L I 0. R.AR.Y 
 
 OF THL 
 
 UNIVERSITY 
 
 or ILLl NOIS
 
 3 dO<
 
 Ik 
 
 1^1-
 
 BAD LUCK 
 
 1 fioUl 
 
 ALBANY DE FONBLANQUE, 
 
 AUTHOR OF " A TANGLED SKEIN," " CUT ADRIFT, 
 ETC., ETC. 
 
 IN THREE VOLUMES. 
 VOL. I. 
 
 LONDON : 
 RICHARD BENTLEY AND SON. 
 
 1877. 
 
 (All Bights Reserved )
 
 03 
 
 -2/. / 
 
 CONTENTS OF VOL. I. 
 
 CHAPTER 
 
 I. COCK ROBIN . 
 II. THE FLAG OF REVOLT 
 
 III. AT BECKHAMPTON . 
 
 IV, UNCLE JOE 
 V. WHAT CAME OF FISHING 
 
 VI. EVERY ONE THINKS SO 
 VII. UN MAUVAIS QUART D'HEURE 
 VIII. WERE YOU EVER JEALOUS? 
 IX. IN A NEW " THINKING-PLACE " 
 
 XI. CAN ANY GIRL WISH FOR MORE % 
 
 25 
 50 
 •75 
 99 
 123 
 147 
 169 
 193 
 218 
 240
 
 BAD LUCK 
 
 Ji^c 
 
 CHAPTER 1. 
 
 COCK ROBIN. 
 
 SUMMER shower rattles against 
 the window-panes of the room 
 in which the Honourable and 
 Reverend Frank Marston, Vicar of Lare- 
 mouth, and his daughter Madge, are taking 
 their breakfast; and, but for the usual 
 sounds which clink an accompaniment to 
 mastication, nothing else disturbs the 
 silence in which their meal is taken. 
 
 VOL. I. 1
 
 COCK ROBIN. 
 
 They have not quarrelled — they never do 
 — and have plenty to say, only neither of 
 them likes to begin ; Madge, because she 
 has not made up her mind how to break 
 the ice, and her father because he is one 
 of those poor creatures who, having shirked 
 a difficulty, go away almost as happy as 
 though they had met and conquered it. 
 As soon as he has finished his second cup, 
 he rises with a sigh of relief and makes for 
 his study to look out a sermon that will 
 do for Sunday ; and Madge, slinging her 
 garden hat upon her arm, saunters out 
 through the hall to feed the robins in the 
 garden. 
 
 It is high spring-time. The flowers are 
 saying grace after rain ; the air is full of 
 freshness and perfume. The earth sends 
 up its thanks in a low, tender sobbing. A 
 laburnum waves golden tassels over the
 
 COCK ROBIN. 
 
 girl's head as she sinks into her favourite 
 rustic seat, and the grass beyond the strip 
 of gravel at her feet is all a-glitter with 
 rainbow-tinted drops. It is high spring- 
 time also in her heart. Upon that very 
 seat, not four days ago, the arms of her 
 true love have clasped her for the first 
 time, and she has shyly kissed him back 
 his troth. What the bright sunshine and 
 soft rain are doing for her flowers that 
 clasp and that kiss are doing for her life. 
 It is bursting into bud. She has eaten 
 and drank; she has slept, laughed, and 
 cried, hoped for this and feared at that — 
 but not lived till now. And with this new 
 life — in the midst of its budding joys, its 
 dimly whispered mysteries — comes trouble. 
 She sinks almost wearily into the old, damp, 
 uncomfortable seat, and, out of sheer force 
 of habit, begins to crumble up the bread 
 
 1—2
 
 COCK ROBIN. 
 
 she had put into her pocket at breakfast, 
 und to throw it for the robins. She has 
 fed several generations of robins at exactly 
 the same time, and in precisely the same 
 place. Giving them their breakfast comes 
 as naturally as taking her own, and she 
 does it mechanically. 
 
 She has not long to wait. Mrs. Robin 
 hops out from under the evergreen hedge, 
 and begins at once to pick up her crumbs. 
 Cock Robin appears soon afterwards, and 
 has to strut about, throw up his head, 
 puff out his waistcoat, and put himself 
 en evidence before he condescends to eat. 
 ''Happy little things," Madge muses, as 
 she throws more crumbs, '' you have no 
 troubles. No one hates you to be happy." 
 Now Cock Robin is an impostor of the 
 lowest order, but it won't do to say so in 
 face of all the pretty myths that have been
 
 COCK ROBIN. 
 
 composed about him. Do you know the 
 prettiest of all ? — ^that which tells how he 
 came by his crimson breast ? Has no one 
 told you how, long ago, he was only a 
 common brown bird, until one dreadful 
 day when three men were led out of 
 Jerusalem and nailed to crosses on Mount 
 Calvary. Then he alone of all the birds of 
 the air, knowing who was tortured in the 
 midst, flew up with his little heart breaking 
 with love and anger, and strove with all 
 his puny strength to draw forth the cruel 
 nails, getting his breast glorified in the 
 struggle with a sacred stain which marks 
 his race for ever. 
 
 This was not told me in my youth, and 
 I am glad of it. I should have pursued 
 the tale with materialistic inquiries which 
 would have rubbed all the poetry out of it ; 
 but I was always taught to respect Cock
 
 COCK ROBIN. 
 
 Kobin as '' God's bird," commanded never 
 to take his nest or throw stones at him, 
 and so on ; and, if the truth be told, I dare 
 say I took it out of the other birds to make 
 up for this reservation in his favour. Then 
 there are his services as undertaker to the 
 Babes in the Wood to his credit, and the 
 sad legend of his death and burial to excite 
 our sympathy for his untimely end, and 
 prove the universal respect in which he 
 was held by contemporary insects, fishes 
 and birds, and even by superior members 
 of the animal kingdom. By the by, I 
 wonder why those gentlemen who im- 
 prove C?) our nursery literature do not add 
 a moral to this story (which, as it stands, 
 gives a lamentable immunity to crime), by 
 adding a verse to show who hung that 
 murderous sparrow with his own bow- 
 string, or, if capital punishment be ob-
 
 COCK ROBIN. 
 
 jectionable, who sent him to a Refor- 
 matory and made a dear, sweet bird of 
 him. 
 
 In presence of this testimony to the 
 gentleness and popularity of Cock E-obin 
 in the abstract, it is only to be whispered 
 that in reality he is possessed of the worst 
 vices ; is selfish, conceited, lazy, and, for 
 his size, the most quarrelsome piece of 
 feathered flesh and blood to be found. 
 Madge Marsden is not a student of or- 
 nithological psychology. For her. Cock 
 Kobin lives and dies, and picks up crumbs 
 in a halo of romance ; and '^ Happy little 
 things," she muses, " you have no troubles. 
 No one hates yon to be happy." 
 
 The words are hardly out of her lips 
 when there is a flutter in the evergreens 
 and Cock Robin, No. 2, makes his appear- 
 ance. He also must have his swagger and
 
 COCK ROBIN. 
 
 stare about liiin ; and, this done, pretends 
 that he has come after crumbs. But Cock 
 E-obin, No. 1, knows better, and falls upon 
 him furiously. Over and over they roll on 
 the gravel uttering shrill cries of rage or 
 pain, and fighting with bill, claw, and 
 wing, as though they had been mortal 
 enemies all their lives, and there were 
 only one hen of their species in the world. 
 Anon they spring up into the air, and fly> 
 still fighting, into the laburnum, where 
 they clinch and roll from bough to bough 
 a palpitating ball of feathers and fury, till 
 they come to earth again so lost to every 
 other sense but mutual hate and the desire 
 to mangle each other, that they let Madge 
 pick them up and actually pursue their 
 fury in her hand. 
 
 '' Wicked little things," she says now ; 
 *^ how can you be so spiteful ? If you don't
 
 COCK ROBIN. 
 
 let go your claws I shall hurt you, naughty 
 birds ! Is not the garden big enough for 
 you both T 
 
 She gets no reply from the combatants, 
 and having gently disengaged beak and 
 talon, sends one to the left and another to 
 the right ; and their little unpleasantness 
 is at an end for that day. But she is soon 
 to learn that the garden is not big enough 
 for them both, and that when passions 
 similar to those which make them foes, 
 enter the human breast, this great round 
 globe itself is too small to hold the 
 pair. 
 
 In the meantime Madame Robin has 
 flown up into a neighbouring tree from 
 which she views the combat with much 
 complaisance, pluming herself the while 
 as some queen of beauty in the days of 
 chivalrie might have sat upon her throne
 
 lo COCK ROBIN. 
 
 and settled the pearls on her fair bosom, 
 whilst gallant knights — good friends, 
 perhaps, yesterday — fought and bled and 
 died for her smile in the lists below. 
 
 When Madge had stopped the fight, by 
 dispersing the fighters, Madame Robin fleAv 
 off with one of them ; ivliicJi, I cannot say, 
 but be sure it was the best bird. The 
 best fighter would probably be the best 
 provider, have the strongest draw at a 
 reluctant worm, be the ablest nest builder, 
 and so on. It may be that this one was 
 her old love, let us hope so ; but I am 
 afraid that the Brian de Bois Guilberts 
 and other muscular adorers, very often get 
 the best of it in love's campaign, be lady 
 or bird the prize ; and that even in our 
 own delightful days the suitor who has the 
 strongest draw (not at a worm, but on a 
 banker), is not unfrequently able to get
 
 COCK ROBIN. 
 
 Sir Winfred of Ivanhoe shown to the door. 
 So let us not be too hard upon a poor Httle 
 brown birdie if she did follow the instincts 
 of her kind, and fly off with (sentimentally 
 speaking) the wrong mate. 
 
 Madge went back to her seat and took 
 a letter from her pocket, where the bread 
 had been, and read it over for about the 
 ninth time. It was directed to her father 
 who had given it to her without a word of 
 comment shortly before they sat down to 
 breakfast ; and its contents, which had 
 caused that meal to pass in silence as 
 a,lready described, were as follows : 
 
 "London, April 29th, 1875. 
 
 "My dear Mr. Marston, 
 
 " Your letter has so surprised and 
 distressed me, that for the present I can- 
 not trust myself to write more than that
 
 12 COCK ROBIN. 
 
 I positively decline to hold any communi- 
 cation, direct or indirect, with or concern- 
 ing a person who has acted as Mr. Ellicott 
 has done. I cannot imagine how any 
 man, much less one who called himself 
 my friend, could have been guilty of such 
 utter meanness and treachery. 
 
 ''' Yours sincerely, 
 
 '' H. L. Wybert. 
 
 '' The Hon. and Rev. F. Marston, 
 '* The Vicarage, 
 
 " Laremouth." 
 
 There were no signs of anger or haste in 
 the penmanship. The lines were straight, 
 the writing clear, the punctuation exact. 
 There was deliberation in the crossing of 
 every t, the dotting of every i. Mr. Henry 
 Lane Wybert was always deliberate ; but 
 he seldom indulged in such strong lan- 
 guage as ^^ utter meanness and treachery."
 
 COCK ROBIN. 13 
 
 To tell his connection with the Hon. 
 and Rev. Frank Marston, involves a short 
 history of that gentleman's life. He was 
 a very superior man, had been second 
 wrangler and Smith's prizeman of his 
 year ; had edited several Greek tragedies, 
 written letters to the Times about the 
 transit of Venus, and published a work 
 upon Dynamics as known to the Phoe- 
 nicians, which delighted the savants, aad 
 half ruined his publisher. 
 
 A very superior man, I repeat, at Cam- 
 bridge, and amongst learned recluses whom 
 he met at social science and other meet- 
 ings, held for the purpose of mutual bore- 
 ing ; but elsewhere, but for merely practi- 
 cal people, he was a man who lived in a 
 muddle, which he had not the moral 
 courage to face ; and who would die in a 
 muddle, out of which his executors w^ould
 
 14 COCK ROBIN. 
 
 have to find their way as best they could. 
 Logarithms were child's play to him ; but 
 a butcher who charged him six and nine- 
 pence for seven pounds of mutton at 
 elevenpence halfpenny a pound, would find 
 an easy victim. 
 
 Of course, he was robbed right and left, 
 and a mania for bill transactions, dabblings 
 in stocks and shares of the most '^ wild- 
 cat " order, kept him in a chronic state of 
 debt. 
 
 But though unfortunate in everything 
 else, he drew a prize in the lottery of wed- 
 lock. He managed somehow to win the 
 love of a lady with a small fortune and a 
 large stock of common sense. Her money 
 saved the living from sequestration, and 
 her good management kept its incumbent 
 straight — as long as she lived. She got 
 him pupils, and, what is more, kept them
 
 COCK ROBIN. 15 
 
 for him ; increased his income, reduced his 
 expenditure, and obtained a promise that 
 he would pay ready money and never 
 speculate again. 
 
 Mr. Henry Wybert was one of those 
 pupils, and kept up the acquaintance of 
 the preceptor of his youth, until their 
 original positions were reversed. At 
 the age of three-and-twenty, this young 
 gentleman had a very clear, co(jl 
 head on his shoulders ; at the age 
 of fifty, his former tutor was as 
 green as when he first donned cap and 
 gown. 
 
 When Mrs. Marston died, and trouble 
 entered the vicarage once more Wybert 
 became the lecturer and Marston the lec- 
 tured. Old Doctor Wybert had paid a 
 hundred and fifty guineas a year for the 
 honour of having his son helped over the
 
 1 6 COCK ROBIN, 
 
 po7is asinorum by an honourable and re- 
 verend, and now the quondam pupil was 
 rendering much more practical services for 
 no fee except the sensation of superiority, 
 which was pleasant to him, and the repu- 
 tation of being intimate with the brother 
 of a peer, which flattered a somewhat ser- 
 vile mind. 
 
 The trouble which followed Mrs. Mar- 
 Eton's death was this. Her twelve thou- 
 sand pounds — the interest of which had 
 gone to keep up the house — was ^'ap- 
 pointed" between her two daughters, 
 Isabel and Margaret, '^ come of age or 
 marry ;" and the Court of Chancery would 
 not allow more than half the income to be 
 applied for their support and maintenance 
 as minors. Alas ! that promise to pay 
 ready money and abjure speculation had 
 not been kept, and the trustees felt bound
 
 COCK ROBIN, 17 
 
 to say some very disagreeable things 
 through their counsel at the hearing. 
 
 Then the eldest '^ infant/' Isabel^ mar- 
 ried, against all advice and remonstrance, 
 ^ man who " hadn't a shilling," and away 
 went her contribution — and there were no 
 pupils now. Brimful of learning, Mr. 
 Marston could not teach that twice five 
 was ten. He might have got on with 
 young men of twenty, who wanted to 
 learn, and would help him to teach them, 
 but careless boys irritated him. He would 
 get furious with them over a clumsily- 
 construed line, and order them out of the 
 room. So whenever they wanted a holi- 
 day they knew how to get it. What 
 they did learn they were taught in the 
 drawing-room ; but when the kind hand 
 which led them to be, as was truly said, 
 *' such gentlemanly boys," was cold, and 
 
 VOL. I. 2
 
 i8 COCK ROBIN. 
 
 they were left to run wild amongst fisher- 
 men and gamekeepers, the verdict changed. 
 One by one they were taken away, and 
 the deserted master had not the energy to 
 seek for others. He had no energy for 
 anything. He did not even run into debt 
 — he sauntered into it — and made no effort 
 to retrieve his steps. 
 
 It requires a long time and much pro- 
 vocation to make the tradesmen of a small 
 sea-side town put their parson in the 
 county court ; and certainly the butchers, 
 and bakers, and corn-chandlers of Lare- 
 mouth gave their pastor plenty of law — in 
 one sense of the phrase — before they sued 
 him. What were they to do with a man 
 who would not see them, or answer their 
 letters, and whose motto appeared to be 
 "Shirk! Shirk! Shirk!"? Well, the fruits 
 of shirking soon appeared.
 
 COCK ROBIN. 
 
 Tradesmen's angry notes ripened into 
 lawyers' letters, these into summonses, 
 these into judgments, remonstrances by 
 the Bishop, and threats of sequestration. 
 In such need, a friend who could bring 
 some order into the muddlement ; oppose 
 what was unjust and concede what was 
 correct ; who could raise money enough to 
 pay off small and pressing debts, get this 
 creditor to give time, and that to accept 
 smaller instalments ; one who, in a Avord, 
 would face it — was a friend indeed, and 
 Henry Wybert was the man. 
 
 Madge was fifteen when this crisis 
 occurred, but, beyond a vague idea that 
 things were going wrong, and that Wybert 
 (whom she remembered as one of 'Hhe 
 boys ") was somehow or other engaged in 
 putting them to rights, it made no im- 
 pression upon hei. How, as time went 
 
 2—2
 
 20 COCK ROBIN. 
 
 on, the boy whose ears she had seen boxed 
 became a power at the vicarage, she did 
 not seek to enquire. Her father sought 
 his advice, and submitted to his dictation. 
 Nothing could be done without Henry. 
 If he became too fond of exercising his 
 power, she did not perceive it. If he 
 were a tyrant, he was at least a beneficent 
 one. 
 
 Such small festivities as were held at 
 the vicarage were arranged to suit his 
 visits. His comings necessitated the pur- 
 chase of new raiment, and his goings were 
 made eras from which dates were calcu- 
 lated. What was known in Mrs. Marston's 
 time as the Guests Chamber became '' Mr. 
 Wybert's room," and was constantly occu- 
 pied. His influence grew, you see, as she 
 grew, and every change for the better in 
 their mode of living was associated with it.
 
 COCK ROBIN. 21 
 
 As for the vicar, he could not order a new 
 coat, or have the ponies cHpped, without 
 consulting Henry. I mention the ponies 
 because this will show you that Mr. 
 Marston's fortunes had brightened under 
 the careful nursing of his former pupil. 
 Indeed, at the time when Madge was 
 separating those pugnacious cock robins, 
 her father was almost out of debt. He 
 drank his tea that morning without fear of 
 the grocer, and did not hurry off to his 
 study then — as he had often done before — 
 to avoid such a message as ^^ The butcher 
 sends his duty, sir, and could he see 
 you?" 
 
 He was out of debt ; but not out of the 
 old habit of shirking difficulties. The 
 present difficulty was contained in Wybert's 
 letter, which we left Madge reading. It 
 had been given to her on the stairs as she
 
 COCK ROBIN, 
 
 left her room, and she had glanced through 
 it hastily to see what nice things the good 
 genius of the house would write about 
 her lover, and we know what she found. 
 '' Utter meanness and treachery !" Fraser 
 EUicott mean ? Fraser Elhcott a traitor ? 
 Traitor to whom — to what? If the man 
 she had been brought up to believe in so 
 thoroughly had written to say that the 
 Archbishop of Canterbury had joined the 
 Mormons, or that Mr. Martin Tupper was 
 the real author of all the works attributed 
 to Bret Harte, habit would have brought 
 credence. But evil of Fraser EUicott — 
 her Fraser, her man of men, her prince 
 whose kiss had awakened her out of the 
 trance of childhood into the noonday of 
 woman's life — that was not to be believed 
 though fifty Henry Wyberts swore it to be 
 true.
 
 COCK ROBIN. 
 
 Still there was enough of the old influ- 
 ence remaining to make her feel very 
 unhappy. Fraser had left Laremouth 
 soon after his proposal, for propriety sake, 
 and to give Mr. Marston an opportunity 
 of making enquiries as to his character and 
 position. He laughed, in his hearty way, 
 when told that Wybert was to be his 
 sponsor. 
 
 " What does he know about me % "no 
 harm, I'll swear !" he laughed ; "so that's 
 all right, darling, and as for the tin, I'll 
 make my guardian write directly I get to 
 town." 
 
 So the course of true love for this pair 
 seemed as smooth as the Great Northern 
 Railway track, till that mysterious reply 
 of the good genius came. Poor Madge 
 got indignant over it, and cried over it, 
 and wondered what on earth it could
 
 24 COCK ROBIN. 
 
 mean ; at last she took heart of grace, and 
 determined to fret no more, but have it 
 out with all concerned, and first with her 
 father.
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 THE FLAG OF REVOLT. ^ 
 
 HE Vicar had looked out his 
 sermon for Sunday, and was 
 making some alterations therein 
 when Madge entered his study — a small 
 room on the ground floor having two 
 entrances, one from the house and the 
 other from the garden ; through which 
 latter the family could make a short cut 
 to service in rainy weather. She walks 
 straight up to where he sits, and resting
 
 THE FLAG OF REVOLT. 
 
 two fingers, which, tremble a little, on the 
 edge of the writing-table, breaks the 
 ice. 
 
 '^Papa, dear, I want you to show me 
 what you wTote to Henry !" 
 
 ^^ Show you T 
 
 "Yes — the copy, I mean." 
 
 "My love, you know how I dislike 
 copying what I write. Yes, yes, I un- 
 derstand," he adds in a querulous tone, as 
 he follows her glance towards a table upon 
 which stands a copying machine gorgeous 
 in crimson and gilding; "but it's of no 
 use ; ver}^ kind indeed of Henry to give it 
 to me, and of course he's right about the 
 propriety of keeping copies, only it never 
 would act properly." 
 
 " Can you tell me what you said in your 
 letter." 
 
 " Every word — that is, almost every
 
 THE FLAG OF REVOLT. 27 
 
 word," he replies brightening up, glad to 
 get off so easily for his neglect of Henry's 
 gift, which is in excellent order. '^ I told 
 him what had taken place." 
 
 " Papa, dear, I want you to tell me the 
 words you used. I cannot hope to under- 
 stand his answer unless I know exactly 
 Avhat you wrote. I do so wish you had 
 kept a copy." 
 
 ^^ Well, so do I, now ; but what is the 
 use of wishing. I said ' Dear Henry,' you 
 don't want the date, I suppose, it was the 
 day before yesterday; I said 'Dear Henry, 
 Mr. Ellicott has been staying here again ;' 
 no, I did not say ' here,' I said ' at his old 
 quarters ' or ' at the Harp and Crown,' I 
 really forget which, and it does not matter, 
 the sense is the same ; ' and Ave have seen 
 a great deal of him and like him very 
 much. To-day he gave me a great sur-
 
 28 THE FLAG OF REVOLT, 
 
 prise. He told me he had proposed for 
 dear Madge, and that she had accepted 
 hun if I would consent.' Well, that was 
 not exactly what passed," the Vicar con- 
 tinued with a grim smile. " He blurted 
 out that you had promised to be his wife^ 
 and took all the rest for granted ; but that 
 is what he meant I dare say. Then I 
 wrote 'as he is your friend and you brought 
 him here originally and introduced him to 
 us and know all about his character and 
 means, I apply to you at once for your 
 opinion and advice, by which I shall, of 
 course, be — be ' " 
 
 "Please go on." p 
 
 ''That was all." 
 
 " Did you say you would of course 
 be guided by his opinion and advice ?" 
 Madge asks, getting pale and breathing 
 quickly.
 
 THE FLAG OF REVOLT. 
 
 '^ I always take his advice, my dear ; 
 lie is a very clear-headed man." 
 
 ''But did you promise to do so this 
 time r 
 
 '' Promise ! really Madge, you are very 
 captious to-day ! There was no promise. 
 It was only just a nice way of turning the 
 sentence." 
 
 Madge heaves a deep sigh, and seats 
 herself, swinging her garden hat to ^d 
 fro, and grinding a hole through the carpet 
 with the toe of her boot. Her father 
 wriggles in his chair, takes a dip of ink, 
 and tries to get back to his sermon ; but 
 Madge cgmes to the charge again. 
 
 " What do you make out of his 
 answer 1" 
 
 " That he is very angry, my dear." 
 
 " But what about ? Why does he call 
 Fraser mean and treacherous ? why did he
 
 30 THE FLAG OF REVOLT. 
 
 bring liim here as his friend if he was a 
 bad man ? If it had not been for him he 
 would never have seen me or lov — and 
 if there's to be misery it's all his fault ; but 
 he shall answer it himself It is mean, 
 and it is treacherous of him to run him 
 down behind his back, and I don't believe 
 a word he says." 
 
 The reader may find some difficulty in 
 applying all the ^' lies " and '^ hims " of 
 excited Madge to the right person. If 
 people do not talk like leading articles in 
 this story, it is their fault not mine. 
 
 Madge imderstood what she said, and 
 emphasized it. The Vicar understood it 
 also, and hastened to the defence of his 
 idol. 
 
 '^Well, we must wait and see. The 
 poor fellow says he is surprised and dis- 
 tressed at — at something you know. Why^
 
 THE FLAG OF REVOLT, 
 
 those are his words, ^ Your letter has so 
 surprised and distressed me, that for the 
 present I cannot trust myself to write.' I 
 wish he hadn't written. Perhaps he wishes 
 so himself now. And another thing : it 
 may be as he says (oh ! he's not a man to 
 make rash assertions). He may have 
 learned something about Mr. Ellicott to 
 
 his disadvantage since he introduced him 
 here." 
 
 '* Then why does he not say what it is?" 
 asks Madge. 
 
 " My dear, there are things which you 
 ought not to hear." 
 
 *' He writes to you — not to me," says 
 Madge. "Besides," she goes on, takino* 
 up the letter by the extreme point of one 
 of its corners as though it were some 
 stinging insect, and reading it a yard off ; 
 he ^ declines to hold any communication^
 
 32 THE FLAG OF REVOLT, 
 
 direct or indirect, with or concerning a 
 man who has acted as Mr. Elhcott has 
 done.' What has he done ? He don't 
 say, and he won't say ! Really, papa, this 
 is treating us like children. Have you 
 answered him T 
 
 " No dear, not yet." 
 
 '' But you will T 
 
 "Well, really, now I consider, I don't 
 think it requires a reply." 
 
 " Not requires a reply I" Madge exclaims, 
 a rising sense of danger confusing her 
 grammar. 
 
 " Certainly not," says the Vicar, trying 
 to look as though he had made up his mind. 
 " Our correspondence upon this head is 
 concluded. I asked his opinion upon a 
 certain point. He refuses to give it. I 
 cannot force him, and so there is an end of 
 the matter."
 
 THE FLAG OF REVOLT. 33 
 
 Madge came into her father's study re- 
 solved to be very prudent. Like many 
 people who lead lonely lives she had a trick 
 of talking to herself. 
 
