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 University of Illinois Urbana-Champaign 
 
 http://www.archive.org/details/undercurrents01duch
 
 UNDEE-CUEEENTS 
 
 VOL. I.
 
 UNDEE-GUEEENTS 
 
 BY THE AUTHOR OF 
 
 PHYLLIS' 'MOLLY BAWN ' &c% 
 
 IN THREE VOLUMES 
 
 YOL. I. 
 
 LONDON 
 SMITH, ELDER, & CO., 15 WATERLOO PLACE 
 
 1888 
 
 [All rights reserved'}
 
 
 UNDEE-CUREENTS, 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 ^ With what a heavy and retarding weight 
 
 tn Does expectation load the wing of time. 
 
 S 
 
 Below, a o-reat broad stretch of ocean, calm 
 (oas death, skimbermg placidly beneath the 
 ° sun's hot rays ; above, a sky of palest azure, 
 
 flecked here and there by dainty masses of 
 
 J; soft fleecy clouds ; and, far inland, a back- 
 
 ,^ground of high hills, clothed with a tender 
 
 c3 foliage, a very baby leafdom, just bursting 
 
 Jin to the fuller life. 
 
 5x The whole air is glad with the melodies of 
 ^inany birds, and the wild perfume of honey- 
 "< suckle mixed with thyme enriches every 
 ^ VOL. T. B
 
 2 UNDER-CURRENTS 
 
 breeze. Towards the west the trees give way 
 a little, letting a road be seen, that like a 
 straight pale ribbon runs between the greenery 
 for the space of quite a mile or so, and then 
 reaches the small fishing village where the 
 simple folk of Glowring Destley toil from one 
 year's end to the other — the men gathering 
 in their harvest from the treacherous sea, the 
 women gathering their harvest too : some in 
 careless joy, some in ceaseless labour, some, 
 alas ! in cruel weeping, because of those ' who 
 will never come back to the town.' 
 
 Along the white road, that gleams thirstily 
 in the burning sunshine of this hot midday in 
 June, a carriage is crawling with quite an 
 aggravating slowness. An antiquated vehicle 
 of a type now almost unknown, but which 
 once, beyond doubt, ' cost money.' At this 
 particular stage of its existence the leather 
 part of it is so withered and shrunken as to
 
 UNDER-CURRENTS 3 
 
 leave open to conjecture the idea that it ever 
 was leather at all, and the paint is so knocked 
 off in many, nay, , in most, places, that it is 
 an act of courtesy in the beholder to re- 
 frain from allusion to it ; whilst, as for the 
 crest, naught is left of it, save the wing and 
 the beak of some bird unknown. 
 
 Two horses, skinny, melancholy-looking 
 brutes, who appear to have reached the last 
 degree of starvation, are attached to this 
 ancient coach. But, demoralised as they are 
 by age and famine and an unexpected journey, 
 they refuse any longer to respond to the voice 
 or whip of the elderly person — as gaunt 
 and forsaken as themselves — who every now 
 and again in a cracked tone implores them 
 to ' come up ' or ' go on.' as occasion de- 
 mands. 
 
 The carriage, being an open one, enables 
 the people as it passes through the village to 
 
 B 2
 
 4 UNDER-CURRENTS 
 
 see without undue trouble that the occupants 
 of it are two girls : both very young, both 
 singularly alike, though in distinctly different 
 styles. A stranger, indeed, would probably 
 be quicker to note the resemblance between 
 them than one accustomed to watch the play 
 of feature from day to day — a knowledge 
 that somehow spoils most delicate likenesses. 
 The younger girl, now leaning forward, with 
 a little frown upon her face that is born 
 rather of amusement than annoyance, yet par- 
 takes of both, is of fairer skin and brighter 
 hair than her sister, whose eyes are of a 
 dark "grey, rather than blue, and whose hair 
 is nut-brown with a tinge of red running 
 through it. 
 
 ' It is charming ! ' says the younger girl, 
 with a little quick motion of the hand towards 
 the sweeping bay, and the awakening trees, 
 and the other glories of the landscape. 'All
 
 UNDER-CURRENTS 5 
 
 charming, far better than I ever dared hope 
 for ; and yet my mind misgives me.' 
 
 She turns a brilhant glance on her sister, 
 full of terrible insinuations, and then laughs 
 a little. Thus animated, she is a very pretty 
 girl, half-child, half-woman, as fresh as the 
 morning, and with eyes like stars. Her nose 
 is a rather saucy little affair, tilting heaven- 
 wards, and her mouth one can see was 
 made for laughter. She lifts one slender 
 black-gloved hand, and placing it beneath 
 her sister's chin, turns her face gently to 
 her. 
 
 Such a beautiful face ! Very like the 
 riante one beside it, yet imlike too. There 
 is a touch of sadness round the lovely lips, a 
 mournful curve ; indeed, a thoughtfulness too 
 great for her years is stamped on every 
 feature. A tender, loving, yet strong soul 
 shines through the earnest eyes, and when
 
 6 UNDER-CURRENTS 
 
 she smiles it is reluctantly, as if smiles all her 
 hfe had been forbidden to her. 
 
 ' At least we are given time to admire the 
 prospect and meditate on the near future,' 
 says the younger girl with a disdainful glance 
 at the old horses, going at their snail's pace, 
 and the still older Jehu, who is apparently 
 neither asleep nor awake. ' Are we to pro- 
 ceed at this funereal pace all day ? Is night 
 to overtake us on our six-mile drive ? ' 
 
 ' Hush ! He may hear you,' says j\iiss 
 Dysart, with a nervous, expressive glance at 
 the old coachman's back. 
 
 ' Nonsense, Vera ! As if any one could 
 not see by the obstinate set of his elbow that 
 he has been deaf for years. I only hope he 
 isn't asleep, as that might prove inconvenient. 
 Well,' with an arching of her brows, ' what a 
 turn-out ! What a carriage ! What horses ! 
 One is driven to speculating as to how the
 
 UNDER-CURRENTS 7 
 
 skin covers their bones. It must have great 
 staying power, or it would have given way 
 long since. And yet, did not some fond fool 
 tell us that our unknown uncle is rich ? ' 
 
 ' Certainly. But the same fond fool also 
 told us that he is a very prince amongst 
 misers. Don't you remember that as well ? ' 
 
 ' No, I make a point of never remembering 
 unpleasant things. A miser ! How hateful ! 
 Let us pray that he will not reduce us to the 
 condition of his stud. Do you know, Vera,' 
 addressing her sister with a sudden unexpected 
 touch of gravity that sits rather prettily on 
 her careless face, ' I don't quite like the 
 manner of our welcome. Not a soul to meet 
 us but this old man, and such a sorry equip- 
 age. Is there not a cousin somewhere, who 
 might have met us with the hand of good- 
 fellowship extended ? Surely it has not been 
 all a dream, this thought of him ? '
 
 8 UNDER-CURRENTS 
 
 ' Oil ! tliat reminds me,' says Miss Dysart, 
 sitting quite upright and growing suddenly 
 very animated — a delightful trick of hers that 
 leaves the devout believer in her serenity 
 breathless — ' I quite forgot to tell you of it, 
 but the day before we left Nice Nell Stewart 
 was with me, and she said that this cousin 
 you speak of, if he does exist at all, at all 
 events does not do it here' 
 
 ' Which means ? ' 
 
 ' That either he won't, or can't, live with his 
 father. Caiit, Nell rather led me to believe.' 
 
 ' Can't it is, you may be sure,' says the 
 younger girl restlessly. 'Fancy a father 
 whose son can't live with him ! And yet, 
 after all, virtuous astonishment on that score 
 is rather out of place with us. I ca?i imagine 
 just such a father.' 
 
 ' Well, never mind that,' says Miss Dysart 
 hastily.
 
 UNDER-CURRENTS 9 
 
 ' Yes. Very good ; let us then go from 
 sire to uncle,' says her sister with a little 
 shrug. ^ Do you think we shall gain much 
 by the change ? This old relative of ours is, 
 perhaps, as delightful as we could wish him, 
 and yet I loish father had not left us to his 
 tender mercies.' 
 
 ' Do not dwell on that,' says Vera with 
 nervous haste ; ' do not seek for faults in the 
 inevitable. He is all that is left us.' 
 
 ' That is what / don't like to dwell on. 
 The desert island with no means of escape 
 never had any attractions for me. Supposing 
 this old stranger should turn out to be ' 
 
 ' He may be very kind, very good, all 
 that we should desire,' interrupts Miss Dysart 
 anxiously. ' Dearest Grizel, why will you 
 prognosticate evil ? It is so unlike you. 
 You, as a rule, have the " merry heart " that 
 "goes all the day," / the one that tires ''in
 
 lo UNDER CURRENTS 
 
 a mile-a " ; but to-day I scarcely know you. 
 Why suppose our uncle less than kind ? ' 
 
 ' He is our father's brother, I anticipate 
 only the worst,' says Griselda drily. ' And I 
 confess it has always struck me as strange 
 that, after spending his life abusing him in 
 the choicest terms, papa should at his death 
 have selected him as our sole guardian.' 
 
 ' You know the sudden decision arose out 
 of a letter received by father from Uncle 
 Gregory about a year ago. When father was 
 
 — was — dying ' She pauses abruptly, 
 
 and a tremor shakes her last words. She is 
 not exactly overpowered by whatever emotion 
 her words have aroused, but at least she is 
 shaken by it, and finds a difficulty in continu- 
 ing the sentence. 
 
 The younger girl, who without being hard 
 is still harder than she is, turns quickly to 
 look at her. There is infinite love and com-
 
 UNDER-CURRENTS ii 
 
 passion in her glance, but perhaps a httle 
 contempt, and certainly a little impatience. 
 
 ' Do you know,' she says, ' it may seem 
 heartless — positively coarse^ if you will — but 
 I do not think our father was a man to excite 
 respect, much less love or regret, or ' 
 
 ' Oh ! it is better not to speak like that,' 
 interrupts Miss Dysart in a low shocked tone. 
 Don't do it, darling. I know what you mean, 
 but ' 
 
 ' And, / know that I shall never forgive 
 or forget the life he led you,' says Griselda, 
 with a certain angry excitement. 
 
 ' Well, that is over ! ' says Miss Dysart, 
 with a quick sigh, heavily indrawn. 
 
 'And we have now only to hope that 
 there is not worse to come. Your eyes say 
 that. As for me, but for the commonplace- 
 ness of the idea, I should decline to risk the 
 chance, and should look up one or other of
 
 12 UNDER-CURRENTS 
 
 our old friends, and entreat them to get me a 
 situation as cook or scullery-maid somewhere, 
 only that patience isn't my strong point, and 
 I feel I sliould not be kept a month by any 
 one.' 
 
 'I hope Uncle Gregory will keep you a 
 month,' says her sister with a little laugh. 
 'For my own sake, at all events.' 
 
 ' I can't think why papa made him our 
 guardian. As long as I can remember any- 
 thing it was quite as much as one's life was 
 worth to mention the unknown uncle to him ; 
 yet the first thing we hear after his death 
 is, that the same detested brother is to have 
 and to hold us completely in his power until 
 we come of age. That means one year's 
 thraldom to you ; but three to me.' 
 
 ' More than that,' sadly. ' You forget that, 
 of age or otherwise, we shall not have a 
 penny between us.' She sighs, and then turns
 
 UNDER- C URRENTS 1 3 
 
 her gaze more fully on the younger girl. ' It is 
 better to begin by thinking — by acknowledg- 
 ing, indeed — that our uncle is proving a very 
 kind friend to us, who are friendless ; and 
 why should we not encourage the idea also 
 that he may be very lovable ? ' 
 
 ' Encourage any romantic ideas you 
 please,' says Griselda, ' but don't expect me 
 to keep you company. Instinct teaches me 
 that our Uncle Gregory is an extremely odious 
 old man. What I want to know is, ivliy he 
 has offered us a home ? ' 
 
 ' That is what nobody knows. It puzzled 
 papa to the last. But certainly he was most 
 determined to get us into his care. His letters 
 — I read some of them — were almost vehe- 
 ment on the subject. And at last, as you 
 know, papa gave in, agreed to his proposal, 
 and ' 
 
 ' And here we are,' with an expressive
 
 14 UNDER-CURRENTS 
 
 glance round her. 'But "vehement." I 
 don't hke that word. So eager to seize upon 
 us. My good child, why didn't you tell me 
 all this before? Don't you think we had 
 better take the reins, literally, into our own 
 hands, and get out of this old ark and make 
 a run for it even now — at the last moment ? To 
 my mind the affair looks black as Erebus. 
 No doubt he wants to get us into his clutches 
 either to incarcerate us in his donjon keep or 
 to assassinate us out of hand.' 
 
 ' But why ? Even such wild measures are 
 not used without a motive.' 
 
 ' Well, what was this vendetta, this terrible 
 life-long quarrel that was kept up between 
 him and father with such monotonous persis- 
 tency ? ' 
 
 ' That had to do with our grandfather's 
 will. Papa was the eldest son, yet the pro- 
 perty was left to Uncle Gregory ; and that for
 
 UNDER-CURRENTS 15 
 
 no reason at all. Naturally papa was very- 
 angry about it, and accused Gregory of using 
 undue influence.' 
 
 ' Oh, tliere must have been a reason ? ' 
 ' No dissension that had not been healed 
 for many years. It seems our grandfather 
 disapproved of our father's marriage, and at 
 that time made a will disinheriting him ; but 
 later on he sent for papa and mother, and 
 took a great fancy to her, and told papa he 
 had revoked the first will and made a fresh 
 one in his favour. Whether he did it or not 
 no one knows. Most probably he meant to, 
 but never did it, as the first will only was 
 found at his death, in which Uncle Gregory 
 was named sole heir. I really can't go into 
 it,' a little wearily. ' All my life the story 
 has been dinned into my ears ; and as I know 
 it, such is the case.' 
 
 ' Just so, and of course there is a good
 
 i6 UNDER-CURRENTS 
 
 deal behind that you don't know. There 
 always is : nobody ever tells quite everything. 
 
 And besides Oh ! Oh, Vera ! Oh ! what 
 
 has happened ? '
 
 UNDER-CURRENTS 17 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 A proper man as one shall see in a summer's day. 
 
