on the point of saying that 
 perhaps his friend was rather soft, but did 
 not like to hurt his feelings. So he turned 
 to the bright side of the picture, saying, 
 
 * One must be bored sometimes. Tweedy. 
 But, then, if you love your wife . . . now, 
 really love her . . . and she loves you?' 
 
 James Tweedy's face grew dark, and 
 he thrust his hands far down into his 
 pockets. 
 
 ' If she does love you,' he said. ' Oris, 
 you're a good chap, and I'll speak to you 
 
' HANG JUMPER !' 133 
 
 of what I wouldn't breathe to another 
 mortal. Captain Hanclcock ' 
 
 ' That idiot,' interrupted Mr. Parry, 
 ^ took no notice of his partner's Blue Peter 
 last night, and I betted a fiver on his hand 
 — nothing but trumps.' 
 
 ' That swaggering cad,' said Tweedy, 
 mth increasing earnestness, ' is perpetually 
 at my house, dancing attendance on my 
 wife. I stood it for a long time, and then 
 I spoke to her ' 
 
 ' Wrong,' said Oris, knocking the ash 
 off his cheroot. ' Do it again, and the 
 captain will be with her all day.' 
 
 Oris was right ; Mrs. Tweedy 's apparent 
 partiality for Captain Handcock had partly 
 sprung from her husband's opposition. She 
 did not care a straw for Captain Handcock, 
 but he was a good listener, and then Mrs. 
 Tweedy had a woman's liking for homage, 
 Avithout reference to the person by whom 
 it was offered. 
 
134 COULD HE DO BETTER? 
 
 ' But what is to be done ?' insisted James 
 Tweedy. 
 
 ' Say nothing, see nothing. Be civil. 
 Your wife will drop him sooner than you 
 think.' 
 
 'And if ' . . . the little man's voice trem- 
 bled . . . ' there should be anything serious ?' 
 
 ' Come, come,' said Cris. 
 
 ' I am putting a case,' said Tweedy, quite 
 angrily. 
 
 Cris flushed. 
 
 ' I should buy a stout ash-plant. Tweedy. 
 But there'll be no occasion. And our con- 
 versation goes no further.' 
 
 ' I knew that,' said Tweedy, grasping hi& 
 hand warmly. 
 
 ' Off?' asked Cris. ' Come with me to 
 the Tophams.' 
 
 For Annie's lover was bes^innino: to feel 
 nervous, and would have been thankful 
 even for Tweedy's company. 
 
' HANG JUMPER !' 135 
 
 ' No, thank'ee,' answered James, ' I fancy 
 my wife has gone there — with the children. 
 I have enough of them at Llewelyn House.' 
 
 ' Heartless parent,' laughed Oris. 
 
 ' Happy bachelor,' was the reply. 
 
 Oris, as he walked on alone, wondered 
 whether, after all, he was going to do a 
 wise thing. 
 
 ' I'll talk to Annie first,' said he, ' and 
 find out her views of marriage in general, 
 ask her what she thinks about regular 
 hours, smoking indoors, clubs, and that 
 sort of thing. Yes, I'll do nothing rash.' 
 
 When he reached his destination, he 
 could at first find nobody. Mr. Topham 
 had insisted upon taking Judith out with 
 him, though she would much sooner have 
 stayed with her mother, to help in the 
 housekeeper's room. Mrs. Tweedy was 
 with Mrs. Topham. Annie was nowhere 
 to be seen. At last, however, Cris heard 
 
136 COULD HE DO BETTER? 
 
 laughter issuing from the dining-room, and 
 cautiously peeped in. 
 
 Nora, Dora, and Augusta Tweedy were 
 trying to stand on their heads on the seat 
 of Mr. Topham's favourite arm-chair. The 
 youngest Tweedy but one, whom her father, 
 prone to slenderest witticisms, called ' the 
 penultimate,' was nestling in Annie's lap. 
 Annie had on her fur-edged cloak and a 
 boa round her neck, and was evidently just 
 going out. 
 
 On the hearth, unconscious of what fate 
 had in store for him, slumbered the dachs- 
 hiind Jumper. 
 
 Cris's golden head vanished like light- 
 ning. 
 
 ' Come in, Mr. Parry,' called Annie. 
 ^ Don't be frightened.' 
 
 ' Frightened, Miss Annie, not by you^' 
 said Oris, shaking hands, and looking into 
 the girl's happy face. 
 
' HANG JUMPER !' 137 
 
 ' Mr. Pa-wy,' said Dora, ' do you like 
 children — lots of us, I mean ?' 
 
 Oris saw Annie's eyes fixed roguishly on 
 him, and answered that he did like children 
 in moderation, if they were good and did 
 not tell fibs. 
 
 ' What's mod-er-wation mean ?' piped 
 Augusta, always in search of information. 
 
 ' Silly,' retorted the elder sister, ' it 
 means plenty, lots. I say, Annie, why 
 did you get quite red when Mr. Parry 
 came in.' 
 
 ' Perhaps,' said Oris to Annie, ' as you've 
 got your things on, shall we . . . er . . . take 
 . . . er . . . turn in the garden T 
 
 ' Do let's — ' chorussed the infant tribe. 
 
 'Xo, you children must stay here. You 
 must promise to be very good,' said Annie. 
 ' I shall leave you under Nora's care. — Yes, 
 Mr. Parry, I should like to very much ; it's 
 a lovely morning.' 
 
138 COULD HE DO BETTER ? 
 
 ^ Why do you say very much ?' asked 
 Dora. 'D'you mean very, very much, ever 
 so much ?' 
 
 ' Mr. Parry is my guest, and I must 
 amuse him,' said blushing Annie. 
 
 ' I know what'd amuse him,' said Dora. 
 
 '• What ?' chorussed her sisters. 
 
 ' Kiss him — in mod-er-wation,' said Dora. 
 
 ' That means plenty, lots,' insisted Nora, 
 proud of her powers of definition. 
 
 ' Miss Annie,' said Cris, ' there's nothing 
 left for us but a masterly retreat.' 
 
 ' What's ree-tweat mean ?' inquired Au- 
 gusta ; but her seniors were already out of 
 hearing. 
 
 ' I say, you girls,' said Nora, who ought 
 to have set a better example, ' I can't, be- 
 cause I've got to hold Willy (the penulti- 
 mate's name was Wilhelmina), but you 
 tease Jumper.' 
 
 This motion, being so put, was carried 
 
' HANG JUMPER !' 139' 
 
 by acclamation, and preparations were 
 made for a grand assault on the unsuspect- 
 ing victim. 
 
 Annie, as she led the way down the 
 gravel walk, could not help feeling flutter- 
 ed ; her heart would go pit-a-pat. There 
 was nothing unusual in Cris suggesting 
 that they should take a turn in the garden, 
 they had often walked together up and 
 down the terraces. But in her compan- 
 ion's voice, as he made the request, there 
 had been eagerness. Did this eagerness, 
 so unlike him, come merely from his wish 
 to escape from the chattering children, or 
 had he really something important to say 
 to Annie, something that she dearly wished 
 to hear ? She glanced at him and saw a 
 languid but good-natured smile on his lips. 
 
 ' Dreadful children !' said Annie. 
 
 '•■ All children aren't like that ' said Cris. 
 
140 COULD HE DO BETTER? 
 
 ' Not if they're properly brought up, in a 
 regular home, and so on.' 
 
 ' I wonder how Mrs. Tweedy can neglect 
 them so ; yet no, she doesn't neglect them, 
 she manages badly,' said Annie. 
 
 ' Miss Annie,' said Oris, ' don't you think 
 now that it's a woman's duty to prevent the 
 children from ... er ... in fact . . . boring 
 her husband by . . . er . . . sprawling about 
 the place all day long ?' 
 
 This was a leading question, judiciously 
 framed, and drawled out by the young man 
 with the most nonchalant air. Annie was 
 not clever like Judith, but she was sharp 
 and wide-awake. She understood, and, 
 like the sly puss she was, began to play to 
 the gallery. 
 
 ' There ought to be fixed hours,' she 
 said, ' for the children to be dressed and 
 taken out, the mother ought to have all the 
 worry and hurry, and the father should 
 
' HANG JUMPER !' 141 
 
 see them neat and clean in the evening ; 
 perhaps before he goes to his clnb.' 
 
 Oris laughed. 
 
 ' I thought all women hated clubs, Miss- 
 Annie ?' 
 
 ' Dear no,' said the girl, opening her 
 large eyes in pretty wonder. ' Hate clubs ! 
 Of course, if people stayed out ever so 
 late ' . 
 
 ' Occasionally ?' said Oris. 
 
 ' Xow and then, say twice a Aveek, I 
 shouldn't mind,' said Annie, unconsciously 
 betraying what was in her thoughts. 
 
 Cris 'hemmed' and 'hawed,' and ex- 
 claimed : 
 
 'Miss Annie!' 
 
 The moment that she had read of in a 
 hundred romances had come. Annie 
 blushed up to her eyes, closed them 
 gently, and held her breath. Happy^ 
 happy Annie ! 
 
142 COULD HE DO BETTER ? 
 
 ' Y-e-Sj' she answered, with demure hesi- 
 tation. 
 
 ' May I, you don't object to smoke, may 
 I light a cheroot ?' 
 
 She said yes again, but in a very differ- 
 ent tone, with a quaver. She remembered, 
 however, having heard (or read) that men 
 smoked energetically whenever a crisis 
 came. He was puffing — therefore this was 
 a crisis. Her face brightened. 
 
 ' How long . . . er . . . have we known 
 one another, Miss Annie ?' 
 
 She thought three years. 
 
 ' Seems much longer,' said he. 
 
 ' Oh, much,' answered Annie. 
 
 Oris rarely walked quickly, but now he 
 stopped altogether. Annie's heart was in 
 her mouth almost, when an angry yelp, 
 followed by piercing cries, came from the 
 dining-room ; Cris made a step or two ; the 
 .spell was broken. 
 
' HANG JUMPER !' 143 
 
 * The cliildren !' exclaimed Annie, run- 
 ning to the house. 
 
 Oris hurried after her, (for the cries 
 increased), and they soon reached Mrs. 
 Tweedy's young family. 
 
 The dining-room, whither Mrs. Topham 
 and Mrs. Tweedy had abeady hastened, 
 was the scene of indescribable havoc and 
 lamentation. Jumper, roused from his 
 slumbers, had endured much ; but at 
 length he had turned on his persecutors, 
 and this was the result. He was master 
 of the situation as he stood on the 
 middle of the table yelping, snapping, and 
 showing his teeth. Augusta, in a terrified 
 attempt to escape, had knocked against the 
 dumb-waiter, which had overthrown her, 
 and there she sat among the ruins of all 
 Mr. Topham's choice relishes, a brown 
 sauce dripping down her face, and her 
 tangled hair full of chutnee. She was un- 
 
14.4 COULD HE DO BETTER ? 
 
 hurl, but frightened out of her wits, and 
 screaming like one possessed. Dora, as 
 she clung to her elder sister's skirts, and 
 listened to the revengeful growls from 
 Jumper, was screaming too. Willy made 
 all the noise she could. Mrs. Tweedy 
 scolded like a fishwife. Annie and Oris 
 held their sides and laughed till the tears 
 ran down their cheeks. 
 
 ' Be quiet, hold your tongues,' shouted 
 Mrs. Tweedy, giving her second girl a good 
 shake. ' How did this happen, Nora ?' 
 
 After many threats and promises, Nora 
 gave her version with historic brevity. 
 
 ' Dora and Gussie tried to pull Jumper's 
 hind legs apart, and he didn't like it.' 
 
 Repairs began. Jumper came to terms, 
 and consented, on receiving a chicken- 
 bone, to suspend hostilities, at least for the 
 present. The children stopped yelling, and 
 were combed and washed. The carpet was 
 
' HANG JUMPER !' 145 
 
 -sviped, and the broken bottles removed. 
 Mrs. Tweedy then made a long apology, 
 related how Augusta always had the most 
 marvellous escapes, until one could not 
 help thinking her quite a clever child ; and 
 finally, to Mrs. Topham's relief, departed 
 with her offspring. 
 
 ' Will Oris come into the garden again T 
 thought Annie. 
 
 iS[o. He was looking serious, and, after 
 exchanging a few remarks with Mrs. Top- 
 ham, he shook hands in his gentle, leisure- 
 ly manner, and went to his club. 
 
 Annie returned to the terrace, in very 
 low spirits. ' Just when he was getting so 
 interesting,' she whimpered; ^just when he 
 was going to . . . to . . . Hang Jumper !' 
 
 She stamped her little foot, and down 
 the fair cheek stole a tear — a silent witness 
 to the impression made in a certain quarter 
 by Mr. Cristopher Parry. 
 
 VOL. T. L 
 
146 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 AUNT EOBBy's TEA-PAETY. 
 
 We have lately seen a young gentleman 
 bestowing much care upon his |)ersonal 
 appearance, and must now reverently con- 
 template an old lady bestowing equal care 
 upon hers. Mrs. Robertson, of the Elms, 
 was to receive all Baybridge at five o'clock, 
 and was bent upon looking her best. How 
 different from Cris's yellow curls were 
 those old-fashioned, snow-white ' cork- 
 screw ' ones that were to hang two on each 
 side of Aunt Robby's venerable counte- 
 nance. Her maid Bridget, though getting 
 blind and deaf, was still equal to the im- 
 
AUNT robby's tea-party. 147 
 
 portant task ; with what infiiiite care did 
 she lay -those ' lockes in press,' and draw 
 them down round her shrivelled forefinger. 
 Then the ancient black, watered silk, full 
 in the flounces, had to be donned ; and the 
 peaked, cap, a masterpiece of softness and 
 crispness and delicate frilling, to be tied in 
 a becoming bow under the pointed chin. 
 Lower down wxre pinned some moss-roses 
 that Judith had sent. A last touch of the 
 powder-puff, a drop of lavender water on 
 the lace handkerchief, a word of praise to 
 the admiring Bridget, and Aunt Robby 
 sailed downstairs. 
 
 There, the screen behind which Will 
 Sutton had hidden from Judith had been 
 taken away, and the folding doors near it 
 opened, so that both drawing-rooms were 
 ready for the guests. Aunt Robby's enter- 
 tainments were no ordinary ' tea-fights,' to 
 use her own expression, they were more 
 
 l2 
 
148 COULD HE DO BETTER? 
 
 ' substantial.' Muffins and crumpets, white 
 bread and brown bread, cakes of all sorts 
 and sizes ; with sherry and sandwiches for 
 the gentlemen, and cocoa-nut-rock and 
 butter-scotch for the children to take 
 away ; and a hearty welcome all round — 
 this was Aunt Hobby's liberal programme. 
 No half measures. She expected everyone 
 to appear, like herself, in gala uniform. 
 No hurried visits ; hats, coats, and mantles 
 to be surrendered in the hall. 
 
 Will led the aged dame to the arm-chair ; 
 so posted that its occupant could see round 
 both rooms. 
 
 ' I hope you're contented, Aunt Robby,' 
 said he. ' Without partiality, I can assure 
 you the rooms look grand. Haven't those 
 pots of heather a good effect ?' 
 
 ' Quite wonderful. Are you sure there'll 
 be enough for everybody to eat and drink ?' 
 
 Will smiled. 
 
AUNT robby's tea-party. 149 
 
 ' Enough for a colony of men, women, 
 and children.' 
 
 Nicholas Tucker and his daughters were 
 the first arrivals. 
 
 ' My dear lady/ said the former, ' this is 
 a pleasure, to see you looking so well and 
 handsome. No return of the rheumatism, 
 I hope ?' 
 
 ' Nothing to speak of, thank you, Mr. 
 Tucker.' 
 
 ' Were the pine oils of any use?' 
 
 ' I think so. It was so kind ' 
 
 ' And how is Sophia ' (a carriage horse) 
 ^ after her accident ?' 
 
 ' Rather shaken, I fear. Like myself, 
 she's getting old.' 
 
 'How old?' asked Mr. Tucker. 
 
 Mrs. Robertson drew herself up. Clem- 
 entina explained that Papa had not alluded 
 to dear Mrs. Robertson's age . . . would not 
 take such a liberty under the circum- 
 stances . . . but to Sophia. 
 
150 COULD HE DO BETTER ? 
 
 Fortunately, at that moment, the Top- 
 hams made their appearance. Mr. Top- 
 ham inquired after the health of his 
 hostess, wished her medical attendant, Dr. 
 Stevens, Avould take a hint now and then 
 from people who had ideas, meaning him- 
 self; settled the weather beyond dispute 
 for the next week ; and took up his station 
 by the folding doors, from where he laid 
 down the law to everyone on every subject 
 during the rest of the evening. Will talk- 
 ed to Judith, and Annie broke a pointless 
 lance with Mr. Tucker. 
 
 A big man, in shooting jacket and knick- 
 erbockers, now swaggered down the room. 
 It was Captain Handcock. 
 
 'Dee-lighted, Mrs. Robertson, dee-lighted.^ 
 
 In spite of his dress, which, all things con- 
 sidered, was nearly an insult to Aunt Rob- 
 by, she received him graciously. He sat 
 down by the Misses Tucker. They were 
 
AUNT ROBBY's tea-party. 151 
 
 yellow and spiteful, but they had money, 
 and Captain Handcock was again 'Dee- 
 lighted.' 
 
 This gentleman (if the term can by cour- 
 tesy be applied to him) prided himself upon 
 being an old hand. He might amuse him- 
 self with Kate Tweedy, but it was one of 
 these uninviting spinsters that he was 
 going to marry. He had ferreted out as 
 much about their father's affairs as he 
 could ; much was obscure, the fortune had 
 been exaggerated, some of it seemed pre- 
 cariously invested — still a good lump was 
 left. Which daughter would, in the future, 
 have the largest share ? This was a ques- 
 tion still unanswered, and so the captain 
 devoted himself to both. Time would 
 show him what card to play. 
 
 He made some civil speeches, and his 
 attention was then draAvn away by Mrs. 
 Tweedy and her children, who had just 
 
152 COULD HE DO BETTER ? 
 
 entered. The children were kissed all 
 round by Aunt Robby, and sent upstairs. 
 Mrs. Tweedy fastened upon Mr. Tucker, 
 and tried to tell him of Augusta's wonder- 
 ful escape that morning, but he hurried 
 into the other room, and she fastened on 
 another victim. 
 
 Mrs. Jackson, followed by Ambrose and 
 Oris Parry arm-in-arm, came next. And 
 the party was completed (the member 
 being in town) by a gaunt, melancholy 
 man, Dr. Stevens. 
 
 ^ How do, Miss Annie ?' said Oris. ' Ah 
 . . . er . . . quite forgot we were to meet 
 again this afternoon.' 
 
 ' So did I, Mr. Parry/ replied she, with 
 a toss of the head. ' And I think it kind 
 to say so.' 
 
 * I meant no offence,' said Cris. 
 
 Annie's face melted into smiles, and she 
 began chattering like a magpie. Would 
 
au:n't robby's tea-pakty. 153 
 
 Mr. Parry forgive her . . . her . . . Avant of 
 manners ; and get her some tea ? And so 
 the simple people patched up their little 
 squabble. 
 
 ' Judith.' said Will, at the other end of 
 the room, ' who is that dark man with the 
 stern features, standing near your sister 
 and her friend ?' 
 
 ' Ambrose Jackson,' said Judith, ' the 
 son of the quiet-looking woman talking to 
 mamma. He's a politician — a Liberal.' 
 
 ' I don't care for politicians,' said "Will, 
 ^and I'm sure 1 should object to that one. 
 He looks as hard as nails.' 
 
 As Will spoke, a sally from Oris amused 
 Ambrose, and a smile flashed on his stern 
 face and gave it a moment's sunshine. 
 
 ' I was wrong,' confessed Will ; ' he has 
 2:0 1 a heart.' 
 
 ' Oh, yes, when you come to know him,' 
 said Judith. 
 
154: COULD HE DO BETTER ? 
 
 ' Do you know him so well?' asked Will 
 Sutton, with meaning. 
 
 Judith coloured. 
 
 ' No. We have met only a few times. 
 But I know Mrs. Jackson.' 
 
 ' And accept her version of his character ?' 
 said Will, drily. 
 
 The person they were speaking of now 
 saw Mrs. Robertson beckoning to him. He 
 obeyed the summons. 
 
 ' Mr. Jackson,' said the old lady, ' come 
 here, please, Mr. Jackson. Why aren't 
 you laughing and talking, and taking a 
 glass of wine and amusing yourself?' 
 
 ' Thank you,' said Ambrose, with a 
 respect in his tone that flattered his host- 
 ess. ' I'm amusing myself very much. 
 And so is everybody else also.' 
 
 ' You're not talking,' said the old lady, 
 ' Rattle, rattle, is now and then good for 
 us all, even if we say nothing wise. Sit 
 
AUNT eobby's tea-party. 155 
 
 down, do. I take a great interest in all 
 young men, if they're handsome — there, 
 there, I'm an old woman, and have my say. 
 I'm going to ask all sorts of inquisitive 
 questions.' 
 
 ' You are very kind,' said Ambrose. 
 
 ' Aren't you secretary to Mr. Macintosh ? 
 Is the work interesting ?' 
 
 ' Fairly so,' said Ambrose. ' There is 
 drudgery, of course, but that's indispen- 
 sable for success and distinction.' 
 
 'And you covet these?' 
 
 ' I work for them, and expect the reward 
 of my labour. I don't believe in circum- 
 stances ever making a man fail. Failure is 
 guilt, in nine cases out of ten traceable to 
 folly or to idleness.' 
 
 Something like pity shone in Aunt Rob- 
 by's eyes. 'A hard standard, Mr. Jackson.' 
 
 'By which I hope to be judged myself,' 
 was the quiet answer. 
 
156 COULD HE DO BETTER? 
 
 ' And what do you have to do ? I warn- 
 ed you to expect cross-examination.' 
 
 ' Not at all,' said Ambrose. ' My work 
 is to answer letters on political matters 
 addressed to my employer; to watch, day 
 by day, public opinion on subjects that 
 interest him ; to interview his constituents ; 
 and to keep myself in touch with all sorts 
 and conditions of men. Besides, there's a 
 good deal of desk- work — statistics, reports, 
 and so on.' 
 
 'And you are on friendly terms with 
 Mr. Macintosh?' 
 
 ' We pull fairly well together. We're of 
 use to one another.' 
 