 " You keep your temper, Madge, like a 
 good girl," she said, as she opened the 
 wicket which led from the garden into 
 the churchyard ; ^^ and see if you can't 
 slip in between papa and Henry, for 
 it's not a bit of use to attack them fo- 
 gether." 
 
 With this line of diplomacy in mind she 
 eagerly accepts the reasons given by her 
 father for not answering Mr. Wybert's 
 letter, but doesn't let him see why. 
 
 " Perhaps it would be as well to let it 
 drop," she replies, after a pause. " There's 
 no use making mischief Of course, 
 Fraser would be very angry if we told 
 him." 
 
 VOL. I. 3
 
 34 THE FLAG OF REVOLT. 
 
 *' Oh dear ! he must never know — 
 never !" cries the Vicar. 
 
 '^ The thing is too vague altogether to 
 be noticed/' Madge says^ to confirm him. 
 '^ I wonder what could have put Henry 
 into such a bad temper. He deserves a 
 good rating. And do you know, papa, I 
 wish you would speak to him about being 
 so dictatorial with me. I'm not a child 
 now — not his child, any way. Fraser 
 noticed how he snubs me and orders me 
 about. It won't do noiv.'" 
 
 " Henry is very fond of you. I mean 
 he takes a great interest in you," says the 
 Vicar, getting red and avoiding her look. 
 '^ It would be very ungrateful indeed to — 
 fco hurt his feelings." 
 
 " I don't want to hurt his feelings," 
 Madge replies. " I only want him to 
 mind his own business. Why, the last
 
 THE FLAG OF REVOLT. 35 
 
 time he was here he had the impertinence 
 to lecture me upon what sort of boots I 
 should wear." 
 
 '^ And he was quite right," said her 
 father. ^^ As a medical man, he under- 
 stands the mischievous results of the pre- 
 sent fashion. I am sure that his explana- 
 tion was most lucid and satisfactory. You 
 seemed to think so, too, at the time." 
 
 '^ It was uncalled-for and impertinent,'* 
 Madge persists, shirking the concluding 
 assertion, which was true. '^ What busi- 
 ness was it of his how high my heels 
 were ? If he wanted to speak like a 
 doctor, he should have waited till I con- 
 sulted him as one, or he might have 
 spoken privately to you. The idea of a 
 young man like that, and no relation, 
 making me hold up my foot before — well, 
 he had better not do anything like it 
 
 3—2
 
 36 THE FLAG OF REVOLT, 
 
 again. Eraser told me it was as much 
 as ever he could do to keep from punching 
 his head." 
 
 '• I ought to be deeply indebted to Mr. 
 Ellicott for teaching you such lady-like 
 language ; and you will oblige me by not 
 calling him Fraser" snaps the Yicar^ Avho 
 has been fidgeting more and more as 
 Madge's flag of revolt rises, and, like 
 all weak creatures, he takes refuge in 
 anger. 
 
 " I merely repeated what he said, papa," 
 Madge replies, with as much calmness as 
 she can muster ; ^' and I should be very 
 sorry indeed if he should ever be similarly 
 provoked. Perhaps he would not be able 
 to keep his temper next time ; and this is 
 one reason why I hope you will give 
 Henry a hint not to meddle about me 
 any more."
 
 THE FLAG OF REVOLT. yj 
 
 " He will do what is right and proper 
 without any hints," is hei; father s pompous 
 reply. 
 
 " Well, I trust he will, for all our sakes. 
 And now, papa, please tell me what you 
 mean by asking me not to call Eraser, 
 Fraser. When Bell was engaged to 
 Horace, she always called him Horace." 
 
 " But you are not engaged to Fra — to 
 Mr. Ellicott," moans the Vicar. '' It w^s 
 perfectly clearly understood, Margaret — 
 and you know it — that until my inquiries 
 were satisfactorily answered, there was to 
 be no sort of eno^aarement." 
 
 '* Yes ; but you told him that you would 
 make those inquiries only as a matter of 
 form." 
 
 " My dear love, one is obliged to employ 
 such/a^o?is de 'parler — politeness demands 
 them ; at least, the politeness / was taught.
 
 33 THE FLAG OF REVOLT. 
 
 before gentlemen talked about punching 
 heads I" 
 
 '^ Papa, dear, you made it a matter of 
 form by consulting Henry, who knows no 
 more than we do about him since he was a 
 boy in jackets. If you were not satisfied, 
 and really Avanted to find out all about 
 him, why didn't you write to Uncle 
 
 Joe r 
 
 '' I will not permit you to catechise me 
 in this manner. It's undutiful, and — and 
 improper. I repeat, there is no engage- 
 ment between you and Mr. EUicott until 
 — there is no engagement at all. There !" 
 
 '^ May I write to Uncle Joe ? he knows 
 everybody, or can know if he likes," pleads 
 poor Madge. " Or, better, will you write 
 to Fra — to Mr. Ellicott, and ask him to 
 refer you to somebody T 
 
 *' Perhaps — I don't know — I must con-
 
 THE FLAG OF REVOLT, 
 
 39 
 
 sider/' her father stammers, wiping his 
 flushed face, and presenting a picture of 
 irresolution, vexation, and helplessness. 
 '' Really, Margaret, this persistence is very- 
 indelicate ; and after Henry's letter— " 
 
 "" It is the commonest fair play to push 
 inquiries at once," she interrupts, with 
 raised colour and kindling eyes. 
 
 " If you will only leave me alone, dear, I 
 will do everything that is fair," he pleads. 
 " I will write to Henry, and see if I can 
 get his consent." 
 
 "JKs consent?" 
 
 " Well, well ; get him to withdraw, or 
 modify — his opposition." 
 
 '^ Why, good gracious, papa ! What has 
 he to oppose \ What business is it of his 
 whom I marry T 
 
 " I have consulted him on the subject, 
 and it would be most rude — most im-
 
 40 THE FLAG OF REVOLT, 
 
 proper and unfriendly — to ignore his ad- 
 vice. You don't understand these things, 
 Madge — indeed you don't." 
 
 " Then you are influenced by — this — 
 thing f " Her hp curls, and she gives the 
 letter we know of a flick with her finger- 
 nail. 
 
 '^ To a certain extent — yes." 
 
 " Oh, I never heard of anything so un- 
 fair ! You make me absolutely hate 
 him !" she cries, starting up. 
 
 The flag of revolt is at the truck now. 
 One little jerk, and it will ^^ break" and 
 flutter out in the breeze. Her father has 
 wit enough left not to add that jerk. He 
 explains that this *^ certain extent " does 
 not go far. He does not retire from his 
 position that the correspondence with the 
 good genius is closed on this subject. He 
 thinks Madge's idea of applying to Uncle
 
 THE FLAG OF REVOLT. 4r 
 
 Joe a good one. He backs and he fills — 
 he blows hot and cold. He orders his 
 persistent daughter out of the room, and 
 ends by begging her, with tears in his 
 eyes, to write anything she pleases, and he 
 will copy and send it. 
 
 You will perceive that Madge does not 
 take after her father in disposition. She 
 is one of those persons whom you call 
 obstinate when they disagree with you, 
 and firm when they take your side. The 
 lonely life she led gave her a power of 
 passive resistance. Slighted by her father, 
 or snubbed by Mr. Henry Wybert^ it was 
 her habit to go away to a ledge on the 
 very brink of the cliff, which she called 
 her " thinking-place," where she would try 
 them before a jury of crude and angry 
 thoughts, and decide that the one was 
 unjust, and the other odious.
 
 42 THE FLAG OF REVOLT. 
 
 She had no one to peel the bitter rind 
 off a rebuke, and give her to taste of the 
 good fruit within. No one to rub opinions 
 with, and so polish them. No one to give 
 her that most wholesome sensation, which 
 sometimes finds vent in the exclamation, 
 '' Olfi, ivhat a fool I am /" 
 
 As for Wybert, she knows that his visits 
 only last a few days, and so she endures 
 him. As for the Yicar, she knows that, 
 however vigorously he may forbid this or 
 that to-day, it may be done or neglected 
 to-morrow with impunity. All things 
 come to those who wait, and so she used 
 to wait, certain of her own AA^ay in the 
 end. 
 
 She gets her own way about writing to 
 Uncle Joe, and takes it to that thinking- 
 place of hers. It is cool and fresh up 
 there, and silent but for the lapping of the
 
 THE FLAG OF REVOLT. 43 
 
 waves below ; and that is soothing. She 
 has fought a hard battle, and does not 
 know exactly w^hat to do with her victory. 
 What if there be, after all, some ugly black 
 spot upon her lover's fame, and she be- 
 comes the one to unveil it ? 
 
 There is a good view of the town from 
 where she sits, and as the reader will have 
 to learn his way about it, this is not a bad 
 place for a map. 
 
 Laremouth has seen better days. Long 
 before the first hotel was built at Battle- 
 ville — the fashionable watering-j)lace on 
 the other side of the bay — it had its 
 manufactories of canvas and was the head- 
 quarters of the fishery on that part of the 
 coast. Cheaper and better canvas can be 
 got elsewhere now, and though many of 
 the fisher-folk live where their grand- 
 fathers were born — fisher- folk being rank
 
 44 THE FLAG OF REVOLT. 
 
 Conservatives in this respect — they carry 
 their spoil to Battleville, whence the 
 railway whisks it up to all-devouring^ 
 London. 
 
 Even the river which gives the place 
 its name seems to have slunk away from 
 it in its decadence, and dribbles a low- 
 spirited stream through the mud of what 
 was once a busy harbour. On the right 
 bank is the town, which looks as though 
 the great white bluif behind it had ad- 
 vanced one day and swept the houses into 
 heaps — ^higgledy-piggledy — at its foot, and 
 up its sides ; wherever there is a break in 
 the great wall of chalk. 
 
 It is a very full-flavoured town in warm 
 weather under the cliffl Some quarter of 
 a mile inland it finds more room, dodges 
 the hill round a spur, and straggles off 
 into the downs, where Madge can count,
 
 THE FLAG OF REVOLT. 45 
 
 ensconced in sheltered nooks, about a score 
 of farm-houses and residences, more or 
 less imposing, where the better class of her 
 father's parishioners reside. 
 
 In the pleasantest nook of all, higher up 
 the cliff than the rest, reposes the church 
 and vicarage. You can see the spire from 
 the sea, and I believe it forms a landmark 
 for ^'^ making" Battleville from the west. 
 Higher up still, not far from Madge's 
 thinking-place, is the coastguard station, 
 with its tall flag-staff and sulky-looking 
 battery, where the Artillery Volunteers 
 come to practise and the Coast Reserve is 
 trained. At this point the seaward face 
 of the cliff goes down a sheer three 
 hundred feet. The other bank of the 
 harbour is low and swampy, and boasts 
 only a few hovels where fish used to be 
 cured in the old days Avhen Billingsgate
 
 46 THE FLAG OF REVOLT. 
 
 could not claim all the take for her 
 own. 
 
 There are perhaps a dozen people with 
 whom Madge can associate upon equal 
 terms, and only one with whom she is 
 intimate — a lady some years her senior, 
 who had been out as a governess, from 
 which brilliant career she retired some 
 time before this story opens, to keep house 
 for a bachelor brother lately a captain of 
 mail steamers. 
 
 Jessie Westwood had been Bell's friend 
 to begin with, and stood her stanch ally 
 and comfort in her trouble about the man 
 who '' hadn't a sixpence :" and she w^as 
 a favourite aversion of Mr. Henry Wybert 
 — a very strong recommendation, just now, 
 with Bell's successor. For this sixpence- 
 less detrimental, upon whom every one 
 had been " down " — this unprincipled do-
 
 THE FLAG OF REVOLT, 47 
 
 nothing, who was to eat up poor Bell's 
 little fortune, and then illuse her — is 
 making at the present writing about a 
 shilling a minute of his working day; 
 and there isn't a more spoiled woman in 
 all London than Bell. As to that six 
 thousand pounds ; a good deal of that has 
 gone back to the vicarage, and partly 
 accounts for the ponies. 
 
 *^ Dear old Jess " (Miss Westwood was 
 christened Jessie)'^ was rightabout Horace," 
 Madge muses ; ^^ you might do worse than 
 tell her about Henry's cruel letter and 
 papa and poor Eraser ; but not just yet 
 awhile. The first thing to be done is to 
 write to Uncle Joe^ and find out what he 
 thinks. If his answer be satisfactory you 
 can play it off against Henry's vague in- 
 sinuations. If it be otherwise, then in- 
 deed you will have need of a consoler."
 
 48 THE FLAG OF REVOLT, 
 
 Treacherous and mean ! The words 
 buzz in her mind Hke a fly on a window 
 pane. Can it be some entanglement with 
 another girl ? She has a vague idea that 
 young men may have entanglements which 
 prudence says "break," and honour whispers 
 *' break not." Can Fraser be jilting some 
 one for her % Some creature (the '^ other 
 woman," I have observed, is always a 
 creature) who has entrapped him, and 
 whose part odious Henry Wybert is going 
 to take ? 
 
 Treacherous and mean. If he had gone 
 through the whole vocabulary of de- 
 traction, he would not have found two 
 adjectives more hateful to the heart of 
 such a woman as Madge Marston. And 
 he was the first man who had treated her 
 as a grown-up young lady — the first who 
 had led her to discover the power of her
 
 THE FLAG OF REVOLT. 49 
 
 sex — the first who had put the magic into 
 her looking-glass which had told her she 
 was pretty ! The man of men. The man 
 she loved ! Ah, it was hard ! 
 
 VOL. 1.
 
 CHAPTEE III. 
 
 AT BECKHAMPTON. 
 
 HASER ELLICOTT, banished 
 from the presence of his sweet- 
 heart by the stern laws of Mrs. 
 Grundy nntil what he calls "all that 
 humbug" is got over, runs up to London 
 to hasten a solution of such part of it as 
 relates to the "tin." The other question 
 he considers quite safe in the hands of 
 Henry Wybert, though he did toss his 
 handsome head with something between a
 
 AT BECKHAMPTON. 51 
 
 laugh and a scoff when informed that his 
 character would be taken in that direction. 
 They had been boys, and to some extent 
 playmates, together in the country town 
 where Wybert was the son of a not very 
 highly esteemed general practitioner, and 
 EUicott the heir of its popular squire. As 
 men they had not seen much of each other 
 until they met at Battleville, where that 
 portentous visit to Laremouth Vicarage,, 
 once dreaded as a bore, had been arranged. 
 Then did his deputy host rise mightily in 
 his estimation. Here was a man who 
 might call Miss Marston *^ Madge ;" whom 
 she called " Henry ;" whose mere '^ all 
 right" sanctioned picnics, boating-parties, 
 and other delightful arrangements whereby 
 he might gain the ear and smile of the 
 lady of his love ! There was even comfort 
 in the discovery that the good genius of 
 
 4—2 
 
 UNJVEKSITY OF ILIINOIS
 
 52 AT BECKHAMPTON. 
 
 the Vicarage was priggish and dictatorial 
 to his young hostess, because for a day or 
 so, before these quahties were developed, 
 he was miserably jealous of him. He 
 could very soon put an end to thaty and in 
 the meantime keep on good terms with 
 the power that was, without playing the 
 hypocrite. After all, Henry was a good 
 sort of fellow in his way, though it wasn't 
 quite a pleasant one. He had nothing to 
 fear from Henry. 
 
 Respecting the " tin " he was equally at 
 ease, though the account he gave Mr. 
 Marston of his worldly possessions was 
 somewhat vague. He was to come into 
 his fortune when he was twenty-three, and 
 there was the old Hall Estate at Beck- 
 hampton, and the mill, and some houses 
 by the river, and a lot of shares and things 
 that his guardian knew all about, and a
 
 AT BECKHAMPTON, 53 
 
 heap of money which had accumulated 
 during his minority. Altogether he would 
 have some three thousand a year — somehow. 
 That was all he knew, but his guardian 
 would write, and put everything down 
 ship-shape. He had never known what 
 it was to want a thing, and not get it — 
 this spoiled child of Fortune ! He wanted 
 Madge, and she was happy to be wanted. 
 That was enough. 
 
 So he went to his guardian, the Right 
 Honourable Temple Fleurey, Under Secre- 
 tary of State for a great department which 
 had the reputation of doing business in the 
 most orderly and slowest fashion of all the 
 great departments ; and here he received 
 the first check. 
 
 The right honourable gentleman knew 
 about as much of his ward's ways and 
 means in detail, as did that ward himself ;
 
 54 AT BECKHAMPTON, 
 
 but he was not going to commit himself on 
 paper or off it, to a ^^ somehow." No, Mr. 
 Elhcott would have the goodness to address 
 him a letter asking for the particulars he 
 desired, which letter he — the right honour- 
 able gentleman — would forward to the 
 solicitor who acted in the trust, and when 
 he had received that person's reply, and 
 verified its exactitude and had an hour's 
 
 leisure, he would draft a desp he 
 
 would write to the father of the young 
 lady, and place him in possession of the 
 result. Couldn't he drop a line at once 
 and say it was about three thousand ? oh 
 dear no ! The right honourable gentleman 
 could not possibly deal with ^'abouts." 
 
 Now Eraser had promised not to write 
 to his Madge, and she had promised to 
 hold no communication with him till "• all 
 that humbug" was got over. He had
 
 AT BECKHAMPTON. 55 
 
 counted upon a probation of two days, and 
 after a visit to the solicitor in question, 
 found that he would have to pine for at 
 least a fortnight. Well, his character was 
 not made up of halls, and houses, and 
 mills, and a lot of things which only a 
 lawyer could put under £ s. d. That 
 could and would be answered straight off, 
 and dear little Madge's mind made happy. 
 And the conclusion was an honest one. 
 He was within three months of the date 
 fixed for his coming of age, strong, hearty, 
 rich, bumptious (as some who did not like 
 him said), considerably below the angels, 
 his faithful chronicler is bound to admit. 
 Still — as young men go, have gone, and 
 will proceed — ^he had done nothing to be 
 ashamed of He might have done far 
 worse, and yet be an excellent parti in 
 the estimation of Mrs. Grundy, with his
 
 56 AT BECKHAMPTON, 
 
 three thousand a year as an absolution 
 fund. 
 
 His only trouble was to kill time. The 
 London season had begun. Lots of his 
 friends were in town, and he need not 
 have spent a dull hour ; but the whirl of 
 excitement jarred upon him. Unlike most 
 men in love, he had the sense to know he 
 could be nothing but a bore wherever he 
 went — a bore if he held his tongue, and a 
 greater bore still if he put what filled his 
 thoughts into speech. So he determined 
 to pass his probation where he could be 
 silent without reproach, or talk as much as 
 he pleased to sympathising ears. 
 
 He went off to Beckhampton. The old 
 hall had to be turned out of windows for 
 Madge, and it would be fine employment 
 to plan improvements and speculate how 
 Madge would like this, that, and the other.
 
 AT BECKHAMPTON. 57 
 
 about her future home. Besides, there 
 would be the fun of a surprise, as he had 
 not been there for nearly two years. 
 
 The surprise was a success, the wander- 
 ing about a waste of old rooms without a 
 pattern-book in his hand, or an upholsterer 
 at his elbow, not so satisfactory. This was 
 exercise only for his legs. After all, he 
 concluded, it would be best to leave the 
 furnishing to Madge — she had such goed 
 taste. So as soon as he had dined, he lit 
 a big cigar, rang for the housekeeper (who 
 had been his nurse), put on his slippers, and 
 relieved his mind. 
 
 " I'm going to be married, Mrs. Aymes," 
 he says, stretching out his legs and blowing 
 a cloud of fragrant blue smoke up to the 
 ceiling. 
 
 Good Mrs. Aymes, who, fearing orders 
 for a bachelor party, sits fidgeting on the
 
 58 AT BECKHAMPTON, 
 
 chair he made her take, loses sight of the 
 fine young gentleman before her, and sees 
 only the child she nursed. 
 
 ^' Bless the boy!" she exclaims. '^You 
 don't say so T 
 
 '^ I do ; and the young lady says so too, 
 which is more to the purpose." 
 
 ''• Lord ! Lord ! Well, it's only natural. 
 May I make bold to ask who the lady 
 
 isr 
 
 '^ Certainly. Miss Marston, daughter of 
 the vicar of Laremouth." 
 
 " What ! Young Mr. Wybert's school- 
 master T 
 
 ^' Schoolmaster isn't exactly the word. 
 Henry Wybert was a pupil — he read, as 
 they call it, with Mr. Marston." 
 
 '^ He goes there a good deal now, they 
 say." 
 
 " Yes : he introduced me."
 
 AT BECKHAMPTON. 59 
 
 "Has the young lady any sisters, 
 
 sir r 
 
 '' One." 
 
 *' Ah ! that's it, then," observes Nurse 
 Aymes, half to herself. But he hears 
 her. 
 
 " That's what ?" 
 
 '' Well, people did say he was sweet on 
 one of them. Maybe there'll be two wed- 
 dings, Master Fraser T 
 
 '' Oh dear no ! she married years 
 ago." 
 
 " The other one T 
 
 " Why, you old goose ! There were but 
 two," he laughs ; " and Wybert didn't hit 
 it at all with the other one, as you call 
 her. Tell me, what do they think of 
 Henry Wybert down here T 
 
 "• I ain't fond of gossip, Master Fraser," 
 ^he replies, after a pause ; '' but I don't
 
 6o AT BECKHAMPTON. 
 
 mind telling you. They think him a deal 
 too uppish — takes after his mother ; and 
 I'm sure they've neither of them any call 
 to give themselves airs." 
 
 " He won't give himself any more at 
 Laremouth, so far as Mad — as Miss Mar- 
 ston is concerned/' says the hapj)y man 
 decisively. ^^ He treated her as though 
 he were dame of some village school, and 
 she a charity brat." 
 
 '^ Then there isn't any truth about his 
 being sweet on her ?" 
 
 ^^ Lord bless you, no ! He's only sweet 
 on himself." 
 
 "' Master Fraser, if you'll believe me, I 
 linow he has let folks down here tease him 
 about being engaged to one of those young 
 ladies, and he has not contradicted it." 
 
 '^ Then he's an infernal cad !" roars 
 Fraser. '^ And if you hear any more such
 
 AT BECKHAMPTON. 6i 
 
 impertinence, Mrs. Aymes^ you have my 
 authority to say that Miss Marston — now 
 Mrs. de Grey — dishked him particularly ; 
 and that her sister is going to marry her 
 first love — that's me." 
 
 After this outburst, which relieves his 
 mind, he sits puffing away in silence, 
 lugging at his moustache, and perhaps 
 wishing it were Mr. Wybert's nose. 
 
 '' Is it to be a secret. Master Fraser T 
 asks his old nurse. 
 
 '' Oh no ! you can tell anybody !" 
 '* And when will you be married T 
 " Just as soon as I am my own 
 master." 
 
 " Well, well ! t' think of that !" 
 The good woman rejoices, after the man- 
 ner of her sex, over one of the other led 
 captive; but dim visions that her place 
 will not be as comfortable under a young
 
 62 AT BECKHAMPTON. 
 
 mistress as it has been under a young (and 
 usually absent) master, flit over her mind^ 
 and she in turn relapses into silence. 
 
 " Any news T he asks, breaking it. 
 " Any one married or dead T 
 
 " N — o — not that you care about ; but 
 some one's going away." 
 
 '^ Who's that r 
 
 " Hazeltine, the miller." 
 
 '' Old Hazeltine ! What for T 
 
 "He hasn't been getting along well 
 lately, and his sons as went to Australia 
 has ; so they're going out to them." 
 
 " Rather late in life to emigrate." 
 
 " So I say. But it's all fixed. They 
 go next month." 
 
 "- 1 shall be sorry to lose old Hazeltine ; 
 he's a good fellow, and one of the best 
 tenants we have." 
 
 '' It will be a job to find as good a one
 
 AT BECKHAMPTON, 63 
 
 for the mill now. And Doctor Byng 
 he's going to retire; sold the school, I 
 hear." 
 
 So they go on discussing local affairs^ 
 which will not interest the reader, and 
 coming back to tlie topic again, for another 
 hour, when the housekeeper manages to 
 conjure up a soda and b. from some re- 
 condite source, and Fraser goes to bed and 
 dreams of Madge. • 
 
 In the morning he is up betimes, hunts 
 up some old tackle, and sallies out no- 
 minally to fish, really to have a talk with 
 old Hazeltine. He commences with his 
 great news ; and, somewhat to his sur- 
 prise, he is met with Mrs. Aymes's ques- 
 tion : 
 
 '^ Isn't that where young Mr. Wybert 
 was at school ?" 
 
 Old Hazeltine, however, goes no further^
 
 64 AT BECKHAMPTON. 
 
 and is content to learn that the future lady 
 of the old Hall is Mr. Marston's only un- 
 married daughter. 
 
 He finds the miller in the mill-house, 
 poring over a well-thumbed ledger, kept 
 upon principles entirely his own, and out 
 of which he is struggling hard to put his 
 worldly affairs in order. Mrs. Hazeltine 
 is busy brightening up things for the 
 auction, which is to take place shortly ; 
 and a girl, whom Fraser does not recog- 
 nise, is sitting apart by the window, with 
 some work in her lap. 
 
 It is de rigueuT to take something, so he 
 has a glass of ale, gives his host some 
 tobacco, and makes himself at home, as 
 he is told to do. 
 
 "So we are going to lose you T he 
 says, after the announcement above re- 
 corded.
 
 AT BECKHAMPTON. 65 
 
 The miller puts away his ledger, lights 
 a pipe, and sinking slowly into a Windsor 
 chair, replies, with much deliberation be- 
 tween the pufFs : 
 
 '* Yes, sir, you be, sure enough! Things 
 ain't as they was, or as they should be, I 
 says. Them steam mills gets all the corn, 
 and them bleachers up the vale takes all 
 the water. There isn't bread and salt to be 
 made now, by old-fashioned folk like us."' 
 
 *^ I noticed that the river was low," said 
 Fraser. 
 