 She clutches in an agonised fashion at the 
 leather side of the crazy old chariot, which 
 has toppled partly over to the left side, 
 her side, and so stands in a decidedly dis- 
 sipated position. The ancient driver, pre- 
 sumably asleep, had let the horses wander at 
 tlieir own sweet will, and they being old and 
 sleepy too, the result was that they had 
 dragged two of the wheels up on a steep bank 
 and nearly capsized the carriage. It is still, 
 indeed, very unpleasantly possible that it will 
 go over, each second makes it likelier that the 
 VOL. I. c
 
 1 8 UNDER-CURRENTS 
 
 occupants of it will soon be buried beneath 
 its skeleton remains, when suddenly the 
 horses' heads are caught by a firm hand, and 
 after a struggle, brief and inglorious — for they 
 are too starved and too aged, poor brutes ! 
 to argue much — they are forced backwards 
 into a respectable position on the public 
 road. 
 
 ' Oh, thank you,' says Miss Dysart, leaning 
 forward and addressing with earnest glance 
 and heightened colour the young man who 
 had risen — descended, perhaps, sounds plea- 
 santer and more orthodox — like a o^ood ancrel 
 from somewhere — the wood on their right, no 
 doubt. A fishing-rod, lying on the road 
 where he had flung it when preparing for his 
 ignoble battle with those poor old horses, 
 proclaims the fact that he has been whipping 
 the stream that gleams here and there bril- 
 liantly through the interstices of the trees.
 
 UNDER-CURRENTS .19 
 
 He looks a gentleman ; there is no doubt 
 about that, thinks Miss Dysart quickly. As 
 for Griselda she goes even a little further, and 
 tells herself absently that, if plain, he has a 
 pleasant look. 
 
 ' Oh no,' says he, lifting his hat — a soft 
 affair, peaked fore and aft — ' you mustn't 
 thank me. It was really nothing. Poor 
 
 brutes, I think they were asleep ; they 
 
 It is hot, isn't it ? ' This last he says hastily, 
 as if ashamed of his animadversion on the age 
 of the sorry cattle in question — their horses, 
 no doubt ; and there is something wonderfully 
 charming in the faint apologetic colour that 
 springs into his cheeks. As he fniishes speak- 
 ing he looks at Griselda so hard that she feels 
 it incumbent on her to return his glance and 
 to say something. 
 
 ' We thought our last hour had come,' she 
 says, laughing softly, and looking at him a 
 
 c 2
 
 20 UNDER-CURRENTS 
 
 little shyly, but so prettily. ' But for you, 
 one cannot say wliere we slioulcl be now.' 
 
 She bows to him, and so does her sister 
 quite as graciously, and then the horses once 
 more commence their snail-like progress, 
 grinding through the dusty road at the rate 
 of three miles an hour. The little episode is 
 over ; the young man settles his soft hat more 
 firmly on his head, picks up his rod, regards 
 it anxiously to see tliat no harm has come to 
 it because of that hasty casting of it aside, 
 and disappears once more into the shelter of 
 the cool wood. 
 
 'I do lioiie^ says Miss Dysart, with a 
 nervous glance at the back of the elderly 
 coachman, who had sat stolidly throughout 
 the entire incident, saying nothing and appa- 
 rently unmoved — ' I do hope he'll manage to 
 keep awake for the rest of this intolerable 
 journey. I don't v\'ant to be killed twice over.'
 
 UA'DER-CURRENTS 21 
 
 ' It was an adventure. I sliould have 
 thought you would have welcomed it. Or 
 do you look on it as a suitable beginning to 
 our life here ? — the conmiencement of a series 
 of misfortunes. Vera, I wonder is that man, 
 our Preserver (it is always said with a big P, 
 isn't it.P), I wonder is he one of our neigh- 
 bours ? If so, I shall be glad. He looked 
 nice, eh ? ' 
 
 'Very nice, I thought. But you know 
 Uncle Gregory is a sort of hermit. Sees no- 
 body, and objects to being seen by anybody.' 
 
 ' Oh, nonsense ! One can't live wrapped 
 up for ever in a veil, like the Prophet of 
 Khorassin, in these material days. I think 
 I'll ask our Jehu who that very opportune 
 person is ? ' 
 
 ' Oh, don't ! ' entreats Miss Dysart hastily, 
 who would have been in extremis before 
 making up her mind to extract information
 
 22 UNDEK-CURRENTS 
 
 from her servant. Griselda, however, though 
 of the same blood, is of different fibre. Lean- 
 ing forward upon the opposite cushion, so as 
 to get within reach of his deaf ears, she first 
 gently, and then with much decision, jogs the 
 coachman's elbow ; the old man turns and 
 looks at her. 
 
 ' Who was that gentleman who just came 
 to our assistance ? ' asks she slowly, distinctly. 
 
 * Distance ? Mought be about a mile 
 now,' says he. 
 
 ' No, no. Who was the gentleman who 
 caught hold of the reins ? ' 
 
 'Nary drop, miss. Don't you be afeerd, 
 there ain't a spick in t' clouds ; see now,' 
 pointing heavenwards with his whip. 
 
 ' Nary spick, indeed,' says Griselda, bub- 
 bling over with laughter, as she devoutly 
 follows his gaze to the azure dome above her. 
 ' But that's hardly to the point. Who,' rais-
 
 UNDER-CURRENTS 23 
 
 ing her voice, ' was it who caught the horses' 
 heads ? ' 
 
 ' Ay, red it be, sure/z^. Much more o' this 
 weather an' the farmers be cryin'. " Eed sky 
 0' night, shepherds' dehght." They're damn' 
 selfish, I be thinkin,' they shepherds. Drop 0' 
 rain now to wet th' oats and t' wheat ' 
 
 ' Give it up,' says Miss Dysart softly, from 
 the background. 
 
 'What, now^ after so many tries? You 
 don't know me. I'll conquer, or die in the 
 effort. Now for a final throw.' She leans 
 still nearer the old man and repeats her ques- 
 tion. Some passing wind blows it at last 
 straight into his brain. 
 
 ' Gent, eh ? Do' know, miss. One o' they 
 fishing gents, like^z^. Common sort, alius,' 
 says the old coachman, a spiteful note in his 
 voice, resentful, perhaps, of the assistance that 
 had saved him from certain injury, but had
 
 24 UNDER-CURRENTS 
 
 also revealed the fact of his somnolence. 
 ' Shop-boys, mostly. They do swarm here a' 
 fishing-time. But they be o' no use. No use 
 at all, missie. You take a old man's 'ord 
 for 't.' 
 
 * He was of great use to you^ at all events. 
 You might now have been lying hurt and 
 crushed but for him,' says Griselda indig- 
 nantly. 
 
 ' True for you, missie. A curst lot they 
 be, wi' their town ways. Curst an' lyin' 
 thieves o' the world. Full o' Lunnon tricks 
 as a egg's full o' mate. Don't you mind him, 
 missie. We be well quit o' he now.' 
 
 ' Well, of all the ungrateful old wretches ! ' 
 says the younger Miss Dysart, regarding him 
 with unmitigated scorn. 
 
 'Ay, that he be, for sartain. A great 
 wretch. Eh ! eh ! But you have him fine,' 
 responds the old man, cackling; whereupon
 
 UJWDER-CURRENTS 25 
 
 Griselda, with a last baleful glance at him, 
 acknowledging herself beaten, returns to her 
 seat beside her sister. 
 
 Half an hour brings them to the entrance- 
 gate of Greycourt, and practically to their 
 journey's end. Both girls, with an involuntary 
 movement, crane their necks out of the car- 
 riage to get a first glimpse at their future 
 home, and then turn a dismayed glance on 
 each other. Anything more dreary, more 
 unfriendly, yet withal grand in its desolation, 
 could hardly be seen. The approach to it 
 from the road had been abrupt, and now the 
 long, singularly dark avenue bursts upon 
 their view as a revelation. The huge iron 
 gates, overgrown with rust, and so thick with 
 weeds growing upwards from the soil beneath 
 as to betray the idea of their seldom turning 
 on their hinges, look to them like the massive 
 gateways of a prison.
 
 26 UNDER-CURRENTS 
 
 A long, low, picturesque lodge, terribly 
 out of repair, and, in fact, falling to pieces, 
 stands on the right. Tenantless, evidently, 
 as the old coachman, with many rheumatic 
 groans and grumblings, has himself to clamber 
 from his seat to throw wide the gates, that 
 groan as loudly as he as they sway heavily 
 backwards. 
 
 ' How dark it is,' says Griselda, a nervous 
 thrill running through her, as they move 
 onwards beneath the shade of the mighty 
 trees that clasp their arms between her and 
 the glorious sky — thus blotting it out. 
 Indeed, coming from the sunlit road into this 
 sunless avenue is to plunge, as it were, in one 
 moment from gaudy day to darksome night. 
 
 On each side dense masses of shrubs are 
 growing so thickly together, in so wild, so 
 uncultured a fashion that one is kilhng the 
 other. The great elm-trees uprearing them-
 
 UNDER-CURRENTS 37 
 
 selves out of this wild confusion are so 
 knotted and tangled in an inextricable em- 
 brace overhead that daylight cannot enter the 
 place below, and rank attenuated weeds cover 
 the drive, that once, long years ago, miglit 
 have been gravelled, but now shows only dull 
 brown earth, heavily rutted here and there. 
 The green edges of it have been left for 
 such a length of time uncut that the stragorhnor 
 
 D 'Oct O 
 
 weedy grasses are lying prone upon the walk, 
 one year's growth rotting on the top of the 
 other with a dank luxuriance. Altogether, 
 there is such a terrible sense of loneliness, of 
 desolation unutterable, lying over all, that the 
 girls draw closer to each other, and Yera's 
 eyes grow large and startled. 
 
 A sudden turn brings them within view of 
 the house. A beautiful old house apparently, 
 of red brick, toned by age to a duller shade, 
 with many gables, and overgrown in parts by
 
 28 UNDER-CURRENTS 
 
 trailing ivy, the leaves of which now glisten 
 brightly in the evening sunshine. 
 
 At one side a garden slopes down to a 
 river, and this garden, with the house, is 
 surrounded on all four sides by a high yew 
 hedge, through which openings are cut about 
 every ten yards or so. Terraced steps lead 
 down to this hedge, and beyond the openings 
 runs a broad gravelled walk bounded by a 
 low parapet. Any one seated on this parapet 
 can look down — a depth of about six feet — to 
 the mossy grass of the wood beneath, which 
 here begins, and runs southward straight 
 down to the villac^e. Through it the river 
 runs sparkling — the best river for white trout 
 in this part of the county. 
 
 A shadow from the woods lay over this 
 garden, and extended even to the house itself. 
 After the first irrepressible touch of admir- 
 ation the girls became conscious that there
 
 UNDER-CURRENTS 29 
 
 was something strange about this old brick 
 dwelHng — an absence of hght, a curious lack 
 of sound : no dog barks, no peacock struts to 
 and fro showing its gaudy plumes. So deadly 
 quiet is all around that they would have 
 welcomed with pleasure even the discordant 
 scream of that haughty bird. 
 
 The coachman, scrambling once more 
 to the ground, bids them in a surly tone to 
 alight. He is tired and cross, no doubt, by 
 the unusual work of the day. And presently 
 they find themselves on the threshold of the 
 open hall door, hardly knowing what to do 
 next. The shambling figure of a man about 
 seventy, appearing presently from some dusky 
 doorway, motions them to enter ; and, follow- 
 ing him mechanically, they cross a huge, 
 deserted-looking hall, and stop finally at 
 a closed door. 
 
 * The master be expecting you,' says their
 
 30 UNDER-CURRENTS 
 
 conductor, speaking for the first time, liis 
 voice coming from him creakily, as though 
 disuse has made it sorely in want of oihng ; 
 and, pushing open the door, he waves to them 
 to enter the room, and, shutting the door 
 again behind them with a sharp haste, leaves 
 them alone with their new relative, Gregor}. 
 Dysart.
 
 UNDER-CURRENTS 31 
 
 CHAPTEE III. 
 
 Yea, this man's brow, like to a tragic leaf, 
 Foretells the nature of a tragic volume. 
 
 Where they find 
 That cursed man . . . 
 Musing full sadly in his suUein minde. 
 
 Yeea, going quickly forward, moves towards 
 an arm-cliair at the upper end of the room in 
 which a figure is seated. About half-way, 
 however, getting a nearer view of this figure, 
 she stops short, as if uncertain how to pro- 
 ceed. The blinds are all down, and the 
 dingy faded curtains closely drawn, so that 
 it is a little difficult to see anything with 
 clearness, but what she does see chills her 
 instinctively.
 
 32 UNDER-CURRENTS 
 
 An old man, shrunken, enfeebled, with 
 a face that is positively ghastly because of its 
 excessive pallor ; a living corpse, save for two 
 eyes that burn and gleam and glitter with an 
 almost devihsh brilliancy. On his head a 
 black skull cap rests, and beneath it these 
 vivid, wildly eager eyes stare at her with a 
 force that makes her heart beat, and compels 
 the thought that he would fain drag it from 
 her body. 
 
 His coat is old and threadbare, and his 
 boots patched in many places. There is an air 
 of sordid poverty about his whole appearance 
 that repels the girl now regarding him with 
 a horrified scrutiny. One of his hands, lying 
 loosely over the edge of his chair, folds and 
 unfolds itself rapidly — a white, small, slender 
 hand, womanish in its beauty, yet somehow 
 strong. The eyes and the hands! — there is 
 such hfe in these that they seem out of
 
 UNDER-CURRENTS 33 
 
 keeping with the weak old age that shows in 
 the rest of the face and form. 
 
 ' So you've come,' he says, without making 
 any attempt to rise from his chair. 'Shut 
 that door, will you ? What a vile draught ! 
 And don't stand staring like that, it makes me 
 nervous.' 
 
 His voice is as singular as his appearance. 
 It is cold, clear, freezing. It seems to the 
 tired girls standing before him as if a breath 
 of icy air had suddenly fallen into the hot and 
 stifling room. 
 
 ' Vera, I presume,' says Mr. Dysart, hold- 
 ing out his lithe white hand to permit her to 
 press it. ' And you are Griselda ? I need not 
 ask what lunatic chose your names, as I was 
 well acquainted with your mother many years 
 ago. Pray sit down. It fatigues me intensely 
 to see people stand when there are chairs for 
 them, and me.' 
 
 VOL. I. D
 
 34 UNDER-CURRENTS 
 
 'I feel that I must thank you at once, 
 Uncle Gregory, for your kindness to us,' says 
 Miss Dysart gravely, still standing. 
 