 ' Ah !' said Mrs. Robertson ; and she 
 changed the subject at once, and asked 
 him what he thought of society in Bay- 
 bridge. 
 
 ^I shouldn't like to live here always,' 
 said Ambrose, frankly. 
 
AUNT robby's tea-party. 157 
 
 ' If you did, you'd have to clioose a wife/ 
 laughed Aunt R,obby. ' Perhaps you don't 
 know that I'm an incurable match-maker ? 
 oh, yes, I am. Make your choice at once,' 
 she added, glancing round the room, ' and 
 count upon my support.' 
 
 Ambrose fixed his eyes on Elizabeth 
 Tucker. 
 
 Mrs. Robertson positively crowed wdth 
 delight. 
 
 ' I thought you'd do better, Mr. Jack- 
 son. I thought you'd choose one of my 
 favourites, Judith or Annie Topham. But 
 you're too sharp for me. I'll introduce 
 you to somebody with more brains — 
 though I was counted sharp in my day.' 
 
 'That I can w^ell understand,' said 
 Ambrose. 
 
 The old lady called Will Sutton, and 
 said, 
 
 ' Mr. Jackson, this is a very old friend 
 
158 COULD HE DO BETTER ? 
 
 of mine. He has travelled much, and, in 
 his youth' (here Sutton frowned), 'knew 
 most people worth knowing. I hope you 
 may have some tastes in common.' 
 
 There Avas no attempt at shaking hands ; 
 the men bowed stiffly. Will was jealous 
 of the other's youth and good looks. Am- 
 brose scrutinised him calmly — had the man 
 anything in him ? Aunt Robby, divining 
 that something was amiss, urged Will to 
 show his portfolio of sketches to his new 
 acquaintance. 
 
 Ambrose hated amateurs, but would not 
 vex his hostess. To his surprise, the 
 sketches, both in choice of subject and 
 breadth of treatment, showed marked 
 ability. Intolerant of pretence, Ambrose 
 loved talent, which he seldom failed to 
 recognize ; and his admiration was warmly 
 expressed. Will was so gratified that he 
 forgave Ambrose when, a moment later, 
 
AUNT eobby's tea-party. 159 
 
 lie pointed out an error in perspective. 
 
 *You are right,' he said, marking the 
 sketch for alteration. ^ I'm afraid I work 
 with more impulse than exactness.* 
 
 ' Have you ever exhibited ?' asked 
 Ambrose. 
 
 ' Exhibited ? No. Why should I ?' 
 
 ' To make a name,' said Ambrose. ' Sure- 
 ly such talent as yours must have ambition.' 
 
 ' My ambitions are dead,' answered Will, 
 shutting the portfolio. ' Can I introduce 
 you to anyone ? Do you know the Top- 
 hams ?' he asked, though well aware that 
 Jackson did. 
 
 ' I have the pleasure,' replied Ambrose, 
 shortly. 
 
 ' I know them very intimately,' volun- 
 teered AVill. ' I remember Judith and 
 Annie Topham as mere children.' 
 
 ' My memory would not go back so far,' 
 smiled Ambrose. ' Excuse me, my mother 
 
160 COULD HE DO BETTER? 
 
 is looking for some place to put clown her 
 cup.' 
 
 He crossed tlie room, rather abruptly 
 closing the conversation. 
 
 'What do you think of him, Will?' in- 
 quired Mrs. Robertson. 
 
 ' Selfish,' said Will. 
 
 Oris put a similar question to Ambrose. 
 
 ' Brains. But no go. Wishy-washy,' 
 was the answer. 
 
 These unfavourable impressions were 
 only natural, the characters and the cir- 
 cumstances of Will Sutton and of Am- 
 brose Jackson affording as striking a con- 
 trast as could well be imagined. Will, a 
 disappointed man, with his opportunities 
 behind him ; much of his bright faith in 
 human goodness destroyed ; his aspirations 
 blunted, his sensibilities increased ; a man 
 with no leading idea to shed a ray of light 
 upon the future ; somewhat embittered by 
 
AUNT hobby's tea-party. 161 
 
 sorrow and illness, yet much softened 
 by both ; always dreaming, never actinf^ ; 
 always yearning for sympathy. Such was 
 William Sutton. The young politician, how 
 different ! Sanguine of success, the world 
 opening at his feet ; with a fixed standard by 
 w^hich to judge his fellow-creatures — and 
 himself; allowing no clouds to dull his vision, 
 no trifles to wound his pride ; driven onward 
 by one central force that seemed hitherto 
 to pilot him safely past the shoals and 
 rocks ; indifferent to censure ; robust as a 
 mountaineer ; never thinking but to act ; 
 seeking no sympathy and offering none. 
 Such was Ambrose Jackson. Such he was 
 to remain until experience should either 
 confirm his opinions or prove them to be 
 unsound. 
 
 Judith, who had watched their meeting 
 with some curiosity, wished to be friends 
 with both of them; in each case for a 
 
 VOL. I. M 
 
162 COULD HE DO BETTER? 
 
 different reason. She pitied Will, and 
 valued their early intimacy. She was 
 fascinated by Ambrose. She tried to deny 
 the fact to herself, but she could not. 
 There was no love as yet ; the fascination 
 was sometimes even painful. What would 
 he do or say next ? she could not help this 
 expectant attitude. It resulted from the 
 conviction that the power lying under that 
 calm must leave its stamp even on trifling 
 actions and in ordinary conversation. 
 
 Will talked to her nearly the whole 
 evening, and would have amused her well 
 enough in the absence of Ambrose. Be- 
 yond a salutation, Ambrose paid her no 
 attention till the party was going to break 
 up, and then he sat down beside her. 
 
 Mr. Jackson had almost resolved not to 
 pursue the acquaintance which had been 
 virtually begun on the way to the Elms 
 the evening before. But he never liked 
 
AUNT robby's tea-party. 163 
 
 being worsted, and he felt that he had 
 been worsted on that occasion. So he join- 
 ed Judith in a very haughty frame of mind. 
 She understood his formality, and deter- 
 mined to force him to be agreeable and 
 talkative. She was unsuccessful, partly 
 because his mood affected hers, and made 
 her formal too. The conversation went on 
 stilts, became stiff and jerky, and stood 
 still. Impulsive Judith cried : 
 
 ' You're very reserved, Mr. Jackson.' 
 
 ' So are you. Miss Topham.' 
 
 Neither of them could help laughing. 
 
 ' We accuse each other of reserve,' said 
 Ambrose, won over by her frankness ; 
 ^ that's a proof that Ave both object to it. 
 Shall we make a league and covenant that 
 between us, at least, there shall in future 
 be no reserve ?' 
 
 Ambrose had still to learn the weight of 
 a woman's influence. He would have 
 
 M 2 
 
164 COULD HE DO BETTER? 
 
 smiled had anyone prophesied, two days 
 ago, that he would ever so unbend to 
 Judith Topham. 
 
 ' Willingly,' was her answer. ' I mil 
 behave better when we meet again. So 
 must you. Good-bye for the present. I 
 see my father is going to take us home.' 
 
 They shook hands and parted, on the 
 whole very well pleased with one another. 
 The tea-party was at an end. 
 
 Ambrose, with his mother and Oris, were 
 among the last to leave. The three stop- 
 ped in the hall for a moment, watching 
 Mrs. Tweedy and Mr. Tucker, who stood 
 under the porch waging a battle royal. 
 
 Mrs. Tweedy had not yet succeeded in 
 getting Nicholas to listen to her narrative 
 of the Augusta incident, and of the really 
 quite remarkable way in which a special 
 providence seemed to watch over that 
 darling child. Several times she had made 
 
AUNT robby's tea-party. 165 
 
 the attempt, and been repulsed by the 
 capitalist. She now placed herself in the 
 doorway, umbrella in one hand, purse in 
 the other, and by rapid to and fro man- 
 oeuvres had hitherto prevented the enemy's 
 escape. Nicholas, on his part, was gruffly 
 determined not to listen to a word, and 
 was losing patience. 
 
 ' Oris,' whispered Jackson, ' bet you a 
 sov. on the lady.' 
 
 ' Don't mind if I do,' was the answer. 
 * Tucker has no more manners than a hog. 
 He'll walk over the poor little woman.' 
 
 This seemed to be his intention. Mrs. 
 Tweedy lost ground; but retrieved her 
 fortunes by a brilliant stratagem. She 
 held out her purse to Nicholas, he invol- 
 untarily took it ; she then put her hands 
 behind her back, and, as he could not well 
 run away with her property, triumphantly 
 obliged him to hear her story from begin- 
 ning to end. 
 
166 COULD HE DO BETTER ? 
 
 'A sovereign in my pocket,' laughed Am- 
 brose. ' Mother, Mrs. Tweedy is a strategist 
 of the first order. No wonder she proves 
 more than a match for poor James.' 
 
 Next morning Ambrose went back to his- 
 duties in London. 
 
167 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 THE PORTRAIT, 
 
 The winter was very severe, the March 
 winds more biting than ever, it seemed ; 
 and so everybody hailed with gratitude the 
 coming of the month of the poets with its 
 promise and its bloom, the merry month 
 of May. 
 
 Annie Topham and Oris Parry did not 
 care whether it was March or May. They 
 were quite taken up with each other just 
 now. Cris had proposed. Through what 
 mental struggles he went before performing 
 this great feat, can be matter only of con- 
 jecture. The care and time bestowed upon 
 
168 COULD HE DO BETTER ? 
 
 his toilette on that eventful morning can 
 be known only to Mr. Lloyd. His master 
 resembled (so the valet said downstairs) a 
 * resplendent Hadonis.' Oris, when the 
 critical moment came, proposed in the 
 simplest way. A word for him, a happy 
 sob from Annie ; and that was all ; no, not 
 quite all ! 
 
 Oris, for once in his life, would hear of 
 no delay. If they were to be married, 
 what reason could there be for putting it 
 off? Annie found none. But, when Oris 
 supposed he had better go through the 
 time-honoured process of ' asking Mamma,' 
 Annie demurred; it might be better to 
 speak in the first instance to her father. 
 Mrs. Topham was fond of Oris. He was 
 well-to-do. As sleeping partner he drew 
 about fifteen hundred a year from a Lon- 
 don house, and appeared in this respect a 
 good match for portionless Annie. But 
 
THE PORTRAIT. 169 
 
 Mrs. Topham lamented his total want of 
 energy, and had always urged him to take an 
 active part in the business. Annie thought 
 this might possibly be made the condition 
 of her mother's consent. On the other 
 hand, she was her father's favourite, and 
 imagined that, if his support was once pro- 
 mised, all difficulties would be overcome. 
 The lover's conspiracy came to grief speed- 
 ily : Mr. Topham did indeed fix a day with 
 cheerful alacrity ; but his wife declared that 
 Annie should never marry an idle man, 
 and in spite of her husband's ill-humour 
 and her daughter's tears, adhered to this 
 determination. Judith scolded Oris sound- 
 ly ; if he really loved Annie, would he do 
 nothing to win her ? He promised to do 
 his best ; but day after day passed without 
 any exertion. Meanwhile Baybridge was 
 given to understand that there was a two 
 years' engagement. 
 
170 COULD HE DO BETTER ? 
 
 While Oris was thus shrinking from all 
 useful employment, his friend, Ambrose 
 Jackson, pursued with unfaltering step the 
 objects of his ambition. 
 
 Jackson surprised even those of his 
 colleagues who knew him best, by the in- 
 fluence he was beginning to acquire in 
 political circles. Men of twice his age and 
 experience found themselves harassed at 
 every turn, and often thwarted, by Mr. 
 Mackintosh's young secretary. As Am- 
 brose, though at present in Liberal pay, 
 took care to have it well known that he 
 had not committed himself irretrievably, 
 several attempts were made to detach him 
 from Mr. Mackintosh. Ambrose accepted 
 none of these oifers ; but he used them as a 
 lever to obtain more advantageous terms 
 from his chief. Mr. Mackintosh had no 
 choice but to submit, hoping for the day 
 when he could dispense with the services 
 
THE PORTRAIT. 171 
 
 which he was now forced to purchase at 
 such a high figure, and to secure with 
 more confidence in his subordinate than 
 was altogether pleasant. To Ambrose the 
 increase of salary thus obtained was all 
 the more welcome because he wished to 
 improve his bachelor's establishment, and 
 to keep pace with his rising importance. 
 
 Notwithstanding his advancement, and 
 busier life that it entailed, Ambrose found 
 time for frequent visits to his mother. He 
 spent every Sunday with her; and when- 
 ever there was a lull in public afi'airs he 
 hastened down to enjoy a few days of her 
 company. On these occasions Ambrose 
 was seen at his best. His worldliness dis- 
 appeared; he devoted himself wholly to 
 his mother, and with exemplary patience 
 took her to visit all Baybridge. As a 
 reward for this good behaviour he frequent- 
 ly met Mr. Topham's eldest daughter. 
 
172 COULD HE DO BETTER? 
 
 A reward it was ; Ambrose acknowledged 
 that by now. This girl, with her trans- 
 parent goodness, her direct outspoken 
 fidelity, was a contrast to many of his 
 friends in town. The compact made on 
 the day of Mrs. Robertson's tea-party, by 
 virtue of which there was to be no more 
 reserve between them, had been playfully 
 entered into, but by degrees was observed 
 with all gravity. In this way Ambrose 
 learned much about Judith's past ; and 
 soon drew from her a partial confession of 
 her present anxieties. By questioning his 
 mother, too, Ambrose discovered how 
 difficult it had become for the Tophams, 
 not so much to keep up appearances, but 
 even to pay the weekly bills ; how Judith, 
 to whose lot that task chiefly fell, had no 
 one to help her in the bitter struggle against 
 poverty, nay, how her father, in his reck- 
 less optimism, opposed her from day to 
 
THE PORTE AIT. 173^ 
 
 day. When Mrs. Jackson told this to her 
 son he was forcibly struck, and remained 
 standino; for some moments in earnest medi- 
 tation. The difference between his own 
 motives and Judith's rebuked him. The 
 next time they met he astonished her by 
 the deep tone of respect ^vith. which he 
 spoke, and yet more by his look of admira- 
 tion. He wished that Judith had been 
 differently situated. Why had circum- 
 stances raised an impassable barrier be- 
 tween them, seeing that Ambrose could offer 
 his hand only to a woman of ' position ' ? 
 Mrs. Jackson watched him closely, and had 
 reason to be satisfied with the progress of 
 her favourite scheme. 
 
 Many people who never wilfully deceive 
 others have an unfortunate knack of de- 
 ceiving themselves when any really impor- 
 tant question arises in which their feelings 
 are deeply engaged. Judith Topham, 
 
174 COULD HE DO BETTER ? 
 
 though falling far short of perfection in 
 other respects, had not this fault. Nearly 
 two months ago she had begun to examine 
 herself strictly as to whether or not she 
 were in love with Ambrose Jackson. 
 Hitherto she had arrived at no decision ; 
 hut when a woman reaches this stage of 
 deliberate inquiry, it may, in nine cases 
 out of ten, be safely predicted that (in 
 hope, at least) the journey will lead to an 
 open church door. Judith had been once 
 deceived by specious appearances ; but she 
 had profited by the lesson, and determined 
 that first impressions should not again 
 lead her astray. She admired Ambrose. 
 She thought him every inch a man. His 
 very step had a language of its own ; and 
 his voice had such a powerful effect upon 
 Judith that she felt that if ever he stoop- 
 ed to entreaty she could not possibly say 
 no. Yet she knew and grieved over much 
 
THE PORTRAIT. 175 
 
 in him ; and her heart sank as she consid- 
 ered how likely he was to sacrifice love to 
 ambition, and to find out his mistake when 
 too late. He stoop to entreaty ? To her ? 
 ' What a fool I am ; he will never ask me 
 to marry him/ sighed poor Judith. 
 
 She kept her own counsel, even towards 
 Annie. Those ' chats ' before bed-time in 
 which they, like so many other sisters, in- 
 dulged, were devoted almost solely to dis- 
 cussing the virtues of Mr. Christopher 
 Parry. Only now and then did Judith 
 yield to temptation, and throw in a good 
 word or so for Ambrose. 
 
 Her intercourse with him had been free 
 from any approach to embarrassment, but 
 that sudden change in his manner already 
 mentioned caused her much confusion. 
 To what could it be ascribed? Judith 
 was not conceited, but, as she knew no- 
 thing of the conversation between mother 
 
176 COULD HE DO BETTER? 
 
 and son respecting her, it was natural to 
 suppose that Ambrose took more interest 
 in her than formerly. So he did. Hence- 
 forth his coming was always heralded by a 
 blush on Judith's cheek. 
 
 There was a much less pleasant reason 
 for shyness. The Misses Tucker had amply 
 justified Mrs. Jackson's opinion that they 
 would say anything, and they had indus- 
 triously circulated reports in which the 
 names of Judith and Ambrose were joined. 
 These reports reached Judith eventually, 
 and gave her as much pain as the spiteful 
 spinsters hoped. No hint reached Ambrose, 
 even Mrs. Tweedy hesitated to pass the 
 whisper on to him.. But Judith lived in 
 hourly fear of such a catastrophe. Mean- 
 while a handle for the gossip was being 
 shaped by the indiscretion of one of her 
 best friends. 
 
 Will Sutton had settled down in Bay- 
 
THE PORTRAIT, 177 
 
 bridge, close to the Elms, and announced 
 his intention of staying in the neighbour- 
 hood for the next two years. He gave 
 several cogent reasons for not living on his 
 estate in Surrey. The house was too large 
 and rambling for a single man to be com- 
 fortable in it, and he had no friends whom 
 he cared to invite for a long stay. Be- 
 sides, he mshed to lay down plantations, 
 and to redecorate parts of his home, and 
 for this outlay economy was necessary. 
 But the one reason which outweighed all 
 others never passed Will Sutton's lips. 
 Lazy Cris might wonder whether Annie's 
 hand was worth working for ; Ambrose 
 mio;ht reo;ret what he considered the 
 exigencies of his position ; Judith might 
 alternate between hopes and fears ; — 
 but he, Will, had a different spirit. 
 With every fibre of his nature he loved 
 Judith. He hardly knew when his love 
 
 VOL. I. N 
 
178 COULD HE DO BETTER? 
 
 had begun, enough for him that it was 
 there. 
 
 It supplied him with what had been long 
 wanting to him, an ambition. His ambi- 
 tion was to win Judith, and if possible, to 
 be worthy of her. To this point all his 
 energy tended. He forsook the morbid 
 atmosphere in which he had long bewailed 
 his errors, and walked into the sunlight. 
 He would not admit the possibility of 
 failure ; such devotion as his must be re- 
 turned. Aunt Robby said that the air of 
 Baybridge agreed with him, that he looked 
 ten years younger. Judith, who happened 
 to be present, assented, little thinking how 
 her words sent his heart throbbing. Could 
 this man with the elastic step and bright 
 looks be the same to whom Ambrose had 
 been introduced at the Elms ? 
 
 He was jealous of Ambrose, of course. 
 But he had no grave apprehensions in that 
 
THE PORTRAIT. 179 
 
 quarter. Will had several times met men 
 of his stamp, and knew how self-absorbed 
 they were apt to become. Ambrose might 
 fall in love with Judith, — but propose to 
 her ? Will did not fear that. Fortunately 
 for his present peace of mind he rather mis- 
 understood Ambrose. 
 
 Will, though he Avas never happy out of 
 Judith's sight, was too wise to risk his 
 prospects by any precipitation. As yet, 
 Judith had evidently no suspicion of his 
 intentions. She distressed him by her 
 very kindness, for it was that sort of 
 kindness which is paid to an uncle or to a 
 guardian. Will, after a cautious attempt to 
 break the ground, resolved to bide his time. 
 It was a sore trial to his patience, and he 
 consoled himself with the trifling follies in 
 use among lovers. He had quite a collec- 
 tion of treasures, common things which 
 
 had become treasures from the touch of 
 
 N 2 
 
180 COULD HE DO BETTER ? 
 
 Judith's fingers : a programme of a ball, a 
 bunch of faded primroses, a couyjle of 
 three-cornered notes beginning Dear Will, 
 and ending Your affectionate Judith, and 
 last, but not least, a photograph. The 
 photograph had been taken two years be- 
 fore, and this circumstance, besides being 
 a matter of regret to Will, led him into a 
 little plot, which was to have an unpleas- 
 ant ending. 
 
 One May morning, with the plot in his 
 head, he directed his steps to Mrs. Jack- 
 son's house. He convinced himself first 
 that Ambrose was in town ; for, though 
 civil to one another, they wxre not on cor- 
 dial terms. And the plot required secrecy 
 for its execution. 
 
 Mrs. Jackson was at home. Though the 
 quiet life to which she was condemned 
 had its drawbacks, it enabled her to devote 
 herself to the pursuit of her art, which, 
 
THE PORTRAIT. 181 
 
 after Ambrose, was her chief delight. This 
 occu]3ation prevented her from in\iting any 
 other woman similarly situated to share her 
 home, an arrangement for which Ambrose 
 had at first pleaded. Her son made a studio 
 by taking down the partition wall between 
 tAvo rooms at the back of the house ; and, 
 though the light could have been better, 
 the new studio fairly answered the pur- 
 pose. Here Mrs. Jackson stood by the 
 hour, Avorking and dreaming ; and here she 
 was standing before her easel when Will 
 Sutton called. 
 
 Mrs. Jackson had only two servants, and 
 they were both absent, the cook on duty, 
 the housemaid on pleasure. Will, after 
 ringing several times in vain, walked in, 
 and knocked at the studio door. 
 
 The artist hated publicity, and Bay- 
 bridge was so inquisitive that she was 
 compelled to work in a state of siege, Avith 
 
182 COULD HE DO BETTER? 
 
 closed doors; and she seldom received 
 anyone except in her drawing-room. Will 
 was an exception. He was not meddle- 
 some, and he knew more than most 
 amateurs know about painting. Mrs. 
 Jackson liked him, too, for his own sake. 
 Will, then, was admitted, and after dis- 
 cussing for some time the unfinished pic- 
 ture on the easel, began to lead up to the 
 object of his visit. He had already dis- 
 posed of several pictures for Mrs. Jackson, 
 who had told him what she so studiously 
 concealed from Ambrose, that she worked 
 for something more than pin-money. This- 
 made the beginning easier. 
 