 '* Low ? Low isn't the word ! It's 
 almost dry all summer ; and what with 
 that there craze for draining farmers gets 
 bitten wi', it fills up that quick when 
 the rains come, you've nubbut time to 
 up sluices " (Mr. Hazeltine called them 
 " slushes "), '^ afore it's on you like to carry 
 mill and all away." 
 
 VOL. I. 5
 
 66 AT BECKHAMPTON. 
 
 " And so you really think you will like 
 Australia T 
 
 '' We've got to like it when we get there 
 — ain't we, old woman ?" says the miller 
 cheerily. 
 
 His better half endorses this philosophic 
 view, and adds : 
 
 '^ Oh, we're all right, Mr. Eraser, once 
 we gets there." 
 
 " Are your sons married ?" he asks. 
 
 " Both on 'em." 
 
 *' I don't like to croak, Mrs. Hazeltine," 
 observes the young squire, *^ but remember 
 the old saying, ' My son's my son till he 
 gets him a wife.' " 
 
 '' My son's my son all the days of my 
 life," the mother replies proudly. " They're 
 good lads, sir, and God Almighty knows 
 it and prospers 'em. I thank Him on my 
 bended knees for it, and I thank Him too
 
 AT BECKHAMPTON, 67 
 
 that I was never worrited in a gal — of my 
 own." 
 
 She glances towards the window as she 
 thus rejoices ; and Fraser, who follows her 
 look, cries : 
 
 '' Why, that's never little Kate V 
 
 *' Of course it is !" the miller shouts, 
 slapping his thigh. '' Why don't you 
 €ome, Katie, and say how d'ye do to Mr. 
 Fraser T 
 
 ^' I was waiting for him to come and say 
 how d'ye do to me," the girl replies de- 
 murely, raising her eyes from the work, 
 but budging not an inch. 
 
 The voice, soft and musical, startles Mr. 
 Fraser. The eyes of a dreamy but lustrous 
 brown hold his own. For several moments 
 he can do nothing but stare at her. He 
 sees a slight, well-rounded form, clad in 
 cheap cotton, only it is fashioned in a style 
 
 5—2
 
 68 AT BECKHAMPrON. 
 
 not usually to be found in mill-houses. 
 No pretence — no attempt at finery, only 
 taste. He sees a pair of small white 
 hands busy with bright silks and glittering 
 beads, over which a well-shaped head, with 
 a wealth of gold bronze hair twisted around 
 it, bends again in silence. 
 
 " Please don't think I was rude, Katie." 
 he blurts out at last; "I really did not know 
 you. Why, how you have grown and 
 improved ! What are the young fellows 
 doing to let you go out to Australia T 
 
 He speaks at her, to her aunt, and does 
 not notice the ineffable expression of scorn 
 which curls her handsome mouth. 
 
 " She's not going," Mrs. Hazeltine 
 answers him dryly. 
 
 " Why not T 
 
 A shrug of her ample shoulders is all the 
 reply he gets from that quarter.
 
 AT BECKHAMPTON. (^y 
 
 " Look here, Hazeltine," says Fraser, 
 taking him by the shoulder and walking 
 him into the porch; *'if it's money that 
 stops her, let me know. I think it a beastly 
 shame to send such a pretty girl out of the 
 country, but hang it ! I should hate to 
 think you are parted for want of a few 
 pounds." 
 
 " She can go if she has a mind to," the 
 miller replies, ^^ and I don't rightly know 
 what she's up to stopping behind. I thank 
 ye kindly, sir, for your offer, but there's no 
 need of it. If you'd just get out of her, 
 now, what she's up to, that 'ud be a real 
 service." 
 
 Fraser looks round, perhaps to see what 
 chance was presented of getting this out of 
 her, and sees Mrs. Hazeltine with her finger 
 on her lip. 
 
 He returns to the '^ keeping-room," and
 
 70 AT BECKHAMPTON. 
 
 renews his apologies to Katie. The finger 
 is gone from her aunt's hp, but he is plainly 
 told by the expression on her face that he 
 is not to do as her lord suggests. The talk 
 turns on fishing, and soon the miller goes 
 out to get some caddis worms which he 
 thinks may tempt the trout, having pre- 
 viously sent Katie to look for a can to put 
 them in. Then Mrs. Hazeltine, speaking 
 low and quickly, says : 
 
 " Don't you try anything of the sort, sir, 
 for it wouldn't be no sort of use. Let her 
 alone, and p'r aps she'll come. Worry her 
 about reasons and that, and she'd get more 
 pig-headed than ever." 
 
 '^ I dare say she dislikes to be a burden 
 on you," says Fraser ; '^ now, if I " 
 
 *' That's not it. She knows she's welcome 
 to her keep, and she's worth it. A handier 
 girl about a house don't live. It ain't the
 
 AT BECKHAMPTON, 71 
 
 money, Mr. Fraser, it's this : she's a-think- 
 ing about a man who isn't a-thinking about 
 her." 
 
 ^^Whew! "Who is her 
 
 '* That wouldn't be fair to tell. Because 
 her mother married a gentleman she thinks 
 she's going to do the same — but she isn't. 
 There was two fools in that case, there's 
 only one in this." 
 
 *' But what on earth is she going to' do 
 when you leave V 
 
 " Well, Mr. Pryor says she may stop 
 here and take care of the house till it's 
 rented, which won't be soon as things go. 
 We shall leave her furniture for her room, 
 poor foolish lass ! and when she gets over 
 her foolishness she'll go into service. I 
 suppose you've no objection, sir T 
 
 '^ To her going into service T 
 
 " No, to her staying on here."
 
 72 AT BECKHAMPTON. 
 
 " Oh, I leave all those things to Pryor. 
 She may stop till Doomsday for me. But 
 about going into service. Why shouldn't 
 she come to us ? My wife " (the rascal drew 
 himself up and spoke ore rotimdo) "my wife 
 will want a maid, and she shall be well 
 treated and looked after, Mrs. Hazeltine. 
 I don't want to press your confidence, or to 
 say anything unkind of Katie, but when 
 such a pretty girl as she is falls in love 
 with a gentleman, why " 
 
 " I understand, sir, and I thank you 
 kindly," says Mrs. Hazeltine. " If she 
 will stop behind I shall leave her with a 
 lighter heart after your kind offer, for I 
 love the gal though she is no blood of 
 mine." 
 
 '^ So her mother married above her. 
 The usual thing I suppose ; rows with the 
 family, and then ill-usage of their cause,"
 
 AT BECKHAMPTON. 73 
 
 Fraser observes, with the ak of a grand- 
 father. He has been feeUng old and re- 
 sponsible since his engagement. 
 
 " No, there wasn't no rows or ill-usage," 
 Mrs. Hazeltine replies. '' Leastwise he 
 didn't beat her or that. The fam'ly dropped 
 him, and he just slunk down lower and 
 lower ; hadn't the spirit to work for her, 
 and took to drink. If it hadn't a bin for 
 my good man they'd a starved." 
 
 *^ And where are they now T 
 
 *' Lord bless you, sir ! why, in their 
 graves years ago. Katie's bin living with 
 us ever since she was twelve, and I can 
 say I've done my duty by her. I often 
 wish we'd a took her sister too." 
 
 '* Oh, she has a sister !" 
 
 " The less said about her is soonest 
 mended, Mr. Fraser." 
 
 '' Went to the bad, eh ?"
 
 74 AT BECKHAMPTON. 
 
 '^ No, sir, the bad was brought to her. 
 When we took Katie she went to her other 
 aunt at Oxford. Did you know Blake's 
 stables when you was at Oxford T 
 
 "Well." 
 
 '' Would you have let a young girl run 
 wild about such a place T 
 
 '^ Well, I don't think I would if I had 
 any interest in her." 
 
 "Mary Blake married my old man's 
 brother — a richer man nor he by a long 
 way, and we thought it a fine thing for 
 Sarah when they took her, as they hadn't 
 chick or child of their own. They just let 
 her run wild, poor girl ! But hush ! here 
 comes Katie."
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 UNCLE JOE. 
 
 PERSONAGE who would not 
 be at all pleased to find himself 
 left out until the fourth chapter 
 of a story in which he figured, now claims 
 our attention ; the person who knew every- 
 body, or could, if he liked — the Uncle Joe 
 of Madge Marston, the Joe Balderson of a 
 large circle of intimates, and the Sir Joseph 
 Balderson, C.B., Brown's Club, Pall Mall, 
 and ^'The Firs," Surrey, of the ^' Court
 
 76 UNCLE JOE. 
 
 Guide." He is Uncle Joe at Laremouth, 
 because his sister married the Vicar. He 
 is a baronet because he is his father's son ; 
 and he is a C.B. because the Foreign Office, 
 in whose service he passed the best years 
 of his Hfe, could not get rid of him in peace 
 until those honourable letters were tacked 
 to his name. 
 
 The messes that man got into ! the 
 '^ questions " he raised when left charge 
 d'affaij^es, for the mere pleasure of writing 
 despatches ; the snubs he got from *^ my 
 lord," need not be recorded here. As a 
 diplomatist sent to keep things quiet 
 abroad, he was a dismal failure ; as an 
 arbitrator of delicate affairs in the world 
 bounded by St. James's Park and Picca- 
 dilly, Regent Street and Park Lane, he 
 was a brilliant success. In the service, his 
 failing was to " have it out" coilte quecoUte;
 
 UNCLE JOE, 77 
 
 out of it, his maxim was ^^ cover it up 
 and never mind the expense." Perhaps he 
 had learned wisdom. Perhaps he drew a 
 distinction between services that were paid 
 for and those that were not, to the advan- 
 tage of the latter. It matters little. It 
 was he who, when Shiney ToUburgh's 
 miserable young wife ran away, as all the 
 
 world said, with Colonel (I won't 
 
 mention names) to Scotland, followed her 
 to Brindisi, and brought her back before 
 the P. and O. steamer arrived. 
 
 It was he who when a certain passenger 
 by that good ship wanted to eat him up 
 alive for his interference, told him '^not 
 to be a fool, and wait twelve months," and 
 it was he who shortly after that date 
 officiated as best man at St. George's, 
 Hanover Square, to a certain captain of 
 Artillery who espoused Georgina, widow
 
 73 » UNCLE JOE. 
 
 of the late Wilbraham Tollburgh deceased 
 (of D.T.). The whole trouble was covered 
 up beautifully, and one of the most popular 
 women in London had to thank Joe 
 Balderson that she did not meet her pre- 
 sent husband at Brindisi. Who but he 
 got Mademoiselle X. to sing with " the 
 Z." in Don Giovanni ? Where would the 
 
 present Lord be if Joe had not made 
 
 him go into a lunatic asylum for six 
 months after that affair in the card-room 
 of the EamiUies Club? All the world 
 (within the bounds above described) knows 
 another dozen instances of Uncle Joe's 
 astuteness, and T only mention these for 
 the information of a few millions of out- 
 siders. 
 
 Uncle Joe lodged during the season in 
 Arlington Street, and lived at his clubs. 
 When the season was over he visited his
 
 UNCLE JOE. 79 
 
 friends. Once upon a time he rented a 
 cottage called "The Firs," somewhere on 
 the outskirts of Richmond, and as it 
 looked well in the " Court Guide " and 
 ^' Blue Book " he kept the name on as a 
 local habitation. " The Firs, Surrey I" 
 It might have been another Chatsworth 
 for aught the vulgar could tell. He was 
 Madge's godfather, but his visits to the 
 Vicarage after his sister's death were an- 
 gelic. Mere money scrapes were out of 
 his sphere, and a man who incessantly 
 wanted fifty pounds for a fortnight was a 
 leper in his sight. Besides, Laremouth 
 was dull and damp ; and the Vicar's 
 sherry ! — well, the poor man could not send 
 it back, not having paid for many previous 
 batches. 
 
 Thus Uncle Joe had little personality 
 for Madge, and, beiug an unit of the few
 
 8o UNCLE JOE. 
 
 millions before mentioned, she knew not 
 the grounds of his metropolitan fame. 
 Henry Wybert had spoken of him as a 
 highly popular and knowing person — that 
 was all. Henry, who since his success 
 with her father, burned to put his finger 
 into other pies, revered the man who was 
 on the free list at the Devil's largest 
 pastry-cook's, and was never tired of nar- 
 rating how he had assisted his friend Sir 
 Joseph in this delicate affair, or how that 
 scandal had been hushed up by his friend 
 Sir Joseph, exactly as he (Mr. Wybert) 
 had suggested. 
 
 The hall porter at " Brown s " gives Sir 
 Joseph his letters on a fine May morning, 
 not particularly early, and as the direction 
 of one of them suggests reminiscences of 
 fifty pounds for a fortnight, he places it
 
 UNCLE JOE. 8i 
 
 at the bottom of the pack, Hke a " burned " 
 card, and frowns. 
 
 He reads his correspondence, tearing up 
 some with " pishes !" and ^' dear, dears !" 
 and answers others whilst his breakfast is 
 getting ready ; keeping the last for perusal 
 after that meal. 
 
 Some day I shall write a moral essay 
 upon Breakfasts, and read it at a Social 
 Science Congress, if I cannot get it puB- 
 lished in a magazine. When a man has 
 passed five-and-thirty, a good deal may be 
 gleaned of his character and prospects 
 by the manner in which he breakfasts. 
 What he eats and drinks ; how he eats 
 and drinks it ; what he does between 
 whiles ; what — if he be a club man — he 
 says to the steward when he pays his bill, 
 or in what manner, if the proprietor of a 
 wife and children, he leaves the table — are 
 
 VOL. I. 6
 
 S2 UNCLE JOE. 
 
 all signs and indications upon which I 
 shall enlarge. Why, when a man break- 
 fasts in the bosom of his family the con- 
 dition of the cruet-stand alone affords 
 matter for twenty pages at least of lucubra- 
 tion. But this is for the future. For the 
 present I have only to say that Uncle 
 Joe eat a good breakfast with a good 
 appetite, and had a good word to say to all 
 concerned, from the page boy who told 
 him it was ready, to the stately steward 
 who took the money, when he had flicked 
 the crumbs from his knee. 
 
 Then, and not till thus fortified, did he 
 open the last of his letters, and finding 
 that it commenced '^ My dear Balderson,'^ 
 emitted a grunt of relief For previous 
 correspondence of the fifty-pounds-for-a 
 fortnight order had begun in a much more 
 affectionate manner — " Dear Joseph," or
 
 UNCLE JOE. 83 
 
 "Dear Brother" when the need was 
 unusually pressing. " My dear Balderson " 
 seemed to breathe independence, and Uncle 
 Joe settled himself in his seat and re-ap- 
 plied his ^incG nez to read the rest with a 
 tranquillised mind. He read : 
 
 " Laremouth Vicarage, 
 
 "May 3rd, 1875. 
 
 " My dear Balderson, 
 
 "You will perhaps be surprised 
 to hear that my dear Madge has received 
 a proposal of marriage from a gentleman 
 who appears to be in all respects worthy 
 of her. Now, my dear fellow, shut out as 
 I am from society, it is impossible for me 
 to make the usual inquiries as to his 
 character and habits, and as your circle of 
 acquaintance is so wide, and you are the 
 girl's godfather, I make no scruple in 
 
 6—2
 
 S4 UNCLE JOE. 
 
 asking you to find out for us as much as 
 you can about him. His name is Fraser 
 Elhcott, of the old Hall, Beckhampton, 
 and he has no near relatives. His father 
 died when he was quite young, and I am 
 afraid the poor boy has run wild. We 
 must therefore not be too hard upon him. 
 Silly little Madge is very fond of him, she 
 says, and it would break her heart if any- 
 thing were to prevent the match; still we 
 want the plain unvarnished truth. 
 
 ^' He was introduced to us by my great 
 friend Mr. Wybert, who knew him as a 
 child, but has lost sight of him for so long 
 that he does not feel justified in standing 
 his sponsor ; but from what fell from him 
 before we had any idea that Mr. EUicott 
 was thinking about my daughter, it is 
 evident that the latter is a man of con- 
 siderable property and highly respected
 
 UNCLE JOE. 85 
 
 where his estates are. Madge says I am 
 not to apologise for thus troubhng you, 
 because you have broken your promise to 
 teach her the catechism and read her 
 sermons, and that you cannot expect to 
 be godfather to the future chatelaine of the 
 old Hall for nothing. 
 
 " Yours most sincerely, 
 
 'Tkank Marston." 
 
 *' Marston never wrote that," observes 
 Uncle Joe, tapping the paper with lowered 
 pince nez. " The chit dictated it for him. 
 ' My dear fellow ' is rather masculine, 
 though perhaps she's been reading novels. 
 So I am to find out as much as I can 
 about Mr. Fraser Ellicott — but not too 
 much. Whitewash him if necessary. Oh 1 
 these women 1" 
 
 Uncle Joe reads his newspaper with
 
 86 UNCLE JOE. 
 
 much deliberation, and about one o'clock 
 pays a visit to the Virginia, a club much 
 frequented by young men, and which 
 began — as some similar institutions end — 
 in smoke ! One o'clock is not too late for 
 breakfast at the Virginia, and Uncle Joe 
 knows apparently where to find the person 
 he seeks. He finds a man of about his 
 own age, but dressed as though he had 
 just been sent down from a fast college ; 
 breakfasting delicately on devilled mackerel 
 and seltzer and b. He listens patiently 
 to a story, another version of which will 
 appear in the police reports of the next 
 day, and then makes inquiry, in a casual 
 by-the-bye manner, about Eraser Ellicott. 
 
 Next he drops into a certain offi.ce not 
 a thousand miles from the Burlington 
 Arcade, and where a good deal of business 
 will be transacted on the Saturday (and I
 
 UNCLE JOE. 87 
 
 am shocked to add the next day) after the 
 Derby is run, and here he asks in vain for 
 Fraser Ellicott. 
 
 In the Park when the drive has got thin, 
 he holds up his forefinger as an elegant 
 pony-carriage is about to pass, and the fair 
 charioteer pulls up with the quickness and 
 ability of a hansom cabman. An instant 
 before she was looking as demure as 
 Astarte ; now she bursts out into a giggle 
 and says : 
 
 '' Well, this is a onour ! Wot d'ye 
 want r 
 
 " Frank as usual," smiles Uncle Joe, 
 and then he tells her what he wants ; but 
 she cannot help him. 
 
 " Where are you going to-night T he 
 asks. 
 
 *' To see the new piece at the Eegency, 
 and then to Polly's ball."
 
 88 UNCLE JOE. 
 
 " Ah ! Then ask about him for me, will 
 you, like a good girl T 
 
 " Tell me something," she says in a 
 lowered voice, and placing a large but 
 perfectly gloved hand on his arm, *'* What 
 about poor old Guss T 
 
 " I will, in reply to your note to-morrow 
 about Fraser Ellicott ;" and with a nod and 
 a smile and the same sweep of his hat 
 with which he would salute a Duchess,. 
 Uncle Joe is gone. 
 
 Poor old Guss ! He has lately ex- 
 changed into a West India Regiment from 
 the Rifles, and the lady who drives on 
 somewhat slower than she came, knows 
 the reason why : Uncle Joe keeps his 
 word, and in return for no news about 
 Fraser Ellicott, even from so knowing an 
 assemblage as was sure to grace "Polly's" 
 ball, returns much information respecting
 
 UNCLE JOE. 89 
 
 "poor Guss," and there are tears — bitter 
 tears, if not honest ones — shed that after- 
 noon in Brompton. 
 
 So Uncle Joe has fished in the rapids of 
 the rivers of Babylon and had no rise. 
 He has drawn three different sorts of 
 covers — blank ; and he likes it. From the 
 fog — I really beg pardon — from the middle 
 aged gentleman of his more particular club, 
 he hears that old EUicott — Eraser's father 
 — was a capital fellow, and from a youth 
 of thirty-seven, who by some mistake had 
 managed to get in, he learns that the son 
 had been seen at Mrs. Creamley's five 
 o'clock teas at Bome. Now you may dine 
 five times a week with any Duke you like 
 to mention, without gaining the social 
 cachet which a cup of Mrs. Creamley's 
 Bohea can bestow. So this is the letter 
 which Madge got into a fever of expecta-
 
 90 UNCLE JOE, 
 
 tion about^ intercepted on its way to the 
 Vicarage, and tore open, though it was not 
 addressed to her : 
 
 " Brown's Club, 
 
 " May 5tli. 
 
 "' Dear Marston, 
 
 " I congratulate you and Madge. 
 I cannot hear anything that is not to the 
 youngster's credit, but there may be a crop 
 of wild oats growing somewhere under the 
 rose. Better send him to me and I will 
 trot him out, 
 
 ^' Yours sincerely, 
 
 " J. Balderson. 
 
 " Eev. Frank Marston." 
 
 The second dearest man in the universe 
 that day was Uncle Joe. Now she (the 
 intercepter) could lay her throbbing little 
 heart bare to Jessie ; but first she had to
 
 UNCLE JOE. 91 
 
 tell papa and have a little crow over Henry 
 Wybert. 
 
 In her anxiety to secure a letter with a 
 London postmark she had allowed the 
 postman to go on to the Vicarage with one 
 marked Beckhampton, the writing upon 
 which would have brought her heart into 
 her mouth had she caught a glimpse of it. 
 By the time she had thoroughly mastered 
 Uncle Joe's report and entered her father's 
 study, he had read that other letter. She 
 found him rubbing his soft white hands 
 together slowly, and when she came in, he 
 took her face between them and kissed it 
 on one side and then on the other and 
 then on the lips, as though he would say, 
 "'^ There ! that's all right, and that, and 
 tlmt:' 
 
 " Don't be angry with me," says Madge, 
 ^'for opening Uncle Joe's letter. It was
 
 92 UNCLE JOE. 
 
 all about me, you know, and I couldn't 
 resist." 
 
 A shadow passes over her father's face 
 at mention of Uncle Joe, and because 
 Madge looks grave. She is so because she 
 expects to be scolded — as indeed she 
 
 deserves — for her imDatience : but he 
 
 J. ^ 
 
 dreads ill news. 
 
 '' Ah, yes ; quite so. Just as one might 
 expect," he observes as he reads the 
 violated epistles ; " most satisfactory, my 
 love. Did I tell you that I have had 
 quite a little surprise this morning % I 
 have heard from Fraser !" This is the 
 first time he had spoken of him by his — 
 I must say ^' given " — name, and it sounds 
 so sweet in her ears. ^^ Yes, I was reading 
 his letter when you came in. His guardian 
 (of whom I must really get him to write in 
 a more respectful tone) cannot have the
 
 UNCLE JOE. 93 
 
 particulars of his property prepared for 
 some days ; but that does not matter. We 
 know the amount — more or less — and he 
 makes very liberal and generous proposals 
 a,bout the marriage settlements." 
 
 *' Settlements 1" Madge repeats with 
 arched eyebrows and a glint of mischief 
 under them. " I thought there Avas no 
 formal engagement yet T 
 
 ^' It was a matter of form to say so^ my 
 dear." 
 
 ''Then Henry's cruel insinuations " 
 
 '' Are to be treated as insinuations 
 deserve," says the Vicar in a lofty 
 tone. 
 
 It is now his turn to be kissed — one ! 
 two ! ! three I ! ! Of course she wants to 
 read what her lover has proposed that is 
 liberal and generous. Her parent, how- 
 ever, objects that this is a matter of
 
 94 UNCLE JOE. 
 
 business not intended for her eye, but 
 which may be explained to her. 
 
 " You see, my love," he begins, ^^ he 
 has found out, or perhaps only suspects, 
 that you have a little fortune of your 
 own, and he says he will leave you to 
 deal with it exactly as you please. 
 Now isn't that delicate, and — and 
 liberal T 
 
 " You didn't suppose he wants to marry 
 me for my money T 
 
 " Oh dear no ! But six thousand pounds 
 is a nice little sum, and not to be j)icked 
 up every day. A sensible man does not 
 marry for a pretty face, but he does not 
 object to beauty in the girl he loves 
 for better reasons. The same thing 
 with a fortune. Many a richer man 
 than Fraser would not have acted so 
 well."
 
 UNCLE JOE, 95 
 
 " What is six thousand pounds worth a 
 year, papa V 
 
 " Properly invested, it would yield at 
 least two hundred and fifty pounds." 
 
 " So much ! Then that will be for 
 my — what do they call it ? — oh, 'pin 
 money!' 
 
 " Tush ! — pin money ! No, child. Of 
 course he will have to provide you with 
 that. Didn't I tell you that the money — 
 the six thousand pounds — is to be yours, 
 your own ; to deal with as you like, just as 
 though you had come of age, and were 
 not going to be married. Now do you 
 see T 
 
 '* Yes," she replies, catching one glimpse 
 of an excited face full of weakness, and 
 then lowering her eyes ; ^^ I can give it to 
 
 you." 
 
 '^ I would not take it ! No, indeed — only
 
 •96 UNCLE JOE. 
 
 as a loan. If you like to do so, Madge, 
 you can lend me the interest of it for a 
 year or two, until I — as long as your poor 
 dear mother was alive, my love, her fortune 
 helped to keep house. When she died it 
 was shared by you and your sister, 
 and " 
 
 He goes on to explain what the reader 
 knows already, but so softening it down, 
 that Madge is left under the impression 
 that his difficulties are her fault and Bell's; 
 first for being born, and next for wanting 
 to marry. She feels quite guilty as he 
 recounts the sacrifices he has made for her 
 education, and the atrocious conduct of the 
 High Court of Chancery. 
 
 As she listens an undercurrent of per- 
 plexity as to how Eraser has found this 
 out, makes itself felt, and soon runs so 
 strong as to carry away her attention from
 
 UNCLE JOE. 97 
 
 the speaker, whose mien becomes more and 
 more pitiable, not getting the answer he 
 expects, or being told to cease the explana- 
 tions he repeats. At last she recovers 
 herself with a start, and he is made quite 
 happy. 
 
 " May I write to him now T she asks 
 shyly. 
 
 " You may ; but perhaps it would be 
 proper to wait till he writes first." 
 
 ^' Papa ! Of course I wouldn't begin ; 
 only how is he to know it's all 
 right r 
 
 '^ I will telegraph if you like, my 
 darling." 
 
 " What ! before you hear from Uncle 
 Joe how the trotting out * goes.' " 
 
 There is mischief again in Madge's 
 eye. 
 
 ^' Oh, I'm satisfied," says her father. 
 