 ' Ay, ay. You acknowledge that,' says he 
 quickly. A sudden change comes into his 
 manner ; his lips twitch, he glances eagerly 
 with his brilliant eyes from one sister to the 
 other. ' I have been your best friend after 
 all, eh ? ' 
 
 ' You have given us a home,' continues 
 Miss Dysart in tones that tremble a little. 
 ' But for you ' 
 
 ' Yes, yes — go on.' He thrusts out his 
 old miserly face as if athirst for further words, 
 and rubs his hands together. ' But for me 
 you would both have been cast upon the 
 world's highway, to live or die as chance 
 dictated. I know ! I know that ! D'ye think 
 I haven't said it over to myself, syllable by 
 syllable, hour after hour, and dwelt upon it
 
 UNDER-CURRENTS 35 
 
 through many a dreary night ? To me, to me 
 you are indebted for everything. You owe 
 me much. Each day you hve you shall owe 
 me more. I have befriended you ; I have 
 been the means of saving you from starvation.' 
 
 If so corpseHke a face could show signs of 
 excitement it shows it now, as he seeks to 
 prove by word and gesture that he is their 
 benefactor to an unlimited extent. The hate- 
 ful emotion he betrays raises in Griselda's 
 breast feehngs of repugnance and disgust. 
 
 ' You have been very good ; but, even if 
 you had acted otherwise, we should not have 
 been cast upon the highway to starve,' she 
 says calmly, but with a curl of her short upper 
 
 lip. 
 
 ' No ? ' he turns his piercing eyes on her. 
 ' And may I ask who would have lifted you 
 from it ? ' 
 
 'We have friends ' Griselda is bemn- 
 
 D 2
 
 36 UNDER.CURRENTS 
 
 ning, but a low laugh breaking from him 
 checks her — a laugh so unmirthful, so cynical, 
 so contemptuous, that it makes her shrink. 
 
 ^Friends! Your youthful trustfulness is 
 beyond expression charming ; but will you 
 permit me to remind you that children and 
 fools are frequently to be found catalogued in 
 one class ? ' And now again his mood changes, 
 and sullen fire seems to flash from- beneath his 
 bent brows. 'Be grateful, girl, for what I 
 offer,' he exclaims harshly. 
 
 ' We are grateful,' interposes Vera gently. 
 She feels as if a hand had closed upon her 
 heart with a suffocating pressure. What a 
 home-coming it is ! What a welcome ! 
 
 ' See that you keep to that,' says the old 
 man with a snarl. ' See that you appreciate 
 my bounty. I hope,' with a sharp glance at 
 Griselda, who is looking pale but still 
 mutinous, ' you look for no luxuries here ;
 
 UNDER-CURRENTS 37 
 
 that you do not expect to live a life of the 
 lotus-eating school? You have no doubt been 
 bred in the belief that I am a rich man ; if so, 
 undeceive yourself at once. I am poor — 
 miserably poor. I can barely live. Yet, with 
 all that, I have been wilhng (foolishly) to 
 saddle myself with two useless creatures for 
 the remainder of my life. Come, confess now, 
 you thought that I was rich ? ' 
 
 ' We certainly did hear so,' says Griselda 
 slowly. 
 
 ' There was some truth in what you heard,' 
 says he, looking down now, and fumbling 
 restlessly with the buttons of his shabby old 
 coat. 'But some men have calls on them 
 that bring their wealth to naught — naught. 
 This property — of which your father said I 
 robbed him — has it brought me comfort, 
 think you ? I tell you no, no.' He tears at 
 tlie coat still in angry fashion, until at length
 
 38 UNDER-CURRENTS 
 
 the button gives way and remains within his 
 palm. Holding it there tightly for a second 
 he then drops it to the ground. ' You un- 
 derstand now how it is with me ? I am a poor 
 man — poor because honest' He spreads wide 
 his beautiful hands, and looks from one to the 
 other of them with a touch of suspicion in his 
 gleaming eyes. ' Your father — he has spoken 
 to you of me ? ' he is now addressing Vera 
 exclusively. 
 
 ' Very frequently.' 
 
 ' With keen affection, of course ? ' with 
 another low evil laugh. ' Brotherly love was 
 quite a passion between us, eh ? Have you 
 no word, girl, that you sit there like a stone? 
 The truth, now! the truth ! He said I wronged 
 him ? Swindled him out of his house and 
 property ? Was that it ? Said I was his worst 
 friend — / — / who have, after all his foul 
 slandering, taken his two penniless children
 
 UNDER-CURRENTS 39 
 
 to my hearth, to waste my poor means on the 
 sustaining of them.' 
 
 Again that strange excitement seizes upon 
 and shakes his feeble frame, as once more he 
 dwells with a feverish insistence on his new- 
 found role of benefactor. It is almost terrible 
 to see so frail a ' tenement of clay ' broken up 
 by such a burst of vehemence ; yet it is 
 remarkable that, while his passion lasts, he 
 seems to grow in strength, and the small fine 
 hand clasping the arm of his chair holds it 
 with a grasp of iron. 
 
 A fiery soul, whicli, working out its way, 
 Fretted the pygmy body to decay. 
 
 ' I have consented to adopt you,' he goes 
 on presently, having subdued himself, his cold 
 voice now cutting like a knife. ' But do not 
 expect much from me. It is well to come to 
 a proper understanding at the start, and so 
 save future argument. Honesty^ as I tell you,
 
 40 UNDER-CURRENTS 
 
 has made me poor. Were I as others 
 
 You have been, I hear, accustomed to lead a 
 useless, luxurious existence. Your father all 
 his life kept up a most extravagant menage^ 
 and, dying, left you paupers.' He almost 
 hisses out the last cruel word. 
 
 Griselda starts to her feet. 
 
 'The honesty -of which you boast is not 
 everything,' she says, in a burning tone. 
 ' Let me remind you that courtesy, too, has 
 its claims upon you.' 
 
 ' Hah ! The word pauper is unpleasing, 
 it seems,' says he, unmoved. 'Before we quit 
 this point, however, one last word. You are 
 beneath my roof, I shall expect you to con- 
 form to my rules. I see no one. I permit 
 no one to enter my doors save my son. I 
 will not have people spying out the nakedness 
 of the land, and speculating over what they 
 are pleased to call my eccentricities. They
 
 UNDER-CURRENTS 4; 
 
 will have me rich, but I am poor, pooi\ I tell 
 you. Always remember that.' 
 
 He protrudes his thin lips, and a mean, 
 cringing expression disfigures his face. He 
 seems to sink into his miserable clothes, and 
 to grow visibly smaller before them. ' Form 
 no intimacies, therefore, in this neighbour- 
 hood. If you do, you leave this. Obey me, 
 and you have a home here ; disobey, and — 
 out you go.' 
 
 Griselda's features having settled them- 
 selves into a rather alarming expression. Miss 
 Dysart hurriedly breaks into the conversation. 
 
 ' If you will permit us,' she says faintly, 
 ' we should like to go to our rooms, to rest a 
 little. It has been a long journey.' 
 
 Her uncle turns and touches the bell near 
 him, and immediately, so immediately as to 
 suggest the idea that she has been applying 
 her ear to the keyhole, a woman enters.
 
 42 UNDER-CURRENTS 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 A kind of weight hangs heavy on my heart. 
 
 This suspicion may perhaps have crossed Mr. 
 Dysart's mind, because he frowns heavily as 
 the woman approaches. 
 
 * You are singularly prompt,' he says, with 
 a lowering glance and a sneer, that passes her 
 by, as she takes no notice of it, but stands 
 staring at him with a stolidity that has some- 
 thing of defiance in it. ' This is Mrs. Grunch,' 
 turning to Vera, ' my housekeeper. She will 
 see to your wants. Grunch, take these young 
 ladies away. There, go ! ' seeing she is about 
 to speak. ' Don't worry me with questions. 
 I am positively done to death already by this
 
 UNDER-CURRENTS 43 
 
 terrible invasion. Go I And be careful not 
 to slam the door behind you. My nerves/ 
 with a shudder, ' are all unstrung to the last 
 pitch.' 
 
 Thus unceremoniously dismissed, Miss 
 Dysart follows the housekeeper from the 
 room, Griselda having left it after the first 
 'go.' Through the huge dark hall and up 
 the wide mouldy staircase they follow their 
 guide, noting as they do so the decay that 
 marks everything around. As for Mrs. 
 Grunch herself, it is impossible to view her 
 with any sort of kindly feeling. A more for- 
 bidding old woman both in manner and 
 feature it would be difficult to produce. 
 Stalking on before them, with never a word 
 to one or the other, they every now and again, 
 at a turn in the staircase or a bend in the 
 gaunt empty galleries, catch a ghmpse of her 
 unpleasant face. A hard-featured woman —
 
 44 UNDER-CURRENTS 
 
 gaunt, bony, with a scowling brow and thin 
 lips and lank grey hair ; that she is taller than 
 most strikes them, as also the strange fancy 
 that once she must have been beautiful. But 
 she is aged now, and angular, and altogether 
 loveless, with the memories of past fears and 
 loves and hatreds printed savagely upon her 
 brow, and, with all that, a strong vitality that 
 behes her age. 
 
 She flings wide a door for the girls to 
 enter, and then abruptly departs without 
 offering them word or glance. They are 
 thankful to be thus left alone, and involun- 
 tarily stand still and gaze at each other. 
 Vera is very pale, and her breath is coming 
 rather fitfully from between her parted 
 lips. 
 
 ' He looks dying^ she says at last, speak- 
 ing with a heavy sigh, and going nearer to 
 Griselda as if unconsciously seeking a closer
 
 UNDER-CURRENTS 45 
 
 companionship. 'Did you ever see such a 
 face ? Don't you think he is dying ? ' 
 
 ' Who can tell,' says Griselda, whose un- 
 happiness takes a different form from that of 
 her sister's ; that past violent indignation bears 
 fruit still. ' I might think it, perhaps, but for 
 his eyes. They ' — she shudders — ' they look 
 as if they couldnt die. What terrible eyes 
 they are ! and what a vile old man altogether ! 
 Good heavens ! how did he dare so to insult 
 us ? I told you. Vera ' — with rising excitement 
 — ' I warned you, that our coming here would 
 be only for evil. 
 
 ' Don't, Griselda ! Don't, darling^' says 
 Miss Dysart in a frightened tone. She is, 
 indeed, trembling in every limb, and as she 
 speaks she puts out her hand and catches 
 Griselda's, and holds it in a tight, nervous 
 clasp. ' I don't like that woman,' she says in 
 a low tone.
 
 46 UNDER-CURRENTS 
 
 ' Who could ? ' asks Griselda. ' A very- 
 proper attendant on such a master, say I.' 
 
 'Oh, Griselda, what will be the end of 
 it ? ' says Miss Dysart, a touch of despair in 
 her voice. She sinks into a chair, still hold- 
 ing Griselda's hand as if unable to let it go, 
 and looks fearfully around her at the bare, 
 ugly, hideously furnitured apartment. 
 
 There is indeed something so poverty- 
 stricken, so mean, about the whole look of 
 the apartment that her heart dies within her. 
 Everything is bald, bare, comfortless. Yet, 
 through the discomfort, one is compelled to 
 see that once the now dingy bedroom was 
 handsome and well-appointed. The chipped 
 and broken washing-stand is of marble, and 
 the jug and basin — the former now cracked 
 and lipless — are of china, expensive in tlieir 
 day, and of an extravagant value in ours. 
 
 The paintings of the room alone would
 
 UNDER-CURRENTS 47 
 
 have shown any one that at least at one 
 period of its existence the room had hardly 
 known the word poverty. The very ceil- 
 ing was painted — little cupids running riot 
 amongst roses and lilies : the roses very 
 much besmirched by time, the lilies terribly 
 soiled, and the cupids so clothed upon by the 
 smoky grime of centuries as to be very much 
 more decently habited than the original artist 
 ever intended. 
 
 ' What a terrible woman ! ' says Vera, 
 alluding to the housekeeper. ' What a cold, 
 unfriendly creature ! One might almost ima- 
 gine that she hated us.' As she speaks she 
 looks up nervously at her sister, who is 
 standing beside her chair, so silent as to be 
 almost gloomy. The day is fast fading into 
 night, and the sad twilight creeping into the 
 room makes it more melancholy than it, in 
 reality, is. Griselda's eyes are bent upon the
 
 48 UNDER-CURRENTS 
 
 ground ; her lips are stern. ' Speak, darling,' 
 says Miss Dysart hurriedly. ' I don't know 
 what is the matter with me, but I feel un- 
 hinged, frightened.' She pauses, struggles 
 with herself for a moment, and then bursts 
 into tears. 
 
 ' Oh ! don't do that,' cries Griselda, 
 horrified. 'Don't cry on your first coming 
 into a house, it is so unlucky. If you do, 
 you'll keep on crying all the time you're in it. 
 There now ! Cheer up, do. After all they 
 can't eat us, and you have me always, you 
 T^now.' 
 
 She seems to think this a balm not to be 
 equalled. 
 
 'Uncle Gregory is a Tartar, I confess, 
 worse than father. But, so far as Mrs. 
 Housekeeper is concerned, I feel myself a 
 match for her anyway.' 
 
 ' How old she looks, yet how strong,' says
 
 UNDER-CURRENTS 49 
 
 Vera. ' Griselda, have you noticed that every 
 one here is old ? Oh ! ' with a quick sob, ' I 
 don't think I hke okl people ; they are so 
 hard, so cruel, they never understand. At 
 all events, what I mean is, I don't like too 
 much of them ; not altogether. And the man 
 who opened the door, did you notice him? 
 And the coachman, and this horrible woman, 
 and Uncle Gregory himself, all — all are old.' 
 
 ' Say mouldy,, and be done with it,' says 
 Griselda gloomily. 'Why, the very house 
 reeks of must ; I shouldn't wonder if a crime 
 had been committed in it, it looks so dark, so 
 forbidding ; a house of evil repute.' 
 
 'Oh, don't, Griselda, don't!' cries Miss 
 Dysart, with a nervous glance over her 
 shoulder and a perceptible start, as at this 
 moment a knock comes to the door. 
 
 ' Will you be pleased to come downstairs 
 or to have your tea here ? demands the 
 
 VOL. I. B
 
 50 UNDER-CURRENTS 
 
 harsh voice of the housekeeper from the 
 threshold. 
 
 ' Here ' is on Yera's hps, but Griselda the 
 bold circumvents her. 
 