 ' Have any more orders come in, Mrs. 
 Jackson ?' asked he. 
 
 ' Only one,' was the reply. ' I have 
 refused it, the pay would have been so 
 wretchedly small.' 
 
 ^ In that case, if you would not be 
 offended ' 
 
THE POKTRAIT. 183 
 
 ' Offended ! No, Mr. Sutton. You have 
 some work for me? You looked like 
 business when you came in. I should be 
 grateful for any order only — only — let it 
 be some subject that I could treat con 
 ariiore — something better than splashbacks 
 and sunsets.' 
 
 ' A portrait?' asked Will. 
 
 ' A portrait,' exclaimed Mrs. Jackson. 
 ' My favourite work. But who in Bay- 
 bridge wants a portrait painted ?' 
 
 'I do,' said Will. 
 
 'I understand,' replied Mrs. Jackson. 
 ' You want to hang it among the other 
 family portraits at Radalls ; and you kindly 
 think I might be equal to the task. No, 
 no, I cannot run the risk of having my 
 poor handiwork placed in the same hall 
 with the masterpieces you own.' 
 
 ' Like most people who can do good work 
 you are very humble, Mrs. Jackson,' said 
 Will, sincerely. * No, mine shall never hang 
 
1 84 COULD HE DO BETTER ? 
 
 in the hall at Radalls. I want a lady's 
 portrait painted.' 
 
 Mrs. Jackson looked up quickly. 
 
 ' Whose T 
 
 ' Let me explain,' said Will. ' You know 
 what an old friend I am of the Tophams, 
 especially of Mrs. Topham.' 
 
 ' And of the girls,' said the lady. 
 
 ' Of course,' said Will. ' But Mrs. Top- 
 ham is an older friend than they are ; and 
 I have taken it into my head to surprise 
 her with a present. All I want is your 
 aid in the conspiracy. I intend to make 
 her a present of Judith's portrait.' 
 
 ' Why of Judith's any more than of 
 Annie's ?' 
 
 ' Because Judith is her favourite daugh- 
 ter,' said Will. 
 
 ' And because,' said Mrs. Jackson, with 
 a smile, ' nothing would persuade Annie to 
 sit, I am sure.' 
 
THE PORTRAIT. 185 
 
 ' Neither mast Judith sit,' said Will, 
 hastily. 'The ay hole thing is to be a sur- 
 prise. You see her frequently, you will 
 overcome the difficulty ; you will have 
 opportunities for making observations and 
 studies.' 
 
 Mrs. Jackson laughed. 
 
 ' I am not so clever as that, Mr. Sutton. 
 But, as it happens, I could undertake the 
 picture. Wait a moment.' 
 
 And, unlocking a cupboard in the wall, 
 she produced several water-colour sketches 
 of Judith : and explained that Will's young 
 friend had already sat for a model to a 
 picture since sold. 
 
 Will examined the sketches attentively. 
 
 ' You can help me, Mrs. Jackson ; will 
 you ? Of course I know the value of your 
 time and skill.' 
 
 This delicate way of hinting that she 
 was to be well paid for her work settled 
 
186 COULD HE DO BETTER? 
 
 the matter ; for Mrs. Jackson knew that 
 Ambrose was in want of money, and could 
 not really aiford all that he alloAved her. 
 Had Will asked her to paint Judith's por- 
 trait for liim^ no matter how plausibly he 
 might have stated his case, Mrs. Jackson 
 would have discovered his real motive at 
 once. But Mrs. Topham was to have the 
 picture. Sly Will intended, after the 
 present had been gratefully accepted, to 
 ask for a copy, a request that could not 
 well be refused, and would not arouse 
 suspicion. This manoeuvre, far too subtle 
 for anyone but a lover, quite imposed upon 
 Mrs. Jackson. The conspirators shook 
 hands, and the artist, pointing to her cup- 
 board, said that the secret should be kept 
 safe from prying eyes. 
 
 Will departed, well satisfied with the 
 result of his visit. 
 
 That afternoon, Mrs. Jackson had just 
 
THE PORTRAIT. 187 
 
 -finished ordering the materials for the por- 
 trait, when, to her disgust, she heard at 
 her elbow the sharp voice of Elizabeth 
 Tucker. 
 
 ' Ah, there you are, dear Mrs. Jackson,' 
 said Elizabeth. ' Ordering something for 
 a new picture ? I heard you giving most 
 particular orders. Don't, now, please don't 
 think me impertinent if I ask ' 
 
 ' Please don't ask anything,' said Helen, 
 quietly. 
 
 ' Dearest Clementina,' cried Elizabeth to 
 her sister, ' do persuade Mrs. Jackson. 
 Now, we are bent upon knowing, dear 
 Mrs. Jackson.' 
 
 '- And I am equally bent upon the con- 
 trary,' said Mrs. Jackson, with a half-smile,, 
 as she went on her Avay. 
 
 ' Clementina, my love,' said Elizabeth, as 
 the sisters stood in High Street, ' what's- 
 this ? Didn't you notice her confusion ?' 
 
188 COULD HE DO BETTER ? 
 
 ' Quite marked !' was the answer. 
 
 ' I'm not inquisitive, but I hate under- 
 hand people.' said Miss Tucker. * We must 
 find this out, Clem, my love.' 
 
 ' Yes, Lizzie, my love,' echoed Clemen- 
 tina. 
 
189 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 PETER TOPHAM ON FINANCE. 
 
 Probably those who ' come down ' in the 
 world, if they stop short of actual priva- 
 tion, suffer less from the want of accus- 
 tomed luxuries than from the necessity of 
 keeping up appearances. There are cer- 
 tain well-defined stages which mark the 
 descent from affluence to poverty, and 
 there is, moreover, in the ojDinion of the 
 head of the family, a certain point at which 
 the line has to be drawn. One man, no 
 longer able to fill a country house, thinks 
 himself bound to entertain on a smaller 
 scale. Another, reflecting that many well- 
 to-do people seldom entertain, and that he 
 
190 COULD HE DO BETTER ? 
 
 never can, would shrink from the idea of 
 his wife having no carriage. Some go 
 through these and other stages, reluctant- 
 ly lowering their standard as their income 
 decreases. Mr. Peter Topham had passed 
 through them, cheerfully, according to his 
 wont, and had now drawn a hard and fast 
 line at late dinner. 
 
 Of course ' late ' dinner is incomprehen- 
 sible to those favoured beings who ignore 
 or disregard the fact that there is, in some 
 social depth far beneath them, such a 
 thing as early dining. Peter Topham 
 thrust this fact, as something that could in 
 no wise concern him, resolutely out of his 
 consciousness. Come what might, he 
 would never dine at half-past one. Never 
 would he endure that abomination, sug- 
 gestive of cheap sea-side lodging-houses 
 and fading ' gentility,' — that hybrid meal, 
 known as high tea. 
 
PETER TOPHAM ON FINANCE. 191 
 
 Mr. Topham enforced every decision he 
 arrived at with so much emphasis that it 
 must have been difficult for him to lay 
 additional stress on any particular com- 
 mand. He had, however, been led to do 
 so in this question of to dine or not to 
 dine, by several attempts of Judith to in- 
 troduce a new order of things, and had 
 desired that the subject should not 
 be again broached — with a threat of his 
 extreme displeasure in case of rebellion. 
 Yet who will believe that in spite of all he 
 had done for his family, and all the self- 
 denial he had gone through on their 
 behalf, Judith (for the sake of a few trades- 
 people's paltry bills) was going to attack 
 him once more in his most vulnerable 
 point ? 
 
 Judith had put off the evil day as long 
 as she dared, and she now went carefully 
 through the accounts again to see if by 
 
192 COULD HE DO BETTER ? 
 
 any means her father could still be in- 
 dulged. But every expense had been 
 pared down as finely as possible already. 
 She went upstairs to her mother. 
 
 Mrs. Topham, who was always ailing, 
 had been obliged by a bad headache to lie 
 down ; and the room was darkened. 
 
 'Is that you, Judith?' asked her meek 
 voice. 
 
 ' Yes, mother ; how is your head now?' 
 
 ' Better, dear. Will you pull up the 
 blinds. Better, Judith. If there could 
 be less worry I'm sure I should get strong.' 
 
 ' I can't help it,' replied Judith, almost 
 in tears. ' I've brought some more worry 
 with me now. I've been looking over the 
 bills. We can't get into debt. We must 
 dismiss one servant at once, and to do 
 that we must have tea in the evening.' 
 
 ' Your father, Judith.' 
 
 ' It must be done,' was the firm answer. 
 
PETER TOPHAM ON FINANCE. 193 
 
 ^ I have written down exactly how we stand. 
 My father must know we can't coin money.' 
 
 ' He has had so many troubles, Jue/ 
 pleaded her mother. 
 
 Judith smiled bitterly. 
 
 ^ What have they been compared with 
 yours?' she said. 
 
 ' My, dear, women are made to suffer. 
 That's their position. Well, you explain 
 to your father, and I'll say what I can.' 
 
 * No, mother, you must explain, and insist. 
 If you won't, I don't see what I can do.' 
 
 ' Don't desert me, Jue,' cried Mrs. Top- 
 ham, piteously. 
 
 ' Desert you, mother !' 
 
 Eventually it was arranged that Judith 
 should begin, and receive support from her 
 mother. This had been the plan of previous 
 campaigns ; but Mrs. Topham had invari- 
 ably gone over to the enemy. She now 
 promised staunch assistance. 
 
 VOL. I. 
 
194 COULD HE DO BETTER? 
 
 After dinner that niglit Annie, at a sign 
 from her sister, withdrew ; and Judith 
 began with, 
 
 ' Father, mother has something important 
 to say to you.' 
 
 Mr. Topham had been holding up a 
 biscuit to attract the dachshund who stood 
 in the dusk outside the closed window. 
 He now mechanically transferred the morsel 
 to his own mouth, to the great disappoint- 
 ment of his four-footed dependant; and said, 
 with the utmost good-humour, 
 
 'Something important? Maria, my dear, 
 I am all attention.' 
 
 Mrs. Topham's courage, never very pro- 
 nounced, failed. 
 
 ' I understand,' said her husband. ' Ways 
 and means, is it not ? Where is my pretty 
 Chancellor of the Exchequer ? Whew ! 
 Judith, what a long face. We are poor ; 
 that is, I think, what our French neigh- 
 
PETER TOPIIAM ON FINANCE. 195 
 
 bours call an accomplislied fact. But is 
 2)overty synonymous with misery ? De- 
 cidedly not. Let us be contented and 
 happy.' 
 
 ' We are not discontented, Peter. Don't 
 think that,' said wavering Mrs. Topham. 
 
 ' But/ struck in Judith, ' we must face 
 facts. We are spending more, far more 
 than our income. Father, we do our best. 
 Mother would do anything for you, so 
 would I. But we can only do Avhat we 
 can do. A sacrifice must be made. We 
 can't afford to keep three servants.' 
 
 ' Then why keep them, in the name of 
 goodness ?' said Mr. Topham. ' I am not 
 aware that we are compelled to support 
 servants we do not require. Eh, Maria, 
 that seems sensible enough ? AVant 'em, 
 keep 'em ; don't Avant 'em, don't keep 'em. 
 Very plain sailing that.' 
 
 ' At present we can't do with less than 
 
 2 
 
196 COULD HE DO BETTER ? 
 
 three/ said Judith. ^ We must send away 
 Barbara, and have tea in the evening.' 
 
 '■ Dear Peter, don't be put out about it,*^ 
 said Mrs. Topham, disregarding quite a 
 fierce frown from Judith. 'We're only 
 suggesting what we think for the best.' 
 
 Mr. Topham gave no immediate answer. 
 Being rather proud of his powers of con- 
 versation, he sometimes paused for fitting 
 words in which to clothe his valuable 
 ideas. 
 
 He sipped his port awhile, and said : 
 
 ' I thought we had decided this question 
 long ago. Why go over the same ground 
 again ? That's a most fatal habit ; possibly 
 a very large share of the failures in life 
 arise from reconsidering a decision arrived 
 at with deliberation.' 
 
 * Circumstances alter cases,' said Judith. 
 
 'Eh, what do I hear?' said her father. 
 ^ Circumstances — cases. Take care, my 
 
PETER TOPHAM ON FINANCE. 197 
 
 dear girl, don't be a pedant. There's noth- 
 ing more unbecoming in a young woman, 
 or indeed in anybody. Dinner,' continued 
 Mr. Topham, dictatorially, ' is not only an 
 effect, but a cause of civilisation. A man 
 who can order one with judgment, or par- 
 take of one with appreciation — is a gentle- 
 man, par excellence. The mere detail of 
 putting on evening clothes has an untold 
 significance for the observant. Do you sup- 
 pose I could respect myself if of an even- 
 ing I sat down in the clothes I have worn 
 all day, to tea and stale bread and butter ? 
 Let us hear no more of this, I should lose 
 my self-respect if I lost my dinner. There's 
 a great deal in what I say, Maria ?' 
 
 ' A great deal,' murmured Mrs. Topham, 
 beginning to think that Judith might be 
 wrong. 
 
 'You are quite right, father,' said 
 Judith, ' and you shall have everything 
 
198 COULD HE DO BETTER? 
 
 you want, if you'll only give me the 
 money.' 
 
 ^ Judith,' said her mother, reproachfully. 
 
 ' Young ladies,' smiled Mr. Topham, ' are 
 prone to exaggeration. What's the cost 
 of our humble meal? Quite a trifle, I 
 wager.' 
 
 ' Everything adds up,' said Judith, 
 ' there's the fish, and the soup.' 
 
 ' A little fish ; a little soup of boiled down 
 odds and ends ! Why, Judith, one would 
 think they cost their weight in gold.' 
 
 ' The soup to-night was not very ex- 
 pensive, Jue,' ventured Mrs. Topham, pass- 
 ing into flat rebellion. 
 
 ' And the kitchen fire,' persisted Judith. 
 
 ' A few coals !' was Mr. Topham's bland 
 reply. ' They must be very cheap at this 
 time of the year. Come, come, Jue, you're 
 laughing at me.' 
 
 At this Judith broke down. Had her 
 
PETER TOPHAM ON FINANCE. 199 
 
 father stormed, or even abused her, she 
 could have borne it, and waited quietly 
 before again insisting on the necessary 
 economy. But the terrible levity that 
 came smiling from his lips, outmatched 
 her. She had learnt to control her temper, 
 poor child, but her voice shook as she 
 answered, in a Ioav tone : 
 
 ' Father, I see you will not understand. 
 This is my last attempt. In future, some- 
 body else must order what's wanted : I 
 cannot, knowing that the shopkeepers must 
 lose their money.' 
 
 Mrs. Topham started up trembling, and 
 held out her hands in eager entreaty. 
 But her husband showed no sign of anger. 
 
 'A deadlock,' he said, jauntily, 'a crisis, 
 threatened resignation of a Minister ! 
 Now, Judith, be reasonable.' 
 
 Judith handed him the account she had 
 prepared, and, unable to restrain her feel- 
 
200 COULD HE DO BETTER ? 
 
 ings any longer, left tlie room abruptly. 
 
 ' She is excited and overwrought, Peter, 
 you must not mind,' said the mother. 
 ' Judith is a good girl.' 
 
 ' Rather overbearing now and then,' said 
 Mr. Topham. ' She w^ill learn wisdom 
 after a bit. These passing difficulties are 
 excellent discipline for the girl ; she'll knoAv 
 how to manage a house of her own.' 
 
 ' I sometimes think, Peter, that she and 
 Mr. Jackson ' 
 
 ' I won't hear of it, Maria. Once and for 
 all. No!' 
 
 Mrs. Topham sighed. She had not been 
 taken into Judith's confidence, but she 
 had, notwithstanding, detected her grow- 
 ing fondness for Ambrose. Mrs. Topham 
 liked the young politician : it was true he 
 contradicted Peter as often as not, but then 
 he treated her with unvarying courtesy. 
 For some time she had been waiting for an 
 
PETER TOPIIAM ON FINANCE. 201 
 
 opportunity to prepare her husband for 
 such an event as a proposal from Ambrose, 
 and it showed her utter want of tact that 
 she chose the present moment. But Peter 
 was not unprepared ; the rumours which 
 had failed to reach Ambrose had reached 
 him, and his answer to his wife's hint was 
 the result of a previous resolve. Mrs. 
 Topham, however, though she had no 
 courao;e for herself, had some for her child- 
 ren, and so she protested. 
 
 ' What objection would you have to Mr. 
 Jackson, Peter dear ? He is a clever 
 young man ; agreeable, I am sure, though 
 sometimes dogmatic; and fairly well off. 
 We must not look too high for Judith — 
 remember, she will not have a farthing of 
 her own.' 
 
 ' Don't be too sure of that, Maria,' said 
 Mr. Topham. * Fortunes have been realized 
 in a very few years before to-day by intelli- 
 
202 COULD HE DO BETTER ? 
 
 gent and far-seeing men. Now, my dear, 
 may I beg your careful attention for a very 
 few moments ?' 
 
 So saying, Mr. Topham lighted the gas, 
 and pulled a bundle of papers out of his 
 pocket. 
 
 His wife knew what was coming, and 
 turned pale as ashes. 
 
 ' I can't do it, Peter. I can't, for the 
 children's sake.' 
 
 He paid no heed to this appeal, but, 
 spreading out his papers and pointing to a 
 plan, said, 
 
 ' A fortune lies here, if we have only the 
 sense and pluck to grasp it.' 
 
 'I daren't,' murmured Mrs. Topham. 
 'Don't let us add to our misfortunes, 
 Peter. I promise you that you shall never 
 be worried again. Only, no more risks — ' 
 
 ' Risks,' said Mr. Topham, jovially. ' I 
 should be obliged to anyone who could 
 
PETER TOPHAM ON FINANCE. 203 
 
 point out a risk in this undertaking. Mind, 
 Maria, I have done nothing by deputy, I 
 have gone into the whole thing myself. 
 Surely that sets your mind at ease?' 
 
 '- Yes, Peter, I know how clever you are. 
 But, still, last time ' 
 
 ' I did all that was possible. If a 
 scoundrel ran away with the money, am I 
 to blame?' 
 
 ' Who blames you, Peter ?' 
 
 ' I thought, my dear, something in your 
 voice — no? Well, so much the better. 
 You are a loving, good woman, Maria, and 
 I can't bear to see you without your car- 
 riage and pair. Now these brick-works — 
 they can't run away, eh, Maria? To buy 
 and work them — only four thousand 
 pounds !' 
 
 ' It's nearly all we have. Think of the 
 girls, Peter. I daren't.' 
 
 ' It's chiefly on their account,' said Mr. 
 
204 COULD HE DO BETTER ? 
 
 Topham, contradicting himself, ' that I 
 am so anxious to profit by this splendid 
 opportunity. A word from you to Mr. 
 Slade, and the brick- works become mine — 
 at least yours.' 
 
 Mr. Slade was the family lawyer. 
 
 ' He'll never let me touch a farthing, 
 Peter ; he said so last time.' 
 
 ' Of course he'll scold and pretend he 
 knows better than anyone else. These 
 lawyers oppose anything that brings more 
 than four per cent., on principle. But the 
 money is not tied up, it's yours, you can 
 dispose of it as you please.' 
 
 'Are you sure, quite sure, there is no 
 risk ?' asked his wife. 
 
 ' I give you my word of honour there is 
 none,' said Peter ; and he dilated so elo- 
 quently upon its advantages that the feeble 
 woman wavered. 
 
 ' At least let us consult Judith,' said she, 
 clinging to the last straw. 
 
PETER TOPHAM ON FINANCE. 205 
 
 ' Certainly, Maria — that is, if you think 
 Judith has more sense than I have. You 
 have perhaps a right to distrust me. I 
 never forget that when I married you I 
 was penniless. If you don't think I've 
 acted throu2:hout for the best ' 
 
 His poor wife interrupted him with a 
 burst of tears. She was powerless against 
 the weapons he used with such heartless 
 want of scruple. She promised to write 
 to the lawyer and state her ^vishes ; and to 
 say nothing to Judith. Her husband kiss- 
 ed her mth every appearance of affection ; 
 he spoke in glowing terms of the future, 
 with its bountiful harvest, and she believed 
 in him still, and thought him perhaps the 
 most unfortunate, but still the cleverest 
 and wisest of mankind. 
 
 Time alone could prove the worth of 
 Peter Topham's last experiment in finance. 
 
206 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 BY THE RIVER. 
 
 Judith, on leaving her parents, felt quite 
 unable to join Annie. She was going up 
 to her own room, when, as she passed 
 through the hall, the cool night air played 
 upon her cheek. She was in that disturb- 
 ed state of mind to which any bodily exer- 
 tion comes as a relief; and no sooner was 
 a walk suggested to her in this way than 
 she took down her hood and cloak, and 
 hurried out of doors. Afraid of being re- 
 called, and perhaps having in her present 
 mood to play or to sing to her father, she 
 did not pause till at some distance from 
 
BY THE RIVER. 207 
 
 the house. Then she walked more slowly, 
 submittino; to the influence of the calm 
 summer night. 
 
 Very calm and peaceful it was ; and 
 Judith stood still at length, looking at 
 the villas on the hillside, the straggling 
 town beyond them, and the river flowing 
 in a silver curve beneath the stone bridge. 
 Judith lingered. The breeze was just 
 strong enough to set the green boughs 
 around her swinging, and to waft the per- 
 fumes over from the nearest gardens. No 
 sound broke the silence, nature seemed to 
 hold communion with God. 
 
 Suddenly two women emerged from a 
 side path in front of Judith, and strolled 
 down the hill. She could not distinguish 
 their figures, but the shrill, discordant 
 voices could belong only to the Misses 
 Tucker. 
 
 The sioht of these women, whom Judith 
 
208 COULD HE DO BETTER? 
 
 cordially detested, robbed lier of her re- 
 turning peace of mind. Her anger bad 
 gone, the sense of weakness remained. Her 
 father, for what sympathy could she or 
 anyone else hope from him ; her mother 
 was worse than useless in time of need ; 
 Annie was altogether taken up with her 
 lover. Judith was weary of her lot with 
 its struggles and. mortifications. She long- 
 ed for some one to stretch out a helping 
 hand. There was Will Sutton, but he had 
 not the self-reliance of such value in a 
 woman's eyes. There was Ambrose ! But 
 Judith dared not indulge a hope in that 
 direction. 
 