 VOL. I. 7
 
 98 UNCLE JOE. 
 
 '^ But really, papa ! after those awful 
 hints of Henry's " 
 
 " Henry may go hang !" replies the 
 Vicar of Laremouth, with unusual de- 
 cision.
 
 CHAPTEE V. 
 
 WHAT CAME OF FISHING. 
 
 # 
 
 ILLER HAZELTINE'S caddb 
 worms were not sacrificed in 
 vain. Low as was the river^ 
 half a dozen three-quarter flounders fell 
 victims to Eraser's skill and the sugges- 
 tions of his guide, and as the sixth speckled 
 beauty flopped upon the grass, a happy 
 thought struck the now tired angler. He 
 would go and pay Mrs. Wybert a '^ duty " 
 visit; and as she was not a lady to be 
 
 7—2
 
 loo WHAT CAME OF FISHING. 
 
 approached without an excuse, he would 
 take her those trout as a goodwill 
 offering. 
 
 The widow was now living in the same 
 cottage to which she had been led as a 
 bride eight and twenty years ago, when 
 her late husband was assistant to his pre- 
 decessor at Beckhampton ; and now his 
 successor was prescribing for another ge- 
 neration of invalids in the square stone 
 house in the High Street, with the green 
 door and brass knocker, with five steps and 
 an iron railing to get up to it on one side, 
 and five steps and an iron railing to go 
 down by at the other^ if you liked variety 
 — the house in which she once reigned 
 supreme ; and, I may add, out of which 
 Doctor Wybert's most pleasant hours were 
 spent. I fancy that the doctor would have 
 been abetter Christian if his wife had been
 
 WHAT CAME OF FISHING, loi 
 
 less religious. Charity, in one proverbial 
 bearing of the term, would not have made 
 her a pocket-handkerchief, but a visiting 
 card would not cover the real or imagined 
 sins she did not denounce. He would also 
 have been a far more prosperous man if she 
 had not taken so much trouble to insure 
 his prosperity. As it was, he died a poor 
 man with a reputation of prescribing too- 
 much alcoholic stimulant for his own com- 
 plaints, and she — out of perversity as some 
 had it — continued to reside amongst the 
 people who disliked her and whom she 
 despised. 
 
 Fraser found her seated in the porch 
 knitting something. She did not rise to 
 greet him, or motion him to a seat, though 
 the one opposite her was vacant. Nor did 
 she ask him in, or thank him for his fish, 
 which he hung up on the creeping rose, not
 
 WHAT CAME OF FISHING. 
 
 knowing what else to do with them. To 
 tell the truth, this strapping young fellow 
 was afraid of Mrs. Wybert, but as her son 
 had done him such a good turn at Lare- 
 mouth, he was determined to be civil to 
 her. 
 
 '^ I have come to tell you my news, Mrs. 
 Wybert," he says, as jauntily as he can ; 
 ** I owe my good fortune in a measure to 
 Henry. You have a right to hear of it 
 amongst the first." 
 
 " If you wish your conquest " (she lays a 
 stress upon the word) ^^ to be made public, 
 Mr. EUicott, you have come to the wrong 
 person. Very few visit me here, and I go 
 absolutely nowhere," she replies dryly. 
 
 " You know, then T he asks. 
 
 **That you are going to be married? 
 yes." 
 
 " Well, congratulate me."
 
 WHAT CAME OF FISHING, 103 
 
 " I congratulate Miss Marston. It is 
 very fortunate for young ladies in her 
 position, that there are young men in 
 yours." 
 
 " I put it quite the other way," he 
 •answers her loyally. ^' Who am I ? My 
 grandfather was a trader, and bought the 
 old Hall out of contract rum. (I hope it 
 was better than some they gave me at the 
 Coastguard Station one night.) Miss 
 Marston is my superior in every way — 
 birth, education, everything." 
 
 " There is plenty of birth and education 
 going begging. I wish you had found it 
 — such as it is — without dragging in my 
 son. You'll be blaming him some day for 
 his foohsh interference." 
 
 '^ Foolish T expostulated Fraser. 
 
 "Yes, foolish. What good does it do 
 him, wasting his time, and I dare say his
 
 I04 WHAT CAME OF FISHING, 
 
 money, with fine folks, who only make use 
 of him ? Do you think they thank him 
 for what he has done for them T 
 
 '' I will try hard that they shall." 
 
 '^ Nonsense ! I'm not speaking of your 
 introduction by him to the girl. They are 
 thankful enough for that, I'll be bound. 
 Don't you know that he neglected his own 
 business, and spent weeks and months ar- 
 ranging her bankrupt father's affairs ? My 
 late husband, who never knew the value of 
 money, paid a hundred and fifty guineas a 
 year for him to be taught nothing there ; 
 and he, like an idiot, goes and wastes time 
 worth twice as much for worse than 
 nothing." 
 
 "If you knew how welcome and re- 
 spected Henry is at the Vicarage, I do 
 not think you would say that." 
 
 *^ I should hope he was welcome, con-
 
 WHAT CAME OF FISHING. 105 
 
 sidering they would have been turned out 
 of it long ago if it hadn't been for him. I 
 won't say anything about respect. People 
 respect those who respect themselves. 
 They just make use of him — that's all." 
 
 " I must really ask you to be a little 
 more explicit, Mrs. Wybert/' says Fraser, 
 upon whom this explanation of her son's 
 intimacy Avith the Marstons comes like a 
 blow. '^ I never heard of any diffi- 
 culties." 
 
 " Of course not ! Did you ask ? Did 
 you try to hear'? Did you ever let my 
 son (whom you hold responsible for this 
 grand introduction) know of your inten- 
 tions ? Not you ! You go down there 
 behind his back — the great Mr. Ellicott, 
 of the old Hall — with your yacht and your 
 mail phaeton, with your eyes shut and 
 your head in the air, and you carry all
 
 io6 WHAT CAME OF FISHING. 
 
 before you ! Then you come to me, brag- 
 ging of your conquest. Much you've con- 
 quered !" 
 
 *^ Really, madam, if I had thought that 
 the news would have been so disagreeable 
 to you, I should certainly have kept it to 
 myself; only it seems you are posted up 
 pretty well. May I ask if your son shares 
 your ideas ?" 
 
 '' I am in the habit of forming my own 
 ideas, sir, and do not answer for those of 
 other people. My son has informed me of 
 your proposal to Miss Marston." 
 
 ^^WhatdidhesayT 
 
 " His letter was to his mother." 
 
 '^ You can tell me this much, surely — 
 was he glad ?" 
 
 " If he wishes you to know his feelings, 
 he will himself impart them." 
 
 '' Yes ; but to tell truth, I forgot to
 
 WHAT CAME OF FISHING. ro; 
 
 ivrite to him. I've had such a lot to do 
 a,nd think about," pleads Fraser, rather 
 guiltily. 
 
 "You have been fishing." 
 
 " Yes ; but one can think a deal, fishing. 
 If it hadn't been for old Hazeltine, I 
 shouldn't have caught much, though." 
 
 '' So you have been to the mill ! A 
 pretty scandal there. That good-for- 
 nothing girl to be left behind. I always 
 said she would come to mischief." 
 
 '' She has not come to mischief, and she 
 is not going to be left behind, as you in- 
 sinuate, Mrs. Wybert ; she remains of her 
 own free will, and is as good a girl as any 
 in the town. After what you said about 
 not going out, I did not expect to hear the 
 first bit of slander at your door." 
 
 " I dare say you think that is very 
 •clever and biting. I am accustomed to
 
 io8 WHAT CAME OF FISHING. 
 
 hear such retorts^ as are all those who will 
 not be hoodwinked and speak their minds. 
 The plain deduction from plain facts is 
 always slander. Are old Hazeltine and 
 his wife going to Australia ?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "And do they leave Kate Vane be- 
 hind?" 
 
 " She remains behind." 
 
 " Has she ever done a stroke of honest 
 work r 
 
 " Scores a day. Her aunt gives her so 
 good a character that I shall recommend 
 her to my wife as her maid." 
 
 '< Oh ! in— deed !" 
 
 Fraser has stepped aside to re-adjust the 
 trout, which are swinging to their fall, and 
 does not see the expression which fills the 
 hard, angry face. 
 
 " I am sorry that our first conversation.
 
 WHAT CAME OF FISHING. 109 
 
 after so long, should not have been more 
 pleasant," he says, coming back, and lean- 
 ing, as before, against the porch. '* It 
 hasn't been my fault." 
 
 ''You must take me as you find me," 
 she replies, with a shrug. ''Lonely 
 women are not good company, as a 
 rule." 
 
 " Well, you mustn't be lonely," he says 
 cheerfully. " When we come to live here, 
 we hope to see a good deal of you and 
 Henry. I am conceited enough to think 
 that Mad — that Miss Marston will be pre- 
 possessed in your favour." 
 
 " Still harping on that introduction ?" 
 
 '' It was the best thing that ever hap- 
 pened for me !" 
 
 " And for him too — if he only knew it," 
 she snaps. 
 
 " It made him a friend."
 
 no WHAT CAME OF FISHING. 
 
 *' And saved him — no matter. It is all 
 for the best." 
 
 " That is the nearest approach to a kind- 
 ness you have spoken to-day," he laughs, 
 ^' Pray go on." 
 
 " I wish you well." 
 
 ''Thank you. But the trout? They 
 will be kippered if we leave them in this 
 sun. May I take them to the kitchen ?" 
 
 '^ If you please." 
 
 " They are quite fresh." 
 
 "So I see." And she resumed her 
 
 knitting. 
 
 * * * * 
 
 " Gracious I what a woman !" he ejacu- 
 lates, as he passes out of the side gate, 
 after having told " the girl " how to dress 
 his present. " No wonder poor Henry 
 tries his luck in town, or why old Wybert 
 took to the bottle."
 
 WHAT CAME OF FISHING. iir 
 
 He walks home leisurely, and thinks 
 over what he has heard about Madge's 
 father. The key-note thus struck, for- 
 gotten chords begin to revive and sound 
 clearly. Where had he heard that Miss 
 Marston had a little money of her own ? 
 Had Wybert mentioned it when he first 
 began to brag at Belleville about his aris- 
 tocratic friends over the Bay ? Or had it 
 come up in conversation with Sister Bell 
 and the sixpence-less man ? No, that was 
 afterwards. 
 
 Mr. Marston had himself broached the 
 subject after dinner one day, as an in- 
 stance of the iniquities perpetrated by Her 
 Majesty's High Court of Chancery. His 
 dear daughter's little fortune was kept 
 from her, and she was denied the advan- 
 tages other girls of her age had. That 
 was it. And so Mr. Marston had the —
 
 112 WHAT CAME OF FISHING, 
 
 yes, I regret to say that Mr. EUicott, 
 musing over the position of his future 
 father-in-law, concluded that he had " the 
 devil by the tail." Whatever that may 
 mean I protest I do not know ; but as 
 soon as he got home, he wrote that letter 
 apologising for his guardian's delay, and 
 making the proposal Mr. Marston thought 
 so liberal. 
 
 There was some of the wisdom of the 
 serpent in this, too. Something whispered 
 it would be quite as well to cut in and 
 trump Mr. Henry Wybert's best card ; not 
 because he feared Mr. Wybert in any way, 
 but because he liked to be number one at 
 the Vicarage. 
 
 Now see what great things from little 
 things arise ! If Miller Hazeltine had not 
 thought of those caddis worms, Fraser 
 would not have caught any trout. If he
 
 WHAT CAME OF FISHING. 113 
 
 had not caught any trout, he would not 
 have thought of cahing on old Mrs. 
 Wybert. If he had not called on old Mrs. 
 Wybert, he would not have written that 
 letter, the upshot of which was that the 
 Vicar of Laremouth bade her son ''go 
 hang 1" 
 
 And if he had not gone to the Mill ? If 
 he had not gone to the Mill, he would have 
 avoided the greatest misfortune of his life. 
 So it is in the great battle. We duck at 
 the shot that wounds poor Tom in the rear 
 rank, to put our head just in the way of 
 the shell that blows it off our shoulders. 
 Happy are those who hear nor shot nor 
 shell, and go their ways in ignorance of the 
 fate that is rushing by. 
 
 Fraser EUicott went down to his patri- 
 mony with a boy's recollection of it. He 
 VOL. I. 8
 
 114 WHAT CAME OF FISHING. 
 
 found it shrunken, and all things will 
 shrink. Go to your old school, your old 
 college, the church you preached your first 
 sermon in, the court where first you said 
 *^ Gentlemen of the jury," the ward in 
 which you first saw ^^ a case " — after a 
 lapse of years, and note how small they 
 have all got ! Not much of a lapse had 
 divided Eraser from the old Hall, but he 
 had travelled, and travel makes one's eyes 
 concave. It never was a grand place ;: 
 nothing baronial about it but the name. 
 It was just a big, ugly red-brick house, 
 such as they built in the da3^s of good 
 Queen Anne, solid and spacious, but dull. 
 I have said that he soon gave up the idea 
 of furnishing in Madge's absence. Madge 
 had such good taste she should do that for 
 herself There was nothing to do but to 
 •fish, and fishing without old Hazeltine at
 
 WHAT CAME OF FISHING. 115 
 
 his elbows meant an empty basket. Now 
 he could not find old Hazeltine without 
 going to the Mill^ and he could not go to 
 the Mill without seeing Katie — Katie Vane 
 with the soft brown eyes and gold-brown 
 hair who loathed the very ground he trod 
 on. 
 
 Why ? Loathe is a strong word. What 
 motive had she to loathe him ? Motive, 
 my friends, is a very difficult thing to 
 gauge, and yet the dullest of us are ready 
 to lay down the law why this was done and 
 to declare that there was no motive for that. 
 Motive is the trigger which sends off the 
 charge, and the result all depends upon 
 how this is loaded. Shake your finger in 
 one man's face, and your heart's blood is 
 the least oblation for the offence. You 
 may thrash another within an inch of his 
 life, and he is quite satisfied with having 
 
 8—2
 
 ii6 WHAT CAME OF FISHING, 
 
 you fined five shillings ! Thrust a torch 
 into a pile of wet wood and all that follows 
 is a splutter. Touch a summer-dried thatch 
 with a lucifer match and away goes half a 
 village into flames. Take the friendships 
 you have made and ask yourself what 
 motive you had for liking Dick or Jack ? 
 Why does Tom work so pertinaciously to 
 put a spoke in your wheel of fortune ? 
 You are loaded with goodwill on the 
 one hand, and bad on the other. The 
 faintest tap upon the detonator fires you, 
 and some wiseacre says there was no 
 motive. 
 
 Katie Vane was loaded full of trouble 
 ^nd vexation. She was proud and sensi- 
 tive. Two years ago, whilst staying on a 
 visit with that sister at Oxford of whom 
 we have heard, she was (as she thought) 
 cut by Eraser EUicott. Christchurch
 
 WHAT CAME OF FISHING. 117 
 
 meadows were blooming with fair women. 
 Town was sparsely represented ; but the 
 Vanes, Sarah and Katie, were there, and 
 did not feel themselves out of place. Had 
 not their father been a fellow of '^ the 
 house V 
 
 Sarah Vane was apt to boast of the 
 number of her undergraduate admirers, and 
 Katie felt rather lonely. She brightened 
 up as Fraser came along, and was glad 
 to be able to say, '' Oh ! here is Mr. EUi- 
 cott." 
 
 It was hard for her when he passed with- 
 out a bow. Did she loathe him for that ? 
 Does one grain of gunpowder send the bul- 
 let on its way? Would any number of 
 grains, exploded separately, do it ? He cut 
 her (she thought it a cut, but he saw her 
 not) at Oxford, he did not recognise her at 
 Beckhampton, and he twitted her at not
 
 ii8 WHAT CAME OF FISHING, 
 
 being married to some bumpkin ! There 
 was the sting ! when her heart was sore for 
 her gentleman lover. 
 
 Sunday came, and he went to church 
 conscious of being the observed of all ob- 
 servers. The attorney's daughters (five of 
 them) giggled as he went in, and all the 
 children laid wait and glared at him, with 
 their fingers in their mouths, as he went 
 out. 
 
 When the service was over, it struck 
 him that people were in an unusual hurry 
 to get out of church. There were not many 
 hand-shakings in the porch, and no congra- 
 tulations. He took an early dinner with 
 iiis agent Mr. Pryor, the attorney, and the 
 five young ladies who giggled, but the name 
 of Miss Marston was not mentioned during 
 the repast. 
 
 On summer Sunday afternoons it was
 
 WHAT CAME OF FISHING. 119 
 
 the wont of Beckliampton's golden youth 
 to assemble on the bridge, each with his 
 own peculiar stick, his own peculiar pipe, 
 and his own peculiar dog or dogs. There 
 was not much conversation at these gather- 
 ings. Pipes were examined, and their 
 colouring compared amidst a good deal of 
 cuff rubbing. The dogs had little un- 
 pleasantnesses amongst themselves, which 
 invoked the use of their owner s peculiar 
 sticks. When a quorum had arrived, the 
 company would saunter away (to the 
 great delight of its dogs) to the town fields 
 along the banks of the Beck, where mild 
 athletics, such as standing jumps and vault- 
 ing over gates, were indulged in to pass the 
 time. 
 
 Fraser Ellicott, finding hot roast beef at 
 two p.m. somewhat soporific, joined this 
 party, and soon found that he was its wet
 
 I20 WHAT CAME OF FISHING. 
 
 blanket. A gap of two years, at his age, 
 is not easily bridged over. He was " Mr. 
 EUicott" and ^'Sir," whilst all the rest were 
 '' Jack " and " Ted " and so on. He tried 
 hard to hark back to the old days when he 
 was "Frase" in such company. He chaffed 
 young Maxwell, w^ho had been his dearest 
 friend as a boy, about the second Miss 
 Pryor (the one who walks with her chin), 
 but it fell flat. Now he was proud of being 
 engaged, and wanted to talk and be talked 
 to about the lady of his love. He had 
 been looking forward to Sunday, expecting 
 that it would bring a crop of congratula- 
 tions. 
 
 He had accepted his agent's hospitality 
 on purpose to be catechised by the fiYe Miss 
 Pryors ; and he had gone to the bridge on 
 purpose to be chaffed by the companions of 
 his youth.
 
 WHAT CAME OF FISHING. 121 
 
 *' What the deuce is the matter with all 
 the people 1" he asked himself. 
 
 The people had been led to understand 
 that Mr. Henry Wybert was the accepted 
 suitor of Miss Marston, when, in an evil 
 hour, he introduced Mr. Fraser EUicott to 
 the family ; and that then the young lady 
 incontinently threw over her poor lover to 
 become mistress of the old Hall. Love of 
 fair play — not of young Mr. Wybert — put 
 Beckhampton's back up. Hence the cold 
 reception of the (supposed) traitor, and the 
 silence respecting "that false and mercenary 
 girl." 
 
 Unconscious Fraser only thinks that his 
 native town has become confoundedly dull 
 and stupid, and concocts schemes to wake 
 it up a bit, when he and Madge shall have 
 come to the Hall. For the present he finds 
 it a bad place to kill time in, and rejoices
 
 122 WHAT CAME OF FISHING. 
 
 exceedingly when he receives Mr. Marston's 
 letter, calling him his '^ dear son " and re- 
 questing him to call in that capacity upon 
 Sir Joseph Balderson and Mrs. De Gray in 
 London.
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 EVERY ONE THINKS SO. • 
 
 HE words " Henry may go hang " 
 make sweet music in Madge's 
 ears. The Revolution is an ac- 
 compHshed fact ; King Henry is dethroned, 
 and King Eraser proclaimed in his stead ! 
 She does not stop just now to inquire why 
 her father has gone over to the enemy ; 
 she is too glad that it is so. The humiha- 
 ting thought that the power which be- 
 trayed King Henry is not to be trusted,
 
 124 EVERY ONE THINKS SO. 
 
 and may play the traitor again to King 
 Fraser, has yet to be born; and the feehngs 
 of uncertainty and danger which follow in 
 its train to appear. 
 
 Flushed with her triumph, she skijDS out 
 to talk it all over with Jess — dear old 
 neglected Jess ! To tell her how dear 
 Fraser has passed through the ordeal, and 
 to sing the praises of that best and wisest 
 of mankind — Uncle Joe. She leaves the 
 Vicar flushed also with his revolt, and 
 busy finding excuses for it in the lumber- 
 rooms of his mind. Anything will do. 
 Craft, Greed, Fear, Ingratitude and eight 
 other devils sit in his breast as a grand 
 jury, and find a true bill against Henry 
 Wybert, with a terrible array of counta 
 therein. 
 
 Captain Westwood (he retains his cour- 
 tesy-rank, and desires to do so) resides, as
 
 EVERY ONE THINKS SO. 125 
 
 "we know, not far from the Vicarage, to 
 which his dwelhng is next in importance — 
 a comfortable white stone house, sur- 
 rounded by a large garden in which he 
 delights to raise green peas which cost 
 him seven shillings a pint, and cucumbers 
 which might be pine-apples for the capital 
 sunk in their pits. Madge greets him 
 with a pleasant ^' Morning, Captain ; Jess 
 in T as he looks up from his weeding 
 with his hand to his back (he is not 
 as good at stooping as he was twenty 
 years ago) and trots on, knowing quite 
 well where to find Jess at that time of 
 day. 
 
 " You are a dear old ill-used thing," 
 cries Madge, lifting her off the floor and 
 giving her a twist round ; *' but don't look 
 so reproachful. I've come back, and I'm 
 good, and oh Jess ! so happy. Guess
 
 126 EVERY ONE THINKS SO, 
 
 what has kept me away for the last ever 
 so long ?" 
 
 '^ You haven't been ill," replies Jess 
 reproachfully ; ^' I saw you several times 
 on the cliff." 
 
 '^ I always go to the cliff when I'm 
 bothered." 
 
 ^^ And what has bothered my child ?" 
 asks the kind little lady, patting her fair, 
 flushed face. 
 
 '' Oh ! it's all over now ; but guess, 
 guess, will you give your tongue to the 
 
 dogs r 
 
 " Certainly. The best part of the riddle 
 is the answer." 
 
 '^ I'm — going — to — be — niarried," Madge 
 replies, holding her at arms' length, pre- 
 pared for a demonstration of surprise — but 
 it doesn't come. 
 
 '' So that's settled at last !" Jessie
 
 EVERY ONE THINKS SO. 127 
 
 says with less emotion than the choice 
 of a new bonnet would evoke. 
 
 " You may well say at last. It seems 
 about six months since last Thursday/' 
 Madge observes, seating herself; "but 
 you're not a bit surprised 1" 
 
 " Not a bit." 
 
 '' But you're glad ?" 
 
 "Oh yes. He doesn't like me, but I 
 think him a very good and sensible young 
 man, and I'm sure he'll make a capital 
 husband." 
 
 " That's my dear old Jess ; only you're 
 mistaken about his not liking you. He 
 likes you very much," says Madge. 
 
 " He takes an odd way of showing his 
 regard, then. Are you aware that he dis- 
 approved our intimacy after your sister's 
 marriage, and advised your father not to 
 encourage my visits to the Vicarage V
 
 128 EVERY ONE THINKS SO. 
 
 '' That was Henry." 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 " Henry Wybert." 
 
 " Well, I'm speaking of him." 
 
 " But I'm not. Where have your dear 
 old brains gone wool-gathering % I told 
 you I was going to be married." 
 
 " To Henry T 
 
 " To Henry ! who ever thought of such 
 a thing ?" 
 
 Miss Westwood is really astonished now 
 a.nd shows it. 
 
 " Good gracious^ child !" she exclaims. 
 '' We all thought so." 
 
 "Then all I can say is that you are 
 a set of geese," Madge rejoins with 
 •considerable vexation. "Why, I'd as 
 soon think of marrying old Probert" 
 (this person is the parish clerk and 
 sexton ; solemn, snuffy, and sixty) " as
 
 EVERY ONE THINKS SO. 
 
 Henry Wybert. But you're joking of 
 course." 
 
 '^ Indeed, indeed I'm not," says Jess. 
 " Ask any one if it hasn't been considered 
 ^ settled thing for the last year and more, 
 that you and Henry " 
 
 " Jess, you frighten me ! What on 
 earth have I done, or has he done, to 
 warrant such — such nonsense ?" 
 
 " He was here so often and took such 
 interest, and, and " 
 
 '' Snubbed me so ! Is that the way 
 you suppose men make love ?" Madge 
 sneers. 
 
 "You have many faults — of impulse, 
 dear Madge ; and you often use words 
 which don't sound well in a young girl's 
 mouth. Snubbed, for example, isn't a 
 pretty word. He corrected you." 
 
 " Before everybody." 
 
 VOL. I. 9
 
 I30 EVERY ONE THINKS SO. 
 
 "My darling! that was just it! Where 
 a man of his age corrects a girl of yours, 
 and she does not resent it — what is one to 
 suppose but that he is trying to form her 
 character, and that she does not object to 
 have it formed to please him '?" 
 
 '^ I wish to Heaven I had slapped his 
 face !" Madge bursts out. 
 
 " Oh, Madge !" 
 
 "I do. This is what comes of being 
 patient and letting that hateful prig preach 
 at me. Jess, it's intolerable. Oh ! if 
 Eraser had only punched his head that 
 day when he lectured on my boots ! He'd 
 better look out though — that's all." 
 
 Madge has worked herself up into a 
 fury, and is pacing the room like a young 
 leopardess in a cage. Somehow she feels, 
 as though she were in a cage, or that a 
 cage is growing round her.
 
 EVERY ONE THINKS SO. 131 
 
 " Look here, Jess," she says, *^ I never 
 cared that " (snapping her fingers) ^' for 
 Henry, and to do him justice, I don't 
 beheve he ever cared that " (snapping 
 them again) " for me. He loves to tease, 
 and domineer, and show off; and I got 
 accustomed to it. Why, I was a child 
 when he first came to the Vicarage ! I 
 know better now, and, as I told papa only 
 the day before yesterday, I will not stand 
 it. I am engaged to Mr. Fraser EUicott, 
 and so you can tell all the ' everybodies * 
 who have been so busy about me." 
 