 'Downstairs,' she says coldly, 'when we 
 get some hot water, and when you send a 
 maid to help us to unpack our trunks.' 
 
 'There are no maids in this house,' 
 replies Mrs. Grunch sullenly. ' You must 
 either attends to each other or let me help 
 you.' 
 
 * No maids ! ' says Griselda. 
 
 ' None,' briefly. 
 
 ' And my room ? Or — is this mine, or 
 Miss Dysart's ? ' 
 
 ' Both yours and Miss Dysart's ; sorry if 
 it ain't big enough,' with a derisive glance 
 round the huge bare chamber. 
 
 ' You mean, we are to have but one room 
 between us ? '
 
 UNDER-CURRENTS 5t 
 
 ' Just that, miss. Neither more nor less. 
 And good enough, too, for those as ' 
 
 'Leave the room,' says Griselda with a 
 sudden sharp intonation, so unexpected, so 
 withering, that the woman, after a surprised 
 stare, turns and withdraws. 
 
 'I wish you had let us have our tea 
 here,' says Vera. ' To face that old man 
 again, to endure his cruel speeches, is more 
 than I feel equal to.' 
 
 'As we have to live here we must face 
 him again sooner or later ; the sooner, then, 
 the better,' says Griselda. ' And would you 
 have that woman think we were afraid ? No, 
 no, Vera ; let us meet the foe with a bold 
 front, and without delay. The longer you 
 shrink from it the harder it will appear.' 
 
 E 2
 
 52 UNDER-CURRENTS 
 
 CHAPTEE y. 
 
 But the wood, all close and clenching 
 Bough in bough and root in root — 
 No more sky (for over-branching) 
 At your head than at your foot — 
 Oh ! the wood drew me within it by a glamour past dispute. 
 
 But after all they had not to face the foe in 
 any form. Mr. Dysart, it appears, on a closer 
 knowledge of his habits, never eats in public, 
 and indeed for several days after their arrival 
 the girls do not see him again. By degrees 
 it is forced upon them that life at Greycourt 
 is likely to be a very monotonous affair, with 
 no possible opening for change of any sort. 
 They find themselves driven into a little 
 narrow ring, bound everywhere by absurd 
 regulations, beyond which they must not stir.
 
 UNDER-CURRENTS 53 
 
 To girls born to a rather pronounced freedom 
 such restrictions are galling in the extreme. 
 
 Eigid simplicity, according to Mr. Dysart 
 — riorid meanness, according to Griselda — is 
 the order of the day. Dinner, instead of 
 being served at the decent orthodox half-past 
 seven, is on the table at two sharp — thus 
 luncheon is saved ; and, when served, resolves 
 itself into two small — exquisitely dressed, cer- 
 tainly — but very small chops. No accessories. 
 The chop, in fact, is the dinner /j>i^?^ et simple, 
 unpleasantly simple. 
 
 To two healthy, youthful people, however, 
 this curtailing of the established elaborate 
 meal goes for little, save as a thing for sur- 
 prised comment first and for laughter after- 
 wards. But after a while the monotony of it 
 offends. 
 
 ' If it might even be cutlets one day,' says 
 Griselda, when a week of unvaried chop has
 
 54 UNDER-CURRENTS 
 
 gone by. No soup, no fish, no pudding. 
 One etcetera, indeed, is allowed : the butler, 
 and with him a dish containing three pota- 
 toes — one for Vera, one for Griselda, and one 
 over, in case either of them should have ap- 
 petites so voracious as to require it. Could 
 generosity further go ? 
 
 They are, however, as I have said, suf- 
 ficiently young to care little for the culinary 
 goods the gods provide ; and one great source 
 of joy at least is theirs : at none of these 
 sumptuous banquets does their uncle (wise 
 man!) appear. How he spends his days — 
 what occupations, what enjoyments are his, 
 they never know ; one thing however they 
 discover, that, dead as he may be to the 
 human world around him, however soured 
 his heart, it is still open to the divine in- 
 fluence of flowers. 
 
 Beyond the parterre that had met their
 
 UNDER-CURRENTS 55 
 
 eyes when first they arrived, they discovered 
 later on a small but perfect garden, through 
 which a tiny streamlet rushes merrily on its 
 joyous way to the broad river down below ; 
 a garden where myriad blossoms live and 
 thrive, and bloom, as it seems to Vera, as 
 never flowers bloomed before, casting with 
 every breeze their scented breaths upon the 
 air. Such a dehcious, old-fashioned spot ! 
 A very world of sweetness. That it should 
 belong to Gregory Dysart, that it should 
 touch or affect that cold and sordid nature 
 in any way, seems to Vera inexplicable. 
 Eather it would seem to her that such gentle 
 things as flowers would fade away and shrivel 
 up and die beneath the glance of those wicked 
 scorching eyes. But, 
 
 In all places, then, and in all seasons, 
 
 Flowers expand their light and soul-like wings ; 
 
 Teaching us, hy the most persuasive reasons, 
 How akin they are to human things.
 
 56 UNDER-CURRENTS 
 
 And with childlike, credulous affection, 
 We behold their tender huds expand : 
 
 Emblems of our own great resurrection, 
 Emblems of the bright and better land. 
 
 How Mr. Dysart regards them, and what 
 lessons they teach him, there is nothing to 
 show ; but every evening, when the sun has 
 gone down, and the air is yet warm with the 
 memory of it, the old man emerges from his 
 den, and slowdy now, and now with quicken- 
 ing footsteps, walks from flower to flower, his 
 face, so unearthly in its pallor, bent towards 
 each delicate blossom. 
 
 The deaf old coachman is, they discover, 
 gardener as well, in name, the real work being 
 done by a young man, called Bob, who has 
 grown up at Greycourt from boy to m^an, and 
 who still works on there at the original wage, 
 though he has long ceased to give only a 
 boy's labour — not without grumblings, how- 
 ever, and much discontent.
 
 UNDER-CURRENTS 57 
 
 To-day has arisen in an unwonted splen- 
 dour. Even through the eternal shadows 
 that encompass the garden, and past the 
 thick yew hedge, the hot beams of the sun 
 are steahng. 
 
 ' A day for gods and goddesses,' cries 
 Griselda, springing suddenly to her feet, and 
 flinging far from her on tlie green sward the 
 musty volume she had purloined from the 
 mustier library about an hour ago. That 
 library, too, had failed them ; no book of any 
 value, no book that could fetch even a 
 meagre price, has there a home. It has been 
 well weeded out, and the marketable portion 
 of it sold. ' Away with such fudge as that. 
 Come for a walk, Yera, into those green woods 
 yonder ; see how temptingly cool they look.' 
 
 ' Uncle Gregory said something, didn't he, 
 about our not leaving the garden ? ' says Vera 
 with hesitation.
 
 58 UNDER-CURRENTS 
 
 'I'm always sorry I'm so deaf,' with a 
 mischievous little laugh. ' I never hear things 
 like that. And besides — a jig for Uncle 
 Gregory ! An old fossil like that shouldn't 
 dare preach to a lovely young creature Hke 
 me. " Do not make acquaintance with your 
 neighbours," said he ; that is all of his 
 dark sayings that I have taken to heart. 
 I say, Vera, do come. Do, now. Here, 
 I'll pull that book out of your hands if you 
 don't.' 
 
 ' Oh, don't, don't,' laughing. ' To tell you 
 the truth, it isn't so much a decent awe of 
 Uncle Gregory as a dislike to exertion on this 
 hot day that keeps me chained to this spot. 
 There, go, if you will ; but don't stay away 
 too long.' 
 
 ' Perhaps I'll never come back. The spirit 
 of adventure is full upon me, and who knows 
 what demons inhabit that unknown wood?
 
 UNDER-CURRENTS 59 
 
 So, fare thee well, sweet, my love ! and when 
 you see me, expect me.' She presses a 
 sentimental kiss upon her sister's brow, 
 averring that a ' brow ' is the only applicable 
 part of her for such a solemn occasion, and 
 runs lightly down towards the hedge. Half- 
 way there, however, she looks back. ' Vera, 
 Vera, if I shouldn't be back in time for the 
 succulent chop, eat mine too. If you don't, 
 some horrid thought tells me we shall have a 
 rechauffe to-morrow.' 
 
 She runs through one of the openings in 
 the hedge, crosses the gravelled path, and, 
 mounting the parapet, looks over to examine 
 the other side of the wall on which she stands, 
 after which she commences her descent. One 
 little foot she slips into a convenient hole in it, 
 and then the other into a hole lower down, and 
 so on and on, until the six feet of wall are 
 conquered and she reaches terra jirma^ and
 
 6o UNDER-CURRENTS 
 
 finds nothing between her and the desired 
 cool of the lovely woods. 
 
 With a merry heart she plunges into the 
 dark, sweetly scented home of the giant trees, 
 with a green, soft pathway under her foot, 
 and, though she knows it not, her w^orld 
 before her. 
 
 It is an entrancing hour. Nay, it gets to 
 hours ; and all so full of life and warmth and 
 beauty that she forgets to count time ; so that 
 it is only when she lias gone a long, long way 
 into the heart of this exquisite wood, and 
 when the sun has travelled very low down in 
 the heavens, and many miles lie between her 
 and Greycourt, that she wakes to the fact 
 that her hands were not formed to carry any 
 more ferns, and that she has lost her way, and ' 
 doesn't know how on earth to get back to 
 Vera. 
 
 She has stopped short in the middle of a
 
 UNDER-CURRENTS 6i 
 
 broad green space encompassed by high hills, 
 though with an opening towards the west, 
 when this uncomfortable conviction grows 
 clear to her. She is not of the nervous order, 
 however, and keeping a good heart looks 
 hopefully around her. 
 
 Her hope has reason. Far away over 
 there, in the distance, stands a figure lightly 
 lined against the massive trunk of a sycamore, 
 that most unmistakably declares itself to be a 
 man. His back is turned to her, and he is 
 bending over something, and, so far as she 
 can judge thus remote from him, his clothing 
 is considerably the worse for wear. It looks 
 soiled, dusty, and she is sure at all events that 
 he wears leggings. A gamekeeper, perhaps, 
 or a — well, something or other of that sort. 
 At all events the sight is welcome as the early 
 dew. 
 
 As I have said, she is not one of those
 
 62 UNDER-CURRENTS 
 
 ill-regulated girls (better known to us in 
 fiction than in fact, be it said, to the credit of 
 their sex) who deem every man they meet on 
 lonely road or in sequestered wood to be either 
 a burglar or garotter out of work, or mid- 
 night assassin on strike, or a marauder in 
 general, and therefore she hails this particular 
 man with open joy, and proceeds to compel 
 his attention, with a view to getting from him 
 such information as will take her back to 
 Greycourt as speedily as possible. 
 
 Standing upon a mound near her, she 
 places her hands to her pretty mouth, and, 
 with a simple eloquence that cannot be too 
 highly commended, cries ' Hi ! ' to him, at the 
 top of her fresh young voice. 
 
 No answer. 
 
 Whether the breeze has played traitor, 
 or whether the bending figure is of so gross 
 material as to be deaf to this brilliant appeal,
 
 UNDER-CURRENTS 63 
 
 who can say ? At all events, he never stirs 
 or lifts himself from his task, whatever it may- 
 be. Nothing daunted, Griselda returns to the 
 attack. 
 
 ' Hi ! ' cries she again, with a sharper, 
 freer intonation. And still nothing comes of 
 it. The bending figure refuses to straighten 
 his back, and things remain as before. It 
 is really too bad. Getting down from her 
 mound she clambers up on a higher bank, 
 and once more sends out her voice upon the 
 world. 
 
 ' Hi, my good man ! ' This does it. As 
 if compelled to acknowledge this tribute to 
 his virtues, ' my good man ' uprears himself, 
 looks vacantly round him — at every point but 
 the right one first, and at last sees Griselda. 
 The efiect produced is not only instantaneous 
 but marvellous. Down goes his rod, his cast, 
 his choicest fly — an admirable orange grouse
 
 64 UNDER-CURRENTS 
 
 — and he comes steaming towards her at 
 about twenty knots an hour. 
 
 His eyes, ever since they first Ht upon 
 Griselda, have seemed to grow to her, and 
 now, as he draws nearer, she too sees and 
 recognises him. The knowledge thus gained 
 so surprises her that she very nearly falls off 
 her high bank, and then grows very charm- 
 ingly rosy, and as charmingly confused. It 
 is none other than the young man who had 
 helped to restore the carriage to its legitimate 
 position.
 
 UNDER-CURRENTS 65 
 
 CHAPTER YI. 
 
 In her utmost lightness there is truth — and often she speaks 
 
 lightly, 
 Has a grace in being gay, which even mournful souls approve. 
 
 ' It is really you ? ' cries lie, with unaffected 
 delight, colouring warmly. He has taken off 
 his hat, and is s^Deaking witli the most extreme 
 deference, though his eyes are glad and eager, 
 and his whole air triumphant. 
 
 ' It is you, too,' replies she reflectively, 
 and as thoucrh it is a little unfair to throw all 
 the personalities at her. 
 
 ' So it is,' says he, smiling gaily. ' You 
 wanted me? I hope you had not to call 
 often ? ' 
 
 ' Very often,' smiling too, and jumping 
 
 VOL. I. F
 
 66 UNDER-CURRENTS 
 
 down off her pedestal. ' I thought I should 
 never make you hear, and it seemed a long 
 way to have to go and fetch you. But, do 
 you know, I didn't know you were — you' 
 
 ' No ? ' rather disappointed. ' "Who then ? ' 
 
 ' A tramp.' She laughs a little. ' Wasn't 
 it stupid of me ? But in the distance I 
 thought that grey suit of yours,' nodding at 
 his coat, ' was a dilapidated garment covered 
 with dust. However, I'm very glad I've met 
 you, Mr. ' She pauses. 
 
 ' Peyton. Tom Peyton.' 
 
 ' Because I have lost my way, and, when 
 I saw you, I thought you might be a sort of 
 person I could ask to set me on my right 
 way.' 
 
 ' Well, and am I not ? ' asks he gravely, 
 hat in hand still. 
 
 ' Do you know it ? The road to Grey- 
 court ? I don't.'
 