 She drew the hood closer round her face, 
 and hurried along without paying much 
 attention to where she was going. 
 
 Under such circumstances we often find 
 ourselves following some familiar path, and 
 so it was mth Judith. On the near bank 
 
BY THE RIVER. 209 
 
 of the river, not much below the bridge, 
 was a favourite haunt of hers, a plot of 
 hilly ground enclosed on three sides by a 
 dense thicket. It was quiet, and Judith 
 had one day laughingly pointed it out to 
 Ambrose as they stood on the bridge, as 
 one of the few places in Baybridge safe 
 from the tongue of the gossip. She was 
 rather surprised to find how far she had 
 strayed so late ; but sat down on a grassy 
 mound with her chin on her hand, and gaz- 
 ed upon the river flowing in the moonlight. 
 The rushes swayed to and fro, the waters 
 moaned incessantly, some old houses 
 opposite threw gloomy shadows on the 
 stream. It was melancholy enough even 
 for fancied sadness, and Judith, unlike 
 many young ladies, had real grievances 
 with which to contend. 
 
 So there she sat till the tears trickled 
 through her fingers. 
 
 VOL. I. p 
 
210 COULD HE DO BETTER ? 
 
 It happened that Ambrose Jackson, who 
 had come from London for a couple of days, 
 sauntered down High Street, with no other 
 company than that afforded by his own 
 thoughts, and by a cigar. He had been 
 very hard at work lately, and the quiet 
 town was a pleasant change after the 
 grinding and rattling of the London 
 thoroughfares. As Ambrose had nowhere 
 in particular to go to, he stopped on coming 
 to the bridge, and as he leant against the 
 parapet watched the river beneath the 
 arches. Here he became, for him, unprac- 
 tical and dreamy. He began to review, 
 not the events of the past week, not that 
 pet scheme upon the realization of which 
 his heart was set, to become the next 
 member for the borough ; but every word 
 that had passed between him and Judith 
 Topham. He liked Judith ; he almost 
 loved her. Loneliness came to him, too, 
 
BY THE RIVER. 211 
 
 sometimes, and she was so companionable, 
 and so fair to look upon. What sense, 
 •what goodness she had. It occurred to 
 Ambrose that his cigar would be as enjoy- 
 able, perhaps more enjoyable, if he smoked 
 it on that very spot, quite near at hand, 
 which Judith often brightened with her 
 presence. 
 
 He sauntered down to the bank of the 
 river. 
 
 Ambrose had decided once and for all 
 that he could never ask Judith to be his 
 wife without resigning that social success 
 for Avhich he panted. But why not think 
 of her, even with fondness ? He might not 
 speak of love ; but thoughts, they at least 
 were free ! 
 
 He reached a thick patch of underwood 
 
 that answered Judith's description ; bat 
 
 had to walk all round it before he could 
 
 find an opening. 
 
 p2 
 
212 COULD HE DO BETTER ? 
 
 ' I wonder they don't clear the place and 
 build upon it,' was his reflection. 'Ah, 
 there's not much enterprise in this part of 
 the world.' 
 
 He stopped short, in sheer astonishment, 
 to see, lying almost at his feet, the figure 
 of a woman. The face was turned away ; 
 but the convulsive movement of the 
 shoulders proved that she was sobbing 
 hysterically. 
 
 Jackson was touched. He bent towards^ 
 her saying, 
 
 ' Come, come, this won't do. You 
 mustn't give way like that. You've a 
 friend at your elbow.' 
 
 Roused by the deep, kindly tones, 
 which she recognised immediately, Judith 
 rose to her feet in confusion. 
 
 Ambrose could hardly believe his eyes ; 
 and he was far too much amazed to utter 
 a syllable. 
 
BY THE RIVER. 213 
 
 ^ I feel so — so much ashamed of myself,' 
 stammered Judith. 
 
 ' You have no cause,' replied Ambrose. 
 " Sorrow is a sacred thin^, and, unknowing- 
 ly, I have broken in upon yours. I told 
 you I was a friend before I knew who you 
 were, and, now that you turn out to be an 
 old friend, I'm not going away empty- 
 handed. Confide in me, dear Miss Topham. 
 I have an idea of what your troubles are 
 about, and, remember, I'm a man of busi- 
 ness. Will you tell me all that worries you 
 from beginning to end, if only because two 
 heads are better than one?' 
 
 Would she ? Here was the very thing for 
 which she had been yearning, somebody to 
 listen who could counsel also, some mind 
 not only sympathetic but strong. Forget- 
 ting where they had met, and how late it 
 was, and speaking with an eloquence that 
 Ambrose had never supposed she could 
 
214 COULD HE DO BETTER? 
 
 possess, she told the whole story of how 
 they had come down in the world, and 
 how all the efforts to act for the best 
 were thwarted by her father. And then, 
 feeling that he listened kindly and reveren- 
 tially, she opened her heart more and more, 
 and spoke of the loneliness of her life, with 
 no one to guide or support her. 
 
 Ambrose listened, with admiring pity. 
 When she had finished speaking, he re- 
 mained so long silent that Judith, though 
 she saw that he was weighing her words, at 
 length asked, 
 
 ' What am I to do ?' 
 ' Nothing,' was the unexpected answer. 
 •Nothing?' said Judith. 
 ' Your troubles,' replied Ambrose, ' don't 
 come so much from want of money as from 
 . . . forgive me, I mean no disrespect . . . 
 as from the peculiar dispositions of those 
 you have to deal with. That being so, your 
 
BY THE KIVER. 215 
 
 only resource is patience. But, though you 
 can't mend matters you can prevent them 
 from getting worse. Your father has some 
 new speculation in his head.' 
 
 'Heaven forbid!' exclaimed Judith. 
 ' How do you know ?' 
 
 ' Because,' answered Ambrose, ' as long 
 as he can raise a penny, it's as neces- 
 sary for him to speculate as to live. 
 The disease is incurable. Try to pre- 
 vent further loss. I understand that 
 before anything else could be risked 
 Mrs. Topham's consent would be neccs- 
 sary?' 
 
 ' Yes, the money is mother's,' said 
 Judith. 
 
 'And will Mrs. Topham take you into 
 her confidence ?' 
 
 ' At once/ said Judith. ' Mother does 
 nothing without me now.' 
 
 ' Not even if your father insisted?' 
 
216 COULD HE DO BETTER ? 
 
 ' Mother would tell me,' said Judith 
 confidently. 
 
 ' Then,' said Ambrose, ' be prepared for 
 that moment ; and oppose any scheme, no 
 matter how plausible, with all your might. 
 That will save you from misfortune in the 
 future. I wish 1 could do anything to help 
 you in the present.' 
 
 ' You have done a great deal,' said his 
 companion. " You have given me strength 
 and courage. I've had my say, and must, 
 I'm afraid, have appeared weak to you.' 
 
 Ambrose protested. 
 
 ' My only excuse,' continued she smiling, 
 ' is that you would find most women the 
 same. It's something to be envied, Mr. 
 Jackson, the independence you enjoy.' 
 
 ' It has drawbacks,' replied he. ' A man 
 must always be fighting, and holding his 
 own against encroachment, and that's not 
 always pleasant. Didn't you yourself tell 
 
BY THE IIIVER. 217 
 
 lue that in the lonsr run one iniofht aet 
 hardened? Don't you remember when you 
 said something of the kind the night we 
 met, on the way to Aunt Robby's ? I hope 
 you observe that your lessons aren't alto- 
 gether thrown away.' 
 
 Judith blushed deeply. 
 
 ' I remember it well,' she said. ' I was 
 very rude then, and I've been sorry ever 
 since. I spoke without thought, and with- 
 out kindness, and I've often wished, and 
 never dared, to say once more, I beg your 
 pardon for it.' 
 
 She held out her hand ; he took it, and 
 their eyes met. 
 
 A sudden longing assailed Ambrose, a 
 longing to throw all his prudence and cal- 
 culation, and worldly-minded policy to the 
 winds, to follow the generous impulse of 
 his heart, to kneel at Judith's feet and 
 claim her for his own. His eye shone 
 
218 COULD HE DO BETTER? 
 
 bright, his grasp tightened upon her fin- 
 gers, and for a moment the happiness of 
 two lives hung in the balance. 
 
 Before a word could pass his lips, well- 
 known voices were heard only a few yards 
 oiF. 
 
 ' Clementina, my love.' 
 
 ' Here I am, Lizzie dearest, quite close 
 to you.' 
 
 Ambrose stifled a malediction, and realiz- 
 ing the full extent of the danger that threat- 
 ened them, if Judith was discovered in his 
 company by these bitter women, drew her 
 into the darkest corner he could find. There 
 they stood side by side, and Ambrose felt 
 his companion trembling violently. 
 
 ' Courage,' he whispered, ' they shall not 
 see you w^hatever happens.' 
 
 In a minute or so the watchers saw the 
 capitalist's lean and ugly daughters just in 
 front of them. 
 
BY THE RIVER. 21^ 
 
 ' You must be mistaken, Lizzie,' con- 
 tinued the younger. ' What could he be 
 doing here ?' 
 
 ' Mistaken !' snapped Elizabeth Tucker. 
 ' D'ye think I'm a fool. I'd know young 
 Jackson's voice anywhere. I bet a crown 
 he's come to this place to meet some wo- 
 nian or other.' 
 
 ' Oh, Lizzie, I thought he was the most 
 proper young man.' 
 
 ' More stupid you,' was the sharp retort. 
 ' Surely you don't believe him immaculate. 
 I know better.' 
 
 Ambrose, in his anger, pressed Judith's 
 hand, which he had retained in his, so 
 tightly that she nearly cried out ; then, 
 recollecting himself, he raised it to his lips, 
 and whispered an apology. 
 
 ' I wonder who she can be,' said Clem- 
 entina. 
 
 ' We'll find out,' said the other. ' She'll 
 
'220 COULD HE DO BETTER ? 
 
 have to leave the town, I promise you. 
 The hussy ! Look about, Clem, my love. 
 They must be somewhere neai\' 
 
 ' Hush, or w^e shall be overheard,' was 
 the answer ; and the sisters pursued their 
 search in silence. 
 
 'Hyaenas,' muttered Ambrose, 'they'll 
 search every inch of the ground.' 
 
 Judith was crying piteously. 
 
 ' Cheer up, my dear Miss Topham,' said 
 Ambrose ; ' I promised they should not see 
 you, and I'll keep my word. Have you 
 presence of mind enough to obey orders ?' 
 
 ' Yes,' answered Judith, plucking up 
 courage at his confident tone. 
 
 ' Sooner or later,' said he, ' these old 
 hags will find us here. The moment they 
 do I'll hold them fast, and you run home 
 with all your might. Luckily the moon is 
 clouded ; and if you will let me pull your 
 hood close over your face you won't be 
 known.' 
 
BY THE EIVER. 221 
 
 'I'm terrified; said Judith, 'but I'll 
 do wliat you tell me. Thanks, a thousand 
 thanks.' 
 
 ' For what?' asked he ; ' for getting you 
 into this fine scrape ? Now, here they 
 come again. Courage ! This will be some- 
 thin o- to lauo'h at to-morrow ' 
 
 'They must be here,' said Elizabeth 
 Tucker. 
 
 She and her sister stood with their backs- 
 to Ambrose. 
 
 ' Now !' he whispered to Judith. 
 
 Judith fled. 
 
 ' There goes somebody,' cried Elizabeth^ 
 starting in pursuit. 
 
 But Ambrose advanced, and laid his 
 hand upon her arm, at the same time 
 standing before Clementina and barring 
 the passage. 
 
 ' Good-evening, Miss Tucker,' he said. 
 
 The sisters' rage proved that they had 
 failed to identify the fugitive. 
 
222 COULD HE DO BETTER ? 
 
 *Let me go, Mr. Jackson,' cried Eliza- 
 beth. ' Stand aside at once.' 
 
 ' I'm sorry,' replied he, gravely, ' to de- 
 tain a lady. Miss Clementina, I really 
 can't allow you to pass either. You must 
 yield to the fortune of war.' 
 
 ' We'll find out,' hissed Elizabeth, pale 
 with fury. 
 
 ' I doubt that,' replied Jackson, quietly. 
 
 ' How long are you going to keep us here 
 in this cowardly manner, sir?' demanded 
 Elizabeth. 
 
 'Only a minute or two,' said he, politely. 
 '■ I'm sorry to proceed to such extremes.' 
 
 The sisters deigned no reply. Before 
 long, Ambrose, sure that Judith was be- 
 yond pursuit, ironically Avished his enemies 
 good-night, raised his hat, and went to the 
 club. 
 
 ' How 1 hate that man,' gasped Eliza- 
 beth. * We'll be even with him some day.' 
 
BY THE RIVER. 223 
 
 ^ We'll be even with him,' echoed Clem- 
 entina. ' Lizzie, my love, what is this on 
 the grass ?' 
 
 It was a pocket-handkerchief, with the 
 initials, J. T. in the corner. Elizabeth's 
 triumph knew no bounds. 
 
 ' I shall like to see the expression of 
 Miss Judith's face when I return her this,' 
 she said. 
 
 ' It will be a treat indeed,' said Clem. 
 ' Fancy it's being Judith. Do you suppose 
 there was reall}^ any harm, Lizzie ?' 
 
 ' Harm !' sneered the moral Miss Tucker, 
 ' not a bit. The girl's too great a simple- 
 ton. But that's only my private belief. 
 Others might think differently if the story 
 of this meeting should happen to spread. 
 If we i)lay our cards well, Clem, young- 
 Jackson, with all his high and mighty 
 notions, will have to marry Judith, who 
 hasn't got a penny.' 
 
224 COULD HE DO BETTER? 
 
 ' But they might be happy, together^ 
 Lizzie. If he loves her ' 
 
 ' Don't be a fool, sister,' replied Eliza- 
 beth. ' Jackson looks for a wife with 
 money and position ; but, before the 
 month's end, he shall propose to Judith 
 Topham, who has neither, and she'll jump 
 at the offer. Now let us be going home, 
 Clem.' 
 
 And the amiable couple directed their 
 steps to the toAvn. 
 
 Meanwhile, Judith had reached her 
 home safely, and found that everybody 
 had gone to bed except her mother. Mrs. 
 Topham was awaiting her anxiously, but 
 asked no question as to the reason of such 
 a late return, Avhich she put down to a 
 most excusable fit of temper. She felt 
 guilty at having taken part with her hus- 
 band against Judith. Besides, her heart 
 smote her for keeping secret Peter's new 
 
BY THE RIVER. 225 
 
 scheme, and she was almost afraid to speak 
 for fear of letting fall what weighed so 
 heavily on her mind. Judith was only too 
 glad to avoid inquiry, and, as soon as pos- 
 sible, escaped to her room. Here, before 
 long, she discovered the loss of her hand- 
 kerchief, and, guessing where she had 
 dropped it, spent a sleepless night in 
 consequence. 
 
 VOL. I. 
 
226 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 A DIPLOMATIC VISIT. 
 
 Little Mr. James Tweedy had slept badly 
 too, and when lie came down to breakfast 
 was as cross as a bear. His wife, who 
 knew to a nicety when it was safe to find 
 fault with him, decided that there would 
 be a risk in doing so just now ; but deter- 
 mined to give him a piece of her mind 
 when he had had some tea. So she filled 
 his cup with a weak, yellow-looking bever- 
 age, and handed him the toast. But James 
 was not softened by these petits soins ; on the 
 contrary, he began to complain. 
 
A D1PL0]MATIC VISIT. 227 
 
 ' Tlift tea is half cold, and altogether un- 
 drinkable. And the toast is burnt as black 
 as my hat.' And he rang the bell violent- 
 ly, and much to the maid's astonishment, 
 for she generally received her orders from 
 Mrs. Tweedy, peremptorily demanded a 
 fresh supply of both. 
 
 '- You're very irritable this morning, 
 James,' said his wife, thinking that after 
 all it was high time for her to exert her 
 authority. 
 
 ' Irritable ! who could be anything else ? 
 Since two o'clock that child has been 
 screaming. Bawl! bawl! bawl! I shall 
 cut the whole thing one of these days.' 
 
 At this unmanly threat of desertion Mrs. 
 Tweedy changed colour, and gulped down 
 a rising sob. What had upset James ? 
 Certainly not the children, or he would be 
 always upset. 
 
 ' I'm sorry you were disturbed,' she said, 
 
 q2 
 
228 COULD HE DO BETTER? 
 
 ' the child is ailing. I suffered the same 
 inconvenience as yourself.' 
 
 '• You didn't,' retorted James. ^ You 
 slept through it all ; though I nudged you 
 with my elbow, you still went on snoring.' 
 
 ' 1 don't snore,' said Mrs. Tweedy. ' It's 
 rude and unkind of you to say so. I wish 
 we had never met, I wish we had never 
 been married.' 
 
 'Amen,' said her husband. — 'Ah, here's 
 the tea, thank goodness.' 
 
 Mrs. Tweedy had now no resource but 
 tears. 
 
 ' I don't want to be cross,' said James, 
 somewhat mollified, and perhaps a little 
 afraid, 'but this life is unendurable. One 
 never gets anything fit to eat, and the 
 house is like a pigstye.' 
 
 ' I do — my — best,' sobbed his wife. 
 
 ' You haven't any time to do anything^ 
 it seems, Mrs. Tweedy, except to receive 
 
A DIPLOMATIC VISIT. 229 
 
 visits from that fellow Captain Handcock.' 
 
 The murder Avas out. It was not squall- 
 ing, and bad tea and toast, that ailed the 
 little gentleman ; he was suffering from a 
 sharp attack of jealousy. 
 
 His wife sprang to arms. 
 
 ' Perhaps you'd like to forbid him the 
 house, and publish your folly to the town,' 
 said she. 
 
 ' I'll thrash him,' said Tweedy, thinking 
 of the ash plant which Oris Parry had 
 recommended under certain circumstances. 
 
 ' You daren't,' said his wife. But he 
 looked so fierce that she almost disbelieved 
 her own words. 
 
 It was singularly unfortunate that James 
 Tweedy 's explosion was not deferred for 
 a few days, when the irritating cause 
 would have ceased to exist. Captain 
 Handcock, who could not yet satisfy him- 
 self of the wisdom of securing one of 
 
230 COULD HE DO BETTER? 
 
 Nicholas Tucker's claugliters, had lately 
 been devoting himself a good deal to Mrs. 
 Tweedy. His fancy was taken by the 
 lively, pretty woman, and he visited her 
 so often that at length she herself became 
 not so much alarmed as bored. The cap- 
 tain's fine phrases and set compliments 
 grew wearisome by repetition. She had 
 decided to say ' not at home ' to his next 
 visit, and to let herself be seen at 
 the window, a hint which the gal- 
 lant soldier would perhaps be intelligent 
 enough to understand. But her husband's 
 ill-timed jealousy altered the position 
 of affairs. Kate determined she would 
 not be dictated to, it pained her to think 
 she could be suspected, and, without re- 
 flecting how natural suspicion was, she 
 resolved to punish James for his cruelty. 
 And when about eleven o'clock the visitor's 
 bell rang, she made sure it was Captain 
 
A DIPLOMATIC VISIT. 231 
 
 Handcock, and went down to receive him. 
 
 But her visitor proved to be Ambrose 
 Jackson. 
 
 Mrs. Tweedy welcomed him cordially, 
 but could not help appearing rather sur- 
 prised. Ambrose had several times visited 
 her in his mother's company, but had never 
 before paid her the compliment on his 
 own account. Mrs. Tweedy, though she 
 thought him inclined to be exclusive and 
 to give himself airs, liked the young 
 politician. He was handsome, and a 
 manly fellow. He had already achieved 
 that portion of success Avhich is such a 
 recommendation, especially with women ; 
 and gave promise of still higher things. 
 It had lately transpired (not without his 
 connivance) that he looked forward to re- 
 presenting the borough some day, and Mrs. 
 Tweedy felt sure that a man of his stamp 
 would end by carrying his point. It would 
 
232 COULD HE DO BETTER? 
 
 be quite a feather in her cap if she could 
 ally herself with such an important person- 
 age, and Mrs. Tweedy settled that he should 
 have James's vote when the proper time 
 came. She could not help suspecting, how- 
 ever, that Ambrose had some special object 
 in this visit ; nor was she mistaken. But 
 she was made to serve his purpose without 
 finding out what it was. 
 
 The object Ambrose had in view was 
 this. 
 
 On the previous night several circum- 
 stances had conspired to throw the cau- 
 tious young man off his guard. He was 
 fagged with his work in hot, dusty Lon- 
 don ; and the quiet streets of the little 
 country town, and the calm of the summer 
 twilight, had cast their spell over him. 
 Then he had been an involuntary witness 
 of Judith's distress, and it had softened him 
 towards her. This was by no means all. 
 
A DIPLO:\IATIC VISIT. 233 
 
 Her beauty, lier flattering reliance on him, 
 his admiration for her character ; had 
 nearly led him to the commission of what 
 he regarded half-an-hour later as an act of 
 sheer insanity. He had been on the verge 
 of proposing to 'provincial' Judith Top- 
 ham. He almost shuddered to think that 
 at this moment, but for a chance interrup- 
 tion, he would be under a life-long obliga- 
 tion — the death-blow to his future. The 
 peril escaped had, however, done one 
 good thing for him, it had opened his eyes 
 to the real state of his feeling for Judith. 
 He now frankly owned to himself that he 
 loved her well. But Ambrose never 
 doubted that he would be able to over- 
 come this weakness. The foes he had 
 hitherto mastered had been foes from 
 without ; he had never been a man of 
 divided counsels, and had yet to discover 
 how dangerous can be the foe from within. 
 
234 COULD HE DO BETTER ? 
 
 Ambrose, as he walked to the club 
 after leaving Judith, blessed his good luck, 
 and resolved to strictly avoid all further 
 intimacy. Luckily Judith had not been 
 recognised by those termagants, the Tucker 
 women, and so no great mischief had been 
 done. 
 
 Mischief had been done, for all that, and 
 Ambrose, on entering the club, felt that 
 he was the subject of conversation, and 
 caught the name of Topham. He was in- 
 tensely vexed, and, refusing t;o ' make up a 
 fourth,' went off in high dudgeon. 
 
 Clearly something must be undertaken 
 to check the spread of this report, which 
 would mortify Judith ; and perhaps even 
 cause her to think him in earnest. Am- 
 brose decided to circulate a contradictory 
 statement, and could find no better means 
 of communication between himself and 
 Baybridge than that good-natured chatter- 
 box, Kate Tweedy. 
 