 '^ I'm sure I didn't mean to make 
 mischief," pleads poor Jessie, beginning 
 to cry. 
 
 " Oh ! there's no mischief made that I 
 know of The whole thing is below con- 
 tempt. The idea of Henry Wybert form- 
 ing me ! Don't cry, dear. I'm not angry 
 
 9—2
 
 132 EVERY ONE THINKS SO. 
 
 with you. On the contrary ; I'm much 
 obhged to you for what you have said. 
 It clears up a good deal that has been 
 puzzling me. There, there ! be a good old 
 Jess again ; kiss me and wish me joy." 
 
 Miss Westwood wipes her eyes and 
 gives Madge a wet cheek, but is too 
 much taken aback to gush as is expected 
 •of her. 
 
 " You won't tell T she sobs. 
 '' Tell ! That I didn't jilt my school- 
 master? I'm not quite an idiot, Jess. 
 "When he comes down as Fraser's best 
 man, I dare say the ' everybodies ' will be 
 content, and mind their own business for 
 the future." 
 
 " Oh dear ! oh dear !" sighs the con- 
 fidante. " When is it to be r 
 
 ''Not fixed yet. When he comes of 
 age, I suppose. That will be in June. I
 
 EVERY ONE THINKS SO. 133 
 
 don't think I shall let him be married on 
 his birthday. That would be a waste of 
 fmi," muses happy Madge. " What shall 
 I make him for his birthday, Jess — 
 slippers ?" 
 
 Thus Mr. Wybert's name slips out of 
 the conversation, which turns entirely 
 upon Mr. Ellicott, his manners, his ap- 
 pearance, his opinions, his deeds (espe- 
 cially the deed), until Jessie catches h^r 
 friend's happiness, and is an exaellent 
 listener. 
 
 But Madge does not go away as happy 
 as she pretends to be. She hates the idea 
 that any one should link her name with 
 another than her Fraser. Though she did 
 repeat that unladylike phrase in connec- 
 tion with Mr. Wybert's head, and wish 
 that the operation had been performed, the 
 possibility of a fuss, should the gossip of
 
 134 EVERY ONE THINKS SO, 
 
 Laremouth reach her lover's ears, frightens 
 her. Could her father be of the " e very- 
 bodies ?" Had he been so hard on dear 
 Eraser at first because he wished what 
 everybody said to be true ? Impossible ! 
 He knew Henry too well for that. 
 
 ^^Papa dear," she says after dinner, 
 when the Vicar is seated by the open win- 
 dow enjoying his cigar. He smokes very 
 fine cigars. In his most impecunious days 
 he always had the best brands ripening, 
 and Madge knows where to find the 
 choicest. Be sure she does not give him 
 the first that comes to hand this night. 
 ^' Papa dear," she says, when she has 
 made him quite comfortable, " there is the 
 most absurd report going about in the 
 village." 
 /^ There is always an absurd report going
 
 EVERY ONE THINKS SO, 135 
 
 about in the village, my love," the Vicar 
 replies. 
 
 ^' Ah, but this one is about me !" 
 
 " You r 
 
 " Yes. When I told Jessie about 
 Fraser, she said every one thought — it is 
 too ridiculous I — that I was going to 
 marry Henry." 
 
 The Vicar flushes crimson, and nearly 
 drops his cigar. • 
 
 " It was most injudicious of her to re- 
 peat such — such impertinence," he ex- 
 claims. 
 
 ^^ Oh ! dear Jess blurted it out. She 
 was so astonished when I told her about 
 Fraser. Please don't blame her. After 
 all, it is right we should know. I said I 
 wouldn't tell ; but of course I must tell 
 you. Ought we to take any notice of 
 
 it r
 
 136 EVERY ONE THINKS SO, 
 
 ^' Not for the world ! If it should reach 
 Fraser !" 
 
 " Oh, I must tell Fraser !" cries Madge. 
 " It's too good a joke to be lost." 
 
 '^ Madge, I insist — I — I beg you will 
 not breathe a word about it to Fraser,"" 
 pleads her father. 
 
 " Why r 
 
 " It would — it might make mischief be- 
 tween them." 
 
 '* Fraser and Henry '?" 
 
 *^ Yes, my love. Indeed it might." 
 
 " I don't see how it could. Henry 
 would say it was all nonsense ; and when 
 he comes here again " 
 
 "I do not think he Avill come here 
 again," replies the Vicar half to him-- 
 self. 
 
 " What, not before my wedding '? I'm 
 sorry for that. You know, I suppose,.
 
 EVERY ONE THINKS SO. 137 
 
 that Fraser is going to ask him to be best 
 man T 
 
 " Fraser must do nothing of the sort !'* 
 ejaculates the Vicar. ^^ Impress upon him^ 
 Madge, that he must do nothing of the 
 sort. The less they have to say or da 
 with each other now, the better it will be 
 for both. Henry is a very passionate 
 man, and is very angry." 
 
 *^ Papa, there is something in all this 
 that I do not understand," says Madge 
 seriously, ''and that I ought to know. 
 Why is Henry angry T 
 
 " Because you have accepted Fraser." 
 
 '' But why — why % Cannot he see I 
 have grown up? Cannot he find some one 
 else to snub ?" 
 
 " He wanted to marry you himself, my 
 love," says the Vicar, flicking ofl* the ash 
 of his cigar ; " that is why he is angry."
 
 138 EVERY ONE THINKS SO. 
 
 Madge is fairly aghast. For her life 
 she cannot utter a word. She cannot even 
 cry out " Oh I" but stands there a living 
 mark of admiration in blue muslin. 
 
 Her father, Avho (for once) is glad to 
 have something out, goes on : 
 
 '^ My dear child, you have only to] read 
 his letter between the lines to see it all. 
 Why is he surprised and distressed 1 
 Why does he — most improperly — impute 
 meanness and treachery to Fraser ? He 
 is furious with him for coming here, and — 
 as he supposes — snapping you up." 
 
 '^ And does he think," Madge replies 
 with apparent calm, but burning with in- 
 dignation within, ^' that I am such a thing 
 as to be snapped up by the first man who 
 pleases to take me ? Does he imagine 
 that it was only a question of time and 
 opportunity, and that if he had spoken
 
 EVERY ONE THINKS SO. 139 
 
 iirst I should have been his ? Oh, papa, 
 papa !" 
 
 " It looks like it," replies the Vicar. 
 
 ^' He who hardly ever said a kind word 
 to me !" 
 
 *^ That was his way." 
 
 " Ah, yes, I know ! He was forming 
 me ! I was to be like one of those housed 
 puppies Lord Brackton leaves with the 
 farmers to be taken care of; and when h^ 
 wanted me, and it suited his high will and 
 pleasure to do so, I was to be led off to his 
 kennel !" 
 
 '^ That is rather a coarse way of putting 
 it, my love." 
 
 "' Not coarser than the thing itself 
 But oh ! papa, why did you not tell me 
 •at first r 
 
 Let me answer the question. It had 
 not suited the Vicar that his daughter
 
 I40 EVERY ONE THINKS SO. 
 
 should marry any one just then. It was. 
 " my daughter ! my ducats !" or rather 
 " my daughter's ducats " with him. Mar- 
 riage would carry away those six thousand 
 pounds at one fell swoop, and the miser- 
 able dole of the High Court of Chancery 
 would be lost with them. 
 
 Now Mr. Henry Wybert was not in a 
 position to wed, and at the rate his prac- 
 tice was increasing would not be for some 
 time to come. If, therefore, Madge must 
 be engaged, a long engagement was con- 
 venient. Mr. Wybert had never proposed 
 for his daughter in so many words, but 
 had thrown out several hints of the honour 
 for which he was forming her ; and the 
 Vicar was afraid of Mr. Wybert. 
 
 All went well until in swaggers thia 
 handsome Eraser, who was in a position 
 to marry at once, and wanted to. The
 
 EVERY ONE THINKS SO. 141 
 
 fond father was at his Avits' end. It was 
 a good match for Madge; but how was he to 
 Kve? That lucky letter (born, as we know, 
 of caddis worms) turned the scale. There 
 was no further occasion to be afraid of Mr. 
 Wybert. Mr. Wybert might ^^go hang !" 
 Alas ! it was the old case of the ladder. 
 The good genius was kicked down. 
 
 This, however, is not the explanation 
 given to Madge. "My dear girl must hav^ 
 been very blind to require being told," he 
 replies ; " that letter should have opened 
 your eyes." 
 
 " I see now what he means," she muses ; 
 ^'but papa, knowing what you did, how 
 could you have attached so much import- 
 ance to it % Why, good gracious ! you said 
 it might be true after all that Fraser had 
 done something shameful since Henry 
 introduced him ; and you led me to sup-
 
 142 EVERY ONE THINKS SO. 
 
 pose that the 'meanness' and Hreachery^ 
 might apply to it !" 
 
 He takes her hand and caresses it 
 between his own^ with a smile of affection 
 and superiority. " My pet was angry just 
 now at the idea of being snapped up, and 
 yet she blames her poor old dad for making 
 her Eraser draw one breath before he 
 swallows her whole !" 
 
 "Papa, dear, I am old enough to be 
 treated like a reasonable and reasoning 
 creature. I do not blame you in the least 
 for wishing to be certain about Eraser, 
 
 but " 
 
 '' Well, well, we are certain now !" 
 " You don't know how unhappy you 
 made me." 
 
 *' You should not have interfered." 
 " Interfered ! Why, papa, you gave me 
 Henry's letter !"
 
 EVERY ONE THINKS SO. 143 
 
 ^'But I did not ask you to interfere, 
 and, once for all, Margaret, as long as you 
 are my daughter — my unmarried daughter, 
 I mean — I will not allow you to interfere !" 
 The rapidity with which he changes from 
 coaxing to impatience is not lost upon 
 her. 
 
 ^' Then please let it be one thing or the 
 other, papa. Either trust me altogether, 
 or act as you think best without m.6. 
 These half confidences are — are horrid !" 
 
 '^ I will trust you, my darling ; you 
 have proved yourself a dear sensible girl, 
 and really you did help me considerably. 
 That was an excellent thought of yours 
 about consulting Uncle Joe. Now we'll 
 make a bargain, for you are quite right ; 
 you are old enough and reasonable enough 
 to be consulted in this most important 
 epoch of your life. We'll work together.
 
 144 EVERY ONE THINKS SO, 
 
 don't you see % You'll do nothing without 
 consulting me ; and 111 do nothing without 
 consulting you ; is it agreed T 
 
 '^ Certainly, I do agree ; and it is very 
 kind of you, dear papa; but it is rather 
 late now when there is nothing left to 
 consult about." 
 
 ^' My love ! everything has to be ar- 
 ranged yet. There are the settlements." 
 '' Oh I I can't be of any help there !" 
 '' Indeed you can. Half a dozen words 
 from you to dear Fraser, some day when 
 he is in a good humour, would help im- 
 mensely. Young men are careless (par- 
 ticularly when they are in love) and forget. 
 It would not do at all for me to remind 
 him, you know." 
 
 " But, papa dear, do girls interfere about 
 their settlements ? I thought that the 
 parents and the lawyers did all that."
 
 EVERY ONE THINKS SO, 145 
 
 '^ So they do, so they do ; you can leave 
 your interests in my hands with the 
 greatest confidence. All I want you to do 
 is to thank Fraser about that six thousand 
 pounds, and explain how I stand, so as to 
 clinch it, you know." 
 
 '^ It was a spontaneous offer," Madge 
 replies, getting uneasy ; '' I don't see that 
 it requires to be clinched." 
 
 " My love, it was really made to you. 
 Such little affairs are usually arranged 
 between the young people themselves; 
 only you see poor Fraser was not allowed 
 to write to you, so he wrote at you, to me. 
 You would be very ungrateful, Madge, if 
 you did not thank him." 
 
 '' I'll thank him," she replies. 
 
 The word clinch is very distasteful to 
 her. It suggests another sort of '^ snapping 
 up." The Yicar, who is all eagerness to 
 
 VOL. I. 10
 
 146 EVERY ONE THINKS SO. 
 
 secure his prize, attributes her coldness 
 and reluctance to another cause, and 
 begins reproachfully : 
 
 " Oh, my dear, if you grudge me the 
 money " 
 
 " How can you think such a thing t 
 Grudge it to you ?" 
 
 There is just a tinge of disdain in this 
 reproach, and it is perhaps fortunate that 
 she bursts out crying ; for thus the conver- 
 sation is brought to a close. He ^'hush 
 hushes," and ''there theres," and ''poor 
 dear child's " her, and gets her a glass of 
 water and recommends her to go and lie 
 down — as is usual in such cases ; but what 
 she really wants — a moral tonic — is not 
 forthcoming. 
 
 Later on she throws a shawl over her 
 head, and goes out to her thinking-place 
 on the cliff.
 
 CHAPTER YII. 
 
 UN MAUVAIS QUART d'hEURE. • 
 
 R HENRYWYBEET,F.R.C.S., 
 
 Lond., dwells in a house cun- 
 ningly contrived for a member 
 of his profession. It looks as though his 
 brass plate and red lamp dominated a 
 residence the rent of which would have to 
 be written in three figures ; but in reality 
 he has only two rooms of it, all the rest 
 belongs to round the corner, which again, 
 viewed from its own point of vantage, 
 
 10—2
 
 548 UN MAUVAIS QUART D HEURE, 
 
 entirely absorbs Mr. Wybert. No. 23, 
 Alexandra Gardens, is round the corner 
 for Mr. Wybert. No. 4a, Chichester 
 Place, is round the corner for Mrs. Mag- 
 nold's select academy for young ladies. 
 
 The rising surgeon receives patients 
 from ten till twelve, when his neat dark 
 brougham, with a nearly thoroughbred 
 screw in the shafts, takes him for his 
 rounds. From six till seven he is again 
 ^tccessible to patients, and dines at his club 
 at 7.30 to the minute. 
 
 At nine he is home again and stays 
 there, unless summoned. So you will 
 perceive that he is a young man of regular 
 habits and much application, and one who 
 may occupy a slice cut out of the selectest 
 academy with the utmost propriety, other- 
 wise you would not find his name on Mrs. 
 Magnold's prospectus as consulting phy-
 
 UN MAUVAIS QUART d' HEURE. 149 
 
 sician. But he has a hard struggle to 
 keep this up. He has expended all his 
 little patrimony in the purchase of that 
 practice and that brougham, which he does 
 not want, and whose driver could tell tales 
 as to the " rounds." But pray do not 
 suppose, my dear madam, that his club is 
 also an extravagance. As he uses it, that 
 institution is more than economical. His 
 ambition is to become a fashionable doctor, 
 and his acquaintance with Sir Joseph 
 Balderson and other gentlemen of that 
 stamp is not without its value.. 
 
 He is considered clever in his profession, 
 and is very prudent out of it ; but that red 
 lamp has only shone three years for him. 
 The practice he bought was not a lucrative 
 one, and, as I said, he has a [hard struggle 
 to keep up his reputation as a regular 
 young man. What he wants is a certain
 
 I50 UN MAUVAIS QUART d' HEURE, 
 
 iive hundred a year and a wife. With 
 these he could ride at anchor in the slack 
 water, and wait for the tide to lead him on 
 to fortune. 
 
 He is well aware of such necessities, and 
 has had his eye fixed for some time on the 
 quarter whence they may be obtained. 
 Madge's six thousand will yield him only 
 about half the sum mentioned, but there 
 are other considerations which make up 
 for the default. In his own profession he 
 is modest enough. He knows enough to 
 be aware how much he has to learn, out of 
 it he has the highest opinion of Mr. Henry 
 Wybert. He considers that there is little 
 worth having which that gentleman cannot 
 get if he sets his mind upon it, and that the 
 measures he takes for the realisation of his 
 plans are based upon indisputable wisdom 
 and forethought.
 
 UN MAUVAIS QUART D HEURE. 151 
 
 From this dream the news of his friend 
 Mr. ElHcott's performance at the Vicar- 
 age awakens him somewhat rudely ; and 
 we know^ how he has treated it. But the 
 Vicar's letter was not quite what he re- 
 peated to Madge. It ran in a much more 
 apologetic and servile tone ; and gave him 
 to understand that Madge's future was at 
 his disposal, her fate in his hands. 
 
 Kemember, if you please, that a loTig 
 engagement suited good Mr. Marston's 
 book better than a good marriage. The 
 consciousness of power is an admirable pre- 
 servative of temper. Mr. Wybert ought 
 to have kept his temper, have procrasti- 
 nated with one who loved procrastination 
 for its own sake, have taken time and 
 wasted it, and trusted to the chapter of 
 accidents to find some spoke to put in Mr. 
 ElHcott's wheel of fortune. But he got in
 
 152 UN MAUVAIS QUART D HEURE. 
 
 a rage, driven by the horrid thought that 
 he had mismanaged his own affairs, and 
 threw down the gauntlet too soon. I 
 imagine his dismay when he read this, 
 note : 
 
 " Laremouth Vicarage. 
 
 "Dear Henry, 
 
 " As you dechned (no doubt for ex- 
 cellent reasons) to state your opinion of 
 Mr. EUicott's character as a suitor for our 
 dear Madge, we have applied to my 
 brother-in-law, Sir Joseph, who, after ex- 
 haustive inquiries, finds it entirely satis- 
 factory. Wish us joy. 
 
 " Yours sincerely, 
 
 '^ Frank Marston." 
 
 Wish them joy I If wishing could place 
 the whole party — Vicar, Ellicott, Uncle 
 Joe, all but " our dear Madge " — at the
 
 UN MAUVAIS QUART D HEURE. 153 
 
 bottom of the Red Sea, they would have 
 been there that morning. And I do most 
 sincerely pity the patients who called from 
 ten till twelve. 
 
 But the worst is yet to come. 
 
 The brougham was at the door : its 
 master's foot was on the step, the groom's 
 finger was at his hat — when a hurried 
 footstep clanked on the pavement, and a 
 firm voice calls out : • 
 
 ^^ Stop ! you must give me ten minutes, 
 Wybert, before you go out." 
 
 '^ I have engagements, sir," he replies, 
 turning pale. 
 
 He had been in the worst of humours 
 all the morning. The sight of his rival — 
 his enemy — sends him cold with rage. 
 
 '' So have I," Eraser rephes. '' I'm 
 going back to Beckhampton by the 1.30 
 train."
 
 154 UN MAUVAIS QUART D HEURE. 
 
 '' What is that to me ?" 
 
 ^^Do you want to know here before 
 your servant ? Would you like a row in 
 the street ? You can have it if you 
 please." 
 
 *^ Come in," says Wybert under his 
 voice. "Take a turn for ten minutes, 
 Jackson " (this to the groom), '' and re- 
 turn." 
 
 The key-hole of the surgery-door is 
 obstinate. Fraser EUicott throws away a 
 half-burned cigar, and waits, breathing 
 hard. 
 
 The door is opened at last. Wybert 
 takes his accustomed seat. He feels 
 strongest there, where he is wont to lay 
 down the law. 
 
 " I detest what you call ' rows,' Mr. 
 Ellicott, though I do not fear them for my 
 own sake," he begins ; " so I have yielded
 
 UN MAUVAIS QUART d'hEURE, 155 
 
 to your wish. My time is valuable : state 
 quickly, if you please, what is the mean- 
 ing of this impertinence." 
 
 ''• Oh, drop that schoolmaster's jargon ! 
 I'm not a fool or a girl," says Fraser. 
 
 '^ Merely a very rude man. Go on." 
 
 ** I came from Beckhampton this morn- 
 ing. I have been there for the last four 
 days." 
 
 *' Visiting principally at the Mill. I 
 have heard of you." 
 
 " From your precious mother ?" 
 
 '' Did you come here to sneer at my 
 mother, Mr. EUicott T 
 
 " I went to see your mother in all kind- 
 ness, Wybert, and she received me very 
 strangely. Other people received me 
 strangely as well. I didn't notice it at 
 the time, for I was — I was full of some- 
 thing else. I was excited when I came
 
 156 UN MAUVAIS QUART D HEURE. 
 
 up, seeing you slope off, and I'm sorry if I 
 said anything rude. I hate rows too." 
 
 The motherless man did not like the 
 look which came over the other's face as 
 he replied to what was really a sneer at 
 his mother ; and it softened him. 
 
 " Let us leave Mrs. Wybert out of it," 
 he added. ^' I have heard from others, 
 that you have been talking about Miss 
 Marston." 
 
 " What right have you to come here 
 to^me about Miss Marston ? You false 
 friend, you — you traitor !" he cries fiercely. 
 
 '^ The right every man has to defend the 
 girl that loves him," says Fraser. 
 
 ^^ Bah ! You have known her five 
 weeks, and you have three thousand a 
 year. Don't prate of love. You have en- 
 trapped her and her idiot of a father, and 
 have used me shamefully."
 
 UN MAUVAIS QUART D HEURE. 157 
 
 " Will you please explain how ?" 
 
 Temper again was getting the better of 
 Mr. Wybert, but he pulled up in time. 
 
 *^You had best leave Miss Marston 
 out of it (whatever it is) also/' he says, 
 throwing himself back in his chair. 
 
 '^ That is impossible. Now look here, 
 Wybert. You have called me a false 
 friend and a traitor. Putting this and 
 that together, I suppose you are sore a^ 
 my having gone down there again and — 
 and proposed ; though hang me if I can 
 understand why you should be so, con- 
 sidering the way you used to treat her." 
 (Wybert flinches as though he had been 
 struck.) " It's all a mystery to me why 
 you should have allowed her name to be 
 coupled with yours," Fraser goes on ; '^ but 
 you've done so, and you must undo what 
 you've done."
 
 158 UN MAUVAIS QUART D HEURE, 
 
 " Don't use must to me, sir." 
 
 '^Well, shall if you like that better," 
 Fraser replies, warming up. '^ You have 
 allowed people down at home to suppose 
 that you were actually engaged to Miss 
 Marston." 
 
 *' Who told you I said so T 
 
 '' You didn't say so. You let others do 
 that, and did not contradict them." 
 
 '^ Am I answerable for all the gossip of 
 the place V 
 
 *^ Yes, you are, if you don't stop it when 
 you can, and it refers to yourself" 
 
 " This sort of thing will have no end," 
 says Wybert, preparing to rise. 
 
 '^ Oh yes, it will ; sit still," says Fraser, 
 looking dangerous. ^^ I'll tell you how and 
 where it is to end. You have got to write 
 three letters, one to the Rector of Beck- 
 hampton, one to Mr. Pry or, and one to
 
 UN MAUVAIS QUART D'hEURE. 159 
 
 me, stating that you have not, and never 
 had, the shghtest right to suppose Miss 
 Marston thought of you as a suitor." 
 
 " Never !" 
 
 ^' I shall not leave this room till you do 
 it, no !" (placing his back against the door), 
 '* and you shan't, either." 
 
 " You are a stronger man than I," gasps 
 Wybert, " you can keep me in here by brute 
 force, but take care. I declare to God I'd' 
 kill you if I had the means." 
 
 If passionate hate had sudden death in 
 it, there was enouo:h in voice and look and 
 gesture to slay a stronger man than he 
 who stood with his back to the door. 
 
 " Don't be absurd," Fraser replies ; " I 
 don't want to use any force. Come, be a 
 reasonable man. Why shouldn't you do 
 as I ask ? You know very well that there 
 never was anything Hke an engagement,.
 
 i6o UN MAUVAIS QUART D HEURE. 
 
 and why the deuce shouldn't you say 
 sor 
 
 '' What ! give you the power to go about 
 deriding and humihating me !" 
 
 ^^ I never thought of doing anything of 
 the sort. I told you that people gave me 
 the cold shoulder because they think I've 
 cut you out unfairly^ and when Madge 
 goes down as my wife they'll be shy of 
 her if things are not cleared up. That 
 will never do. Now, why on earth 
 shouldn't you say it's all a mistake, and 
 put us right ?" 
 
 "• That is a very different thing from 
 writing letters for you to show about," says 
 Wybert doggedly. ^' If I do what you ask, 
 it will be for Ma — for Miss Marston's sake, 
 and be done in my own way. I will not 
 be bullied by you into anything. If we 
 lived in any other country, you would
 
 UN MAUVAIS QUART D HEURE. i6i 
 
 not dare to do what you have done to- 
 day." 
 
 '' I think I know what you mean ; and 
 if we hved in another country, my fine 
 fellow, you'd have thought twice before 
 you took liberties with a lady's name ; but 
 let us settle one thing at a time. You 
 say you'll do what I want in your own way 
 — all right. It's no matter to me how 
 it's done, so that it is done ; and I know 
 it." 
 
 '' I will write to the Rector (there is no 
 necessity to send out circulars about it as 
 you most injudiciously suggest), stating that 
 I have heard with regret (on Miss Marston's 
 account) of some foolish gossip which con- 
 nects our names ; and I will beg him to 
 contradict it." 
 
 *' In your name." 
 
 " Mr. Lindall is an educated man, and 
 
 VOL. I. 11
 
 i62 UN MAUVAIS QUART D HEURE. 
 
 knows the value of language," sneers 
 Wybert. '^ There is no necessity to tell 
 him that the contradiction is to be made in 
 my name, when it is I who request it to 
 be made." 
 
 '^ And you will write that to-day ?" 
 
 ^^ I will write it at once if doing so will 
 relieve me from your presence." 
 
 " I'll take your w^ord for it," Fraser says, 
 putting on his hat. '^ And now look here, 
 Mr. Wybert. Touching that hint of yours 
 about other countries, I don't hold wdth 
 what the ruck of Englishmen think of 
 duels. I quite agree that brute force is 
 low as a general rule, and that little men 
 should have a chance. So that if you are 
 for a trip to Belgium any day this week, 
 I'm your man." 
 
 " Ah ! well," Wybert answered, '' I 
 happen to agree with what you are
 
 UN MAUVAIS QUART D HEURE. 163 
 
 pleased to call the ^ ruck,' and decline your 
 proposal. I have my own ideas of how- 
 brute force should be met. Would you 
 like to hear them T 
 
 " Go on." 
 