 UNDER-CURRENTS 67 
 
 ' / do. You have only to follow the ' 
 
 He stops short, somewhat abruptly, as if a 
 sudden thought had struck him. ' After all, 
 it is a tedious way, and complicated. I don't 
 know that I could well describe it. But if 
 you will permit me to go with you and show 
 it to ' 
 
 ' Oh no. No, indeed. It is giving you 
 quite too much trouble. And you were 
 fishing, too,' says she anxiously, wrinkling 
 her pretty brows. ' I am sure, if you will 
 be so good as to describe it carefully^ I shall 
 be able to find my way alone.' 
 
 ' I'm a wretchedly bad person at descrip- 
 tion,' says he apologetically. ' I really think 
 you had better let ' 
 
 ' I couldn't dream of it. Just a word or 
 two will set me right. You said something 
 just now about — that is — if I followed some- 
 thing. What was it ? '
 
 68 UNDER-CURRENTS 
 
 ' It was the crudest counsel, I assure you. 
 It would not help an experienced explorer, 
 and you, I am convinced, could not profit by 
 it. As for my fishing, it is too bright an 
 evening to be of any use to Izaac Walton 
 himself, so I forego nothing when I give up 
 that.' 
 
 « Still ' hesitating. 
 
 ' Let me come,' says he earnestly. 
 
 They have turned, and have walked on 
 together on the homeward path quite thirty 
 yards or so, when once again her conscience 
 smites her. 
 
 'What will become of your rod, your 
 flies ? ' she says, stopping short and casting 
 an anxious glance behind her. 
 
 'This is a little unkind, isn't it?' says 
 Peyton reproachfully. ' If you don't want 
 me to come, say so, but to ' 
 
 ' Oh, it isn't that. It isn't, really^ declares
 
 UNDER-CURRENTS '69 
 
 she, shaking her pretty head vehemently. 
 * Only I'm afraid that perhaps some one will 
 see your rod, lying there all by itself, and will 
 steal it, and ' 
 
 'And much good may it do him,' says 
 Tom Peyton laughing. 'I only hope it will 
 catch more trout for him than ever it caught 
 for me. I used to think there was a blight 
 upon that rod until — to-day, I assure you, 
 Miss Dysart, you need not be unhappy about 
 that.' 
 
 ' How do you know my name?' asks she, 
 with a shy glance at him from under her long 
 lashes. 
 
 ' I asked somebody in the village,' con- 
 fesses he honestly, ' and he told me you were 
 Mr. Dysart's niece. You don't mind that, do 
 you ? ' 
 
 'No.' She pauses for a rather long time, 
 and then lifts her eyes to his. ' I, too, heard
 
 70 UNDER-CURRENTS 
 
 of you,' she says, ' but then I didn't take for 
 granted everything that was told me.' 
 
 ' What did you hear of me ? ' 
 
 ' That you were a young man " down from 
 Lunnon town, an' as full o' tricks as a egg's 
 full o' mate," ' replies she demurely, evidently 
 quoting somebody, and with a glance so ' full 
 o' tricks ' on her own account that he laughs 
 in spite of himself. 
 
 ' Am I indebted to Jehu for that charac- 
 ter ? ' asks he. 
 
 ' Well guessed,' says she. ' But have you 
 nothing to say, then ? ' 
 
 ' Not until my whole condemnation lies 
 before me. What else said that venerable 
 old person ? ' 
 
 ' He insinuated that you were " a great 
 wretch," ' returns she. And then she gives 
 way to the mirth within her, and laughs 
 lightly. ' I took your part,' she says. ' I
 
 UNDER-CURRENTS it 
 
 said you could not be quite all tliat, or you 
 would have seen us killed with pleasure, and 
 then have robbed us.' 
 
 ' Well,' says he, ' I'm not from " Lunnon 
 town," certainly, and I hope I'm not a greater 
 wretch than my fellows. As to my " tricks," 
 I don't believe I've one.' 
 
 ' If not from London, from where ? ' 
 
 ' Eather close to you. My sister lives just 
 over the border of this county, a matter of 
 twenty miles or so ; and I spend most of my 
 time with her. My own home is a rather 
 poor affair. What I mean is, that it would be 
 a good affair if I had money to keep it up 
 properly, but the pater didn't think of that. 
 Well, bless his soul ! wherever he is, and I'm 
 sure it's in heaven, he gave me a real good 
 time while he lived, for which I'm grateful.' 
 
 There is a warm look in his eyes that 
 goes to Griselda's heart.
 
 72 UNZ:fER-CURRENTS 
 
 ' At least his memory is sweet to you,' she 
 says. ' That is a great deal ; a very happy 
 thing, I think.' 
 
 ' But you ' begins he. 
 
 ' Oh no ! ' smiling coldly. ' Memory brings 
 me nothing save cold looks, cold words, cold 
 deeds.' 
 
 ' That's over, however,' says he hurriedly. 
 ' And now ' 
 
 'A worse thing has happened to me.* 
 She laughs involuntarily. ' I'm hardly a 
 cheerful companion, am I ? ' says she, look- 
 ing up at him with lovely eyes, dewy and 
 sad. ' And why should I torment you with 
 xny worries.^ You have been so kind, so 
 good, and I reward you only with a category 
 of my absurd grievances.' 
 
 ' You reproach me when you say that. / 
 was the first, I think, to press my personal 
 history upon you. And — and — after all,' says
 
 UNDER-CURRENTS 73 
 
 the young man, turning to her an earnest 
 glance, ' you have not yet heard who I am, or 
 what.' 
 
 'You forget,' with a merry Httle laugh, 
 ' all that our Methuselah told me.' 
 
 ' That's nonsense,' says he bluntly. ' And 
 — somehow — I want you to know who I am. 
 I live in Derbyshire, in a ramshackle old 
 place there, that would take twice my income 
 to keep it in proper style ; for which reason I 
 trouble it little. And IVe come down here 
 to fish the innocent stream during June and 
 July, because I can't run to a London season 
 in the fashion to which my dad, when living, 
 accustomed me. That's the whole of it,' says 
 he, looking her fair in the eyes, a little shame- 
 facedly, but very honestly. 
 
 ' It was a very good thing for my sister 
 and me that you came fishing,' says she 
 kindly ; 'or I suppose we should both be
 
 74 UNDER-CURRENTS 
 
 now either dead or dying.' Here she looks 
 round her. 'Have we very much farther 
 to go ? ' 
 
 ' About a mile.' 
 
 ' I wish it was less,' nervously. ' I am 
 afraid Vera will be frightened at my long 
 absence, and — and that my uncle will be 
 angry.' 
 
 'Perhaps he won't hear of it,' says Mr. 
 Peyton hopefully. Griselda shakes her head. 
 
 ' He looks just like a person who would 
 hear everything,' she says. 
 
 ' But how ? You don't see much of him, 
 do you ? ' 
 
 ' Enough, however. But how do you 
 know that ? ' 
 
 ' I've heard a good deal about him off and 
 on. People will talk, you know, and — he's 
 eccentric, isn't he ? ' 
 
 ' If you mean weak in mind, you were
 
 UNDER-CURRENTS 75 
 
 never further out in your life,' says Griselda 
 mournfully. ' He is all mind, in my opinion. 
 There isn't a weak spot in him.' 
 
 ^Well, but you know he won't see any- 
 body. Shuts himself up like a hermit, and 
 neither visits nor receives. Every one thinks 
 his brain unsettled ever since his father's 
 death. He was quite reasonable before that, 
 but shortly afterwards gave himself terribly 
 queer airs, and grew melancholy to the verge 
 of madness. And the funniest part of it all 
 was that he and his father didn't get on at all 
 whilst the old chap was living. Fought it 
 out regularly, like cat and dog. So that the 
 overwhelming grief at his loss was hardly to 
 be accounted for.' 
 
 ' I can see a simple solution of that diffi- 
 culty.' says she scornfully. ' He had lost his 
 principal object in life ; he was left with no 
 one with whom to quarrel, save himself.
 
 76 UNDER-CURRENTS 
 
 And we all know how hard it is for John 
 Jones to fight wdth John Jones.' 
 
 ' I say,' says the young man suddenly, 
 turning upon her a rather apologetic face, 
 ' you must think me awfully rude. Here am 
 I pretending to tell you facts of your own 
 people, that of course are well known to 
 yourself.' 
 
 ' On tlie contrary, all you have said is 
 news. By-the-by, have you ever been to 
 Greycourt ? ' 
 
 ' No. I've often thought I should like to 
 go on some Wednesday or other, but haven't 
 been able to make up my mind yet.' 
 
 Some Wednesday ! What Wednesday ? 
 And why Wednesday ? Griselda is distinctly 
 puzzled, but hardly likes to ask a question on 
 the subject. Already she has shown herself 
 disgracefully ignorant of her family history. 
 
 ' It's a quaint old house,' she says, ' and
 
 UNDER-CURRENTS yj 
 
 might be lovely, I think, if the trees were cut 
 
 away and some sunlight let into it, and a 
 
 little furniture. It's empty, positively empty.' 
 
 ' Surely you forget the galleries ? ' says he. 
 
 *The picture galleries? There are rows 
 upon rows of hideous men and women up- 
 stairs, if you mean that, who glare down at 
 one with simpers and frowns, until one feels 
 inclined to — well, to hate them. But what of 
 that ? ' asks she. ' They make me feel un- 
 canny ; and, beyond having learned how to 
 rush past them when dusk comes on, so as to 
 escape the cruel fingers that they always 
 seem to be stretching out to seize me, I have 
 taken little notice of them.' 
 
 ' You would be but a poor art critic,' says 
 he laughing. ' Is it indeed possible that you 
 do not know that those despised pictures 
 of your ancestors are absolutely priceless ? 
 Pure Lelys and Knellers, Gainsboroughs and
 
 78 UNDER-CURRENTS 
 
 Eeynolds. Why, those galleries at Greycourt, 
 I've often heard my father say, are about the 
 finest in England. Your uncle is good enough 
 to open them to the public every first Wed- 
 nesday in the month at the very trifling 
 charge of half a crown.' He speaks in all 
 good faith. 
 
 ' What ! ' cries Griselda, flushing so hot a 
 colour that the tears grow within her eyes. 
 ' Oh ! you caTbt mean that.' 
 
 ' That he ' stammers Peyton, wishing 
 
 now with all his heart that the unlucky infor- 
 mation had not come through him. 
 
 ' Yes, you know what you said : that he 
 makes the people 'pay to see his house ! ' 
 
 ' Well, why not ? ' says the young man 
 boldly, preparing with a stout courage to 
 defend a vile cause. ' It is to improve the 
 tastes of the multitude that he does it, of 
 course. And if he chooses to repay himself
 
 UNDER-CURRENTS 79 
 
 for tlie wear and tear of his carpets, who 
 shall say he has not common sense on his 
 side?' 
 
 Griselda looks at him askance from under 
 the long fringes of her lids. 
 
 ' Carpets ? ' says she slowly. ' Your argu- 
 ment might have something in it, perhaps, 
 only — there isn't a carpet in the house.' 
 
 ' No ? Just shows how the sightseers 
 played old — that is, worked havoc with them,' 
 replies he valiantly. 'And, if there aren't 
 carpets, there are still the pictures, and one 
 should pay to enjoy their beauty. I'm think- 
 ing,' with a casual air, ' of going to Greycourt 
 myself next time the galleries are open to see 
 these famous pictures.' 
 
 ' Oh, don't, don't ! ' cries she impulsively. 
 Then she stops short, hardly knowing how to 
 explain her impetuous outcry. ^It isn't to 
 educate the multitude that he throws open
 
 So UNDER-CURRENTS 
 
 liis inhospitable doors,' she says at last, with 
 downcast eyes. ' It is because he wants — the 
 
 money. He ' she hesitates, and then says 
 
 sharply, though her voice is very low, ' is a 
 miser ! ' 
 
 ' Funny how some people are so fond of 
 money,' says Peyton, speaking lightly, with a 
 view to showing himself ignorant of her con- 
 fusion. ' It's the commonest fault known. 
 And it doesn't do them a bit of good. After 
 all, I'm glad my father was afflicted with the 
 opposite complaint ; but I dare say it is no 
 bad sign of a man to keep together that 
 which is his own. My father, you see, though 
 he was as satisfactory a one as ever breathed, 
 whilst he did breathe, left me considerably 
 poorer than I imagined I should be when he 
 died.' 
 
 ' We have something in common there,' 
 says she, a little sadly. 'My father left us
 
 UNDER-CURRENTS 8r 
 
 penniless ; but then he was not satisfactory, 
 so we gained at no time.' 
 
 At this moment the chimneys of Grey- 
 court shine through the interstices of the trees 
 on her left, and, with the knowledge that 
 she has gained her home, comes, too, the 
 sound of running water, and the thought that 
 all through her return walk through the leafy 
 woods that music had rushed as a chorus to 
 her words. 
 
 ' Ah ! now I know ! ' cries she, stopping 
 abruptly, and looking full at her companion, 
 who grows somewhat guilty in appearance. 
 ' That noise of running water ! — that is the 
 river that flows beneath Grey court. If I 
 had only followed it I need not have given 
 you all this trouble.' 
 
 ' It was no trouble,' says he plainly. 
 
 ' You should have told me,' continues 
 she. 'Was it that you were going to tell 
 
 VOL. I. G
 
 82 UNDER-CURRENTS 
 
 me? Did you know,' regarding him some- 
 what austerely, ' that it would take me 
 home ? ' 
 
 ' How was I to know that you could follow 
 it ? ' asks he lamely. 
 
 ' My eyes are quite strong,' says she, now 
 regarding him with evident suspicion. ' I do 
 not see how I could have helped following 
 it. However,' seeing his crestfallen air, 'you 
 have been very kind, very. I am very much 
 obhged to you.' She thinks for a moment, 
 and then holds out to him her hand. ' Good- 
 bye,' she says gently. 
 
 ' Oh, not good-bye, I hope,' returns he 
 anxiously, taking the slim little hand and 
 holding it as warmly as he dares, perhaps 
 more closely than he is quite aware. ' I shall 
 see you again ? ' 
 
 'Oh no. No, indeed,' softly. 'You must 
 not think that. Uncle Gregory does not
 
 UNDER-CURRENTS 2>2, 
 
 permit us to know our neighbours ; therefore, 
 I shall never know you at all.' 
 
 ' That is a hard saying,' restraining by a 
 strong eiFort the smile that rises to his lips. 
 ' I am afraid your Uncle Gregory is somewhat 
 of a tyrant. I am glad, however, for your 
 sake,' gravely, ' that he does not deny you the 
 pleasure of walking in these beautiful woods.' 
 