A DIPLOMATIC VISIT. 235 
 
 He called in the morning so as to see lier 
 alone. 
 
 Mrs. Tweedy would, if he only allowed 
 her to talk, sooner or later mention the 
 Tophams. Then he would leave no doubt 
 as to his intentions, or rather his want of 
 intentions, regarding Judith. He enquired 
 after Mrs. Tweedy's children. This was 
 like opening a sluice, and a torrent poured 
 forth immediately. 
 
 * Thank you, Mr. Jackson,' she replied, 
 ' on the whole, I have reason to be thankful. 
 But there are ups and downs in a large 
 family, as you can guess. Only yesterday 
 I came home to find that Nora and Dora 
 were holding Augusta . . . my third child, 
 Mr. Jackson . . . under the pump; mere 
 frolic, but it shows what children are. I gave 
 them both a sound whipping, and resigned 
 myself to the certainty that Gussie would 
 have a fearful cold and sore throat this 
 
'236 COULD HE DO BETTER ? 
 
 morning. Not a bit of it. Quite a remark- 
 able child! Mr. Jackson. Such a constitu- 
 tion ! Really, she has had some wonderful 
 escapes.' 
 
 ' Ah, indeed,' said Ambrose, seeing that 
 some expression of sympathy was ex- 
 pected. 
 
 ' Of course such things shouldn't happen,' 
 continued Mrs. Tweedy, ' but they are 
 happening constantly. The servants are so 
 careless, you can't imagine. There's not a 
 trustworthy servant to be had ; you may 
 give them any wages, and find them in caps 
 and aprons, and treat them almost as if they 
 belonged to the family, and yet they — will 
 — not — work.' 
 
 Mrs. Tweedy accompanied each of her 
 last words with a separate tap on the table, 
 as if to give weight to this deplorable 
 truth in social science. Had anyone else 
 been sitting beside her, she would probably 
 
A DIPLOMATIC VISIT. 237 
 
 have tapped him with her pretty finger- 
 tips ; but she was rather afraid of Ambrose. 
 
 'Servants,' she went on, ' are the great 
 problem of housekeeping. I often think, 
 when I see a young girl so bent upon 
 having an establishment of her own, " Ah, 
 if you but knew, my dear." That's pre- 
 cisely what I said the day before yesterday 
 to Judith, that's Mr. Topham's elder 
 daughter, you know.' 
 
 It was not by chance that Mrs. Tweedy 
 spoke of Judith. She drank in every 
 rumour that was afloat, and was dying 
 with curiosity to know whether Ambrose 
 was going to take any important step. 
 Nothing would please her better than to 
 receive the confidences of both parties, and 
 to smooth down the course of true love — 
 for she knew Mr. Topham's objection to 
 Ambrose. In case the latter wanted some- 
 body sympathetic to confide in . . . unlikely 
 
238 COULD HE DO BETTER ? 
 
 enough, were it not that love works 
 wonders . . . she afforded him this oppor- 
 tunity, and as she spoke watched his face 
 with attention. 
 
 Ambrose understood her, and saw that no 
 direct denial of interest in Judith would 
 hold. So he said, 
 
 ' The elder Miss Topham, yes ; perhaps 
 you know that I'm a great admirer of 
 hers ?' 
 
 ' 1 have heard of something of the kind,' 
 murmured Mrs. Tweedy in an inviting 
 whisper. 
 
 ' So shrewd and sensible,' said Ambrose. 
 ' Wasn't there some talk of an engagement 
 between her and Mr. Sutton ?' 
 
 This remark was the result of a sudden 
 inspiration. Ambrose never dreamed of 
 any such possibility, or for Judith's sake 
 he would have held his tongue. But the 
 question would prove his indifference, he 
 
A DIPLOMATIC VISIT. 239 
 
 imap^ined. His words certainly surprised 
 Mrs. Tweedy. 
 
 ' Mr. Sutton,' slie exclaimed, ' I never 
 caught a syllable about that. He's much 
 too old.' 
 
 ' Then please don't quote me,' insisted 
 Ambrose, feeling that it was much more 
 difficult to deal with women than with 
 men, and that he had got out of his depth 
 in making any allusion to AVill Sutton at 
 all. 
 
 ' Oh, dear, no,' said Mrs. Tweedy. ' I'm 
 discretion itself. I never heard Mr. Sut- 
 ton's name mentioned. Would you be very 
 much offended if I told you my version, 
 that is, the version which has reached 
 me ?' 
 
 ' Offended, Mrs. Tweedy ? Why should 
 I be offended ? How can it concern me ?' 
 
 ' It does concern you ; but you'd be 
 vexed if I . . .' 
 
240 COULD HE DO BETTER V 
 
 ^Please?' requested Ambrose. 
 
 ' You were said to be as good as engaged 
 to Miss Topham/ 
 
 ' I!' answered Ambrose. ' I ought to feel 
 uncommonly flattered.' 
 
 'And so there's really nothing in it?' 
 inquired Mrs. Tweedy, with a touch of dis- 
 appointment in her voice. 
 
 ' Nothing whatever, I assure you. Miss 
 Topham and I are friends, that is all. As 
 for me, I'm far too busy a man ' 
 
 The lady shook her head. 
 
 ' Forgive me, Mr. Jackson, but I have 
 too much experience to believe that a man 
 can't find time to give his heart away. I 
 confess that I myself thought you were 
 struck with Judith, of whom I have the 
 very highest opinion. But I see that it's 
 the old story, the luxury cannot be afforded; 
 you look for more than she, poor child, can 
 offer ' 
 
A DIPLOMATIC VISIT. 241 
 
 Ambrose was half tempted to say he did. 
 It was important that Mrs. Tweedy should 
 contradict the gossip of the place. If he 
 let her suppose that he did look higher, 
 she would be in the position of a prophet 
 who knows what is going to happen, and, 
 on the strength of his assurance, would 
 pooh-pooh the idea of the match wherever 
 she went. In an evil moment he replied : 
 
 ' I didn't quite say that, Mrs. Tweedy.' 
 
 This was enouo-h. She had s^ot her cue. 
 That she looked upon the affair in the 
 light he wished was evident from the man- 
 ner in which she praised Judith, much as 
 if she were pleading her cause. Ambrose 
 listened gravely, directed the conversation 
 into another channel, and, as soon as 
 possible, took leave. 
 
 He had gained his object, and yet could 
 not be altogether satisfied with his visit. 
 He knew that he might long seek for as 
 
 VOL. I. R 
 
242 COULD HE DO BETTER ? 
 
 good a woman as Judith. But in the mat- 
 ter of worldly advantages . . . not necessarily 
 of money, for Ambrose was not mercenary, 
 but of birth and distinguished connections 
 , . . Ambrose thought her below his standard. 
 He had thought so many a time. To have 
 said so, however, was a deep humiliation 
 to him, and he felt that he had spoken of 
 his relations to Judith to a third person in 
 an unwarrantable manner. It never occur- 
 red to him that Mrs. Tweedy, in her most 
 careless moment, would repeat that part of 
 their conversation. Still he was filled with 
 a vague misgiving, which, even after he 
 had gone back to London, haunted him 
 for some days. 
 
243 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 A QUIET DINNER. 
 
 Mr. Topham had overcome his wife's opposi- 
 tion to his new undertaking with less 
 difficulty than he had expected ; and his 
 spirits were higher even than usual. The 
 family lawyer, Mr. Slade, might make him- 
 self as disagreeable as he chose, and there 
 was every probability of his doing so ; l)ut 
 Mr. Topham knew from experience that in 
 the long run Mr. Slade would have to give 
 in. Maria had a right to dispose of the 
 money, and with protestation and delay 
 the lawyer's power to prevent its i-e-invest- 
 ment ended. 
 
 R 2 
 
244 COULD HE DO BETTER? 
 
 It was Judith of whom her father stood 
 most in awe. Her influence over her 
 mother, exerted in the cause of prudence, 
 would be more than equal to his, exerted 
 in the cause of speculation. Let her once 
 obtain a hint of what was going on, and 
 farewell to his El Dorado. Yet, in spite of 
 his dread, he could not help now and then 
 a covert allusion to the good times coming, 
 and Judith would to a certainty have 
 fathomed his designs, had she not been 
 engrossed with her own troubles and 
 prospects. 
 
 Until lately, Judith had never allowed 
 herself to hope about Ambrose. She 
 understood thoroughly his opinions on 
 getting on in the world. That he liked 
 her she had never doubted ; but, until their 
 meeting by the river, she never thought a 
 proposal from him possible. Now she saw 
 that such a possibility did exist, but with 
 
A QUIET DINNER. 245 
 
 the thrill of delight which this discovery 
 caused was mingled a dim foreboding that 
 he might ask her to be his wife, and yet 
 consider himself making a sacrifice for her 
 sake. Judith loved him passionately. But 
 in the depths of a heart which seemed 
 incapable of a single selfish desire she 
 firmly resolved that she Avould never stand 
 in his way, that she would, no matter at 
 what cost to herself, refuse love on such 
 terms. Pride gave strength to this resolve. 
 She was not going to accept a man who 
 should come implying, ' I might have 
 married a woman wealthy and nobly born, 
 but, for love's sake, be mine.' No, Judith 
 had too much self-respect for that. 
 
 Her distress was increased by the malice 
 of the Baybridge busy-bodies, foremost in 
 whose ranks stood those lean, unsavoury 
 spinsters, the Misses Tucker. Elizabeth 
 had promised herself a rare triumph on 
 
246 COULD HE DO BETTER ? 
 
 returuiiig Judith's handkerchief found by 
 the river. Judith, who had had time to 
 prepare for the attack, shook off the poison- 
 ous arrow with disdainful ease. When 
 Elizabeth, after much parade and mystery, 
 produced her piece of evidence, the young 
 girl laughingly thanked her, supposed she 
 must have ' dropped the handkerchief the 
 night before while talking to Mr. Jackson,' 
 and was ' so glad to get back her lost 
 property — so kind of Miss Tucker.' Worst- 
 ed in this encounter, Elizabeth, more bitter 
 than ever, went about letting fall half- 
 veiled hints, some of which were brought 
 by kind friends to Judith. Judith pre- 
 tended to ignore them, and suffered in 
 silence. 
 
 One morning, towards the end of August, 
 her father surprised her by announcing 
 that he intended to entertain a few friends 
 at a quiet dinner, and told her to write 
 
A QUIET DINNER. 247 
 
 the invitations from a list whicli he had 
 drawn out. He explained that he wished 
 to make at least some return for the hos- 
 pitality he and his family enjoyed. 
 
 Judith's suspicions were at once aroused; 
 for her father's Utopian schemes usually 
 began in this fashion ; ' First catch your 
 hare and then cook it,' was a proverb 
 neglected by Peter. She hurried to her 
 mother, who (Heaven forgive the poor 
 woman !) solemnly denied that anything 
 unusual was going to happen. Judith 
 then raised an objection on the score of 
 expense, but, when she observed that Am- 
 brose Jackson's name was on the list, she 
 began to think that the affair might be 
 managed, and, secretly resolving to sell 
 her last good ornament, set to Avork. Am- 
 brose was, she had heard from his mother, 
 the most particular diner-out ; he should 
 have no cause to grumble with her enter- 
 
248 COULD HE DO BETTEE ? 
 
 tainment. A day was fixed, tlie invitations 
 were sent, and in due course accepted. 
 
 The day came ; the resources of the 
 establishment were taxed to the uttermost, 
 and, when at last the family was assembled 
 in the drawing-room, Judith was justified 
 in hoping that everything would pass off 
 smoothly. 
 
 Mrs. Robertson soon appeared, attended 
 by Will Sutton. Nicholas Tucker, quite 
 unaffected by the absence of his daughters, 
 followed, in company with the melancholy 
 Dr. Stevens. 
 
 ' My dear Mrs. Topham,' said Aunt Rob- 
 by, ' here I am, a model of punctuality, 
 and looking forward to thorough enjoy- 
 ment. Mr. Parry, how do you do, sir ? 
 you never come near me now. Well, we 
 must excuse you, you have better employ- 
 ment, I daresay. Annie, you must spare 
 me a kiss. Judith, you too, you're look- 
 ing very handsome, child.' 
 
A QUIET DINNER. 249 
 
 ' Please don't make lier vain,' said Mr 
 Tophani, from the hearth-rug. 
 
 ' Mrs. Robertson,' said Nicholas, ' this is 
 a pleasure. No return of the rheumatism, 
 I hope ?' 
 
 ' Thank you. Not this weather, Mr. 
 Tucker.' 
 
 ' It won't last,' said Dr. Stevens, allud- 
 ing to the weather. Dr. Stevens was a 
 prophet of evil. 
 
 ' Doctor,' said Mr. Topham, ' I don't go 
 with you there. The weather Avill remain 
 in statu quo for the next fortnight. Not 
 that I understand these matters, but some 
 
 of my predictions have been fortunate 
 
 Ah, here come Mrs. and Mr. Tweedy.' 
 
 Mrs. Tweedy strutted up the room, and 
 her husband trod softly in her footsteps. 
 
 ' Doctor,' said Nicholas^ ' how is Mrs. 
 Yonge ?' 
 
 ' Dying,' said the doctor. 
 
250 COULD HE DO BETTER ? 
 
 ' You don't say so. Sad, indeed. How 
 is lier son-in law ?' 
 
 ' Nasty fracture,' said the doctor. ' I 
 expect serious complications.' 
 
 ' When shall I g^i rid of my sciatica, I 
 wonder ?' asked the capitalist, not above 
 saving a fee. 
 
 ' Don't be too sanguine,' replied Dr. 
 Stevens. ' I've known men in your case 
 . . . well, I won't say exactly crippled . . / 
 
 ' Do you think. Tucker, that Dan vers is 
 at last going to give up his seat?' said 
 James Tweedy. 
 
 ' James,' said his wife, ' no politics before 
 dinner, I beg.' 
 
 ' My dear ' protested the little man, 
 
 in great confusion. 
 
 * Mr. Tweedy,' said Judith, leaving Will 
 Sutton to come to the rescue, ' I hope 
 you've kept your word, and brought a song 
 or two. We are not going to let you off.' 
 
A QUIET DINNER. 251 
 
 '• Whom are we Avaiting for, Maria ?' 
 asked Peter Topliam, in a stage whisper. 
 
 ' The Jacksons,' whispered his Avife in 
 return. ' They will be here in one moment, 
 Peter.' 
 
 ' Hope the young fellow won't be late,' 
 said he ; ' I don't like people who give 
 themselves airs.' 
 
 The Jackson s were announced. 
 
 Ambrose had not met Judith since their 
 adventure by the river. As he shook her 
 hand she blushed deeply, a fact noticed 
 by several observant pairs of eyes, especi- 
 ally by Will Sutton's. There was even 
 an answering flush on Ambrose's dark 
 cheek, and his rival noticed that his lips 
 were firmly pressed together. Ambrose 
 had thought of not coming, and he had a 
 previous engagement in London which he 
 could have pleaded in excuse, but he yield- 
 ed to his mother's entreaty. Besides, to 
 
252 COULD HE DO BETTER? 
 
 stay away might, under the circumstances, 
 have occasioned more remark than his ap- 
 pearance. He could show by his behaviour 
 during the evening that there was nothing 
 between him and Judith. It pained him, 
 it went against him, to be cold and un- 
 bending to the girl. But it was necessary. 
 With a suppressed sigh he began to carry 
 out his programme. 
 
 Ambrose took Judith in to dinner. She 
 knew by instinct that the reports which 
 had long tormented her had reached him 
 at last, and looked up in his face with an 
 almost piteous appeal. 
 
 The host, with a genial smile, crooked 
 his arm for Aunt Robby ; his wife tried to 
 bear up against Nicholas and his batteries 
 of questions. Cris and Annie paired off 
 demurely, and indulged in sly little jokes 
 between themselves. Will Sutton found a 
 lively companion in Mrs. Tweedy, and did 
 
A QUIET DINNER. 253 
 
 not mind how much she chattered as long 
 as he coukl look at Judith opposite. 
 James, in the absence of a certain Miss 
 Plumstead who had sent an excuse the 
 last thing, wished himself at home, no, at 
 the club. Mrs. Jackson fell to the lot of 
 Dr. Stevens. 
 
 Conversation was not likely to flag with 
 such good talkers as Mrs. Tweedy and 
 Nicholas, and such good listeners as their 
 hostess and Will Sutton. Even the doctor 
 was infected by the almost general spirit 
 of good-humour, and told an anecdote 
 about a glass eye. The anecdote, deliver- 
 ed in a tone almost sepulchral, and redo- 
 lent of the shop, was not brought forth 
 without many pauses and jerks, and did 
 not, when evolved, appear to have any 
 particular bearing. But the melancholy 
 man's virtuous intention was appreciated, 
 and a tribute of laughter and thanks wait- 
 
"254: COULD HE DO BETTKR ? 
 
 eel on tlie conclusion of his unwonted 
 labours. 
 
 Judith and her neighbour alone Avere 
 uncomfortable and ill at ease. Ambrose 
 refused to be light-hearted and gay. 
 Judith began, civilly, 
 
 * It was so good of you to come all the 
 way from town, Mr. Jackson.' 
 
 'Not at all. It has given me great 
 pleasure,' was the formal answer. 
 
 ' It must be very hot in London,' was 
 Judith's next attempt. 
 
 ' Very,' said Ambrose. 
 
 ' Is there much going on ?' asked Judith. 
 
 'Is'ot much. Hardly anything, in fact.' 
 
 But Mr. Jackson, though he forced him- 
 self to be formal, was not going to be ill- 
 mannered. So he told Judith what little 
 news there was, and kept the ball rolling 
 after a fashion. Then he mentioned that 
 he was to have a holiday, and proposed 
 
A QUIET DINNER. 255 
 
 taking liis mother to one of the watering- 
 places. 
 
 Judith divined his meaning : that they 
 were not to meet so often. She was dis- 
 heartened. Trouble loomed at least for 
 her in the future, but to-night she had 
 meant to enjoy herself and to please him 
 . . . though it should be for the last time. 
 She Avould not be put down ; she laughed, 
 talked, listened, smiled, and practised all 
 the harmless arts of an untutored and un- 
 conventional girl. He remained adamant. 
 Bending towards him at length, she 
 ventured, 
 
 ' I was found out the other night, Mr. 
 Jackson.' 
 
 He was busy with his plate. 
 
 'I hope you suffered no inconvenience. 
 Miss Topham. I owe you an apology for 
 what happened on that occasion.' 
 
 Judith tried to answer ; but faltered, 
 
256 COULD HE DO BETTER? 
 
 and almost broke down. She felt herself 
 rebuked for this last bold attempt, and in 
 her turn kept silence till her mother 
 gave the signal for the ladies to withdraw. 
 
 ' Mr. Jackson,' she then said, lowering 
 her voice, ' you have taken such pains to 
 amuse me that I presume to ask a favour.' 
 
 He bit his lip, and bowed gravely. 
 
 ' Please don't talk polities with my 
 father.' 
 
 ' I will avoid the subject if possible,' 
 said Ambrose. 
 
 ' Judith,' said Aunt Robby, confidential- 
 ly, as they reached the drawing-room, ' I 
 never sat down to a better dinner. The 
 most exacting man couldn't find a fault. 
 Come, child, devote yoiirself to me. I've 
 the most important business in hand. I'm 
 going to be extravagant in my old age, 
 and order two new gowns, and I want your 
 advice.' 
 
A QUIET DINNEK. 257 
 
 Judith willingly consented. 
 
 Her motlier and Mrs. Jackson were 
 seated on a sofa at the other end of the 
 room, out of hearing of their comj)anions. 
 
 ' How handsome your elder daughter 
 does look to-night,' said the latter. ' I 
 always admired her; but just now she 
 seems more attractive than ever, — though 
 a little sad, perhaps. What goodness is 
 written on her face.' 
 
 ' Yes, I'm very proud of Jue,' answered 
 Mrs. Topham, gently. ' And you, Mrs. 
 Jackson, must be proud of your son. He 
 is so strong and clever ; and so good to 
 you — ah, I see that in a thousand ways.' 
 
 ' He is,' replied the other, well pleased. 
 ' Ambrose has his failings ; but with them 
 all he has a tender heart. He loves me, 
 who can say how^ well. But I can't hope 
 to keep that love- always; some day I must 
 be contented to share it with another. 
 
 VOL. I. S 
 
258 COULD HE DO BETTER ? 
 
 Who will she be ? My dear Mrs. Topham, 
 I wish that I might choose.' 
 
 ' Perhaps our choice ' began Judith's 
 
 mother timidly. 
 
 There was no need to say more. A 
 quick pressure of the hand did better than 
 words. From that moment the match- 
 making mothers became ardent conspira- 
 tors for the welfare of their children ; 
 though, later on, circumstances interfered 
 with their sympathy. 
 
 A long time passed, and the gentlemen, 
 selfish creatures, did not appear. Mrs. 
 Tweedy had given her husband instructions 
 on the subject, and, by way of reminding 
 him of them, smartly struck two or three 
 chords on the piano. The sound pene- 
 trated to the dining-room, and had the 
 desired effect. 
 
 But, when the gentlemen did appear, it 
 was at once evident, at least to Judith, 
 
A QUIET DINNER. 259 
 
 that tilings had not gone on well in their 
 absence. Her father, whose face was rarely 
 seen without a smile, was positively scow- 
 ling. Ambrose Jackson looked very grave. 
 ' I say, Oris,' whispered Annie, ' what Aa.9 
 happened ?' 
 
 * Happened,' drawled Oris, in an under- 
 tone. ' Your father and Jackson have had 
 a stand-up light about our glorious Con- 
 stitution. I've been bored, horribly bored. 
 Let's come and sit on the lawn, Annie.' 
 
 ' If you wa\ap me up very nicely,' said 
 Annie ; ' who knows, I may.' 
 
 Meanwhile, Aunt Rob by beckoned to 
 Ambrose. 
 
 * Mr. Jackson,' she said, ' I want some 
 information.' 
 
 ' With pleasure,' was the reply. 
 
 * I take a great interest in Baybridge, as 
 you know. Please explain to me how 
 
 s2 
 
260 COULD HE DO BETTER ? 
 
 parties in the borougli will be affected if 
 Sir Hugh retires.' 
 