 ''Men like you — half educated and 
 wholly selfish and intolerant — who rely 
 upon your physical strength, are becoming 
 a shame and a reproach to this country. 
 You have lowered the tone of society, and 
 inaugurated a reign of vulgarity and 
 violence. You swagger through life as a 
 sweep runs through the street, and decent 
 people get out of your way as they get out 
 of his, and for the same reasons. The duel 
 did not become wicked and foolish and un- 
 lawful in our days. It was always so — it 
 simply went out of fashion. This is very 
 trite, but may be news for you. Do you 
 imagine that society will revive an ex- 
 
 11—2
 
 i64 UN MAUVAIS QUART d'hEURE. 
 
 ploded absurdity for your sake ? Pray 
 don't flatter yourselves that you are worth 
 the trouble. It will provide other remedies. 
 Do you know what ^ East-ending ' means ? 
 No ? I will tell you. It means hiring a 
 thing called a rough to thrash a thing that 
 calls itself a gentleman, but whose feelings 
 a,re only to be reached through his hide. 
 In America a man who behaves as you 
 have done to me, is shot at sight. If I 
 had had a pistol in this desk, so help me 
 God ! I would have shot you." 
 
 '^ And been hanged for it/' is Eraser's 
 comment. 
 
 "Perhaps; but depend upon this — bullies 
 of your order would be more careful for 
 some time afterwards. Well, I will not 
 ' East-end ' you. I am glad for some 
 reasons that I had no pistol ; but I carry 
 a weapon here (striking his forehead) of
 
 UN MAUVAIS QUART D HEURE, 165 
 
 which I warn you to beware. I am your 
 master in all except what you possess in 
 common with a mule or a pig, and I will 
 use my power without reservation or 
 remorse. Look well to yourself, Fraser 
 EUicott ; I will take every sort of advan- 
 tage over you. Score up the one you have 
 gained in the match between us, and make 
 the most of it. My time to count is 
 coming, and I will mark often and 
 deeply." 
 
 '' Is that all r 
 
 "' Yes. All I have to say. I have 
 given you fair warning, fairer than 
 you gave me. It is Brains against 
 Brutality — we shall see which will 
 win." 
 
 " All right," says Fraser. " And under 
 these conditions, I shall stop and see that 
 letter writen. Brains miofht think it
 
 i56 UN MAUVAIS QUART D HEURE. 
 
 rather a smart thing to back out of their 
 promise." 
 
 " As Brutality sets them the example \ 
 You said you would trust me." 
 
 *' That was before your neat little 
 speech. You are going to take every sort 
 of advantage over me. Good ! you can 
 begin when I'm gone; but not till then. 
 Go on, write in your own way as you said." 
 
 " No. One condition recalled, all are at 
 an end. You shall finish as you began. 
 Dictate your will." 
 
 " As you please. Are you ready T 
 
 *' I am." And Brains took pen and 
 paper to write as he was told. The result 
 was this letter : 
 
 '* Dear Sir, 
 
 *' I hear that a lot of stupid 
 people have said that me and Miss
 
 UN MAUVAIS QUART d'hEURE, 167 
 
 Marston were engaged, or going to be, 
 or something like that. It's all nonsense, 
 for I never thought of such a thing, or 
 she either, so please contradict in my 
 name and tell them to mind their own 
 business. 
 
 '' Yours faithfully, 
 
 " Henry Wybert." 
 
 '' And he thinks that will pass for *my 
 composition," sneered Mr. Wybert to him- 
 self as he folded it up and sealed it. "I 
 fancy I have scored one already." 
 
 Fraser Elhcott posted the letter with 
 his own hand to make all sure; and 
 jflattered himself that he had gotten the 
 best of it that day. His worsted rival's 
 threats had no effect upon him. " The 
 poor beggar had to say something nasty," 
 he mused. The poor beggar ! yes, he was
 
 i6S UN MAUVAIS QUART D' HEURE. 
 
 sorry for liim, and at heart just a little 
 ashamed of his own part. He had bullied 
 him. We who have followed the conver- 
 sation in cold blood know that he had tried 
 reason once or twice, and* violence as 
 often. That was his character. He was 
 a spirited, passionate, good-hearted fellow. 
 He brooked no opposition, and bore no 
 malice. The other was soured and vin- 
 dictive. He told the truth when he said 
 he would have killed his tormentor if he 
 had possessed the means. This was no 
 idle bombast, as time will show.
 
 CHAPTEPv yill. 
 
 WERE YOU EVER JEALOUS J 
 
 SHE revelations which led to that 
 most unpleasant quarter of an 
 hour in Mr. Wybert's consult- 
 ing-room, came from Sam Pryor, who 
 journeyed up to London that morning in 
 company with Fraser Ellicott. Sam was 
 keeping his terms at the Temple, and 
 occasionally spent Saturday till Monday 
 in the bosom of his family, and being the 
 one son to so many daughters, he w^as
 
 I70 WERE YOU EVER JEALOUS? 
 
 made a great deal of during these visits. 
 His five fair sisters swooped down upon 
 him hke a Greek chorus, and recounted 
 the perfidy of Miss Marston in strophe 
 and antistrophe. " The governor " looked 
 grave, and was afraid the bride would not 
 have a pleasant reception amongst the 
 Beckhamptonites ; and even " the mater," 
 who, as the parent of so many marriageable 
 young ladies, was accustomed to be severe 
 upon fortuneless swains, thought that 
 Henry had been badly used. As a 
 London man (of eighteen months' stand- 
 ing), Sam's opinion was asked on all sides, 
 and he, taking the premises for granted, 
 pooh-poohed the conclusion. Lord bless 
 them ! girls did not marry for love, nowa- 
 days. Fellows got jilted times and again. 
 Ellicott was quite right to go in and win if 
 he could. This was very shocking to his
 
 WERE YOU EVER JEALOUS? 17] 
 
 sisters, for whom no prosperous suitor had 
 as yet appeared, and did not remove the 
 anxiety of paterfamihas, as it suited his 
 interests that Fraser should reside on his 
 property. Suppose he got disgusted at 
 the coldness of the Beckhamptonites, and 
 sold the Hall ! Its purchaser might do 
 without an agent, or find some other in- 
 cumbent for that profitable office. One 
 thing was unanimously agreed upon ; tliey 
 must not sit with the scornful ; they 
 must do their best to make up for other 
 people's coldness. Hence the invitation 
 to dinner. 
 
 In the train Sam forced the conversa- 
 tion towards Mr. Wybert, and, after some 
 disparaging remarks upon that gentleman 
 in general, expressed himself as (some- 
 thing) glad that Fraser had cut him out. 
 Fraser (who was not thinking of that gen-
 
 172 WERE YOU EVER JEALOUS? 
 
 tleman, and rather bored over the topic in 
 hand) pricked up his ears at those words, 
 
 and asked his companion what the 
 
 (something else) he meant. 
 
 Then out it came ! 
 
 Now it is bad enough to find one's^ 
 acquaintance cold and disagreeable to you 
 when you know what is the matter. You 
 can give cut for cut, and snap for snap,, 
 then. Or you can have it out with them, 
 if they be worth the trouble, and put 
 yourself, or them, right. But to become 
 conscious that you have been snubbed 
 without knowing it, and consequently 
 without resenting it, is especially galling. 
 The insult to Mads^e too ! Madofe a 
 coquette ! Madge a jilt ! His Madge, 
 a girl who could possibly be won by a 
 fellow like that Wybert ! Oh ! it was 
 too bad.
 
 WERE YOU EVER JEALOUS? 173 
 
 The irate Fraser was for stopping at the 
 next station, going back to Beckhampton, 
 and '^ having it out " with all and singular : 
 only Sam Pryor's wiser counsel prevailed. 
 As it was he left his luggage at Victoria 
 and took the underground for Bayswater 
 to " have it out " at the fountain-head. 
 Angry at what he had heard, angry for 
 having been civil to his detractors ; angry 
 on the top of all at seeing that fellow (as 
 he afterwards narrated) come simpering 
 out to his confounded brougham (what the 
 brougham had done I cannot say), "as 
 though butter would not melt in his 
 mouth," we must excuse him as well as we 
 oan for the rudeness with which he greeted 
 Mr. Wybert. 
 
 He posted that letter (which, uncon- 
 scious of its glaring slips of grammar, he 
 considered a masterpiece), hailed a hansom,
 
 174 WERE YOU EVER JEALOUS / 
 
 and drove to his club in the frame of mind 
 I have attempted to indicate. There he 
 was hfted to the seventh Heaven at find- 
 ing the Vicar's telegram and a letter of the 
 same date, commencing '' My dear Fraser," 
 giving him leave to write to Madge and 
 suggesting the propriety of his calling upon 
 Sir Joseph Balderson and Mrs. De Gray 
 in order to become acquainted with the 
 family. Not a word about being " trotted 
 out," however, and this was fortunate ; for 
 had the happy fellow known he was being 
 subjected to that ordeal, the evening which 
 he passed with Uncle Joe would have gone 
 off less agreeably. But he was "trotted 
 out." 
 
 It was very nice to call pretty Mrs. 
 De Gray " Bell," and to be made tell her 
 all about it — everything ! She was the 
 first interested confidante he had had — old
 
 WERE YOU EVER JEALOUS? 175- 
 
 Mrs. Aymes and Hazeltine didn't count — 
 and you may be sure he made the most of 
 the occasion. Why, it was almost as good 
 as making love to Madge over again, to 
 tell Madge's sister how he had wooed and 
 won her — to say over again what he thought 
 she thought of this and what she looked as 
 though she thought at that; till the sublime 
 moment on the rustic bench where the 
 robins were fed, when he took her two 
 hands in his, and said — nothing. 
 
 Bell, whose wedding march had been a 
 one year's hard struggle, a four years' 
 promenade of happiness and triumph, saw 
 something of the fire of her sixpenceless 
 man in the honest eager eyes which held 
 her, and thought what a lucky girl was 
 little Madge. She would begin all right. 
 No one would taunt her about a good-for- 
 nothing mercenary lover — no delicate allu-^
 
 176 WERE YOU EVER JEALOUS? 
 
 sions to the workhouse for her. She kissed 
 him when he had finished, and the rascal 
 had the impertinence to declare afterwards, 
 that one of the advantages of being engaged 
 to Madge was that you (meaning himself) 
 might kiss '' Bell." 
 
 The result of this interview was a further 
 *' pleasant little surprise " for the Vicar. 
 His affectionate Bell insisted (there was 
 no occasion to insist, but it was nice to put 
 it so) upon providing dear little Madge's 
 trousseau herself, and Madge must come 
 and stay with her for at least a month, to 
 choose what she liked and look about a 
 little before she was married. Poor Bell 
 liad not much practical experience of 
 trousseaux. The luggage had not troubled 
 her sixpenceless man on their ten days' 
 honeymoon, and she remembered what it 
 had cost her once to ask him for a new
 
 WERE YOU EVER JEALOUS? 177 
 
 •dress. The difficulty now was to curb her 
 husband in a wild career of extravagance 
 of which she was the object and excuse ; 
 to prevent his plunging into shops on his 
 way home and buying dozens of things she 
 did not want, at twice their value. Fraser 
 miofht do the same — in time : but dear little 
 Madge should start as spruce as ever she 
 could make her. 
 
 So Bell scattered roses on our lover's 
 path ; and all unwittingly planted a thorn. 
 
 " I like you immensely," she told Fraser 
 in her frank way, the second time they met 
 (which was on the second day they knew 
 each other), '^and it's such an immense" 
 (Bell was tautological when she gushed) 
 '' relief." 
 
 *' To have Madge married ? " he 
 a,sked. 
 
 " To have her married to the right man. 
 
 VOL. I. 
 
 12
 
 178 WERE YOU EVER JEALOUS 
 
 ? 
 
 I was awfully afraid — but it's no use talk- 
 ino" now." 
 
 " Yes, it is. I'm never tired of talking- 
 about Madge," said the lover. 
 
 '' I was afraid of that Mr. Wybert," said 
 Bell. 
 
 Eraser got uncomfortable, and if he could 
 have got vexed with Bell he would hava 
 done it. 
 
 ^' And do you, who know her, really 
 think," he asked reproachfully, "that she 
 could ever have cared for that fellow ?" 
 
 " No/' Bell replied quickly, '' but she 
 might have been worried into accepting 
 him. Papa is unfortunately under great 
 obligations to Mr. Wybert." 
 
 " Which he took out by being intolerably 
 overbearing to your sister." 
 
 '^ You were there together — at Laremouth 
 I mean — for some time, were you not T
 
 WERE YOU EVER JEALOUS f 179 
 
 " Yes, nearly a month. He introduced 
 me, as I told you." 
 
 ''Now truth, Eraser! were you ever 
 jealous T 
 
 " Lord, no ! Not now." 
 
 " But were you ever T 
 
 '' Well, he called her Madge, and lectured 
 about her dress, and her boots. I didn't 
 hke that. It seemed too famihar, you 
 know ; but I wasn't jealous a bit." 
 
 '' I'm glad of that." 
 
 '' Why r 
 
 ''Because I shouldn't like you to fall 
 out." 
 
 " Madge told me that you and he didn't 
 hit it." 
 
 "No, we did not," Bell replied deci- 
 sively. 
 
 " Then why should you care ?" 
 " Because Mr. Wybert is a very danger- 
 
 12—2
 
 l8o WERE YOU EVER JEALOUS ? 
 
 ous man to fall out with ; that is why, 
 Fraser. Let one who is your sincere 
 friend advise you, as I do most urgently, 
 not to let anything lead you into a quarrel 
 with Mr. Wybert." 
 
 She lays her hand upon his arm as she 
 speaks, and there is that in her manner 
 and her previous kindness which opens his 
 heart to her in spite of all his resolves to 
 say nothing ahout that unpleasant quarter 
 of an hour. 
 
 *^ Your kind warning comes a little late," 
 he replies, lowering his eyes ; "we liave 
 quarrelled." And then he tells her why, 
 and how. 
 
 " If I were a man," she says, when he 
 has finished, " I suppose I should have 
 done the same. The wretch ! But I'm 
 sorry ; oh, Fraser, I'm very sorry !" 
 
 " It will blow over."
 
 WERE YOU EVER JEALOUS? i8i 
 
 " I doubt it. He's not the man to let 
 such a thing blow over. He is sly and 
 revengeful." 
 
 ^* Let him be. What harm can he do 
 me?" 
 
 '' I don't know." 
 
 '' Or Madge T 
 
 ^' He won't try to harm her." 
 
 '^ You don't mean to say you think he 
 loves her ?" Fraser demands, flushing up. 
 
 " Not as you do," said Bell. 
 
 '^Ah! then I don't care." 
 
 " He loves himself, his own ease, his 
 own ambition, his own plans ; and all 
 these, if I am not mistaken, turned upon 
 my sister. He is egotistic ; he likes to 
 succeed. He is ambitious, and marriage 
 into such a family as papa's would have 
 helped him up into the world he worships. 
 He is insuflerably conceited, and thinks his
 
 i82 WERE YOU EVER JEALOUS? 
 
 ways must win. You have struck him in 
 the most tender places. It will not be so 
 much because he loves Madge^ as because 
 he hates you, that he will be dangerous. 
 He won't try to hurt her — except through 
 you — because he is so dogged that he 
 will not confess himself beaten until — 
 until " 
 
 ''' The twenty-ninth of next June," 
 laughed Fraser Ellicott. 
 
 '^Why, you impatient wretch!" says 
 Bell, catching the infection, '^ are you going 
 to be married on your birthday T 
 
 " Why not % Don't you see the economy 
 of it, Bell ? One set of presents and one 
 party will do. Young married people 
 should be economical, you know. Now, 
 like a good old sister, do tell Madge that 
 it ought to be my birthday. What's the 
 good of waiting after that T
 
 WERE YOU EVER JEALOUS? 183 
 
 " You are a sordid creature." 
 ''Well, that day week. It would be 
 jolly to have two anniversaries in a 
 week." 
 
 ''But the economy ?" 
 " Oh, bother the economy !" cries this 
 unreasonable man. 
 
 Then he began pumping Bell about the 
 proprieties. Might not he go down to 
 Laremouth now ? Wasn't the Vicar's 
 letter almost an invitation 1 This recalls 
 some disagreeables which had arisen during 
 her sixpenceless man's later visits to Lare- 
 mouth as her betrothed, and now the 
 matron repeats the very platitudes which 
 were so distasteful to the maid. 
 
 " Better not just now," she advises. " If 
 poor mamma were alive, or I were there — 
 don't you see, better not ? Be a good 
 patient boy, and Avait till she comes here ;
 
 i84 WERE YOU EVER JEALOUS ? 
 
 then you shall see her every day, and 
 nobody shall look." 
 
 So all appears to be couleur de rose, 
 Fraser writes to his Madge, and Madge, 
 writes to her Fraser every day. What, 
 every one thought at Laremouth is not 
 confided to the gentleman, and why people 
 were cold at Beckhampton is not explained 
 to the lady. They are in unconscious una- 
 nimit3^ that Mr. Wybert's name is not to 
 appear in the correspondence. As time 
 goes on Fraser drops him entirely out of 
 his mind, and Madge — well, Madge begins 
 to fret herself about him more and more 
 every day. 
 
 Whether women should be angry or 
 indignant at the pretensions of unfavoured 
 suitors need not be here discussed. That 
 a woman never is really angry or indignant
 
 WERE YOU EVER JEALOUS f 185 
 
 at being made love to is too plain a propo- 
 sition to need discussion. She may be, 
 and ought to be, angry with a swain who 
 proposes too soon. Proposing to her with- 
 out making love is flattering yourself at 
 her expense. 
 
 The sting in Mr. Wybert's conduct 
 to Madge was in its coldness. He 
 was to '' form her," forsooth, into a wife 
 before he had softened her into a sweet- 
 heart. If he had made fierce love to her, 
 and had then gone forth and told the gossips 
 that she was dying for him, it would not 
 have been so bad. And she is ris^ht. 
 
 It seems to her now as wicked to 
 think of marriage without promising love, 
 as it will do hereafter to promise love with- 
 out thinking of marriage. She asks her- 
 self, over and over again, how could he 
 think of her as a wife, and treat her like a
 
 i86 WERE YOU EVER JEALOUS ? 
 
 Mr. Barlow % and gradually an answer is 
 formed. It is formed out of scraps and 
 fraofments, forsrotten words that come back 
 to her at her thinking-place in the sobbing 
 of the waves at her feet, tricks of voice, 
 and changes of face, of which the flying 
 clouds remind her in the solitude of the 
 cliff. Not one line have they received 
 from Wybert. Uncle Joe mentions having 
 met him ^' looking like his ghost," and 
 innocently asks what is the matter '? Bell 
 understands he is going to sell his practice 
 in Westburnia, having received an appoint- 
 ment in the West Indies. 
 
 Once or twice Jessie Westwood has 
 spoken of him as " poor fellow," and then 
 turned red and stammered out something 
 to cover up the slip. What had happened 
 to make him look like his ghost, and de- 
 sire to leave the country, poor fellow ?
 
 WERE YOU EVER JEALOUS? 187 
 
 She finds herself repeating in her own 
 thoughts the phrase she had snapped at 
 Jessie for using only a day or two ago ! 
 And the nail of her left great toe is grow- 
 ing into the flesh, just as he told her it 
 would assuredly do if she persisted in 
 wearing those high heels. 
 
 This is frightfully unromantic. It re- 
 minds me of the lady in the legend ^' who 
 didn't mind death, but she could not stand 
 pinching." 
 
 It must be mentioned, though, as it 
 leads musing Madge to form a different 
 estimate of the '' poor fellow." In this 
 business of heels he was right. She can- 
 not walk to her thinking-place without 
 being painfully reminded of that fact. 
 And she was wrong to have been obsti- 
 nate, just — as she put it to her angry self 
 — to spite him. Was he lame 1 Did he
 
 1 88 WERE YOU EVER JEALOUS? 
 
 care ? Well, perhaps he would care if he 
 knew. He had meant to be kind. Is not 
 trying to save one from pain almost the 
 same thing as trying to give one plea- 
 sure ? 
 
 How small a cause will make our anger 
 glance, and then at what wide angles will 
 the bolts diverge ! Madge remembers, 
 that she has been snubbed and domineered 
 over for years without knowing it, till 
 Fraser put her up to rebel. Was it really 
 snubbing and domination ? She gets 
 less and less sure on this point as she 
 goes on. 
 
 The rapid changes in her father's con- 
 duct trouble her. She does not feel safe. 
 He has changed once, and may change 
 again. Fraser is king of men now, and 
 Henry " may go hang 1" " Is this fair — 
 fair, of course, to Henry, after all his ser-
 
 WERE YOU EVER JEALOUS? 189 
 
 vices ?" Madge finds herself asking the 
 winds and the waves. Surely papa might 
 be kind to Fraser (that Avas natural) with- 
 out forgetting what he owed to Henry ? 
 He had liked being ^^ formed ;" had put 
 himself willingly into the mould, and made 
 no wry faces, however tightly it was 
 pressed. Now when informed that his 
 good genius is going about " looking like 
 a ghost," he replies, ^^ Well, my love, he 
 is a ghost," and chuckles as he finishes 
 his breakfast. 
 
 She is quick enough to see that the 
 situation turns upon that six thousand 
 pounds, and an uneasy suspicion that (so 
 far as her father is concerned) she has been 
 bought and sold, begins to grow. 
 
 Oh ! if Henry had not been so foolish — 
 how he could have helped her ! Oh ! if 
 Fraser thought — if he should ever come
 
 I90 WERE YOU EVER JEALOUS f 
 
 to think — that she had snapped him up 
 because he was rich, what should she 
 do? 
 
 It is well, you perceive, for Madge that 
 she does not know what people have been 
 saying at Beckhampton. 
 
 Kind-hearted Jessie Westwood thinks to 
 soften Madge's quondam wrath against 
 Mr. Wybert by assuring her that he was 
 fond of her — poor man ! — in his way ; and 
 she recalls many little acts and words in 
 support of this theory. He would have 
 begun making love (in what he thought) 
 good time, if Eraser had not been too 
 quick for him. That was why he was so 
 angry with Fraser. That was why he 
 called him mean and treacherous. 
 
 " Of course, he thinks he had a chance," 
 urges Miss Westwood, '' before Fraser 
 came, and so is furious Avith himself for
 
 WERE YOU EVER JEALOUS? 191 
 
 having lost it. We let ourselves put our- 
 selves out of temper, my dear, a great deal 
 more than we let any one else ; although 
 some one else always has to stand the 
 blame. If he had not cared for you, 
 it would have delighted him to meddle 
 and fuss, as you say, over your wed- 
 ding." 
 
 Thus Miss West wood, partly to justify 
 herself for having supposed Wybert to be 
 the happy man when Madge so boister- 
 ously announced her engagement, and 
 partly to move her to be sorry for the 
 " poor man," and so make peace. Jessie 
 loves to make peace for its own sake ; but 
 even she, who knows next to nothing of 
 Mr. Wybert, has an idea that peace with 
 him is prudent, as well as lovely. 
 
 So Madge's anger oozes away, and she 
 does get sorry for the '^ poor man ;" sorry
 
 192 WERE YOU EVER JEALOUS? 
 
 that her father is treating him so ungrate- 
 fully ; sorry that he and Fraser cannot be 
 friends ; and sorry that it is all through 
 her.
 
 CHAPTEE IX. 
 
 IN A NEW '' THINKING-PLACE." 
 
 |ADGE and Bell (one gives the 
 pas to one's heroine) have not 
 seen much of each other since 
 the latter's highly imprudent marriage. 
 Whilst the sixpenceless man was strug- 
 gling, the Vicar did not encourage visits 
 to Laremouth. Bell had not behaved well, 
 and, as a father, he was not justified in 
 allowing his younger child to be influenced 
 by the picture of successful obstinacy and 
 VOL. I. 13
 
 194 IN A NEW " thinking-place: 
 
 disobedience which Mrs. De Gray pre- 
 sented. Besides, there was no telHng how 
 long a visit from this impecunious pair 
 might last, or what uninvited guest might 
 turn up during their stay. 
 
 When the consequences of disobedience 
 and obstinacy were gilded by success, and 
 the example became more dangerous than 
 ever, there was no lack of invitations ; but 
 the coldness was then on the other side. 
 There was a time when a trip to the sea- 
 side might have saved poor Bell from 
 much suffering if she could only have put 
 her pride in her pocket, and asked leave to 
 come where her husband was sneered at. 
 But she couldn't — a further sign of her 
 stiff-neckedness and perversity. 
 
 Prosperity is the best of peacemakers.^ 
 It washed the good-for-nothing adven- 
 turer white as the driven snow. Nothino:
 
 IN A NEW " THINKING-PLACE^ 195 
 
 like Pactolus for bleaching purposes ; and 
 when the six thousand pounds went back, 
 and he had nothing of Mr. Marston's but 
 his daughter, they might stay as long 
 as they pleased, and bring the dear 
 children. 
 
 They would come as soon as he and 
 Madge had visited them, and as it had 
 not suited Mr. Wybert that she should go 
 to London, things hung in this position 
 till the young lady's approaching mar- 
 riage, and the fall of the good genius made 
 the balance topple in favour of the De 
 Grays. 
 
 The Vicar and Madge paid the first visit, 
 and for the latter it was full of delight. 
 Dear Bell was so kind ; dear Fraser was so 
 good. Everything was so new and bright 
 and charming. 
 
 " Only think," she wrote Jessie, " I have 
 
 13—2
 
 196 IN A NEW " THINKING-PLACE. 
 
 been to two balls, the opera, and a flower- 
 show, all in one week !" 
 
 Only one thing she missed — her thinking- 
 place on the clifF, whither she might slip 
 away and digest these delights in her mind. 
 She «oon found a thinking-place in Ken- 
 sington Gardens, not ten minutes' walk 
 from her sister's house, which at her hour 
 for thinking (generally before breakfast) 
 was as deserted as the dear old nook at 
 home. Lonely so long, she could not 
 do without some solitude, if only to 
 a ]3j.ing out," as artists say, the bright 
 colouring of the picture in which she now 
 figured. 
 
 She has returned from one of these 
 rambles and finds Bell breakfasting in 
 bed (a sure sign that Horace is away 
 on business), and, apropos of nothing, 
 asks :
 
 IN A NEW " thinking-place!' 197 
 
 " Couldn't you invite Henry to dinner 
 some day T 
 
 Bell puts down her cup and looks as- 
 tonished. 
 