 'At least he has not forbidden me yet,' 
 with a doubtful sigh. 
 
 ' Lest in the future he should do so, 
 take my advice and get from them all the 
 pleasure you can in the present,' says her 
 companion, gazing artlessly into her face. 
 ^And now, if it must be — Good-bye.' 
 
 He lifts his hat, and Griselda, giving him 
 a rather solemn little salute, turns away from 
 him. A second later, however, she finds him 
 again beside her. 
 
 ' It — there is all the appearance of coming 
 
 G 2
 
 84 UNDER-CURRENTS 
 
 rain in the sky,' he says gravely. ' Don't you 
 think so? I hear we shall have a perfect 
 storm before long. I thought I'd tell you, so 
 that you might get as much good out of these 
 woods as possible before — the deluge. This 
 week, now, might be line, but I should not 
 answer for the next ; and, indeed, if you will 
 permit me to advise you, I should recommend 
 you to take a walk to-morrow. Who shall 
 say that rain might not fall the day after ? ' 
 Who indeed ? 
 
 It seems the soundest reasoning. So Gri- 
 selda, having shown herself impressed by it, 
 inclines her head to him once more, and, a 
 turn in the path hiding him at last from view, 
 takes to her heels, and hardly draws breath 
 until, having found the small iron gate that 
 admits to the garden at its lowest end, she 
 enters by it, and feels herself at last at home.
 
 UNDER-CURRENTS 85 
 
 CHAPTEE VII. 
 
 Severe decrees may keep our tongues in awe, 
 But to our thouglits what edict can give law ? 
 Even you yoursalf to your own breast shall tell 
 Your crimes, and your own conscience le your hell. 
 
 Home, but not yet safe. There are still many 
 obstacles to be cleared before slie can consider 
 herself out of reach of her uncle's censure — 
 supposing he should have heard of her 
 lengthened absence. Of this she feels there 
 is small doubt. But if once she found herself 
 in her own room, she could feign headache, 
 weariness, anything, as an excuse to avoid 
 answering his summons to his private apart- 
 ment for the lecture he has no doubt in 
 readiness for her. He^may not have heard,
 
 86 UNDER-CUKRENTS 
 
 however ; it is quite possible that no one 
 may have mentioned the matter to him, and 
 her heart grows warm within her as she 
 dwells upon this hope. She is speedily to be 
 undeceived. 
 
 On the hall door steps, as if lying in wait 
 for her, stands Mrs. Grunch, the housekeeper. 
 Seeing the girl, she advances towards her, 
 a curiously unpleasant smile disfiguring her 
 wide lips. 
 
 ' Dear me, miss, and so you have returned,' 
 says she. ' Dear ! but master will be main 
 glad to hear of it. He was that upset by 
 your absence that we daren't so much as 
 approach him.' Griselda's blood grows cold. 
 ' But now he'll be sure to tell you himself 
 how glad he is to see you back safe and 
 sound. Might I ask, miss — he'll be wanting 
 to know — where you were, and what kept 
 you ? '
 
 UNDER-CURRENTS 87 
 
 ' Certainly,' says Griselda coldly. ' I went 
 for a walk in those lovely woods, lost my 
 way, found a considerable difficulty in find- 
 ing it again, and — here I am. I am afraid 
 you will not be able to make much of a 
 mystery out of that.' She smiled contempt- 
 uously. 
 
 The woman's small eyes grow vicious. 
 
 ' 'Deed, miss, 'twas well you did find it,' 
 she says slowly ; ' and that you didn't lose 
 yourself for good and all.' 
 
 Then finding that this shaft is lost on the 
 unconscious Griselda, who only looks puzzled, 
 she goes on : ' And so you only went for a 
 walk in the pretty woods? Master will be 
 glad to know that. And — he's very trouble- 
 some about asking questions, miss — may I tell 
 him you were alone ? ' 
 
 Griselda turns her eyes full upon her. So 
 haughty a fire burns in them that Mrs
 
 88 UNDER-CURRENTS 
 
 Gruncli's gaze grows confused, and finally 
 seeks the ground. 
 
 ' You forget yourself,' says Griselda in a 
 perfectly calm tone. She moves away a step 
 or two, and then : ' Bring me a cup of tea 
 to my room without delay,' she says ; the 
 command, her whole air, bringing the woman 
 to her proper level at once. 
 
 Going swiftly up the broad stone stair- 
 case, she almost runs into Yera's arms, who, 
 having heard voices below, had rushed im- 
 petuously along the corridor to see if at 
 last news of Griselda had arrived, and 
 instead — ^happy exchange ! — here is Griselda 
 herself. 
 
 ' Oh ! darling, such a fright as you have 
 given me ' — she has thrown her arms round 
 Griselda, and is holding her as though years 
 have flown since last they met. ' Where were 
 you ? But come into our room ; you must be
 
 UNDER-CURRENTS 89 
 
 famished. You were talking to Grunch just 
 now, were you not ? What of ? ' 
 
 ' A mere skirmish of wits, unworthy a 
 second thought. She wished to be insolent 
 to me, so I knocked her down.' 
 
 ' What ! ' says Vera, very naturally 
 startled. 
 
 'Metaphorically speaking, of course. I 
 rather fancy I reduced her to powder. Oh, 
 Vera ! such a day as it has been — a regular 
 adventure. First I lost my way, and then 
 some one came to my rescue, and who do you 
 think the some one was ? ' 
 
 ' The man who saved the carriage from 
 being upset,' says Vera, with a touch of 
 excitement. 
 
 'Pouf! You're a witch. It isn't a bit of 
 good having anything nice to tell you — you 
 can guess it at once,' says Griselda, very 
 properly disgusted. 'Yes, it was his own
 
 90 UNDER-CURRENTS 
 
 dear self again ! I can tell you, I welcomed 
 him. And he told me his name, and a great 
 deal about himself; and he has a sister, 
 married, living in the next county, and he 
 said he hoped he should meet me again, but 
 I told him that was out of the question, as 
 Uncle Gregory would not hear of our know- 
 ing any one, and so I bid him an eternal 
 adieu.' 
 
 ' What a pity ! ' says Yera sighing. ' He 
 seemed quite nice, and it is a dreadful thought 
 that we are never to associate with our neigh- 
 bours.' 
 
 ' Oh, Vera ! He told me such an extraor- 
 dinary, such a mean thing of Uncle Gregory ! 
 I was never so surprised in my life.' 
 
 ' I don't think anything of that sort about 
 him would surprise me,' says Yera mildly. 
 ' However, not a word more until you have 
 eaten something. Just think of how many
 
 UNDER-CURRENTS 91 
 
 hours you liave been fasting, and now I'm 
 afraid all you can get is bread and butter.' 
 
 ' By-tlie-by, did you eat my chop ? ' asks 
 Griselda. ' I hope so. It was my last re- 
 quest. I hope you did not shirk it.' 
 
 ' I couldn't eat it. Nor my own either. 
 I was too miserable about you,' says Vera. 
 ' However, I'll ring now for some bread and 
 butter.' 
 
 ' Order a loaf when you're about it,' says 
 Griselda. ' I'm starving.' 
 
 It is some time, however, before that bell 
 is answered. Mrs. Grunch, as Griselda left 
 her, turned aside, and with darkened brow 
 made for the library, Mr. Dysart's usual 
 abiding-place. Not finding him here, she 
 hurries onward down the hall, until she comes 
 to a heavy curtain, once handsome, now 
 moth-eaten and dingy, and, pushing it aside,
 
 92 bWDER-CURRENTS 
 
 reveals a long flagged passage. So light, so 
 careful are her footfalls, however, that scarcely 
 a sound betrays her approach to a high, 
 narrow door at the extreme end. 
 
 Stooping as she comes to it, she peers 
 through the keyhole, and finding it empty, 
 tries, with a cautious, quiet grasp, the handle 
 of the door, to find the latter locked. Still 
 very cautiously, she slips her hand into her 
 pocket, draws out a key, well-oiled, and insert- 
 ing it in the keyhole, softly opens the door. 
 
 A grim smile, that might almost be termed 
 amused, overspreads lier face as she looks 
 towards the farther end of the room. There, 
 on his knees beside a cabinet, kneels Mr. 
 Dysart. A very ordinary cabinet, to all out- 
 ward seeming, of oak and stoutly built, with 
 nothing to distinguish it from the common 
 herd of oaken cabinets, save one rather re- 
 markable feature.
 
 UNDER-CURRENTS 93 
 
 The right side, that to the uninitiated is 
 merely a dull piece of wood, darkened by age, 
 is so constructed, that by pressure on a cer- 
 tain part of it, a spring is brought into motion, 
 by which the whole apparently solid, immov- 
 able side of the cabinet opens wide from top 
 to bottom, disclosing an extremely narrow set 
 of shelves within, from an inch to an inch and 
 a half in depth. 
 
 It is open now, and Mr. Dysart, in his 
 worn and shabby old coat, is kneeling before 
 the secret opening, gloating openly upon its 
 contents. Piles upon piles of yellow sove- 
 reigns are so built one on the top of the other 
 that they reach from one narrow resting- place 
 to the other above, and so on. Dull, heavy 
 gold that scarcely glitters, save in the eyes of 
 the wretched miser bending over them. 
 
 Yet it is not so much on the money as on 
 a paper he holds in his hand that his attention
 
 94 UNDER-CURRENTS 
 
 is concentrated. He is so bent on the perusal 
 of it, that he hears neither the turn of the key 
 in the lock nor the woman's entrance. And 
 now, as a malicious chuckle breaks from her, 
 it so startles him that he springs to his feet as 
 if shot, and a sharp, horrid cry, that is almost 
 a shriek, escapes him. His face has grown 
 deadly white, great drops of sweat stand out 
 upon his brow. The fiery eyes, the only 
 things that seem living in that ghastly face, 
 glare wildly at her, as instinctively he spreads 
 out his lean old hands over his gold, as if to 
 shield that secret hoard from sight. 
 
 'Comforting yourself with a look at it,' 
 says she with a malignant leer. As she 
 speaks she points not at the gold, but at the 
 paper he has tightly clutched in his hand. 
 
 ' How did you come here, woman ? ' de- 
 mands he in a shrill tone. He is trembling, 
 and with nervous fingers presses the paper
 
 UNDER-CURRENTS 95 
 
 into the secret recess in the cabinet, and shuts 
 to the oaken woodwork. 
 
 ' Why, through the door,' retorts she sul- 
 lenly. ' How else ? You should remember 
 to lock it when engaged on work like this.' 
 
 ' I could have sworn I locked it,' says he, 
 still shaking. ' See ! here is the key in my 
 pocket. I tell you,' with increasing agitation, 
 ' I did lock it. Are you a fiend that you can 
 follow me through bolted doors ? ' 
 
 ' You're getting old, Dysart,' says she with 
 a cold sneer ; ' your memory is failing you of 
 late. It will go ill with you if you forget too 
 often to fasten this door behind you.' 
 
 ' I did fasten it,' persists he fiercely. 
 
 ' Hush ! Don't give way to foolish fancies. 
 And after all, why need my coming fluster 
 you ? Surely,' with a mocking air, ' your 
 occupation was an innocent one ; you were 
 but refreshing yourself with a glimpse of '
 
 96 UNDER-CURRENTS 
 
 ' Be silent, woman ! Are you mad ? ' cries 
 he, lifting his arms like one in mortal fear. 
 A short laugh breaks from her. 
 
 ' You're but a poor sort after all,' she says 
 contemptuously. ' Too poor for faith or trust 
 of any sort. What ! can you not even believe 
 in me, who have served you and yours long 
 and faithful for forty year ? Is it likely I'd 
 betray you now for Ms children ? ' 
 
 'Ay, he served you falsely once,' says 
 Gregory Dysart ; a savour of pleasure in his 
 tone, in the words he uses to fan a hatred 
 that has never yet grown cold in all these 
 weary years. 
 
 ' He took my best — my life, my soul — the 
 heart of everything,' says she, slowly beating 
 one withered hand upon the other. ' Though 
 years have rolled by, I have not forgotten ; I 
 shall not forget at all. When first I saw them, 
 I felt as though if power were given me I
 
 UNDER- C URREN TS 97 
 
 could have blasted as tliey stood those insolent 
 hussies upstairs.' 
 
 Something out of the goodly past, some 
 vague touch of decency belonging to the days 
 when he was young and happy, and when 
 honour w^as still a word to which he clung 
 with all his might, renders this coarse epithet, 
 as applied to the pretty orphans committed to 
 his care, insupportable. 
 
 'You hardly remember perhaps that you 
 are speaking of my nieces,' he says, with an 
 angry frown. But the woman waves his 
 rebuke aside with an impertinence that cows 
 him. 
 
 ' Hoity toity ! None of your airs with me,' 
 says she sternly. She advances a step nearer 
 to him. 
 
 ' Eemember, Dysart, that I can either make 
 or mar you. I, and I only.' 
 
 'I would I w^ere sure of that,' says he 
 
 VOL. I. H
 
 98 UNDER-CURRENTS 
 
 moodily. ' But Have you forgotten Sed- 
 
 ley ? He knew.' 
 
 ' Pish ! He's dead ; let liim rest. What 
 a one you are to worrit ! Twenty years and 
 more, and no sign of him, and I ask you was 
 he the one to remain quiet, if he saw a way 
 •to forcing a sovereign out of you ? ' 
 
 ' True, true,' says Dysart, eagerly catching 
 at this sufjaestion. ' And yet I would orive 
 much to know that he was in the grave.' 
 
 ' Ay, and I in mine ! I know you,' says 
 she with an evil look. 'You fear me.' 
 
 ' I fear nothing,' says he coldly. 
 
 ' What,' says she slowly, regarding him 
 closely ; ' not even tliat your son should 
 know ! ' 
 
 She pauses, pleased with her work. All 
 at once, as it were, on hearing this question, 
 the old man quails before her like a beaten 
 hound. The life goes out of him, he seems to
 
 UNDER-CURRENTS 99 
 
 shrink into himself, and puts out his hands as 
 though to ward off some fatal blow. 
 
 ' Not that. Anything but that,' he mutters 
 feebly. 
 
 ' "Well, don't drive me to it,' says she 
 sulkily. 
 
 ' Barbara, take care I ' cries he sharply, 
 suddenly, as though some fresh spring of life 
 has been forced into his arid veins. ' Ee- 
 member, it was for him I did it. After all my 
 love, my care, my secrecy, to have it now 
 laid bare to him ! I tell you ' — his fingers 
 working convulsively — ' rather than that he 
 should know, it seems to me that it would be 
 a sweet and simple tiling to murder him who 
 would betray me.' 
 