 ' That can be done in a few words, Mrs. 
 Robertson. Conservatives and Liberals 
 will be fairly balanced, and the decision of 
 the constituency will be undoubtedly in 
 the hands of a small Third Party.' 
 
 ' Made up of?' asked the old lady. 
 
 ' Small proprietors and shop-keepers.' 
 
 'And it is their votes that you hope 
 to win when the time comes ?' 
 
 He bowed. 
 
 • HoAV ?' said Aunt Robby. 
 
 ' Pardon me,' answered Ambrose, ' if for 
 the present I keep my own counsel.' 
 
 ' Ah ! you young men think yourselves 
 so clever now-a-days. Take care. A great 
 many of this party are my friends. I 
 have lived many years and sjDcnt my money 
 among them. I have been a friend in need, 
 and a friend indeed. I have employed local 
 
A QUIET DINNER. 261 
 
 people exclusively. They would do much 
 to oblige me.' 
 
 ' Doubtless,' said Ambrose, ' they are 
 personally attached to you. But they will 
 probably look more to the future than to 
 the past, and support that candidate who 
 would be able and willing to serve them 
 best. — But,' continued Ambrose, who never 
 threw a chance away, ' I hope for j^our 
 good offices, Mrs. Robertson ?' 
 
 ' [ shall see, sir, how you behave,' 
 answered the old dame, in an irritable voice. 
 ' I'm not altogether satisfied with you. 
 Go and talk to Miss Topham now ; don't 
 you see she's quite alone ?' 
 
 Judith was sitting alone on the ottoman ; 
 Will Sutton, who would otherwise have 
 been at her side, being monopolized by 
 Mrs. Tweedy, from whom he in vain tried 
 to escape. Judith looked so dejected, and 
 at the same time so beautiful, that Ambrose, 
 
262 COULD HE DO BETTEE ? 
 
 conscious of having sinned against her 
 wishes in the after-dinner affray, was for 
 making amends. Nor was she proof against 
 the voice and the manner that she loved, 
 and soon they were enjoying each other's 
 society as if there had never been a cloud 
 between them. 
 
 He had an eye to business notwith- 
 standing. 
 
 ' Please do something for me, Miss 
 Topham,' he said. ^ Mrs. Robertson may be 
 of some slight service to me later on in 
 connection with the borough. You are a 
 favourite of hers. Remember to say some- 
 thing in my favour.' 
 
 ' I will see how you behave,' said Judith, 
 archly ; holding up her finger, and curious- 
 ly enough using Aunt Robby's words. 
 
 Ambrose was taken aback by the answer; 
 but a call for some music relieved him from-, 
 his embarrassment. 
 
A QUIET DINNER. 263 
 
 James Tweedy was the first performer ; 
 as he sang well, his wife was for once 
 content to let him do as he pleased. Next, 
 Annie was led in from the lawn by her 
 father, and, looking very shy and pretty, 
 warbled a ditty, while Oris turned over the 
 leaves. Mrs. Tweedy played some rattling 
 dance music. 
 
 Then Judith sang ' Barbara Allen.' 
 
 She had practised a more difficult song, 
 so that Ambrose might hear her at her 
 best. But, fortunately, her courage failed 
 at the last moment; she took up the familiar 
 ballad, and sang it with simplicity and 
 genuine feeling. 
 
 A long silence ensued. Nobody asked 
 for any more music. Her audience seemed 
 unwilling to break the charm she had 
 thrown over them. 
 
 * Thank you, my dear,' said Aunt Robby, 
 at leno-th. ' I could listen for ever. But 
 
264 COULD HE DO BETTER? 
 
 it has quite spoilt my spirits for all that. 
 Mr. Tucker, will you revive them by taking 
 me for a turn out of doors ?' 
 
 Nicholas fetched a warm shawl, and the 
 active old lady's example was followed by 
 everyone else. 
 
 Ambrose wrapped Judith up, too, almost 
 tenderly, she thought ; and led her down 
 the garden. 
 
 ' I can never listen to a good song un- 
 moved,' he said. ' Nothing has such a 
 power over me as that.' 
 
 ' But then you expect perfection,' said 
 Judith. 
 
 ^ No ; I like a trained voice, I allow. 
 But a natural manner is the chief thing.' 
 
 ' Do I sing naturally ?' asked Judith. 
 
 He laughed. 
 
 ' As a bird. And you do something else 
 very naturally too, — ask leading questions.' 
 
 * It's all very well for you to scold me,' 
 
A QUIET DINNER. 265 
 
 said Juditli ; ' but what do you deserve for 
 quarrelling witli my father? Oh, Mr. 
 Jackson, didn't you promise?' 
 
 ' Not absolutely,' he pleaded. ' Honest- 
 ly, I am not to blame. I tried hard to 
 avoid the subject. You've no idea how 
 patient 1 was, to obey you. Your father 
 persisted, and in the end advocated such 
 extraordinary measures that I — really — 
 Well, well, I'm very sorry if I quarrelled 
 with him. There's one person I'll never 
 quarrel with.' 
 
 ' Is her name Judith ?' asked the girl. 
 
 ' Another leading question,' said Am- 
 brose. ^ Her name is Judith. I'll never 
 quarrel with her ' 
 
 ' Again,' said Judith, finishing the sen- 
 tence for him ... * What a lovely night it 
 is,' she added, after a pause. ' Look, from 
 here we can see the river winding round 
 the foot of the hill. How delightful the 
 
266 COULD HE DO BETTER ? 
 
 air is. I never knew a more pleasant 
 nis^ht/ 
 
 ' Nor I,' murmured Ambrose, stooping 
 to look into her eyes. 
 
 So they talked on, and Mrs. Topham 
 came to tell her daughter that their guests 
 were going. 
 
 As he went home, Ambrose reflected 
 that he had not altogether succeeded in 
 carrying out his programme. 
 
267 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 MOEE DIPLOMACY 
 
 There is something very painful to the 
 elderly man in the tacit understanding by 
 virtue of which he is doomed to exclusion 
 not from the society but from the fellow- 
 ship of the younger people. On the night 
 of Peter Topham's dinner-party Will Sut- 
 ton had suffered from this cause. He was, 
 as far as his company went, neither one 
 thing nor the other. He was not yet old 
 enough (certainly not in his manner of 
 thinking and feeling) to consort willingly 
 Avith the staid married folk. On the other 
 hand, he had no longer that elastic faith 
 
268 COULD HE DO BETTER? 
 
 in all the good things of life, that freedom 
 from disappointment and dead enthusiasm 
 which pours into young and untried hearts 
 so much of the spirit of brotherhood. 
 
 Will felt aggrieved. He had been 
 obliged to ' take a back seat ' during the 
 whole of the proceedings, and not even 
 Mrs. T weedy 's confidential disclosures 
 about her household affairs could reconcile 
 him to misfortune. Discontented and 
 moody, he had increased the evil of which 
 he complained. He had meant, for Ju- 
 dith's sake, to be bright and talkative, and 
 had signally failed. This he attributed to 
 the unwelcome presence of Ambrose Jack- 
 son, of whom he was at last excessively 
 jealous. Will had lost his temper on see- 
 ing the attention his rival received from 
 Judith. 
 
 Will decided that he must do something. 
 He had patience ; he could wait for the day 
 
MORE DIPLOMACY. 26^ 
 
 when it would be safe for him to ask 
 for Judith's love. But he was not o^o- 
 ing to let the grass grow under his 
 feet. He had no intention of resiOT.ino: 
 without a struggle that dear prize on 
 which his heart had so long been 
 set. There was dano^er. He had chano^ed 
 his opinion regarding Ambrose ; he still 
 thought that the young politician, if he 
 ever married Judith, would later on 
 bitterly regret taking the step ; but he 
 now l3elieved it possible that Ambrose, in 
 spite of his prudence, and caution, and 
 selfishness, might be hurried by Judith's 
 beauty and grace into some position from 
 which he could not in honour recede. 
 What could he do at this crisis ?' 
 It struck him that he was not seen at 
 his best in Baybridge. He was quite 
 another man on his estate. Why not pro- 
 pose a day's excursion into Surrey, and let 
 
270 COULD HE DO BETTER ? 
 
 Judith see him in this new character? 
 
 Property has always been a veritable 
 salvation to the middle-aged man, often a 
 broad and smooth highway leading to the 
 altar. After all, Will had the pull here ; 
 why not take advantage of it? 
 
 Not for one moment did loyal Will 
 Sutton do the woman he loved the injus- 
 tice of supposing that she would of her own 
 free will yield to the influence of position 
 and affluence. But he knew that in such 
 cases the mind often receives a bias uncon- 
 sciously, and he foresaw many advantages 
 which might spring from Judith's visit to 
 Eadalls. Judith's present straitened cir- 
 cumstances at Baybridge would make 
 Will's well-appointed establishment doubly 
 impressive. She could not help hearing, 
 too, that he was respected in the county, 
 and much liked by his dependants. And, 
 if Will's hopes should at last dawn upon 
 
MORE DIPLOMACY. 271 
 
 her, tlie thought of the comforts her 
 mother might enjoy in her old age through 
 such a union would, to one of Judith's 
 disposition, be a powerful argument. This 
 last consideration was certainly rather 
 infra dig. from the romantic point of view ; 
 but a middle-aged lover catches thankfully 
 at every straw. The plan, on the whole, 
 promised so much that Will naturally 
 wondered he had not thought of it before. 
 
 An excuse for the excursion Avas hardly 
 necessary. 
 
 One afternoon, the sisters were sitting 
 in their garden, when Will joined them, 
 and threw himself down on the grass near 
 Judith, saying : — 
 
 ' Judith, I've a proposal to make to you.' 
 
 The girls burst out laughing. 
 
 ' 0, take care, Will !' said Annie. ' The 
 first time Oris said that, I answered, " Yes, 
 please," and the poor boy was done for. — 
 Wasn't he. Jumper dear?' 
 
272 COULD HE DO BETTEK ? 
 
 Jumper, dozing in his mistress's lap^ 
 wao^ged his tail as if he understood all 
 about it. 
 
 Will felt as though somebody had 
 given him a stab. Never mind, — a day 
 would come when a proposal from him to 
 Judith, should not seem altogether so 
 absurd. Judith, though she had no idea 
 of what was in his mind, saw that he was 
 vexed ; and asked what new treat he had 
 in store for them. Thus encouraged, 
 Will suggested that they should make a 
 day's excursion to Radalls. The invitation 
 of course included their parents ; but, as 
 Will had forseen, the party eventually con- 
 sisted only of Judith and himself, Annie 
 and Oris Parry. 
 
 They started very early next day, and 
 took the train to Croydon. On arriving 
 there, they had about two miles to drive 
 before reaching Radalls. 
 
MORE DIPLOMACY. 273 
 
 'Now tlien, Will,' said Annie, 'I don't 
 see your carriage and pair.' 
 
 Will had understood that parade would 
 not serve him with Judith. 
 
 ' Carriage and pair, Annie ?' he said, 
 ' you forget that we're excursionists, and 
 can expect only a hot walk and sandwiches 
 at the end of it.' 
 
 ' Walk !' exclaimed Mr. Parry ; ' walk 
 two miles in August ! Hang it all, Sutton, 
 you surely can't mean a fellow to drag up 
 these hills of yours with the thermometer 
 at I don't know where ?' 
 
 ' Cheer up, Parry,' laughed Will, ' I see 
 a pony-chaise over there that looks as if it 
 had come from Radalls. It will just hold 
 four, and 111 drive.' 
 
 Mr. Parry did cheer up, and the little 
 party was soon jogging on merrily towards 
 Will's home. 
 
 ' Here's the pond,' cried Judith soon, 
 
 YOL. I. T 
 
274 COULD HE DO BETTER? 
 
 'just as it used to be, Annie. Here are 
 the cross-roads. I hope the old cottages 
 half-way up the hill haven't been pulled 
 down ?' 
 
 ' No,' replied Will, ' I set my face against 
 such Vandalism. They are still there, the 
 picturesque, tumble-down places, with their 
 bee-hives and tall hollyhocks.' 
 
 They passed the cottages, the inmates 
 came out as a matter of course, and every- 
 one had a ' Good-day ' for Will. Never 
 had Judith seen him looking so bright and 
 happy. One woman thanked him for this, 
 another for that, and a sturdy, golden- 
 haired urchin inquired when the promised 
 rocking-horse was coming. Even lazy Oris 
 w^as roused into saying, 
 
 ' Nice to have a lot of people attached to 
 you, and so on, eh, Sutton ? Wish I was 
 a landowner myself 
 
 After a steep climb the ponies reached 
 
MOKE DIPLOMACY. 275 
 
 the lodge, which was covered with ivy, 
 and while the gardener's wife, after a 
 low curtsey, was opening the gates, there 
 was time to admire the view towards 
 Sydenham. Over the hills, green and 
 brown with their coats of heather, dotted 
 here and there with a patch of gravel or a 
 Scotch fir, the girls saw in the distance, 
 flashing in the midsummer sun, the high 
 towers and domes of the Crystal Palace. 
 
 ' Do you remember. Will,' said Judith, 
 ' the last night we watched the rockets 
 bursting over there, and saw the gardens 
 tilled w^ith red and purple light ? What a 
 tiny thing I was then, and you, how grand 
 and condescending you were as you lifted 
 me on your arm.' 
 
 ' Yes, yes,' said Will, rather hastily, for 
 retrospection marked the disparity of years 
 between him and Judith. ' Mrs. Warden 
 has let us in at last,' he added. ' The avenue 
 
 t2 
 
276 COULD HE DO BETTER ? 
 
 is as rough as ever it was, so please look 
 out for jolting everybody. I'm thinking 
 of cutting a new road, this one is so out of 
 repair.' 
 
 The avenue (it hardly deserved the 
 name) ought by rights to have been ugly, 
 for it was very straight and very narrow^ 
 but the trees which clustered up high, 
 broken banks on each side, in their 
 freshness and beauty made one forget 
 the want of taste on the part of the 
 road-maker long ago. When the end of 
 this straight bit was reached came an open 
 glade, with several fine oaks. Then the 
 road grew so narrow that there was not 
 too much room even for the pony-chaise, 
 and the driver's whip was brushed by the 
 hanging branches of a thicket of moss- 
 roses. The ponies quickened their pace, 
 the scene widened suddenly, and they drew 
 up at the hall-door. 
 
MORE DIPLOMACY. 277 
 
 Radalls was by common consent a dear 
 old house ; but not even Will himself could 
 say to what order of architecture it be- 
 longed. It had a central porch supported 
 by four pillars, and a wing on each side. 
 It was furnished soberly, with more regard 
 to comfort than to modern ideas of appear- 
 ance, and contained some valuable por- 
 traits and other pictures. Its grounds 
 were charming. The lodge side presented 
 a wall of green boughs, the opening of the 
 avenue being hardly visible ; and behind 
 the house rose a dense wood of firs. In 
 front, a magnificent cedar filled one corner 
 of the sloping lawn, which was adorned 
 with three great rhododendron clumps, 
 and shut in by a well-kept laurel hedge. 
 On the far side also a sloping lawn 
 with quaint wooden flower-stands, rustic 
 arm-chairs and benches, and a summer- 
 house. Then one of the old-fashioned 
 
278 COULD HE DO BETTER? 
 
 kitchen -gardens — with a particular dam- 
 son, a famous fruit-bearer, which Judith 
 still recollected. A few hundred yards 
 from the house, on a lower level, was the 
 Cottage, a roomy, two-storied building, 
 built originally for the steward, but fur- 
 nished (before Will's time) for an impover- 
 ished couple of the Sutton family — who 
 had since been gathered to their fathers. 
 
 At the door Judith and her sister were 
 welcomed by the housekeeper, Mrs. Ed- 
 wards, an ancient servant in cap and 
 spectacles, who led them to the Red-room 
 to wash off the dust of the journey. 
 
 Will then showed his friends all over the 
 house. When they came to the drawing- 
 room, he said, * This is going to be re- 
 decorated, Judith. What colour would 
 you like the walls to be ?' 
 
 ' I ?' said Judith. • I'm no judge, Will/ 
 
 But he insisted. 
 
MORE DIPLOMACY. 279 
 
 ' Light-blue, then/ said Judith. 
 
 ' Light-blue it shall be,' said Will, with 
 much decision. 
 
 Something in his tone struck Judith, 
 but she was puzzled as to what that some- 
 thing might be. Not so Annie, who now 
 quite saw that Will hoped Judith would 
 one day sit in that drawing-room as its 
 mistress. After luncheon, as they were 
 strolling in the woods, she pointed to Will 
 and Judith, saying to Oris, 
 
 ' It's a case, Oris.' 
 
 ' Knew that long ago, little wiseacre,' 
 replied Oris, in a very superior manner. 
 
 ' Then why didn't you take me into your 
 confidence, sir?' 
 
 ' Be — cause ' began Oris. 
 
 ' You're thinking of an excuse,' said 
 Annie. 
 
 ' No, honour bright,' drawled Oris. ^ I 
 wanted you to remain neutral.' 
 
280 COULD HE DO BETTEK ? 
 
 'That means to do nothing, doesn't it?' 
 asked Annie. ' I can't consent. Will is 
 an old friend, and must be made happy.' 
 
 'How about the other fellow? Bore 
 him dreadfully,' suggested Mr. Parr}^ 'Am- 
 brose Jackson is an old friend of mine ' 
 
 ' You mustn't take his part against me,' 
 said Annie, with a pout. 
 
 ' Just what I mean. We must both be 
 neutral.' 
 
 ' And say nothing to Judith ?' 
 
 ' Not a word,' answered Oris. 
 
 ' Very well,' assented Annie. ' It shall 
 be as you please. Only remember, Oris, 
 once we're married I'm alwaj^s to have my 
 own way. Let's sit down in the shade 
 here, and you make a fan of ferns, and 
 keep the flies off, as a punishment for not 
 having taken me into your confidence.' 
 
 Meanwhile Judith and Will went on 
 alone. 
 
MORE DIPLOMACY. 281 
 
 ' What a difference between the air here 
 and at Bay bridge/ said the former. 'How 
 mother would enjoy this ! Haven't you 
 thought her looking worn lately ?' 
 
 •Yes, I'm afraid I have,' said Will. 
 ^ Your father isn't speculating again, I 
 hope ?' 
 
 ' Oh, no,' said Judith. ' There's not 
 much left to speculate mth, and besides 
 mother would warn me in time.' 
 
 ' A change would do your mother good,' 
 said Will. ' Do you think that she and 
 all of you could spend the next few months 
 here? The house is empty, and the servants 
 are idle, so it would make no difference in 
 any way. As for me, I'm thinking of a 
 trip abroad.' 
 
 ' No, Will, you're not,' answered his com- 
 panion. ' You're thinking how to do us a 
 kindness, and to pretend it isn't a kindness. 
 Thanks, many thanks ! But it couldn't be 
 
282 COULD HE DO BETTER ? 
 
 managed. How happy you ought to be at 
 Radalls, Will ; I never thought the place 
 was half so nice ; or that its master was 
 such an important local magnate — though 
 I always knew he had a heart of gold. I 
 wonder you don't live here more ?' 
 
 His face grew sad. 
 
 'The rose is not without a thorn, Judith. 
 I am lonely.' 
 
 ' Of course you are,' replied the girl^ 
 kindly. ' Why don't you settle down. I 
 know a certain somebody who would suit 
 you admirably, Will.' 
 
 Though she did not dare to say so, Judith 
 meant Mrs. Jackson. Will, who was 
 anxiously watching the progress of Judith's 
 portrait, had paid many visits to Helen for 
 that reason. Judith had heard the widow 
 speak kindly of him, and drew her own 
 conclusions. 
 
 William Sutton groaned inwardly, to 
 
MORE DIPLOMACY. 283 
 
 think how utterly Judith misunderstood 
 him. Why should it be so altogether out 
 of the question, his love for her? He 
 asked, as calmly as he could, who had put 
 such ideas into her head. 
 
 ' This time no gossip is responsible. I 
 know quite well that my old friend is in 
 love.' 
 
 ' How?' asked Will, feeling sick at heart. 
 
 ' Oh, Will, Will !' cried the girl, ' what'& 
 the use of trying to keep a secret from your 
 old favourite. Do you suppose I haven't 
 noticed your little guilty fits and starts, 
 and your awkwardness, even when you talk 
 to me ? Ah, Ave women can tell.' 
 
 Will turned his head away. 
 
 ' Silence is consent, in this case convic- 
 tion,' said Judith, gaily. ' Don't despair, 
 Will. Tm sure, whoever she may be, she 
 won't be able to resist anyone as kind a& 
 you are.' 
 
284 COULD HE DO BETTER ? 
 
 ' I suppose you ought to know,' said Will. 
 
 ' I beg pardon ?' faltered Judith. She 
 had never before heard him s^Deak in that 
 tone, and she thought his behaviour to-day 
 unaccountable. 
 
 'You say, " Ave women can tell," ' pursued 
 Will, speaking in the. same hurried, choked 
 tone; 'you can't! I don't believe all we 
 hear about the intuition of women. They 
 are said to know a lover the moment his 
 heart burns. Nonsense ! I verily believe, 
 Judith, a man might be dying for love of 
 you, spending and wasting his life in vain 
 hopes, and you would never as much as 
 know it.' 
 
 Judith burst into a merry peal of laugh- 
 ter. The considerate, tender-hearted girl 
 had no idea of the pangs she Avas inflicting. 
 
 'Will, Will,' she said, 'this isn't fair. 
 You are trying to turn the tables on me. 
 Well, perhaps I've deserved it. You have 
 
MORE DIPLOMACY. 285 
 
 seen the world, you understand men, and 
 know what they are worth. Do you think ' 
 . . . and she blushed deeply and her head 
 drooped . . . ' that I could make him happy?* 
 
 ' Him ?' asked Will. ^ Do you mean 
 Ambrose Jackson ? Of course you do. 
 We're playing at cross questions and 
 crooked answers, Judith. Where are your 
 sister and Cris ?' 
 
 It was a relief to Will to call for them 
 aloud ; but to Judith his voice sounded 
 harsh and almost angry. 
 
 She stole up close to his side, and took 
 his hand between both of hers. 
 
 ' Will, I've offended you in some way I 
 don't understand, hurt you, perhaps. Oh, 
 forgive me. To-day I meant to make so 
 much of you, and you were so kind about 
 mother.' 
 