 "- What would Fraser say T she asks. 
 
 '' I want them to be friends. I shall 
 tell Fraser that he must be civil and — and 
 make it up," says Madge. 
 
 " You forget that it may not rest entirely 
 with Fraser to do that," suggests her 
 sister. 
 
 '^ Then he can stay away. Bell dear, I 
 think papa is not treating poor Henry well, 
 and I do so hate to look ungrateful." 
 
 " Papa called on him and he has not 
 returned his visit." 
 
 '' Yes ; he left a card when he knew he 
 wasn't at home. I don't think that is any- 
 thing when we've been so intimate. If 
 there hadn't been any fuss and he had only
 
 198 IN A NEW " thinking-place: 
 
 left a card here, what should we have 
 thought r 
 
 Bell knows that Wybert must not meet 
 Ellicott or be invited in his absence, but 
 cannot say why, being pledged to secrecy 
 as to that unpleasant quarter of an hour in 
 the surgery. Mrs. Grundy finds her with 
 a means of escape. 
 
 ^' Well, dear, when Horace comes home 
 you can mention it to him. Men do 
 these sort of things, you know, with men ; 
 and Mr. Ellicott is not on my visiting 
 list." 
 
 Bell's Wednesday came, Horace or no 
 Horace, and Uncle Joe is there as surely 
 as comes the following Thursday. 
 
 '^ Uncle Joe," says Madge, ^^ I want you 
 to do something for me." Madge is in 
 high favour, but the ex-diplomatist will not 
 promise in the dark. '' I want you to tell
 
 IN A NEW " THINKING-PLACE^ 
 
 199 
 
 Henry — Mr. Wybert, you know, that we 
 want him — / want him to come here, 
 and call upon papa and — and not be 
 horrid." 
 
 "■ My love, if he's ' horrid ' he had much 
 better keep away. We don't want horrid 
 people here." 
 
 '' Oh, you know what I mean — stiff and 
 huffy. I'm sure papa would like to be 
 friendly, and Uncle Joe" (sinking her voice 
 and picking at his houtonniere) " is he really 
 looking ill ?" 
 
 " Well, he has changed, certainly. Men 
 don't usually look cheerful under such a 
 come-down as his." 
 
 Up goes the crimson flag. How did 
 Uncle Joe mean? For an instant she 
 imagines that he knows everything, and 
 feebly pleads : ' 
 
 " Indeed it wasn't my fault."
 
 200 IN A NEW '' THINKING-PLACE. 
 
 " Yours ! Why, what on earth could 
 you have to do with his break-up T 
 
 First it was his *^ come-down ;" now it 
 is his '' break-up." Madge is fairly 
 puzzled. 
 
 *' Uncle, what is a ^ break-up ' T 
 
 " In his case, Madge, it means keeping 
 a carriage when you cannot afford it ; 
 getting into debt, borrowing money at ten 
 per cent., and making five of your capital, 
 neglecting your business where you can 
 live, and having to take an appointment 
 when you cannot." 
 
 '^ You mean to say he is ruined T Madge 
 gasps. 
 
 *^ Something very like it." 
 
 ^* Oh, I am so sorry !" 
 
 '' So am I," replies Uncle Joe. " He 
 was a promising man, and if he could have 
 been content to mount the ladder from the
 
 IN A NEW " THINKING-PLACE.'" 
 
 bottom, he might have done well. But he 
 must needs take a flying jump at the middle, 
 and (as our young friends say) he has come 
 a cropper." 
 
 " Oh, Uncle Joe, how can you ? Don't 
 talk in that light way. We have known 
 him so long, and it is so shocking. I 
 thought he was only vexed with us, and — 
 and like that. This alters the case. Papa, 
 shall go and see him. Perhaps he doesn't 
 even know we are in town. Has he left 
 where he used to live '?" 
 
 " I believe so." 
 
 '* Where is he now V 
 
 ^' Indeed I don't know." 
 
 "You said he was going somewhere 
 where he could not live. What does that 
 mean T 
 
 "He has got some small appointment I 
 hear, at Barbadoes."
 
 202 IN A NEW " THINKING-PLACE^ 
 
 '' That's in the West Indies V 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " Where people die of yellow fever T 
 
 " Well, they don't all die," replies Uncle 
 Joe. 
 
 Some one claims his attention, and he 
 turns aside just in time. Madge has to 
 unclasp her hands to feel for a chair, and 
 shows that her pretty creamy gloves are 
 in rags, as she sinks into it with a long 
 sob. 
 
 Ruined ! It does not seem to the now 
 weeping girl that this sort of ruin is a fruit 
 slow to ripen. Barely a month has passed 
 since her flag of revolt was raised ; still she 
 thinks it is all her fault. Her warm and 
 generous heart bleeds for the ruined man, 
 and the last shade of resentment against 
 his high and mighty ways vanishes in the 
 thought, " Oh, how he must feel it !"
 
 IN A NEW " thinking-place!' 203 
 
 " Kuined because he necvlected his busi- 
 ness and ran into debt ! Perhaps his visits 
 to Laremouth on papa's business were the 
 primary cause of his losses ; and oh ! what 
 if papa should have got him compromised 
 in some way about money, and all through 
 me — all through me !" she sobs. 
 
 This comes at night when Madge has 
 undressed as a matter of form and is sitting 
 up in bed with her hands clasped round her 
 knees. No sleep for her. As soon as the 
 servants are down she starts for her think- 
 ing-place, and is half way there when a 
 thought strikes her. 
 
 " It will be all the better," she observes, 
 speaking to herself as was her wont, ^^ to 
 be able to say where he lives, and as he 
 has left his house there cannot be any harm 
 in your calling to ask where he has moved 
 to."
 
 204 IN A NEW " thinking-place!' 
 
 She had made up her mind that her 
 father should seek Mr. Wybert, and if 
 possible help him over his troubles in 
 turn; and she is now making for where 
 Mr. Wybert used to live in order to dis- 
 cover where he is now to be found. As 
 she passes the door of Mrs. Magnold's 
 select academy, the discovery is made. 
 
 He raises his hat gravely, and makes 
 way for her to pass on the driest part of 
 the flag^s. 
 
 " Oh, Henry^ won't you speak to me ?" 
 she asks piteously, shrinking from his 
 formal salutation as though from a blow. 
 
 " I have nothing that would interest 
 you, Miss Marston, to communicate," he 
 replies stiffly. " I should have said won't 
 you let me speak to you '?" 
 
 '^ Oh, Henry, I do so want to assure 
 you that we are not ungrateful, and — and
 
 IN A NEW '' THINKING-PLACE. 205 
 
 that you have all oui' sympathy in your 
 misfortunes." 
 
 "' May I venture to inquire who are 
 included in the word ^ our % " 
 
 " Uncle Joe is sorry, and I am sorry — 
 so sorry, Henry, and we are the only two 
 that know. I am going to tell papa after 
 breakfast, and I'm sure he will be shocked. 
 Uncle Joe said you had moved, and so I 
 walked round — I always take a walk before 
 breakfast — to try and find out where you 
 had gone. There is no harm in that, is 
 there, Henry T 
 
 Never had her face so softened to him. 
 Never had it borne so docile an expression* 
 
 "We had better not stand here," he 
 replies, in part answer to her question. 
 " If you would not mind prolonging your 
 walk in the direction of the Gardens " 
 
 " I always go there," she interrupts gaily.
 
 " Do come if you can spare the time. Ah^ 
 I forgot !" Her face falls again as she re- 
 members that ruined men have plenty of 
 spare time. There is a deference, almost 
 a tenderness in her manner, for which he 
 cannot account. 
 
 " What has Sir Joseph told you about 
 me ?" he asks, as they walk back slowly 
 towards her thinking-place. 
 
 " That you are going to Barbadoes," she 
 replies, skipping details, and coming at 
 once to what she considers the crown of 
 the edifice of ruin. 
 
 ^' Judging from the past month, you can 
 do very well without me. "Why should 
 any of you be sorry for my going to Bar- 
 badoes ?" he asks. 
 
 " I can only answer for myself now,'* 
 she says ; and again he notes how soft is 
 voice and look. " I am sorry, because I
 
 IN A NEW " THINKING-PLACE. 207 
 
 think that your mis — dear Henry, tell me 
 the truth : have you neglected your own in- 
 terests for ours % Is it anything you have 
 done for papa that — that — " (it comes out 
 at last with a burst of tears) ^' lias ruined 
 you r 
 
 " Hush, Madge, this is foohsh ! There, 
 take my arm. Now you really must not 
 cry ; dry your eyes, and listen to me. I 
 think I understand what is passing in your 
 mind. Sir Joseph Balderson is one of a 
 large class which is incapable of drawing 
 any but the worst and most vulgar con- 
 clusions. Many people who are ruined 
 go to the colonies. I am going to the 
 colonies, therefore I am ruined. That, I 
 suppose, is Sir Joseph's explanation T 
 
 "Why, Henry, you don't mean to say 
 that it isn't true V 
 
 " Would you be glad to know it is not T
 
 2o8 IN A NEW " THINKING-PLACE^ 
 
 " Oh, so glad 1" she cries, dashing aside 
 the tears that will come. '^ Say it is not 
 true, Henry." 
 
 He looks her full in her eager face — 
 lit with, perhaps, the sweetest of all smiles, 
 the smile through tears — and wonders why 
 he had never thought her beautiful till 
 now. 
 
 " You are a grateful and a generous girl, 
 Madge," he answers her, pressing the hand 
 which rests on his arm. '^ I cannot con- 
 fide in you every reason that I have for 
 going abroad for a time, but you can rest 
 assured of this much, Sir Joseph Balderson 
 is quite mistaken. Many a man in a better 
 position than I ever held would be glad to 
 accept the appointment which is offered to 
 me. I am content to take it because it 
 involves change of scene, and life, and 
 thouQfht. I have heard that a few thou-
 
 IN A NEW '' thinking-place'' 209 
 
 sand miles of blue water are good for my 
 complaint." 
 
 "■ You are looking very ill," she says ; 
 " what is the matter T 
 
 '^ A serious lesion of my self- esteem," he 
 tells her, with a scoffing laugh. '^ I set my 
 heart upon something, and lost it for want 
 of proper seeking. Bah ! you know what 
 I mean, Madge." 
 
 She does, and she feels they are getting 
 on their ice, but for the life of her she 
 cannot resist saying : 
 
 " What is not worth seeking is not 
 worth having. Console yourself with the 
 conviction that you were wise not to 
 seek." 
 
 "Perhaps I may be able to do so — at 
 Barbadoes." 
 
 '' Why not here 1" she asks. 
 
 " Here !" he cries passionately, turning 
 
 VOL. I. 14
 
 2IO IN A NEW *' THINKING-PLACE. 
 
 round ujDon her. ^^ Here in your pre-^ 
 sence ? Are you a heartless coquette or a 
 fool, Madge ? Well, well, I treated you 
 like a child till it was too late. I ha.ye no 
 right to reproach you. There, don't look 
 so astonished ; I promise not to break 
 out again. So your father is in town ? 
 Staying with Mrs. De Gray, I pre- 
 sume ?" 
 
 " Why, of course !" 
 
 "There was no address on his card." 
 
 " How tiresome ! That was it then V' 
 cries Madge, pleased and triumphant. 
 *^ You would have come to see us if you 
 had known — wouldn't you, Henry ?" 
 
 " I don't think so, Madge." 
 
 '^ Why not ?" 
 
 " I have a bowing acquaintance with 
 your sister ; but her salutations say dis- 
 tinctly, ' I do not want to cut you, only
 
 IN A NEW " thinking-place!' 21 r 
 
 pray don't call' I have taken the hint, 
 and shall keep it." 
 
 " Only tell me where papa can call on 
 you, and he shall,'' says impulsive Madge. 
 
 '^ I beg that you will leave your father 
 to follow his own inclinations. If he 
 wishes to see me, he can call aofain. " 
 
 " Then you haven't moved ?" 
 
 "No, and I shall not. The gentleman 
 who is nominally going into jDartnership 
 with me will occupy my rooms during my 
 absence." 
 
 " Oh ! then you are not going away for 
 
 good r 
 
 ^' I hope so. If we were as we once 
 were, Madge, I should ask you not to use 
 that phrase 'for good.' Don't you see how 
 it has perverted your meaning T 
 
 How kindly lie speaks now. "When 
 we were as we were," she muses, repeating 
 
 14—2
 
 212 IN A NEW " thinking-place!' 
 
 liis formula, '^ he would have snapped me 
 up with a sneer, called me vinegar or pro- 
 vincial, and ordered me not to do it again." 
 She hears a sigh, and it all but brings up 
 her thoughts. " Thank you, Henry," is 
 all she says. 
 
 She has never thanked him for correct- 
 ing her before ; and it makes him thrill as 
 he looks in her face and sees no shade of 
 irony there. Is this Madge Marston, clad 
 daintily in a two browns silk, which fits her 
 from neck to waist like another skin, and 
 a natty little felt hat to match ? — this 
 young lady, hien chaussee, hien gantee, who 
 gives him so sweet a ' thank you ' — is this 
 the little girl who used to run wild on the 
 Laremouth Downs, in a torn cotton frock, 
 and toss her tangled locks with a frown 
 when he set her right ? The change he 
 sees is the very one he hoped to make.
 
 213 
 
 He cannot yet realise that for not making 
 it he has himself alone to blame. Hard 
 and hot as is his gaze, it does not yet get 
 beyond the milliner's work. 
 
 ^' It is that cursed money," he mutters, 
 when they have parted. " If I could have 
 brought her to town, given her fine clothes, 
 and sent her amongst fine people, she 
 would soon have picked up their ways. 
 She is an actress, like all her sex, and 
 dressing a part well is half-way towards 
 playing it. I wonder who put her up to 
 the grateful? Not her father, I'll be 
 bound. It's that cur EUicott's work. He 
 is afraid of me, and wants peace. Grate- 
 ful 1 A Marston grateful ! I've done 
 with them." 
 
 He thinks so. With the wave of hands 
 which accompanies the half-uttered re- 
 solve, he thinks that he puts them aside
 
 214 !N A NEW "• thinking-place'' 
 
 once and for ever. But Madge's fresh 
 joung face, with its tears and its smiles, 
 haunts him. His cold heart is warmed by 
 her beauty, and is nearer to loving her 
 than it has ever been. And oh ! how he 
 hates the man who has won her from him ! 
 He orders his page to say '"' Not at 
 home " if a tall gentleman dressed like a 
 clergyman should call. He has done with 
 them — with him, at any rate ; but not 
 with Kensington Gardens at seven o'clock 
 in the morning I 
 
 Madge trots home, and is greeted with : 
 "- Why, darling, how well you look ! I 
 was afraid we had been over-taxing you, 
 you looked so worn last night." This from 
 Bell. 
 
 Nothing is said about making jDapa be 
 good to poor Henry. The ground, you
 
 215 
 
 see, is partly cut from under this plan. 
 Henry is not '^ poor." Madge sees a way 
 to bring it all right again through Fraser, 
 and, regardless of that wise proverb which 
 bids us begin nothing of which we have 
 not well considered the end, she flies at 
 Uncle Joe the next time they meet, and 
 scolds him for " being so unkind " about 
 Mr. Wybert. She warmly denies the 
 *^ cropper." 
 
 ^' Henry is going to Barbadoes because 
 he likes to," she concludes, '' and he hasn't 
 left his house, and he liasnt put down his 
 brougham, and he does not owe a sixpence 
 —there !" 
 
 Uncle Joe naturally inquires how she 
 knows all this, and is told the honest truth. 
 She met Mr. Wybert by accident, and con- 
 doled with him. 
 
 *' Well, my love," replies Sir Joseph, '^ I
 
 2i6 IN A NEW " THINKING-PLACE, 
 
 suppose he knows best; but look here, 
 Madge — don't meet him hy accident again." 
 
 At this warning she blushes up to the 
 roots of her hair. 
 
 She has met him again by accident. 
 Kensington Gardens are not her property. 
 Other people may walk there. Besides, is 
 she not going to bring it all right in her 
 own way % 
 
 Uncle Joe does not quite believe that 
 young men go to Barbadoes because they 
 like to, still he keeps his promise to Madge 
 made after the slight confusion which fol- 
 lowed his warning, and contradicts the 
 cropper at his club. Being a kind-hearted 
 old gentleman, and one of a school w^hich 
 does not deem it ^^ good form " to make a 
 mistake and stick to it, he actually apolo- 
 gises to Mr. Wybert for his share in 
 spreading the scandal.
 
 IN A NEW '' THINKING-PLACE. 217 
 
 Where is the truth ? Much nearer to 
 the facts according to Uncle Joe than to 
 those stated by Mr. Wybert. Neverthe- 
 less, there is a possibility that he may not 
 go to Barbadoes after all.
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 " BY THIS KISS, I WILL. 
 
 ADGE has met Mr. Wybert again 
 hy accident. When next she 
 seeks her new thinking-place, 
 she finds him there, and is not sm^prised. 
 He has a haggard, hunted look in his face, 
 which grieves her to see. 
 
 ^' So you are here again ?" he says, as 
 they saunter on. 
 
 <^ I might say the same thing to 
 you," she replies, as gaily as she can.
 
 BY THIS KISS, I will!' 219 
 
 *' Did you come to see me, or Avere you 
 passing T 
 
 " I came to see you," he replies. 
 " I met your uncle last night, and 
 want to thank you for silencing those 
 absurd stories. It was very kind of 
 you, Madge. You, at least, are genuine 
 and " 
 
 '' Grateful, Henry. Say grateful, and 
 believe it." 
 
 '' You have nothing to be grateful for. 
 I was going to say something else ; but it 
 would not be right now." 
 
 '* Would it ever have been 1" 
 
 '^ Oh yes !" 
 
 *'Then why not now? What is right 
 once is always so — isn't it V 
 
 " The word on my lips was ' affec- 
 tionate,' " he goes on, looking her steadily 
 in the face ; *^ genuine and affectionate.
 
 220 " BY THIS KISS, I WILL.'' 
 
 Poor little Madge ! Girls like you are 
 born to suffer." 
 
 " That's not a kind prediction, Henry ; 
 and, as things stand — excuse me — not a 
 generous one. If you and Fraser have 
 fallen out, that is no reason why I should 
 suffer." 
 
 He makes no reply. He cannot. 
 
 ^^ Do you often come here T he asks, 
 after an awkward pause. 
 
 *^ Sometimes. I must have a thinking- 
 place. Do you remember how often you 
 used to scold me for haunting my dear old 
 nook on the cliff at home % How you used 
 to tell me I had nothing to think about 
 and had better be darning my frocks T 
 
 '^ You had little to think about then." 
 
 " Oh yes I had. Ever so many things. 
 I used to brood and fret over — such non- 
 sense."
 
 BY THIS KISS, I WILL. 
 
 " My scoldings for example T 
 
 "No, I don't think I minded them 
 much." 
 
 ''That is frank. Well, you have more 
 than nonsense to think over now." 
 
 '' Yes, indeed ! I often wonder if I 
 shall make him really happy," she replies 
 dreamily. 
 
 '' Put it the other way. Have you asked 
 yourself seriously if he can ever make you 
 really happy ? A false friend may make a 
 false husband." 
 
 " I will not allow you to say he is a false 
 friend — how dare you, Henry !" she cries, 
 with flashing eyes. 
 
 " He was a false friend. He well knew 
 that I loved you, Madge, and sneaked 
 down there to win you away from me." 
 
 '' Away from you ! Much you had done 
 to win me for yourself. Away from you I
 
 222 ''BY THIS KISS, I WILL. 
 
 you must have lost your senses to talk like 
 this." 
 
 '^ No, I have found them — but too late. 
 Why did he not tell me he was going again 
 to Laremouth ? He owed it to me, for I 
 had introduced him to you. Why did he 
 not write and say, ' Wish me joy, Madge 
 Marston has accepted me' % Because he 
 dared not. The first intimation I had of 
 his — his falsehood, was your father's letter 
 asking my consent — ha! ha! — my consent to 
 your marriage." 
 
 "So this was why you called him 
 * treacherous and mean * T 
 
 " Was it not treacherous ? Was it not 
 mean ?" he retorts, his whole frame quiver- 
 ing with anger. 
 
 '' Do try to be reasonable, Henry," she 
 says, rather frightened by his violence ; "I 
 am going to talk to you as you used to talk
 
 " BY THIS KISS, I WILL. 223 
 
 to me when I used big words foolishly. 
 How you used to scold me for calling 
 things aivfully this or that ! Well, you're 
 just as bad now. What is a traitor ? what 
 is treacherous ? A traitor is one who is 
 false to somebody to whom he owes 
 obedience. Treachery is the falseness he 
 commits. Did Fraser owe you obedience ? 
 Surely you cannot think that because you 
 introduced him to us he was to say, ' If you 
 please, sir, do you want to make love to 
 Miss Marston ? because if you don't, I 
 would like to try V Just reflect how utterly 
 absurd it would have been !" 
 
 " As you put it, it is absurd," he replies, 
 biting his pale lips ; '^ but you do not put 
 it fairly. His whole conduct shows that 
 he knew my secret and cruelly supplanted 
 
 me." 
 
 You kept your secret remarkably well.
 
 224 " BY THIS KISS, I WILL.'' 
 
 Mr. Wybert," says Madge, with a curl of 
 her hp. 
 
 " From you, too well ; but it was no 
 secret to others, Madge." 
 
 She suddenly remembers what had passed 
 between her and her father, and what Jess 
 l¥estwood had let out that day when she 
 went to be congratulated. His voice is low 
 and broken, his manner humble and sad. 
 She feels what he would say if he dared. 
 She knows that he has said, though not in 
 so many words, " I loved you, I love you 
 still." 
 
 If she could turn round and run away 
 she would do so; but she cannot. His 
 shaft, drawn at a venture, has gone home. 
 She may not contradict him, for London 
 life has not yet rubbed the truth out of her. 
 She is not able to parry the thrust or return 
 it as a well-seasoned young lady might do.
 
 22! 
 
 Her very honesty keeps her defenceless and 
 silent. 
 
 '^ I have not a word," he goes on in the 
 same tone, *' to urge in my own excuse. 
 I have behaved like an idiot, and must 
 suffer for my own fault ; but when I see 
 you sacrificed, Madge, I cannot hold my 
 tongue." 
 
 '' Sacrificed T 
 
 " Yes, sacrificed. What do you know 
 about this man who proposes for you after 
 seeing you perhaps twenty times ? What 
 does any one know ? What does he 
 know of you ? Why, he would not have 
 bought a horse on the knowledge he thinks 
 enough to recommend a wife ! And you, 
 poor trusting child ! think you love 
 him." 
 
 '' I do love him," she replies loyally. 
 
 " You think you love him," he repeats. 
 
 VOL. I. 15
 
 226 ^' BY THIS KISS, I WILL.'' 
 
 " You have not sold yourself, I am sure of 
 that ; but you have been bought and sold, 
 Madge Marston, and you will know it some 
 day when it is too late to undo the- 
 bargain." 
 
 Another random shot ! That wretched 
 six thousand pounds ! Could he know 
 about it? He has been weighing hi& 
 words with great care, watching her face 
 as he speaks them. He sees angry flushes 
 rise ; he sees her lips part in the very act 
 of passionate reproof The red blood flows 
 back to her chilled heart and the mobile- 
 mouth quivers with silent pain. He knows, 
 he has hit the blot. 
 
 '^ It is not a pleasant task," he continues,, 
 " or, as the world wags, a wise one to warn 
 a child against her father. I have had 
 some experience of yours, Madge, and — ta 
 say the least — I do not find him a prudent
 
 " BY THIS KISS, I WILL. 227 
 
 man. Your sister is a woman, who, owing' 
 all she has to a lucky marriage, naturally 
 thinks matrimony to be the aim and the 
 end of all girls' ambition. Your counsellors 
 are few, my poor Madge ! and there is little 
 wisdom amongst them. Your own heart 
 will guide you right if you examine it well, 
 and put vanity out of it — yes, dear, vanity ! 
 all girls are vain. What nine out of ten. 
 call love — is only flattered vanity. Ask 
 your heart if it can trust this man whom 
 you have known a bare two months, with 
 your young life. If it should say * yes, 
 ask it sternly wh}^ ? and take no light 
 answer. Don't let them hurry you into 
 this marriage. A friend without hope to 
 be anything dearer, bids you pause. Take 
 time. What is a year at your age ? Be 
 just to him, Madge. Would you like him 
 to say hereafter, or even to think, ' Oh, I 
 
 15—2
 
 228 '' BV THIS KISS, I WILL.'' 
 
 was snapjDed up by those people because I 
 was rich.' " 
 
 " It would kill me," she whispers to 
 herself with a shudder. 
 
 ^^ You hint that I have fallen out with 
 Mr. Ellicott," he goes on ; " you are mis- 
 taken. He has fallen out with me ; I 
 cannot tell you why. It is of a piece with 
 all his behaviour ; but this has nothing to 
 do with the advice I give you. I am 
 thinking of your happiness, Madge ; not 
 that of Mr. EUicott. Try him ; find him 
 true and worthy ; and if we meet again, I 
 will frankly ask his pardon for anything I 
 have involuntarily done to offend him, and 
 rejoice in his happiness almost as though it 
 were my own." 
 
 "You have bewildered me so," she 
 replies, " that I really do not know what 
 to say. I ought to be very angry with
 
 BY THIS KISS, I will!' 229 
 
 you for speaking as you have done ; I 
 ought not to have hstened to a great deal 
 you have said. You must never talk to 
 me again like this, and I will not come 
 here again ; but you mean kindly, Henry^ 
 I can see that, and forgive you." 
 
 ^' I would rather you said * thank you.' '* 
 " You have made me very unhappy." 
 " I have made you think. Thought, 
 Madge, is the crucible in which one 
 separates the true metal from the dross." 
 " With fire," she muses. 
 '^ Yes, dear ; better fire now, than tears 
 hereafter." 
 