 'I'm not going to betray you,' says she. 
 ' And as for saying 'twas for him you did it, 
 why ' 
 
 ' For him. For his sake only.' 
 
 n 2
 
 ICO UNDER-CURRENTS 
 
 ' Partly, I think,' says she dryly. 
 
 ' Entirely ; altogether. What other crea- 
 ture had I to love me — to love ? His mother, 
 as you know, hated me ; and when she died 
 I was glad,' says he, crushing his lingers 
 together. 
 
 ' Yet the deed was scarcely necessary 
 if done for him,' says Grunch, holding her 
 ground. ' That old aunt of his — the mother's 
 sister — put want out of the question for him.' 
 
 ' I knew nothing of her desire to make him 
 her heir — then.' 
 
 'You know it now, anyway,' says she, 
 with a nasty sneer. ' And it is never too late 
 to mend — to find by accident that paper you 
 have just locked up.' 
 
 ' I have thought of it,' says he, with 
 lowered brow and eyes bent upon the ground, 
 ' dreamed of it ; and all my dreaming has 
 but convinced me that things had better stay
 
 UNDER-CURRENTS loi 
 
 as they now are. Into what better hands 
 could they have fallen? Who would have 
 husbanded it all like me ? You know the care, 
 the trouble, the sleepless days and nights I 
 have devoted to the management of — of it. 
 You know whether it has ever been a joy 
 to me — rather a grief, a wearying of the 
 flesh, a curse ! ' The word comes from be- 
 tween his lips with a little hissing sound. 
 ' But it is all for him, for him,' he says in 
 a dying tone. 
 
 With restless, feeble steps he begins to 
 pace the room. 
 
 ' He believes in me. He trusts me : he 
 alone — now! But if ever he were to learn 
 the truth he would spurn me from him, yea, 
 even though I knelt at his feet for pardon! 
 I know him. But he shall never be told 
 that story ; never, never. It is mine now, 
 and yours, and ours it shall remain. I swear
 
 102 UNDER-CURRENTS 
 
 to you' — he turns and fixes his burning eyes 
 on hers — ' I'd strangle you with these hands,' 
 holding them out before her, trembling with 
 passion, yet strong and lithe, ' before the 
 words could pass your lips.' 
 
 ' I'm not going to play traitor, I've told 
 you that,' says she frowning. ' I've had many 
 a chance before this if I washed to do it ; and 
 I'm not going to help liis children, whatever 
 happens.' Her brow grows black and her 
 eyes lighten. ' May curses follow him wher- 
 ever he be, even through the gates of death ! ' 
 
 ' Amen,' says Dysart carelessly. Then in 
 a different tone, ' Seaton is coming home to- 
 morrow.' 
 
 ' Well ? ' says she, as if expecting more. 
 ' 'Tisn't often he blesses you with a sight of 
 him. What brings him this time o' year? 
 The season, as he calls it, is in full swing 
 now, eh ? '
 
 UNDER-CURRENTS 103 
 
 ' He comes at my behest ; why not ? ' 
 demands the old man with an angry glance. 
 'And as to his coming seldom, he comes as 
 often as I wish. But now ' 
 
 ' Now ? You have a design,' says she, 
 fixing her sharp eyes on him with a searching 
 regard. 
 
 ' True ; and I think well of mentioning it 
 to you,' says Dysart slowly. ' After long and 
 careful thought I have decided on abandoning 
 more ambitious schemes and wedding him to 
 my elder niece, Vera.' 
 
 ' I'm glad you've spared him the vixen,' 
 says Mrs. Grunch, with feeling. ' Well, and 
 what's your object, eh ? Eetribution ? ' 
 
 For a moment his fiery eyes seek hers, 
 and then his passion blazes forth. 
 
 ' Leave the room, woman.' 
 
 ' Not I,' says she undaunted. Nay, she 
 moves closer to him, until her gaunt face is
 
 104 UNDER-CURRENTS 
 
 very near to his. ' I tell you this, Dysart, 
 that you play a mad game when you fight 
 with me. I warn you that as long as I am 
 above ground you had better keep a civil 
 tongue in your head for me ; and my life is 
 as good as yours, any day.' Then with a 
 sudden change of tone, ' That girl has come 
 home.' 
 
 ' Griselda ? Where was she then ? ' asks 
 he, but listlessly, and as one without interest, 
 his mind still running on the thrice cuijsed and 
 the miserably fruitful past. 
 
 ' Walking in the woods below.' 
 
 ' Yes ; but what doing ? ' asks he again, 
 always with the air of one who scarcely knows 
 his own question. 
 
 ' Gallivanting,' replies the housekeeper, 
 with all the proper amount of vulgarity 
 belonging to her class.
 
 UNDER-CURRENTS 105 
 
 CHAPTEE VIII. 
 
 Nature and the common laws of sense, 
 Forbid to reconcile antipathies. 
 
 When Vera is summoned to her uncle's 
 presence next morning, Griselda's pretty face 
 grows rather long. 
 
 ' He is going to scold you,' she says, ' for 
 •mj fault. Oh ! that is too bad.' 
 
 ' Never mind ; as he has sent for me, of 
 course I had better go. And I shall not feel 
 any great distress, so do not be fretting about 
 it. I see no fault, and therefore, why should 
 I be unnerved P ' 
 
 Yet for all that her nerves grow very 
 troublesome, and her heart beats quickly
 
 io6 UNDER-CURREATS 
 
 as slie opens the door of the Kbrary and 
 crosses the threshold. 
 
 ' There, don't come any farther,' says Mr. 
 Dysart, puttmg on a martyred expression ; 
 ' your footstep positively shakes the room, 
 and, as you know, even the lightest sound 
 distracts me. Stay where you are ; I dare 
 say I can make you understand even over 
 there, in spite of the weakness of my chest. 
 I merely wish to say that your cousin, my 
 son, arrives this evening. You will dine at 
 eight o'clock, with him.' 
 
 He waves to her to leave the room, and 
 with an undisguised delight she obeys him ; 
 flying through the hall and up the stairs, she 
 darts into her own room with such speed as 
 to almost exterminate Griselda, who had been 
 standing just inside the door, on the look out, 
 evidently, for stormy sounds from below. 
 
 ' Well ! so you're ahve ; he didn't murder
 
 UNDER-CURRENTS 107 
 
 you,' she says, when she has shghtly recovered 
 from the electric shock caused by Vera's 
 precipitate return. ' Sound in wind and hmb, 
 I declare, and not so much as your nose out 
 of joint. You're a wonderful girl ! Here, sit 
 down and tell me how you bought yourself 
 off.' 
 
 ' He never mentioned you,' says Vera, who 
 is still panting. 
 
 ' What ! was ever such an indignity offered 
 to any one ? You mean to say he has passed 
 over my misdemeanour ! Actually forgotten 
 it ! Why, this is worse than bread and water 
 for a fortnight (the mildest sentence I ex- 
 pected), and far more hurtful to my pride. 
 And pray, if he didn't discuss my failings, 
 what did he talk about? ' 
 
 ' About — Griselda ! Who do you think 
 is coming this evening ? ' 
 
 ' Not the lord high executioner, for me, I
 
 loS UNDER-CURRENTS 
 
 trust,' says Griselda. ' As yet, somehow, in 
 spite of your assurance, I don't feel safe. 
 There is nothing so dansferous as a careful 
 silence.' 
 
 ' Tut ! the newcomer is no one less than 
 our unknown cousin ! ' 
 
 • ' No ! ' says Griselda, sinking into silence 
 and an extremely antiquated arm-chair — straw 
 beneath, chintz above — that stands just be- 
 hind her. Except the unpleasant ' Yes ? ' with 
 the insolent note of interrogation after it, 
 there is no word so eloquent as the pure 
 unadulterated ' No ' of honest surprise. She 
 sits now in her straw arm-chair, with her finger 
 tips outspread and touching each other. 
 
 'But he is, though. And dinner is to be 
 at eight o'clock instead of two.' 
 
 ' You overwhelm me,' says the younger 
 Miss Dysart feebly. ' You should not spring 
 these exciting facts upon me, one after the
 
 UNDER-CURRENTS 109 
 
 other, without a kindly word of warning. 
 Dinner at eight ! Will there be three chops, 
 I wonder, or must we share with him our 
 two? Oh, if the latter, I feel that hfe is 
 indeed not worth living. But I say. Vera ! 
 Eight. How nice ! Just like old times.' 
 
 ' The question is, are we supposed to dress 
 or not ? ' 
 
 ' Do you think you remember how to do 
 it ? ' asks Griselda, leaning towards her, and 
 speaking in an awed whisper. 'Hasn't the 
 atmosphere of this house knocked all decent 
 memories out of you? Gowns there are, I 
 know. Poor Mimi packed them, soaking 
 each flounce with her tears as she did so, but 
 do you know how to wear them ? I dare say 
 I shall put mine on back to front ; but even so, 
 what matters ? I have lost all desire to please. 
 Who could retain it in this soulless house — 
 this place of shadows? And yet, Yera,' she
 
 no UNDER-CURRENTS 
 
 springs suddenly into a fuller life, and brings 
 herself into a very upright position, 'I have 
 always said that he must turn up sooner 
 or later. Why not now? In some of my 
 few lucid intervals it has occurred to me that 
 this cousin, this unknown quantity of ours, 
 might prove amenable to reason.' 
 
 ' Who's ? Yours .? ' 
 
 ' Or yours rather. Think, Vera ! they say 
 that his father, that grim old man downstairs, 
 who seems dead to all feeling, is so devoted to 
 Iiim that he can deny him little. This son, it 
 appears, is the one love of that miserable, 
 sordid life. Strange that love so intense as I 
 hear it is should not have the effect of soften- 
 ing the iron husk that binds that j)oor man's 
 soul. However, it seems to me that this 
 cousin of ours may prove our friend, our 
 champion, if we — well — if we like each other, 
 don't you know .^ '
 
 UNDER.CURRENTS m 
 
 ' I don't,' says Vera, in a rather uncom- 
 promising tone. 'Seaton Dysart will never 
 be friend or champion of mine. Have you 
 forgotten his blood ? I should not dream of 
 asking a favour of, or even receiving one from 
 • — his father's son.' 
 
 ' He must have had a mother, too, how- 
 ever,' says Griselda naively. 'He may take 
 after her.' 
 
 ' He may. I am not hopeful, hke you, 
 Griselda. My life all through — ever since I 
 can remember anything — has taught me to 
 expect only the bad.' 
 
 ' A dull way of thinking ! Now, to me, his 
 coming opens out vistas of — all things that 
 are pleasurable. He may vary the inevitable 
 chop — he may even be the means of pro- 
 curing for us a private sitting-room.' 
 
 Vera shrugs her shoulders. 
 T shan't entreat his interference. As I
 
 112 U^DER-CURRENTS 
 
 before hinted to you, I expect nothing from 
 him, simply because he is the son of such an 
 impossible father.' 
 
 ' Had ice not an impossible father ? ' asks 
 Griselda, who is always terribly downright. 
 ' And would you refuse to believe that there 
 is some lingering remnant of grace in us? 
 And are you not prejudging this miserable 
 cousin of ours — deliberately prejudicing your- 
 self against him ? That is not like you. Vera, 
 you are always so very just, to give you j'our 
 due.' 
 
 'Well, I dare say I'm in the wrong,' 
 confesses Vera laughing. ' But as we ha^e 
 neither of us seen him yet, I stick to my 
 own opinion, and that is, that wdien we do see 
 him we shan't like him. And at all events I 
 know I should think a long time before 
 demanding a favour of him.' 
 
 ' Think as long as you like,' gaily, ' only
 
 UMDER-CURRENTS 1 1 3 
 
 ask in the end. " A dumb priest," as we all 
 know, " loses his benefice." Don't lose 
 yours ! ' 
 
 ' I shall,' says Vera, ' for all that. Why 
 should I ask anything of him, or his father ? 
 You have given me one proverb, let me 
 give you another, "Beggars should not be 
 choosers." We are beggars. We are totally 
 dependent upon our uncle's bounty. Forgive 
 me, darling, if I sadden you, but it is better 
 to look the facts of the case straight in the 
 face.' 
 
 ' You don't sadden, you madden me,' says 
 Griselda flushing. ' Oh, I woji't be a beggar ! ' 
 
 'Very probably not. This life can't go 
 on always, and you are quite sufficiently 
 pretty to marry somebody rich enough to 
 give you everything a pretty woman should 
 have.' 
 
 ' Thank you for the two " prettys " in that 
 
 VOL. I. I
 
 I.I4 UNDER-CURRENTS 
 
 pretty speech,' says Griselda. 'Yes, I should 
 like to marry a millionaire. I will if I can, 
 
 I ' 
 
 She stops short, rather abruptly. Some- 
 thing has checked those last words she would 
 have uttered. It is absurd, it makes her posi- 
 tively angry, but it is, nevertheless, a curi- 
 ous fact that at this moment the face of Mr. 
 Peyton rises before her mental vision. This 
 is ridiculous enough, but when it comes to 
 hearing the very words he had said yesterday 
 in that charming wood spoken again within 
 her brain, she grows very naturally incensed 
 both Avith herself and him. What is it to 
 her what so utter a stranger looks like on 
 certain, or any occasions? And surely it is of 
 no consequence at all to her that that old 
 place of his in Derbyshire, that he had cried 
 down and called ' ramshackle '(what a word !), 
 was in such thorough disrepair, for the simple
 
 UNDER-CURRENTS 115 
 
 reason that lie had no money with which to 
 keep it up. It is the most extraordinary 
 thing in the world that just at this instant all 
 this should have occurred to her, but then 
 who shall answer for the absurdities of the 
 human brain ? 
 
 ' Yes, if I get the chance, I shall marry for 
 money,' she says lightly, after that incompre- 
 hensible pause. ' And now for our gowns. 
 Vera. Let us choose the prettiest. I, for 
 one, mean to fascinate this cousin, and compel 
 him to work many miracles for our benefit.' 
 
 'So you may: unless he is steel, indeed. 
 I shall not waste my strength on him.' 
 