 He raised her fingers to his lips. 
 
 ' You cannot offend me, Jue. — Here 
 
286 COULD HE DO BETTER ? 
 
 €omes the servant with cups and saucei's, 
 and everything else for tea-making. Judith, 
 you're mistress of the ceremonies, and Oris 
 and I will light a fire for the kettle.' 
 
 Will feared that he had said too much, 
 and tried to make Judith forget their con- 
 versation by laughter and good-humour. 
 But Judith's suspicion was not aroused. 
 Will's outburst simply confirmed her 
 opinion that he ivas thinking of Mrs. 
 Jackson — a lover's denial must not be 
 taken too strictly. She wished, however, 
 that she had not spoken on the subject, 
 and her tact would have saved her from 
 the error if she had had any reason to be-, 
 lieve Will was at all touchy. She did her 
 best too to dispel the cloud that had so 
 suddenly gathered. So the rest of the 
 day passed to all appearance very pleasant- 
 ly. The party reached Baybridge at a late 
 hour. 
 
MORE DIPLOMACY. 287 
 
 Not till he was alone could Will give 
 way to his despair. What bitter results, 
 he thought, from the day which had pro- 
 mised so much. But, as the future was to 
 prove, the visit to his home was, iu some 
 respects, not such bad diplomacy after all. 
 
288 
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 COMPROMISED. 
 
 One morning Nicliolas did not appear at 
 breakfast. As a rule his health was good^ 
 and, even when unwell, he rarely allowed 
 any change in his usual hours. It must 
 have been comforting for him to reflect on 
 the genuine aifection which sprang up in 
 his children's breasts at any prosj)ect of 
 his being seriously ill. Elizabeth went up 
 to his room more than once. ' Was dear 
 papa's tea quite to his liking ?' Clemen- 
 tina followed suit. ' Would her Father 
 fancy anything, would he send for Dr. 
 Stevens, or at least tell his dearest Clem- 
 
COMPROMISED. 289 
 
 entina what ailed him ?' Nicholas was out 
 of sorts, and wanted to be left alone, and 
 clearly signified his wishes on that point. 
 
 * Clem, my love,' said Elizabeth, as they 
 sat down to their breakfast, ' poor papa is 
 failing, I fear.' 
 
 ' I fear so, Lizzie dearest,' echoed Clem. 
 
 * I wish,' said Elizabeth, ' he would 
 not be so close about his — er — future 
 arrangements.' 
 
 ' You mean about his will, Lizzie ?' 
 
 'What else could 1 be speaking of!' 
 snapped Elizabeth. ' I sometimes think 
 you've no sense. Yes, about the will. Of 
 course the bulk of the property Avill come 
 to me.' 
 
 ' I don't see why.' 
 
 'Naturally, I'm the oldest.' 
 
 ' Much,' said Clem. 
 
 Elizabeth got as red as a poppy. 
 
 * You're very spiteful this morning, 
 
 VOL. I. u 
 
290 COULD HE DO BETTER ? 
 
 Clementina. Naturally, most of the money 
 will be mine. Arthur and I mil have a 
 position to maintain. He is allied with 
 the best families — so distingue!'' 
 
 ' I never paid much attention to that,' 
 said Clem. ' He began by being civil to 
 me, but I kept him at a distance. If I 
 know Captain Handcock, he'll not marry 
 till he sees money down. Cash with order, 
 he, he !' 
 
 ' Dare you say that !' shrieked Elizabeth. 
 ' He never so much as looked at you, and 
 that's why you suggest that he loves my 
 money, and not me. You're envious, Clem, 
 my love, because you haven't got a man of 
 your own.' 
 
 'I've had as many offers as I have 
 fingers,' exclaimed Clementina, with some 
 poetical license. ' I shall have a husband 
 one of these days — and children. You'll 
 never have a child, you're too old.' 
 
COMPROMISED. 291 
 
 Elizabeth turned livid, and caught her 
 sister by the sleeve. 
 
 ' Let me go,' cried Clem. ' I dare you 
 to touch me ! Do you hear, I dare you !' 
 
 The spinsters stood facing each other, 
 and panted ; then sat down to breakfast 
 again. 
 
 ' There's no good fighting,' said Eliza- 
 beth, sullenly, after a long pause. ' We're 
 alone in the world, Clem.' 
 
 ' I don't want to fight,' said Clementina. 
 
 ' I never meant that about your lovers, 
 Clem. Few girls have refused such offers 
 as you. I shall never forget John Mickle- 
 dale, at Bath, and the way you finished 
 him off.' 
 
 ' Didn't I,' said the other. ' I was only 
 joking about the children, Lizzie dearest; 
 you will have a large family, I'm sure. As 
 to dear Arthur, he fell in love with you 
 from the first.' 
 
 u2 
 
292 COULD HE DO BETTER? 
 
 Such generous mutual confessions could 
 have but one result. The sisters embraced 
 tearfully, and vowed to stand by each other 
 as long as they lived. 
 
 Clementina had not spoken at random 
 about having a husband some day. Un- 
 known to her sister, and, as she imagined, 
 to the old man upstairs also, she had lately 
 been granting stolen interviews to a suitor 
 not more disinterested than Captain Hand- 
 cock. His name was Mr. Lloyd. This 
 accomplished gentleman was getting on in 
 life, and on the look-out, as he would have 
 put it, 'for a gal with something of her 
 OAvn.' He knew that Cris would have no 
 further need for his services when the 
 marriage mth Annie took place, and in- 
 tended, if he could, to keep a lodging- 
 house in London, where he could earn a 
 comfortable living, and see his friends — his 
 wife doing most of the work. He saw no 
 
COMPROMISED. 293 
 
 difficulty in tlie social gulf between him- 
 self and Clementina; in her eagerness for 
 a husband, she would doubtless consent to 
 cross it. Perhaps Mr. Tucker might vnnk 
 at an elopement for the sake of getting rid 
 of Clementina on reasonable terms. That 
 she had five thousand pounds already was 
 well known to Mr. Lloyd, and, though he 
 shrewdly guessed that Nicholas's wealth 
 was vastly over-rated, he counted upon a 
 few thousands more — perhaps he might 
 do without the lodging-house, and retire 
 into the elegance of private life. All 
 things considered, Mr. Lloyd thought a 
 little sentiment could do no harm. For 
 him, Clementina had no biting words; even 
 his niggardly display of affection seemed 
 to quicken that infinitesimal germ of good- 
 ness which had led her, many years ago, 
 to send ten pounds to the father she 
 imagined a beggar. 
 
294 COULD HE DO BETTER ? 
 
 Clementina breathed not a word to her 
 dearest Lizzie on this subject. After break- 
 fast they went out, and before long the}^ 
 saw Mrs. Jackson turning down High 
 Street. 
 
 ^ There she goes, into Drake's,' said 
 Elizabeth, ' to buy some more paint, I 
 suppose. She thinks of nothing but of 
 her daubing. By-the-by, Clem, we never 
 found out what that picture was she made 
 such a mystery of. As she's out, suppose 
 we call ' 
 
 'And see if there happens to be any- 
 thing lying about. But she's sure to have 
 locked the studio door as usual.' 
 
 ' We'll have another try,' decided Eliza- 
 beth. 
 
 Fortune favoured them. They passed 
 quickly through the house, and the studio 
 door stood ajar. 
 
 But to their great disappointment there 
 
COMPROMISED. 295 
 
 was no picture to be seen. There was the 
 easel, the palette with the wet colours, and 
 the mahl-stick evidently just laid down. 
 Mrs. Jackson had been putting some finish- 
 ing touches to Judith's portrait, and had 
 suddenly found herself in want of a colour. 
 In her hurry she had left the door open, 
 but had not neglected to lock up the por- 
 trait in the cupboard in the wall. 
 
 ' I hate suspicious people,' said Elizabeth, 
 on making this discovery. ' If we could 
 only light upon the key.' 
 
 Clementina had already found a key in 
 one of the vases on the stove. She fitted 
 it impatiently to the lock, and the cup- 
 board door opened. 
 
 ' Why !' exclaimed Elizabeth, recoiling 
 at the sight of Mrs. Jackson's masterpiece, 
 ' it's Judith !' 
 
 ' It's Judith,' echoed Clementina. 
 
 ' A pretty thing,' sneered Elizabeth, tri- 
 
296 COULD HE DO BETTER ? 
 
 umphantly, ' to pretend lie's not fond of 
 the chit, and then to get his mother to 
 paint her. Clem, my love, I shall like to 
 see young Jackson's face when he hears 
 that we know this. By the time all Bay- 
 bridge is aware of it, too, I don't well see 
 how he can avoid proposing.' 
 ^ He can't,' agreed Clementina. 
 ' x\nd it will break his pride nicely,' 
 said Miss Tucker. * He'll live to repent 
 the day when he struck a woman, as he 
 did me, down by the river. He'll find out, 
 when he pushes his way ahead, what it is 
 to be tacked on to a penniless girl, without 
 any savoir-faire^ too.' 
 
 ' Not a morsel,' said Clem. ' What can 
 he see in that face?' she added, pointing to 
 the portrait. 
 
 * Quite common-looking,' said Elizabeth. 
 ' Such a high, vulgar complexion,' said 
 Clementina. 
 
COMPROMISED. 297 
 
 ' She has no manners, that's certain,' 
 said Miss Tucker. 
 
 ' And she dresses vilely. — Who's that 
 coming?' 
 
 It was a false alarm ; but the sisters 
 locked up the cupboard, and stole out of 
 the house again, unseen by the servants. 
 It was lucky for them they did so, for in 
 a moment they saw Ambrose coming along 
 the road. 
 
 Ambrose had been sorely perplexed of 
 late. There was nothing doing in empty 
 London, and he could not be happy in 
 Baybridge, where love and ambition wres- 
 tled together in his heart all the day long. 
 He had a holiday, but his mother Avould 
 not listen to his proposal for a trip to the 
 seaside. Mrs. Jackson did not intend, at 
 this critical juncture, to separate him from 
 Judith ; and Ambrose, who could not bear 
 to refuse her anything, gave up the project. 
 
298 COULD HE DO BETTER ? 
 
 He was angry with himself for giving it up 
 almost readily ; for not being able to leave 
 oiF thinking of Judith. If only there had. 
 been hard work for him just now, when 
 work was essential to his peace of mind, all 
 had been well. As it was^ instead of 
 breasting the current, he . . . the man of in- 
 flexible purpose . . . allowed himself to float 
 down it, and hardly resisted his mother's 
 many schemes for throAving him and Judith 
 together. Thanks to the Tuckers and 
 other busybodies, they were now so much 
 spoken of as destined for one another ... in 
 spite of Mrs. Tweedy 's busy tongue assert- 
 ing the contrary . . . that Ambrose plainly, 
 perceived, that, unless he was to take that 
 step which he had decided not to take, he 
 must resolutely break off all connection 
 with Baybridge. It had come to this : he 
 could not trust himself alone with Judith, 
 a glance from her shook his firmness to its 
 
COMPKOMISED. 299 
 
 foundation. The certainty that she too 
 must be suiFering from the miserable tittle- 
 tattle of the town, positively kept him 
 awake at night. He could not marry her, 
 that was impossible ; but he could and he 
 Avould save her from this annoyance. As 
 he now came along, he thought of consult- 
 ing his mother as to the necessity of her 
 seeking a home elsewhere. Here again 
 was a rub — was it not cruel of him to take 
 her among strangers ? Ambrose was sure 
 he could not be so heartless ; and the 
 problem remained unsolved. 
 
 With such perplexities tormenting him, 
 he was not gratified to see their chief pro- 
 moters, the Misses Tucker, waiting at the 
 corner of the road with the evident inten- 
 tion of speaking to him. He had not ex- 
 changed a word with either of them since 
 the passage of arms on the river bank; 
 and he now tried to pass with a formal 
 
300 COULD HE DO BETTER ? 
 
 salutation. The attempt was unsuccessful. 
 
 ' HoAV do you do, Mr. Jackson ?' said 
 Elizabeth, in her gentlest manner ; advanc- 
 ing with outstretched hand, which she 
 obliged him to take. ' We have just been 
 to call upon dear Mrs. Jackson, and unfor- 
 tunately found her gone out. Clem and I 
 were so sorry.' 
 
 Mr. Jackson bowed his acknowledgments 
 stiffly. 
 
 ' You have come down for a holiday, 
 haven't you?' asked Clementina. 
 
 ' Yes,' said Ambrose. 
 
 ' You aren't going to the seaside, after 
 all?' inquired Elizabeth. 
 
 ' No,' answered he. 
 
 ^Why will you be so short with us?' 
 complained Miss Tucker. ' Why will you 
 persist in regarding us as your enemies ?' 
 
 ' I have not thought much about the 
 subject,' said Ambrose. 
 
COMPROMISED. 301 
 
 ' We would like to gain your friendship, 
 Mr. Jackson,' persisted Elizabeth. 
 
 ' I am afraid I could not be worthy of 
 yours,' returned the young man, wondering 
 to what new act of spite this civility was a 
 prelude. 
 
 ' Oh, how can you say so,' replied Miss 
 Tucker. ' We really take such an interest 
 in you, Mr. Jackson ; we think you so very 
 clever. We are sure that you will rise.' 
 
 ' Chiefly owing to the good-nature of my 
 acquaintances,' said Ambrose. ' I am sure 
 Miss Tucker would help me if it lay in her 
 power.' 
 
 ' I would indeed,' said Elizabeth, keep- 
 ing her temper. * Clem and I are so glad 
 to think you will be in Baybridge for a 
 couple of weeks at least, aren't we, Clem ?' 
 
 ' Of course Mr. Jackson knows that,' said 
 Clementina. ' Somebody else will be glad 
 too!' 
 
302 COULD HE DO BETTER ? 
 
 ' You mean Miss Topham, Clem !' said 
 Elizabetli, with what was intended to be an 
 arch look. ' 0, how can you be so wicked. 
 You have quite vexed Mr. Jackson.' 
 
 ' I don't think it worth while to be vex- 
 ed,' said Ambrose. ' But as you have not 
 scrupled to connect Miss Topham's name 
 with mine, and as you charge yourselves 
 with the pleasant duty of circulating the 
 parish news, I take the liberty of contra- 
 dicting this particular report.' 
 
 ' It's in everybody's mouth,' said Eliza- 
 beth, maliciously. 
 
 ' Maybe,' replied Ambrose ; ' but it all 
 bears the sign-manual of Miss Tucker.' 
 
 ' And you deny that there's an engage- 
 ment coming on between you and Judith 
 Topham?' said Elizabeth. 
 
 ' I deny,' retorted Ambrose, warmly, 
 ' that you have a right to pry into my aiFairs 
 or into hers ; but as you have asked the 
 question, please remember the answer, No !' 
 
COMPEOMISED. 303 
 
 ' We can't take Mr. Jackson seriously, 
 Clem dearest, can we ?' said Miss Tucker. 
 ' Not after the portrait !' 
 
 'No, not after the portrait,' echoed 
 Clementina. 
 
 * I don't understand you,' said Ambrose, 
 ' and I hope you'll allow me to go indoors.' 
 
 But Miss Tucker planted herself well in 
 the way. She saw at once that Ambrose 
 had spoken the truth, that he knew noth- 
 ing of the portrait. Vaguely but delicious- 
 ly the idea came to her that she might 
 cause a breach between mother and son ; 
 something in Ambrose's startled uneasy 
 exj)ression favoured this charitable hope. 
 
 * Ask Mrs. Jackson,' she said, ' why she 
 has painted such a beautiful portrait of 
 Judith Topham, ask ! Perhaps as a plea- 
 sant surprise for you. Perhaps she has 
 been doing a little match-making for you.' 
 
 ' My mother has painted no such por- 
 trait ' stammered Ambrose. 
 
304 COULD HE DO BETTER? 
 
 '■ 0, indeed ! We know better Clem, my 
 love, don't we?' 
 
 ^ 0, yes, we know much better,' said 
 Clem. 
 
 • G^6>(i-morning, Mr. Jackson,' said 
 Elizabeth. 
 
 ' (T6>^(i-morning, Mr. Jackson,' echoed 
 Clementina. 
 
 And the sisters, satisfied with their 
 victory, walked away arm-in-arm. 
 
 ' She-devils !' muttered Ambrose. ' Sure- 
 ly my mother can't ' 
 
 And he went indoors hurriedly, expect- 
 ing to find Mrs. Jackson shut up in the 
 studio. 
 
 The studio was empty. Ambrose strode 
 up and down it, awaiting his mother's 
 return with impatience. Already he had 
 no doubt that she had been guilty of this 
 imprudence. 
 
 ' That settles the matter,' he exclaimed. 
 
COMPEOMISED. 305 
 
 ' Those lia«;s will tell tlieir tale everywliere, 
 and Judith will be fatally compromised. 
 In honour bound I must marry her now, 
 and sink into hum-drum mediocrity.' 
 
 Mrs. Jackson, who expected her son by 
 a later train, returned, and hurrying into 
 the studio, was much surprised to find him 
 there. 
 
 ' What's the matter, dear boy?' she asked, 
 for, though he kissed her with his usual 
 affection, he looked very stern. 
 
 ' What have you done, mother ?' he 
 replied. 
 
 ' 1, Ambrose !' 
 
 'The portrait?' 
 
 ' Is that all ?' said she. * You're going 
 to scold me for keeping a secret from you. 
 However did you find me out? Vexed, 
 dear? Say no. I couldn't tell you Mr. 
 Sutton's secret, could I ?' 
 
 'Sutton's?' 
 
 VOL. I. X 
 
306 COULD HE DO BETTER? 
 
 His mother explained. 
 
 'It's a most unfortunate business,' he 
 said, when she had done telling her story. 
 ' What was the good of my publishing the 
 fact that I had " no intentions," if you were 
 working like this against me ?' 
 
 ' I meant no harm, Ambrose.' 
 
 ' I'm sure you didn't,' he answered, 
 gently. ' I suppose, though, in my absence, 
 the young lady has come here frequently 
 to "sit"?' 
 
 ' Judith ? No. The portrait was to be 
 a surprise for her mother, as I told you, 
 and to be kept a secret from everybody. 
 So Mr. Sutton wished. I worked from 
 memory, and from a small sketch I had 
 taken previously.' 
 
 ' A secret from everybody?' asked Am- 
 brose, quickly. ' Why from Judith herself ? 
 As if she couldn't be discreet ! Didn't 
 that strike you as peculiar ?' 
 
COMPROMISED. 307 
 
 ' It didn't at the time ; it does now,' ad- 
 mitted the widow. 
 
 ' And you can't find an explanation ?' 
 isaid Ambrose. ' Sutton is in love with her.' 
 
 The widow changed colour, and gasped 
 rather than said, 
 
 ' Impossible !' 
 
 ' So one would think,' said Ambrose ; 
 ^ he's twenty years older and more. A 
 useless, unpractical dreamer, with abso- 
 lutely nothing to show for his five-and- 
 forty years of life.' 
 
 ' I like Will Sutton,' protested the widow. 
 ' He is a — a — favourite with me. I hope 
 3^ou'll change your verdict some day. In 
 the meantime, don't be vexed about my 
 harmless little plot. I've been less im- 
 prudent than you think, for I alwaj^s lock 
 up my work. You haven't yet said how^ 
 you found me out ?' 
 
 ' The Tucker women told me. They were 
 
 x2 
 
308 COULD HE DO BETTER ? 
 
 in here half-an-hour ago, and turned 
 everything upside down, I suppose. By 
 now, thanks to them, half Baybridge is 
 convinced that you have painted Judith — 
 for me. The matter has gone too far. I 
 must marry her.' 
 
 His mother's face was radiant. 
 
 ' You couldn't make a wiser choice, 
 Ambrose,' she said. ' No one else could 
 suit you like Judith. This has been the 
 wish of my heart, to see you well married 
 before I am taken away from you.' 
 
 ' Let me see the ill-fated picture,' was 
 all that Ambrose could reply. 
 
 She placed it on the easel, and pulled 
 up a blind. Ambrose gazed long and 
 earnestly, and his eyes softened. 
 
 ' You've painted well before, mother, but 
 yoa've never done anything equal to this.' 
 
 The artist smiled. 
 
 ' It was a labour of love, dear boy. Per- 
 
COMPROMISED. 309 
 
 haps, too, it is being judged by love?' 
 
 ' Yes, mother,' said Ambrose, in his deep, 
 quiet tone, ' I do love Judith. Such 
 worth, such gentleness, such high and 
 pure motives, where else should I iind 
 them ? She is too good for me, a thou- 
 sand times too good — but ' 
 
 ' Let there be no "but," Ambrose,' said 
 his mother, softly. 'You will find happiness 
 in Judith's love which you will never find 
 in your own ambition.' 
 
 It was an unfortunate speech. Ambrose 
 began to pace up and down the room in 
 great agitation. 
 
 ' Mother, mother,' he exclaimed at 
 length, ' you meant well, but you have 
 placed a stumbling-block in my path that 
 I can never leap over. You talk of my 
 ambition : I marry Judith — farewell to my 
 ambition !' 
 
 ' You're angry Avith me, Ambrose ?' 
 
310 COULD HE DO BETTER ? 
 
 ' Angry witli you, mother — never ! May 
 I suffer from every ill tbat ingratitude 
 deserves if ever I forget your devotion. 
 Who was it slaved to give me the educa- 
 tion of a gentleman, long before I could 
 understand such love ? You ! Who trod 
 the path of self-sacrifice daily, hourly for 
 my sake ? You, darling mother ! And, if 
 to call Judith your daughter would make 
 you happy, at your feet I lay the sacrifice 
 down. — Wait here till I can bring the news.' 
 
 He folded her in his arms, the one he 
 tried to love without a taint of selfishness. 
 She wanted to warn him against approach- 
 ing Judith too proudly, but he laid his 
 fingers upon her lips. 
 
 Another moment and he strode out of 
 the house, on the way to claim Judith 
 Topham for his wife. 
 
311 
 
 CHAPTER XVIL 
 
 A PROPOSAL. 
 
 We have seen how Ambrose had been em- 
 ployed during the morning, and with what 
 intention he set out in search of Judith. 
 We must now go back a few hours and see 
 how they had been spent by that young 
 lady, so as to form as correct an opinion as 
 possible of the state of mind she was in 
 when she received his important visit. 
 