 *' We are getting quite poetical," she 
 says, with an hysterical sob, ^^ and my sister 
 will be waiting breakfast. The best thing 
 you can do, Henry, is to forget all about 
 me, and leave me to gang my ain gait, as 
 the Scotch say. When you come back from
 
 :3o " BY THIS KISS, I WILL' 
 
 Barbadoes I shall hold you to your promise, 
 and make you and Fraser shake hands. I 
 dare say if the truth were known you have 
 quarrelled about me, and Henry " (with a 
 sob), ^^ I'm not worth quarrelling about." 
 
 So she left him. Left him quite satis- 
 fied with his morning work. Left him 
 with those words bought and sold rankling 
 in her heart. Free from the spell of that 
 false voice and crafty eye, she wonders 
 why she had been with him so long — why 
 he had even slided into calling her '^ dear," 
 and she had not resented it ! She must 
 not see him again until after she had been 
 married, oh ! a long time ! What would 
 Fraser say if he knew '? Ought she to tell 
 him ? Should she put off their marriage ? 
 She had herself fixed the day. What 
 excuse could she possibly give to delay it 
 now? She could not find one — Fraser
 
 ''BY THIS KISS, I WILL, 231 
 
 would not make one. She felt like a log 
 in a whirlpool, carried on in spite of her- 
 self. 
 
 Sometimes she caught herself thinking 
 what would have happened if she had 
 never seen Fraser Ellicott, and wondering 
 when and in what fashion Henry Wybert 
 would have changed from the schoolmaster 
 into the lover. Often she wished that^ 
 Fraser would speak to her gravely and 
 tenderly as Henry had done. 
 
 " It would do you good, you silly thing," 
 she told herself, " to be found fault with 
 and contradicted, but he thinks you per- 
 fection, and you know you're no such 
 thing. Oh dear, oh dear ; if there were 
 only a good fairy about in these days to 
 come in the shape of an old charwoman, 
 have something kind done to her, and 
 give me three wishes, I'd wish for these
 
 232 " BY THIS KISS, I WILL, 
 
 two to be rolled up into one — Fraser to- 
 love me and Henry to make me good ; and 
 then to feel quite safe, and then to be — 
 but if I were only safe I should be happy. 
 No, I would wish to make them happy ; I 
 mean him. Good gracious ! is not the 
 world wide enough for two men to choose 
 out of?" She had said pretty much the 
 same thing to the cock robins, if you re- 
 member. 
 
 It so happened that Fraser was more 
 than usually attentive this day, or at least 
 she thought so. For the first time during 
 their engagement, her lover bored her. 
 
 " I wish to goodness you'd find some- 
 thing to scold me about for a change/' she 
 said, when he joined her in the drawing- 
 room after dinner. ^^ You'll spoil me if 
 you go on like this, and it's so insipid." 
 
 " What am I to scold about ?"
 
 ^' BY THIS KISS, I will!' 235 
 
 ^^ Oh, lots of things ! I'm not a canary- 
 bird to be fed with sugar and say ^ tweet.' '^ 
 
 "When 1 was at Oxford," he repHes 
 demurely, " I had a little dog named Fizz, 
 and when she had anything upon her mind, 
 she used to come into the room with a 
 penitential expression on her face, and her 
 tail between her legs. I immediately ad- 
 ministered a slight correction, and made 
 her happy. The light came back to her 
 eyes and the wag to her tail. She could 
 not say, ' If you please, sir, I've stolen that 
 half fowl that the scout put away for a 
 grill,' or * I worried a corner of the hearth- 
 rug and want to be whipped and have it 
 over.' She was only a dumb beastie, 
 Madge. You can talk ; have you been 
 stealing anything T 
 
 '' Fraser 1" 
 
 " Or tearing the carpet T
 
 234 '' BY THIS KISS, I WILL,'' 
 
 " I am not your dog, sir." 
 
 '' No, darling, but you must excuse my 
 saying that you go down a little that way 
 when you want me to scold about ' lots of 
 things ' without knowing in the least what 
 they are. If you have anything on your 
 mind, out with it. What have you been 
 doing ?" 
 
 " Oh, nothing ! what can girls do in 
 these days ? we are born, and marry, and 
 put on clothes, and eat, and drink, and die. 
 I do so wish you were poor." 
 
 " You'd have to strike three items out 
 of your list if I were," he laughs ; " you 
 wouldn't put on many clothes when your 
 trousseau was worn out, or eat and drink 
 much then, Madge." 
 
 " If I were a man, I should be ashamed 
 to admit that I could not make a living for 
 myself," she snaps.
 
 ''BY THIS KISS, I WILL. 235 
 
 '' I don't admit anything of the sort. I 
 could do a good many things. I could sail 
 a fellow's yacht, drive a hansom, be a game- 
 keeper or a billiard-marker, first rate ; but 
 I think being the husband of Mrs. Ellicott, 
 of the old Hall, Beckhampton, would suit 
 me best." 
 
 *^ Suppose I were to bring you bad luck'?" 
 
 '' My dear Madge, the same beneficent 
 Providence which denied me brains, made 
 me independent of luck. I'm not a City 
 man. I don't think that my trustees have 
 lent a shilling of my money to Peru. I 
 don't gamble, thank goodness ! and Beck- 
 hampton is not subject to earthquakes that 
 I know of. With the commonest pru- 
 dence, we can live like gentlefolks upon 
 our income, improve our property, and 
 snap our fingers at luck." 
 
 '' I was not thinking about money; and
 
 236 '' BY THIS KISS, I WILL.'' 
 
 please, don't talk about our income and our 
 property — it's all yours. I can only bring 
 you happiness ; and suppose that did not 
 come ? Suppose, after a few years, you 
 were to ask yourself, ^ Why did I marry 
 that girl V " 
 
 " I should reply, ^ Because I loved 
 her.'" 
 
 ^^ But if you didn't love me then V 
 " I should call myself an infernal cad ; 
 and if a man could knock himself down, I'd 
 do it. Why, who has been putting this, 
 nonsense into your head '? Not Bell,, 
 surely '?" 
 
 " Oh no ! Bell doesn't believe in luck."^ 
 ^'Nor do I. When people make fools, 
 of themselves, they catch a scape-goat, 
 heap their follies on his back, and call him 
 Bad Luck. When Good Luck comes, we 
 call him energy, perseverance, talent."
 
 "'•BY THIS KISS, I WILL, 237 
 
 '^ Yes, but what do kind friends say ? 
 They make out, for example, that Horace 
 De Gray is a lucky man ; and if he had 
 failed, they would have said it was all his 
 own fault. There is such a thing as luck, 
 Fraser, or else how did I " 
 
 '' Go on," he said, winding his arm round 
 her. " This is getting interesting. How 
 did you " 
 
 '' Feel a warning that you ought to 
 know me better before you marry me," she 
 «ays. 
 
 '^ That is not what you were going to 
 «ay." 
 
 '' It is what I have said." 
 
 ^' It is not what you were going to say, 
 Madge. Look me full in the face. You 
 were going to say something very different." 
 
 She could not lift her face to his. It 
 fell on his shoulder, and she began to cry.
 
 238 ''BY THIS KISS, I WILL.'' 
 
 '^ My darling !" he whispered. ''• I shall 
 know you better, and I shall love you 
 better the more I know you. You will do 
 the same by me, please God. The risk is 
 yours, not mine. Take back your promise 
 if you fear " 
 
 *^ No, no, no !" she interrupts, drawing 
 closer to him ! "I was going to say — or 
 else how did I win you? The risk is yours, 
 dear, all yours." 
 
 "Then I accept it, and there isn't 
 another word to be said." 
 
 " Just one," she replies, moving away, 
 and now confronting him. "If some great 
 trouble should come upon you through me, 
 you will let me share it with you — you will 
 let me fight it down with you — you will let 
 us triumph over it together." 
 
 " By this kiss, I will." 
 
 When he had gone, she was furious with
 
 ^^BY THIS KISS, I WILI. 239 
 
 herself for having given way as she had 
 done. "You wretched piece of weakness !" 
 she fretted. "You should have insisted 
 upon putting it off for a year, and you go 
 sobbing on his shoulder ! What must he 
 think of you ?" 
 
 He thought her the dearest, truest, 
 honestest girl that ever drew the breath of 
 life.
 
 ^^^^^1 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 WHAT CAN ANY (IIRL WISH FOR MORE ? 
 
 HE pace which country-tired 
 Madge thought had begun 
 furiously with two balls, an 
 opera, and a flower-show, all in one week, 
 quickens as the season advances, and her 
 '^ things " come in. Not the things, some 
 of which are to be marked M.E., but such 
 as Miss Marston may appear in without 
 incurring the ignominy of meeting the same 
 set of people twice in the same gown. The
 
 CAN ANY GIRL WISH FOR MORE f 241 
 
 things are being got ready with becoming 
 dehberation^and Horace De Gray, forbidden 
 to buy anything for his Avife, finds reUef in 
 plunging into shops and ordering last year's 
 fashions for his pretty sister-in-law that is 
 to be. Madge is spared the ordeal of being 
 shown about to her lover's relatives which 
 most engaged girls have to go through ; 
 because he has no relatives except a maiden 
 aunt who lives at Bath, and some cousins 
 in Northamptonshire from whom she re- 
 ceives prim little letters of congratula- 
 tion. 
 
 Fraser and Madge are model lovers. 
 No tepid back drawing-room spooning for 
 them. No scowHng at every other He who 
 approaches her, for him. No lackadaisical 
 airs Avhen he is away, for her. She puts 
 up her face to be kissed when he comes 
 and goes, as naturally as though they had 
 
 VOL. I. 16
 
 242 CAN ANY GIRL WISH FOR MORE f 
 
 been married for a twelvemonth ; and he,, 
 conscious of deficiencies as a ball-room man, 
 rages in doorways and passages to find 
 good partners for Miss Marston. Milliners,, 
 dressmakers, jewellers, claim her by day, 
 and she is danced off* her feet at night.. 
 What can a girl wish for more % 
 
 There seems to be something ; after a. 
 while she becomes pale and fretful, will 
 not be told (by Bell) that she is raking too 
 much, but wants to start earlier and stay 
 later than was her wont. She is even 
 snappish with Fraser. Her new thinking- 
 place claims her again, and mars the 
 thoughts it makes. She lapses into brown 
 studies in an opera box, and does not hear 
 what Madame Estelle is saying about the 
 old lace which good Mrs. Aymes has sent 
 up so carefully from Beckhampton. 
 
 '^ Madge," says her sister one day,.
 
 CAN ANY GIRL WISH FOR MORE f 243 
 
 " there is something the matter with you, 
 and you ought to tell me." 
 
 ^' Dear old Bell, if you are so clever as 
 to know there is something, why not find 
 out what it is ^ I can't." 
 
 '^ You have not said a word for the last 
 halfhour.'^ 
 
 " I've been thinking." 
 
 " I don't like to see you thinking, deai;, 
 with that face." 
 
 " It's the only one I have," Madge 
 replies, trying to laugh. 
 
 " I don't think that is quite the way 
 to answer me when you see I am both 
 anxious and serious, Madge," says her 
 elder sister. 
 
 " Well, it isn't, and I beg pardon. There " 
 (kissing her). "- But goodness. Bell ! did 
 you never have a fit of the blues when you 
 were going to be married ?" 
 
 16—2
 
 244 CAN ANY GIRL WISH FOR MORE ? 
 
 " Many ; but think of the anxieties I 
 had ! Every one against me and poor 
 dear Horace. Nothing certain or safe." 
 
 *' Nothing safe," Madge echoes her 
 dreamily. 
 
 " I mean in a worldly point of view. It 
 is very different with you, my child, thank 
 God. You are engaged to a man who is 
 young, handsome, well thought of, rich, 
 and who loves you dearly. What can any 
 girl wish for more T 
 
 "' To feel safe," Madge replies. 
 
 " Look here, sister mine," says the 
 matron, putting her arm round her waist 
 and drawing her close — so close that the 
 little pale face falls on her shoulder — ^' I 
 must be mother and sister too, for once, 
 and you must listen to me seriously. I 
 was a girl Hke you not many years ago, 
 and know what girls are. What girls call
 
 CAN ANY GIRL WISH FOR MORE f 245 
 
 love, Madge, goes but a little way towards 
 making what wives and mothers call hap- 
 piness. Love is very good as a sort of 
 lantern to look for happiness with, if you 
 don't let its light blind you. It won't burn 
 for ever, dear, and if it goes out before you 
 find what you seek — a sad groping about in 
 the dark follows. I have heard of people 
 getting married and being very happy 
 without what girls call love. If I had not 
 loved Horace I should have been very 
 happy, all the same, long before this. So 
 if you are worried by any foolish little 
 fears that you don't love Fraser well 
 enough — oh ! I know girls do take such 
 fancies — pray don't let that fret you. It 
 will all come right, and six months hence 
 you will laugh at yourself for a goose as 
 you are. But, Madge, if one spark of this 
 love smoulders in the remotest corner of
 
 246 CAN ANY GIRL WISH FOR MORE ? 
 
 your heart for another man — tell Fraser 
 so, and break off your engagement. Let 
 them call you a jilt — anything, rather than 
 to have to call yourself — oh ! something so 
 utterly worse ! Marriage with a man you 
 respect and esteem, to the exclusion of all 
 others, may be right — I don't know ; but 
 to wed with one and yearn for another ! — 
 Madge, it must be absolutely loath- 
 some." 
 
 " Why, Bell dear," says Madge, looking 
 up, ^' who else but Fraser have I ever had 
 a chance to love V 
 
 *' Ask yourself — not me. How can I 
 sayr 
 
 *' Bell, dear, I will not marry where I 
 do not love, and — and I am afraid to marry 
 where I may bring misfortune to one I 
 love. If I could only feel safe /" Madge 
 concludes with a shiver.
 
 CAN ANY GIRL WISH FOR MORE ? 247 
 
 '' From what \ From whom, when 
 everything is so couleur de rose f " 
 
 '' That's just it. Now you hsteri to me. 
 When you were married everything was 
 couleur de noir, and yet it all came rose. 
 Now mine is all rose — suppose it turns 
 noir f 
 
 " You simpleton ! Is that all V 
 
 '^ Yes, that's all ; but dear, when you 
 were a girl, you had poor dear mamma to 
 talk to, to tell you things and to ask this 
 and that. I've been all alone with no one 
 except Jessie and the sea for friends. Jessie 
 is very kind and so on, but not wise — not a 
 mother anyhow ; and the sea won't answer. 
 I have become gloomy and superstitious, I 
 suppose, and I don't see how both of us 
 (you and I) are to be hapj^y when we start 
 so differently." 
 
 *' All roads lead to Rome, dear."
 
 248 CAN ANY GIRL WISH FOR MORE f 
 
 '* Yes, and Kome is full of ruins." 
 
 '^ Madge, you shall go to bed at nine 
 o'clock for the next five days and take 
 some ether. You're a poor wee country 
 mouse, and have got Coote and Tinney on 
 the brain. I never heard of anything so 
 absurd I They do call marriage a lottery, 
 but your calculation of the chances is quite 
 original. Goosey! why not put it this way, 
 ' My sister makes a possibly good wife, so 
 why should not I ' V 
 
 '*I think I would be a good wife," muses. 
 Madge. 
 
 *' Then, my love, all else follows, unless 
 you marry a brute, which you're not going 
 to do. Men are not half so bad, and far 
 more dependent and helpless, than is sup- 
 posed. Make them comfortable, take 
 interest in what they do, don't imagine 
 that every friend they had before they
 
 CAN ANY GIRL WISH FOR MORE f 249 
 
 married you is your enemy, leave them 
 alone when they're grumpy — they will be 
 grumpy sometimes — be pleasant when 
 they're pleased, and you can twist them 
 round your little finger." 
 
 *^ I shouldn't like to twist my husband 
 round my little finger," says Madge. 
 
 " 'Tis well to have a giant's strength, 
 and not to use it like a giant/' quotes her 
 sister. '^ Besides, men like to be twisted 
 in that way. A good Avife makes a good 
 husband, dear." 
 
 " How many dear good women are 
 unhappy % Look at Mrs. Price, how kind 
 and gentle she is." 
 
 "'At balls and Prince's;' yes. We 
 don't know her at home : I mistrust ladies 
 who carry that melancholy ill-used air about 
 with them. She's a fool, Madge, and fools 
 are always unhappy. You're not a fool,
 
 250 CAN ANY GIRL WISH FOR MORE f 
 
 and Fraser is not Mr. Price. Now tell 
 the truth, has any one been putting these 
 foolish ideas into your head ?" 
 
 " I was asked how long I had known 
 Fraser before he proposed/' Madge replies, 
 half-evading the question. 
 
 " ' Happy is the wooing that is not long 
 a doing.' " Bell was rich in proverbial 
 philosophy. 
 
 " I wish I had refused him — once," 
 Madge cooes. 
 
 '' To bed at nine o'clock for a week ! 
 The case is serious !" laughs Bell. '' By- 
 the-bye, have you said anything to Horace 
 about inviting your friend Mr. Wybert T 
 
 "No, and I don't mean to." 
 
 "' I think you're right. Papa says he 
 has become very disagreeable, and Fraser 
 does not like him." 
 
 " He is furious with Fraser."
 
 CAN ANY GIRL WISH FOR MORE? 251 
 
 '' Who told you that T 
 
 " Never mind ; I know." 
 
 " These lovers ! they tell everything ! 
 You see now why I hesitated about asking 
 him here. I do not like Mr. Wybert, and 
 to tell you the truth, Madge, I'm a little 
 bit afraid of him. The sooner he goes to 
 Barbadoes the better I shall be pleased." 
 
 Dr. Bell's prescription, or the consulta- 
 tion which preceded it, appears to do her 
 patient good. Madge rests, and is thank- 
 ful. By a deliberate act of treachery 
 Fraser is made acquainted with her 
 peculiar theory upon the doctrine of (matri- 
 monial) chances, and teases her unmerci- 
 fully. Here is a proper case for teasing ; 
 argument or expostulation would only 
 itggravate it. She is teased till she cries, 
 and then nicely petted round again.
 
 252 CAiV ANY GIRL WISH FOR MORE f 
 
 So the merrie month of May passes, and 
 Madge has but thirty days of maiden 
 meditation left, for she has yielded to 
 Eraser's importunities, and agrees with 
 him that it will be jolly to have twa 
 anniversaries in one week for the future. 
 Fraser's birthday this year will be spent 
 with lawyers and trustees, taking accounts 
 and signing releases. On the 29th. (three 
 days after) he is going to sign a receipt 
 for Madge in the vestry of Laremouth 
 Church. Bell is to come down a week 
 before and help the packing, for the 
 young people (foolish creatures) are going 
 to yacht their honeymoon, and so Madge 
 will not want a lot of things which her 
 generous sister provides — until she comes 
 back. 
 
 They all make a trip to Beckhampton 
 in state with Uncle Joe and the Honour-
 
 CAN ANY GIRL WISH FOR MORE? 253 
 
 able Temple Fluerj, who has business with 
 Mr. Pryor about the trust. Madge is 
 delighted with her home that is to be, and 
 secretly selects a thinking-place in a wood, 
 down by the banks of the Beck. The five 
 Miss Pryors (after brother Sam's explana- 
 tion) think her a dear sweet girl, and all 
 goes merry as the wedding bells that are 
 soon to ring. 
 
 '' Dear," she says, laying her hand softly 
 on Fraser's arm as they stand alone in the 
 big dining-room, '' are you quite sure your 
 poor little Madge can play the great lady 
 here, as your wife should T 
 
 '' Quite sure, darling. Do you like the 
 old place T 
 
 ^* Immensely !" 
 
 '' We will buy all sorts of pretty- 
 pretties at E-ome and Venice and Paris ; 
 and as for carpets and that sort of thing —
 
 254 CAN ANY GIRL WISH FOR MORE f 
 
 we'll give Jackson and Graham carte 
 hlanchey 
 
 ^^ Oh no we won't/' says Madge, '' we'll 
 choose everything ourselves ; and Eraser^ 
 we must not be extravagant." 
 
 " Goosey ! I shall have ten thousand 
 pounds when I come of age, and what's 
 the good of it if I can't make a bright nest 
 for my birdie ?" 
 
 ^^ Geese don't want bright nests," pouts 
 the lady. 
 
 Nevertheless they go from room to room 
 plotting and planning, accompanied by Mrs. 
 Aymes and a huge bunch of keys, with 
 which she insists upon opening presses and 
 other receptacles, and dragging out their 
 contents for inspection. She calls Madge 
 "madam" already, and somewhat discon- 
 certs her with observations upon the family 
 linen. Madge is a little bit afraid of the
 
 CAN ANY GIRL WISH FOR MORE f 255 
 
 precise old lady, but takes the brevet rank 
 she bestows demurely, and confining her- 
 self to safe generalities, does not make any 
 mistakes. 
 
 Then they go to the bank, and look at 
 the family plate and jewels there deposited 
 for safe keeping; and some of the latter 
 are packed up to be taken to London, and 
 reset. As they walk down the High 
 Street towards the station, the observed of 
 all observers, a lady dressed in a faded silk 
 comes in sight. 
 
 ''Look, Madge," says Fraser, "that's 
 Mrs. Wybert." 
 
 '' Henry's mother V 
 
 '' Yes— the old cat." 
 
 "Oh, Fraser, let's overtake and speak 
 to her." 
 
 " If you like, only she'll snap our noses 
 off."
 
 256 CAN ANY GIRL WISH FOR MORE ? 
 
 The widow starts, and almost slips off 
 the pavement at his cheery "" Good-day, 
 Mrs. Wybert," and then turns and faces 
 him as she would a foot-pad or a mad 
 bull. 
 
 "" Oh, it is you !" she says, ignoring his 
 companion. . 
 
 '^ I want to introduce you to Miss 
 Marston." 
 
 '-'■ When I was young, girls used to be 
 introduced to married ladies, not they to 
 them; but I suppose the fashion is changed. 
 I wish you joy. Miss Marston ; go on as 
 you have begun and you will be a very 
 fortunate woman." 
 
 "' Thanks," says Madge, not catching 
 the irony of her tone. '' I am so 
 glad to make your acquaintance, Mrs. 
 Wybert, because Henry is such an old 
 friend of ours, and we hope to see
 
 CAN ANY GIRL WISH FOR MORE ? 257 
 
 a great deal of both of you at the Hall — 
 don't we, Fraser T 
 
 Fraser winces and begms to stammer 
 some conventionality, when the widow 
 checks him. 
 
 '^ Tell the young lady to keep her ^ we's ' 
 till she is married. I dislike standing in 
 the street and have business to attend 
 to," saying which she crosses to th^ 
 other side and passes on without even 
 a bow. 
 
 '' Didn't I tell you so ?" laughs Fraser. 
 "She can't be civil — it isn't in her." 
 
 " Poor woman ! Her ' tell the young 
 lady to keep her wes till she's married,' 
 was so like Henry. It was a slip, you 
 know, Fraser. I should not have said 
 ^we.'" 
 
 " I don't see why not. From the hour 
 when you " 
 
 VOL. I. 17
 
 258 CAN ANY GIRL WISH FOR MORE 'f 
 
 " I understand ; there is no occasion to 
 repeat my foolishness," Madge interrupts ; 
 ^^goon." 
 
 "Well, from that time, dear, I have 
 banished the first person singular from my 
 mind. I always think in ives^ 
 
 " You are so good ! How happy I ought 
 to be !" 
 
 '^ Say rather how happy we shall be." 
 
 "No, Eraser, Mrs. Wybert was right; I 
 will not say %vie (for us two) until the 29th 
 of June." 
 
 " I wish to Heaven that old catamaran 
 had stopped at home," growls Eraser; 
 " are you always to be snubbed and sat 
 upon by these Wyberts V 
 
 They get home again in time for a late 
 dinner, and the visit, taken altogether, is a 
 success. Eraser's manner has been perfect 
 throughout. It did not say, "See what
 
 CAN ANY GIRL WISH FOR MORE ? 259 
 
 things I have, and how fortunate you are 
 to share them !" but, "See how hickyl am 
 to have so much to please you !" This 
 perhaps was what made Madge so ghb 
 with her wes. 
 
 Uncle Joe has been striding through the 
 rooms of the old Hall, note-book in hand, 
 marking down dimensions and sketching 
 plans of improvement. He is one of thosti 
 gentlemen who can step a yard, make a 
 salad, poke a fire, and concoct curious 
 drinks, against all comers. He has also, 
 he tells Madge, an eye for colour. He 
 will see to the furnishing. The old Hall 
 is to be rejuvenated upon purely aesthetic 
 principles, if Fraser will be guided by him. 
 ^* Carte blanche to an upholsterer !'' he ex- 
 claims over his claret ; " nonsense, my dear 
 boy I Leave it to me and Madge, and I 
 promise you the most comfortable house in 
 
 17—2
 
 26o CAN ANY GIRL WISH FOR MORE ? 
 
 England." For the rest of that evening 
 the talk is of furnishing, till Madge (whom 
 they persist in addressing as Madam, after 
 good Mrs. Aymes) realises, perhaps for the 
 first time since her engagement, that she i& 
 going to be a great lady. Yes, the visit 
 to Beckhampton is a success, although it 
 shadows forth a disappointment to Fraser 
 Ellicott. 
 
 Like many careless young fellows who 
 eat Fortune's cake with more appetite than 
 calculation, he finds that there is a much 
 bigger hole in it than he expected. Upon 
 examination of accounts that ten thousand 
 pounds about which he spoke so glibly to 
 Madge, dwindles down to six. He had 
 lived royally at Oxford, and has been only 
 nominally a minor for the last three years. 
 He cannot conceive it possible that he 
 could have spent so much money, until
 
 CAN ANY GIRL WISH FOR MORE ? 261 
 
 cheque after cheque, order after order, 
 under his own hand are produced. Be- 
 sides a whole row of houses on his estate 
 have recently been pulled down and re- 
 built. This was a large bite of itself into 
 the accumulations ; but would come back 
 in the future. For the present, carte 
 hlanclie to an upholsterer is out of the 
 question. But after all, six crisp Bank 
 of England notes for one thousand pouncTs 
 each, is not a bad birthday present for any 
 man — especially when he has eaten the other 
 four. 
 
 END OF VOL. I. 
 
 BILLING AND SONS, PRINTRRS, GUILDFORD, SURUET. 
 
 Si. rf //.