 Judith had to be an early riser if she 
 hoped to get through the duties of the 
 day, and she was in the habit of leaving 
 her bed-room curtains undrawn so that the 
 light might awaken her. This morning it 
 was not five o'clock when she opened her 
 
312 COULD HE DO BETTER ? 
 
 eyes, and knowing from experience the 
 danger of closing them again, and possess- 
 ing, besides, that active energy which is 
 never so thoroughly tested as in the simple 
 matter of ' getting up,' jumped out of bed. 
 She sat on the edge for a moment, rubbing 
 her eyes and twining one slender foot 
 about the other, and then decided that it 
 was a lovely morning. After a long look 
 down into the garden with the cool hush 
 of dawn upon it, she began her toilette. 
 Perhaps the vigorous way in which she 
 splashed and scrubbed in her cold tub had 
 something to do with that clear, vivid com- 
 plexion of hers, which roused such envy 
 in the breasts of the pasty-faced Misses 
 Tucker. Then she knelt down and prayed 
 at her bed-side, little dreaming how event- 
 ful the day was to prove, and how sore 
 would be her need of comfort. Then fol- 
 lowed a brushing and plaiting of her soft 
 
A PROPOSAL. 313 
 
 brown hair, with a pardonable roguish 
 little glance of vanity in the looking-glass. 
 Lastly came the neat, clean print dress. 
 She stole into Annie's room, and kissed the 
 sleeping girl, who smiled at her touch. 
 
 Then the energetic housekeeper crept 
 upstairs in her stocking feet, and shook 
 the servants, and ' cold-pigged ' them, so as 
 to be sure that they would follow her good 
 example. Downstairs, shej)ut on her boots, 
 and ran out into the garden. The flowers 
 were hung with dew. The birds sang. 
 Judith sang too, because her heart was 
 light and happy on this glorious summer 
 morning. 
 
 But as it was ever so long ago since 
 Ambrose had become the centre-figure of 
 any picture of happiness which she drew, 
 she naturally thought of Ambrose. Alas ! 
 to think of him was not only to love but 
 to doubt. Judith reminded herself that 
 
314 COULD HE DO BETTER ? 
 
 there was work to be done indoors, and 
 that she had better go indoors and do it. 
 She went in accordingly, and her appear- 
 ance caused a great increase of activity in 
 the sweeping and dusting line, though the 
 servants admired and liked Miss Judith, 
 and seldom shirked their work. Judith 
 had a maxim that everything must be 
 clean, and if nobody else would work she 
 would. This method shamed Barbara and 
 Jane into good behaviour. 
 
 Mrs. Topham, who rarely came down 
 before breakfast, surprised Judith to-day 
 by appearing at half-past eight. 
 
 ' Come into the dining-room, Jue, I 
 want to say a few words before your father 
 speaks to you.' 
 
 ' He doesn't want any money ?' asked 
 Judith, seeing that her mother looked very 
 anxious. 
 
 'No,' replied Mrs. Topham, nervously. 
 
A PROPOSAL. 315' 
 
 She had succeeded in keeping her hus- 
 band's new investment a secret even from 
 Judith. ' It's about you and Ambrose. 
 You haven't taken me into your confi- 
 dence, Jue, and I'm sure you have had 
 some good reason for not doing so.' 
 
 ' I thought it was better not to talk 
 about it, mother, imless anything happen- 
 ed. I didn't want to add to your anxieties.' 
 
 ' I understand all you mean, my dear 
 child. But, as your father is going to 
 speak to you this morning on the subject, I 
 wish to set my doubts at rest, and to give 
 you a word of warning. You love him,. 
 Jue?' 
 
 ' Yes, mother.' 
 
 ' Very much ?' 
 
 ' Better than the whole world,' answered 
 Judith, without hesitation. 
 
 ^ If he proposes, you'll consent to be his- 
 wife?' 
 
316 COULD HE DO BETTER ? 
 
 ' I don't know, mother, what T shall do. 
 I shall do what I think to be right when 
 the time comes, if ever it does come. I 
 love Ambrose, I will never love anyone 
 else. But I sometimes think . . . even when 
 my love is greatest . . . that he is hard and 
 selfish, and might want to marry me, and 
 then repent. If he comes simply and 
 frankly, saying, "I give you my heart and 
 want yours in return," then, mother, your 
 Judith won't know what to do with all her 
 happiness. But if his love is a prudent, 
 calculating love, then, mother, though my 
 heart should break, I hope, I pray, I may 
 be firm and answer No. — But what is father 
 going to say about it?' 
 
 Mrs. Topham lowered her voice, as she 
 always did when circumstances forced her 
 for the moment to entertain the idea that 
 Peter was not absolutely perfect, and 
 replied, 
 
A PROPOSAL. 317" 
 
 ^ He is going to ask for a promise from 
 you that you will refuse Ambrose ' 
 
 ' Never,' interrupted Judith, ' as I alone 
 would have to bear the consequences of ray 
 choice, it's only fair that my choice should 
 be free.' 
 
 ' Yes, Jue, you're quite right,' answered 
 Mrs. Topham, looking as if in thus oppos- 
 ing her husband she had committed a 
 felony at the least. 'But don't vex your 
 father, treat him with proper respect, 
 Judith ; remember all he has gone through.' 
 
 Judith promised gently ; if there was 
 one thing on this earth sacred to her it was 
 her mother's devotion for the head of the 
 family. Mrs. Topham had still something 
 more to say — about Will Sutton. But 
 Peter and Annie joined them, and the op- 
 portunity was lost. 
 
 It was evident that Peter Toj)ham had 
 thoroughly made up his mind that Am- 
 
318 COULD HE DO BETTER ? 
 
 brose Jackson should never have the 
 honour of being his son-in-law, and it was 
 equally evident that he expected resist- 
 ance on the part of Judith. He received 
 her dutiful kiss more coldly than usual, 
 and soon showed himself to be in a per- 
 verse humour. He did not grumble or 
 growl. He maintained his reputation for 
 cheerfulness. But his light bitter tongue 
 complained of everything that was set 
 before him — because Judith did the house- 
 keeping. The butter was bad. The bacon 
 was bad. The eggs were not fresh. Judith 
 listened patiently ; she would bear any- 
 thing, but she would not make that promise 
 which was going to be demanded of her. 
 
 ' Don't promise anything,' whispered 
 Annie to her, as they rose from breakfast. 
 
 Mr. Topham turned to Judith. 
 
 ' Please come to my study in half-an- 
 hour, Judith.' His tone implied, 'And 
 when you do come, be tractable.'' 
 
A PROPOSAL. 319 
 
 ' Shut the door, Judith,' he said, when 
 she reached the study. ' I want to talk 
 to you seriously. Reports have been flying 
 about Baybridge of a very distressing nature. 
 They have reached your ears, of course ?' 
 
 Judith was not going to admit that any 
 report connecting her name and Ambrose 
 Jackson's was in itself distressing. 
 
 ' I suppose you must mean about Mr. 
 Jackson, father?' she said. 
 
 ^ Don't be such a hypocrite, Judith. 
 "Who else could I mean except the young 
 place-hunter? I'm afraid you've been im- 
 prudent, child. His pushing, vulgar man- 
 ner has imposed upon you. Kindly don't 
 interrupt me ; that's ill-bred, as you ought 
 to know. I say you have been imprudent, 
 and I fear that the fellow will propose — 
 not a distinction that I was at all anxious 
 for. However, you may still be able to 
 prevent it by letting him see unmistake- 
 ably that you don't covet the honour.' 
 
 ^ 
 
320 COULD HE DO BETTER? 
 
 ' But if I do, father ?' 
 
 ^ I will not have you unmaidenly, Judith, 
 I won't have you throw yourself at any 
 man's head.' 
 
 ' I've never so disgraced myself, and 
 never will,' said Judith, struggling hard to 
 keep from crying. 
 
 ' You will keep him at arm's length,' 
 said her father. 
 
 ' But, father, if he will propose, what 
 can I do ?' 
 
 ' If you didn't care for him, you'd prevent 
 him from opening his lips fast enough.' 
 
 ' But I do care for him — very much," 
 ventured Judith. 
 
 ' Come, come, Jue,' said Peter Topham, 
 ' if it pleases your vanity to have an offer, 
 do as you please. But I expect you to 
 refuse him unconditionally.' 
 
 Judith spoke up. 
 
 ' I've loved you, and done everything I 
 
A PROPOSAL. 321 
 
 could for you, father. But I'll never make 
 that promise.' 
 
 ' He is a selfish, pomjDous young fellow,' 
 said Mr. Topham. ' 111 never admit him 
 into my family. You must give him up.' 
 
 ' If ever I give him up, it will be of my 
 own free will and not from compulsion,' 
 said Judith. ' Father, can't you under- 
 stand that I love him very dearly ? Why 
 have you taken such a dislike to him ?' 
 
 ' I asked him to dinner at your mother's 
 request,' said Peter, ' and at my own table 
 he flatly contradicted me. He has no 
 manners.' 
 
 ' He was sorry about that afterwards,' 
 pleaded Judith. ' He told me so the same 
 night.' 
 
 ' If he was sorry, he should have apolo- 
 gised to 9?i6%' said Mr. Topham. ' That 
 would have been the manly course.' 
 
 ' He's every inch a man,' said Judith, 
 
 VOL. 1. Y 
 
322 COULD HE DO BETTER ? 
 
 obstinately. And the tears rolled down her 
 cheeks. 
 
 Her father mistook this sign of distress 
 for submission. 
 
 ' Now be a good girl, Jue, and don't cry 
 about it. Be cheerful. Follow my ex- 
 ample. I'm not allowing this little matter 
 to make me gloomy. Promise you'll refuse 
 him.' 
 
 ' I'll obey you in anything else.' 
 
 'Except where obedience is wanted, you'll 
 be obedient, doubtless. — Now what do you 
 think of Radalls?' 
 
 Radalls, it will be remembered, was the 
 name of Will Sutton's estate. Judith could 
 not follow her father's train of thought, or 
 understand the sudden change of subject. 
 She answered, mechanically, 
 
 'Of Radalls, father?' 
 
 'Yes, it's a fine estate, isn't it? Will has 
 improved it very much of late years. Now, 
 
A PROPOSAL. 323 
 
 be reasonable, Judith. Wouldn't it be 
 better for you, instead of giving yourself 
 away to this selfish young place-hunter, to 
 be mistress of Radalls ?' 
 
 'I don't understand,' replied Judith, 
 bluntl}-. 
 
 * Don't be affected, child,' said Peter, 
 vexed because he saw that she really did 
 not understand. ' Everybody knows that 
 Will Sutton is longing to marry you.' 
 
 ' Will !' exclaimed Judith. 
 
 Her father's words were a revelation. 
 She knew at once that it was true, that 
 Will did love her. She marvelled how she 
 could have been so blind, and yet her want 
 of perception in this instance was perfectly 
 natural. It had never struck her that a 
 man twenty years older than she was, w^ho 
 had kissed her in such a fatherly manner, 
 who was so near and dear a friend — could 
 look upon their intimacy in any other 
 
 y2 
 
324 COULD HE DO BETTER ? 
 
 light. Besides, she had been so taken up 
 with Ambrose ; she was so repeatedly ask- 
 ing herself whether he in truth cared for 
 her, that affection from any other quarter 
 came as a total surprise. But her father 
 was right. She understood now, with a 
 pang of remorse, all that Will had suffered 
 on the day of their ^dsit to Radalls, and 
 resolved instantly to show him some 
 kindness, to make him some amends. 
 His silent fidelity, his patience, touched 
 her, and her father saw her lips trem- 
 bling. 
 
 ' It's a fine property, Jue. You'd have 
 a position in the county. He'd give you 
 plenty of pin-money.' 
 
 Judith's face hardened. 
 
 'And then your mother — think of the 
 many comforts such a marriage would 
 secure to her.' 
 
 ' I'm fond of Will, father; but I could 
 never marry him.' 
 
A PROPOSAL. 325 
 
 'No, you've got some silly school-girl 
 notions into your lieacl. You'll go your 
 own way, of course. My advice is not 
 worth considering. I know nothing of the 
 world. I am no judge of character. Go, 
 Judith, I thought you had some affection 
 for me, or at least for your mother.' 
 
 Judith obeyed and left the room. She 
 knew her father too well to make any 
 attempt to soften him. She tried hard not 
 to despise the parent to whom she owed 
 reverence. She bore from him . . . chiefly 
 for her mother's sake . . . what was well-nigh 
 unendurable. But she had to own that 
 her father was beyond all things selfish. 
 A dread took possession of her that per- 
 haps Ambrose, when he grew old, might be 
 like this. And so it happened, that when 
 she and Ambrose met to-day, she was 
 peculiarly sensitive to any exhibition of 
 this spirit. Ambrose had chosen an un- 
 fortunate day for his attempt. 
 
326 COULD HE DO BETTER ? 
 
 Ambrose was not far from the house 
 now ; but his usually quick, firm step was 
 slow and undecided. He never doubted 
 that Judith would accept him, for he was 
 accustomed to gain other points for which 
 he strove, and Judith was too artless not 
 to have betrayed her feelings for him. 
 Ambrose knew that he had won her heart, 
 and that such a heart was well worth the 
 winning. But there was no concealing 
 the truth that when she became his wife he 
 would have to close his account with the 
 old life, and begin a new life involving 
 much sacrifice. That he looked upon the 
 union as a sacrifice was clear from his 
 parting words to his mother. 
 
 Ambrose, as secretary to Mr. Mackintosh, 
 one of the political lights of the day, en- 
 joyed a good many social privileges which 
 he had not valued aright until now, when 
 he seemed on the point of forfeiting them.. 
 
A PEOPOSAL. 327 
 
 The path he had climbed hitherto had 
 been rough, but not without flowers by 
 the way. Half-confidences from handsome, 
 fashionable women desirous of finding out 
 Mr. Mackintosh's views for their husbands ; 
 dinners where celebrities jogged your elbow 
 and even condescended to approve of your 
 goings on ; these things so very plea- 
 sant for Mr. Jackson unattached, would 
 they not become memories after marriage ? 
 There was also a certain young widow, 
 Alice Murray by name, who lived in Park 
 Lane, and had wealth and a certain style 
 of beauty, and was very civil to the young 
 politician of promise. Would she honour 
 him with those little scented notes, nam- 
 ing an hour when she could receive her 
 especial friends, or scolding him for play- 
 ing truant ? Ambrose was quite sure that 
 Mrs Murray would do nothing of the sort. 
 What remarks were to be expected from 
 
328 COULD HE DO BETTER ? 
 
 liis troops of friends, who liad prophesied so 
 great things for him, if he married a girl 
 from Baybridge ? A man may be indiffer- 
 ent to criticism in other matters, but about 
 a wife he is apt to be sensitive ; and so it 
 fared with Ambrose. 
 
 A sacrifice the marriage would be with- 
 out a doubt. But Ambrose, though blind- 
 ed by ambition and pride, and by that self- 
 assertion which is so often the bosom sin of 
 a successful young man . . . was at heart 
 a gentleman. Judith should never suspect 
 that he was making a sacrifice. Such was 
 his firm resolve when he entered the house. 
 But how difiicult it often proves to hide 
 our real thoughts on such occasions ; the 
 more important the interview, the greater 
 the stake, the more likely are they to come 
 to the surface, and work havoc among our 
 best intentions. 
 
 Ambrose was shown into the drawing- 
 
A TROPOSAL. 329 
 
 room, where he Avas soon joined by the 
 sisters and by Oris Parry. Cris guessed 
 his friend's errand, and so strolled through 
 the open window on to the terrace to 
 smoke a cio;arette. Annie followed him. 
 
 Judith and Ambrose were left alone. 
 Judith hardly dared to look up ; there was 
 something in the manner in which Am- 
 brose shook hands with her which implied 
 what was coming. A few words, what- 
 ever effect they might have upon him, 
 would lay a firm foundation for her own 
 happiness or else for ever utterly destroy 
 it. Ambrose, usually so much at his ease, 
 was obviously nervous and had nothing 
 to say for himself. The silence grew so 
 painful that Judith, though she was trem- 
 bling all over, broke it by an inquiry after 
 Mrs. Jackson's health. Ambrose thanked 
 her, his mother was fairly well. Then 
 Judith, by way of leading to some sort of 
 
330 COULD HE DO BETTER ? 
 
 conversation, asked what Mrs. Jackson had 
 been painting lately. 
 
 Nothing, could she hut have known it, 
 could have been more ill-timed than this 
 question. It recalled to Ambrose that un- 
 fortunate portrait, without which he would 
 not have been sitting by Judith now with 
 the full intention of asking her to be his 
 Avife. He told her about the portrait, and 
 about the Tuckers, and went on to deplore 
 that so few people could mind their own 
 business. Judith's suspicions were con- 
 firmed ; she read the truth in every word 
 and gesture — that he had been driven to 
 her side, and felt himself aggrieved. She 
 grew pale, and prepared her answer. 
 
 ' I can't tell you. Miss Topham,' said he, 
 ' how cut up I have been at the thought of 
 all you must have suffered from this tittle- 
 tattle. I certainly did my best to contra- 
 dict and put it down. That your name^ 
 
A PROPOSAL. 3eSt 
 
 for which I've learnt so deep a respect,, 
 should be bandied about by these chatter- 
 ing, ill-natured women has been — has been 
 very hard for me to bear.' 
 
 He paused, but if he expected any 
 answer he was disappointed, for Judith did 
 not say a word. 
 
 ' Fortunately,' said Ambrose, ' there's a 
 way to silence these contemptible j)eople. 
 Miss Topham — Judith, I'm going to ask 
 you a very important question. Please be 
 indulgent. You know that I'm a hard- 
 working, earnest man, and that if I under- 
 take to help and guide you, I will do so to 
 the utmost of my ability. I'm not well off, 
 and it's hard to get on in these days of 
 competition, unless one has more connec- 
 tions than I can ever boast of. But you 
 are too good, too true for such considera- 
 tions. Will you marry me, Judith ?' 
 
 Judith's head had been bowed while he 
 
332 COULD HE DO BETTER ? 
 
 spoke. She now raised it and her face was 
 deadly pale. There was great pain writ- 
 ten on it, love not to be uttered, and reso- 
 lution not to be overcome. 
 
 ' Do you love me, Mr. Jackson ?' she asked. 
 
 He started up. 
 
 ' Love you ? Why, Judith ! Don't you 
 understand that's just what I've been 
 ^saying?' 
 
 ' You said nothing about that,' murmur- 
 ed she ; ' you forgot that.' 
 
 ' But surely you know all I mean ' 
 
 he began. 
 
 ' I fear, Mr. Jackson,' she answered, in a 
 low, sad tone, ' that I know more of your 
 thoughts than you suppose or wish. You 
 have asked me to be your wife — I cannot 
 fill the position. I thank you — and — and 
 that is all.' 
 
 ' You refuse !' cried Ambrose. 
 
 She bowed her head again. 
 
A PROPOSAL. 333^ 
 
 ' I refuse.' 
 
 ' But, Judith . . .no, don't turn your head 
 away like that . . . listen to me. I spoke 
 awkwardly, but you must feel, I am sure^ 
 how much I do love you — how greatly in 
 earnest I am.' 
 
 ' No, Mr. Jackson, you are not in earnest. 
 You think I have been compromised. You 
 think yom^self bound to make me this pro- 
 posal. You have acted, not from Avhat 
 you felt, but from what you thought it 
 your duty to do. Don't speak, please, for 
 one moment. If you had really loved me, 
 you would not have sat there and offered 
 me your love as if it were a dead, cold 
 thing, instead of being precious ' 
 
 ' Judith !' 
 
 ' No, no, have pity on me and say no 
 more. If you had been in earnest, you 
 would have thrown yourself at my feet 
 half-an-hour ago — in the most critical ac- 
 
334 COULD HE DO BETTER ? 
 
 tion of your life, you at least would not 
 have been half-hearted. You have fulfilled 
 what you supposed to be an obligation, 
 you have saved me from the busybodies : 
 in proposing you have done your duty, in 
 refusing I have done mine.' 
 
 Ambrose knew that she spoke the truth, 
 but her attitude was so totally unexpected 
 ihat he was filled with consternation. 
 This country girl, whom he had not 
 thought good enough for him, had in plain 
 terms rejected his offer. It was the first 
 serious check in his life, it was the first 
 blow that taught him that even he could 
 be weak. He saw that Judith loved him. 
 Her beauty, her distress, her courage 
 thrilled him. He threw self to the winds, 
 he trampled the demon down, — but it was 
 too late. 
 
 ' Judith !' he cried, ' don't treat me cruel- 
 ly. I know that you love me. I know 
 that I'm full of faults, that I'm hard, 
 
A PROPOSAL. 335 
 
 proud, selfish — but how can I get rid of 
 these faults unless I have somebody to 
 correct me? Be my teacher, dear, dear 
 Judith. I am at your feet now, Judith.' 
 
 She trembled violently. If he had 
 only spoken like this at first. There he 
 was, as he said, at her feet, and she half 
 believed that she was dearer to him than 
 his ambition. 
 
 ' I'm not cruel,' she said, piteously. ' I 
 want to do you justice. But I won't yield 
 to what is a joy now if in the future it is 
 to turn to bitterness. I won't become 
 your wife, and drag you down.' 
 
 ' You drag me down ! Pardon, pardon, 
 Judith !' 
 
 ' Will you answer one question, most 
 truly ?' she said. 
 
 ' Yes.' 
 
 ' Did you or did you not lead Mrs. 
 TAvecdy to believe that in marrying me 
 you would be marrying beneath you ?' 
 
336 COULD HE DO BETTER? 
 
 Ambrose turned as white as a sheet. 
 
 Judith walked towards the door. 
 
 ' Stop !' he cried, following her and 
 taking her hand, ' I've been a fool, a vain^ 
 empty-headed fool. Forgive me, don't let 
 this be your answer.' 
 
 ' It is my answer. I'm doing what is 
 right,' whispered Judith. 
 
 Then she was gone. 
 
 The young man walked quickly up and 
 down the room once or twice, crushed his 
 hat over his brows, and strode out of the 
 house. 
 
 Judith lay in her mother's arms, moan- 
 ing over and over again between her sobs- 
 that she had done right, and that her heart 
 Avas broken. 
 
 END OF THE FIRST VOLUME. 
 
 LONLiON ; PRINTED BY DUNCAN MACDONALD, BLENHEIM HOUSE.