 ' Why, if you had seen him, and loathed 
 him already, you could not be more severe. 
 Do you know really, I think you are rather 
 wrong in so condemning any one without 
 personal knowledge. It is one's plain duty to 
 give the wretched criminal, at least, a hearing.
 
 ji6 UNDER-CURRENTS 
 
 ' For my part,' says Vera laughing, ' I'm 
 quite willing to give liim anything, except my 
 company. I'm dreadfully sorry he is coming 
 here to upset the calm, dull though it is, into 
 which we have fallen.' 
 
 ' And I'm delighted,' gaily. ' No calms for 
 me — a tempest rather. And I still cling to 
 my first view. Vera ; you are inclined to be 
 unjust to an utter stranger. You are deter- 
 mined that he will be like his father ; but 
 
 supposing See, here, now ! If he should 
 
 be like Uncle Gregory, I shall say you have 
 probably right on your side ; but if he should 
 not be, won't you confess then that it is your 
 plain duty to try to like him ? ' 
 
 ' So be it. In that case I'll try,' says Vera 
 laughing. ' But you must keep to your com- 
 pact ; if he should be like his father I am to 
 feel free to hate him just as much as ever 
 I will.'
 
 UNDER-CURRENTS 117 
 
 ' Amen/ says Griselda solemnly. ' If he 
 should resemble his unlovely dad, no more of 
 him for me either. However, I always live in 
 hope ; that great universal humbug sustains 
 me morning, noon, and night.' Then she 
 looks at Vera slowly, as if considering some- 
 thing. ' I should like to go for a walk in the 
 woods again to-morrow,' she says at last. 
 
 'Oh, I think you had better not,' says 
 Vera hastily. ' It will be sure to breed dis- 
 turbance of some sort.' 
 
 ' I don't see how it can. Of course I shall 
 go in a directly opposite way to-morrow, and 
 therefore will be sure not to meet anybody. 
 I know you are thinking of Mr. Peyton, Vera ; 
 but I assure you I don't want to see him. I 
 don't indeed,' rising in her eagerness to im- 
 press this truth — that seems to her a truth — 
 upon her sister. 
 
 ' Who can say where he might be ? '
 
 Ii8 UNDER-CURRENTS 
 
 ' Oil, nonsense I ' She thinks a Httle, and 
 then, 'If I am to be debarred those lovely 
 woods because of hhn, I shall begin to hate 
 him.' She thinks a little more. ' But listen 
 now. Vera ; even supposing I do meet him, 
 well, what then ? He is a merb acquaintance, 
 hardly a friend, and it is so hard to be told 
 that one must speak to nobody ; and he has 
 been twice so kind, that ' 
 
 ' Oh, all that is nothing. It is the fact that 
 he would be a friend in secret.' 
 
 ' Well, whose fault is that ? ' 
 
 ^ And friends don't always (don't be angry, 
 Grizel), but they don't always stop at that.' 
 
 'I know what you would say; but it is 
 too absurd,' cries Griselda, bubbling over with 
 laughter. ' Look out, or in your old age you'll 
 find yourself a confirmed match-maker. No ; 
 it shall not come to that. I assure you all the 
 world is not so ready to bow down and do me
 
 UNDER-CURRENTS n^ 
 
 homage as you believe. And I promise you 
 this (always provided we ever meet again, 
 which I consider extremely doubtful), that 
 the very first word of love he breathes to me 
 I'll retail to you on the earliest opportunity.' 
 She is now *laughing with all her heart. 
 ' There ! ' she cries, ' will that content you ? 
 Oh, Vera, if he could only hear us ; I should 
 be ashamed, shouldn't you ? ' 
 
 ' Well, it's a promise,' says Vera, looking 
 at her.
 
 I20 UNDER-CURRENTS 
 
 CHAPTEE IX. 
 
 Was it something said, 
 Sometliing done, 
 
 Vexed her ? Was it touch of hand, 
 Turn of head ? 
 
 The last stroke of eight dies out from the old 
 clock in the hall as Seaton Dysart enters the 
 drawing-room. The extreme dinginess and 
 gloom of that melancholy apartment sink into 
 him as he moves rather discontentedly, but 
 with a man's unfailing instinct, towards the 
 hearthrug. No matter how hot, how yellow 
 the evening outside still may be — and day- 
 light is lingering bravely as though loathing 
 to depart — no touch of its mellowness enters 
 here. The blinds are all down, the curtains 
 as scrupulously drawn as decency will permit,
 
 UNDER-CURRENTS 121 
 
 though the threadbare old carpet is so far 
 gone on its road to dissolution as to be beyond 
 fear of sun. 
 
 It is not all gloom, however, as he pre- 
 sently discovers, in this dreary place. Some 
 one rises languidly from a low chair — a girl, 
 a lovely girl, as he instantly admits — and 
 advances about the eighth part of an ordinary 
 foot towards him. It is hardly a movement, 
 indeed ; a mere swaying of the body rather 
 in his direction. It is, indeed, a distinctly un- 
 friendly advance. 
 
 Yet it suits her somehow ; it seems to 
 belong to the haughty curve of the lips, the 
 cold serenity of the eyes. The white of her 
 gown, with its little knots of violet ribbon here 
 and there, makes her a very striking figure in 
 the semi-darkness of her surroundings, and 
 throws out the beauty that, if a little still, 
 is, nevertheless, undoubtedly hers. He is
 
 122 UNDER-CURRENTS 
 
 perhaps hardly aware of the intensity of the 
 glance with which he is regarding her, and 
 she too is dead to it, so earnest is the scrutiny 
 she is bestowing upon him. 
 
 Yes, he is like his father. There could 
 not be even a momentary hesitation about 
 that. The same finely formed, aristocratic 
 features, the same tall slight figure bent 
 in the old man, erect and vigorous in the 
 young. The eyes certainly are different, 
 though they too are dark, of a grey so dark 
 indeed that possibly at night it would be 
 called black. 
 
 They are wonderfully alike, the father and 
 son, and yet how wonderfully unhke. It seems 
 impossible that with expressions so utterly 
 at variance so strong a resemblance can exist, 
 yet it is there. The one, the old face, mean, 
 cringing, suspicious, wicked ; the other, cold, 
 honourable, earnest, and beautiful. The girl.
 
 UNDER-CURRENTS 123 
 
 watching liim witli distrust in her eyes, re- 
 luctantly acknowledges this last fact. 
 
 His face is clean shaven. There is neither 
 moustache nor whisker to hide the firm, rather 
 severely cut mouth or the lean determined 
 jaw. His hair is clipped very closely to a 
 head that is faultlessly shaped and well set 
 upon his shoulders. His features are un- 
 doubtedly cold, too full of will, of resolve, 
 to be exactly lovable, yet there is something 
 about the whole man that attracts the eye and 
 compels attention. A man impossible to pass 
 over, or, having once known, to forget. 
 
 ' I'm extremely sorry if I've kept you 
 waiting for dinner,' he says, advancing at a 
 quicker pace, once he sees the pretty girl in 
 white, and holding out his hand. 'But the 
 fact is I was dreadfully tired when I arrived, 
 and I'm rather afraid I fell asleep.' 
 
 ' The day is warm,' says she coldly. The
 
 124 UNDER-CURRENTS 
 
 likeness to his father seems clearer to her as 
 he speaks, and kills for her all the charm of 
 his face. 
 
 ' Very, but I don't fancy my absurd fit of 
 laziness arose from that. Eather from the 
 fact that I haven't had a wink of sleep for the 
 last two nights.' Here he picks up a little 
 rough terrier that had followed him into the 
 room, and begins to pull its ears contem- 
 platively. 
 
 ' Two nights ! ' says she with a faint ac- 
 cession of interest. ' Toothache ? Sick friend ? ' 
 
 ' Oh no. Ball — cards,' returns he con- 
 cisely. 
 
 ' Ah ! ' says she, this time rather shortly. 
 
 Dysart, who has been giving his attention 
 to the dog for the past minute or two, now 
 lifts his eyes. 
 
 ' You are Griselda, I suppose,' says he 
 pleasantly.
 
 UNDER-CURRENTS 125 
 
 ' Why sliould you suppose it ? ' asks she, 
 with a faint smile. 
 
 ' True. Why should I ? ' returns he 
 laughing. 'Perhaps because,' with a steady 
 look at her, ' I have been told that my cousin 
 Griselda is a person possessed of a consider- 
 able amount of — of character.' 
 
 ' By that, you mean that you have heard 
 Griselda is self-willed,' says she calmly. 'And 
 as it is evident you think I look the part also, 
 I am afraid you mu^t prepare yourself to 
 meet two self-willed cousins, because — I am 
 not Griselda.' 
 
 If she had fancied that this announcement 
 would have put him out, she is undeceived 
 in a moment. 
 
 ' No ? ' says he, looking distinctly amused. 
 ' There is comfort in the thought that I can- 
 not again fall into error, because you must be 
 Vera.'
 
 126 UNDER-CURRENTS 
 
 ' Yes, I am Yera,' slowly. 
 
 'I fear you will find it very dull down 
 here. The neighbourhood at its best is 
 scarcely affording, and my father's unhappy 
 predilection for solitude will, I expect, interfere 
 
 a good deal with ' 
 
 ■ ' Your father has been very good to us ; 
 more than kind,' interrupts she gently but 
 with decision. ' He has given us a home.'" 
 
 ' I should think he would be very glad to 
 get you here,' says he rising abruptly, as if to 
 shake off something depressing in the conver- 
 sation. At this moment Griselda enters the 
 room. A charming Griselda, in white like 
 her sister, and with a flower in her sunny hair. 
 She trips up to Seaton, and gives him her 
 hand and a frank smile, that has just the 
 correct amount of coquettish shyness in it. A 
 man, to Griselda, no matter out of what ob- 
 noxious tribe he may have sprung, is always
 
 UNDER-CURREJVTS 127 
 
 a creature to be gently treated, smiled upon, 
 and encouraged. 
 
 ' So you've come at last to this Castle of 
 Pes]3air,' says slie saucily. ' I must say you 
 took time to look us up. But I don't blame 
 you ; life down here is too lively for most. It 
 has quite done up Yera and me. I'm late,' 
 turning suddenly to Vera. ' Dreadfully late, 
 eh ? I knew it by Peters' eye ' (the old 
 man-servant). 'He scowled at me rather 
 more than usual as I ran past him just 
 now.' 
 
 T]ie dismal sound of a cracked old dinner 
 gong breaks in at this instant on Griselda's 
 speech. They all rise and cross the hall to 
 the dining-room, but just inside it a momen- 
 tary hesitation takes place. Dysart going to 
 the foot of the table, Vera stops short as if in 
 some surprise to look at him, question in her 
 eyes.
 
 128 UNDER-CURRENTS 
 
 ' You will take the head of the table, I 
 hope,' says he in a low tone, divining her 
 perplexity. 
 
 ' But ' quickly, and then a pause. 
 
 ' If you wish it, of course,' she says with a 
 swift uplifting of the brows and an almost 
 imperceptible shrug. 
 
 Her manner somehow irritates him. In a 
 vague sort of way she has conveyed to him 
 the knowledge that she feels bound and 
 fettered in this house, crushed by a sense of 
 gratitude due ; that she feels it incumbent on 
 lier to be civil to the owners of it ; and that 
 she never ceases to remind herself that his 
 father and he are people to whom she is under 
 deep obligations. 
 
 ' I wish it certainly,' says he coldly. 
 ' But I wish still more to see 3^0 u do only 
 that which you like.' 
 
 ' I have few likes and dislikes,' replies she,
 
 UNDER-CURRENTS 129 
 
 smiling indifferently at anything in the world 
 but him. 
 
 ' But if you ' 
 
 ' Oh no, I do not object,' interrupts she, 
 still in that utterly emotionless tone ; and 
 sweeping past him, she seats herself at the 
 head of the table. She had been sole mistress 
 of her father's house for so long, that it seems 
 quite natural to her, young as she is, to sit 
 where now she is sitting, and look down the 
 long, brilliantly lit table, to where at the end 
 her cousin, with a faint frown upon his brow, 
 is leisurely unfolding his napkin. There is 
 even a slight savour of the married woman 
 about her whole air, that makes itself known 
 to Dysart, and attracts him in spite of the 
 sense of resentment that is still strong upon 
 him. 
 
 As for Griselda, the little jar in the social 
 atmosphere around her goes by unnoticed, so 
 
 VOL. I. K
 
 130 UNDER-CURRENTS 
 
 overcome is she by the unwonted magnifi- 
 cence of the sight before her ; a decent dinner- 
 table at Greycourt ! Not only a decent one, 
 indeed, but one exquisitely appointed in every 
 way, lacking nothing in which taste and re- 
 finement have a voice. Where are the homely 
 chops, where the skimpy dish of potatoes? 
 Gone, thank Heaven ! relegated to a limbo 
 from whence she devoutly trusts they never 
 may return ! The little skirmish between her 
 sister and her cousin is entirely lost to her ; 
 she has eyes and senses only for this wonder- 
 ful transformation scene. 
 
 Peters, in an extremely presentable suit — 
 it has seen service, but is still holding bravely 
 together, and is likely to for some years yet 
 to come, occasions for its being worn coming 
 few and far between — is handing entrees and 
 pouring out champagne as though it is his 
 one sole purpose in life to deliver from star-
 
 UNDER-CURRENTS 131 
 
 vation his master's guests. It occurs to 
 Griselda that m this suit — old, thoucfli new 
 to her — that he is any amount more reason- 
 able-looking than in his everyday apparel, 
 and that even the superfluous wart on the top 
 of his nose seems to have toned down miracu- 
 lously beneath its influence. She is of course 
 not aware that downstairs this suit is called 
 ' Mr. Seaton's own,' and that it is donned only 
 for his benefit. But who is the cook? 
 Eeason points to Mrs. Grunch. 
 
 A thought of the hypocrisy of it all, of the 
 pretence of one day, the reality of the next, 
 of the honour done to him, the son, whilst 
 she and Vera are treated with such abomin- 
 able neglect, brings the colour to her cheeks, 
 the fire to her eyes. It is so new to her yet 
 to be dependent, that she forgets, as Vera 
 never does, to see that she has no claim to be 
 considered in any way. And yet, if Vera 
 
 K 2
 
 132 UNDER-CURRENTS 
 
 remembers, does the knowledge gained serve 
 her even in httle ? Instinctively she glances 
 at her elder sister, and something in the 
 expression of the proud lips tells her that 
 to Vera too this display, this killing of the 
 fatted calf for Seaton, has hurt and humbled 
 her. 
 
 Dysart, who is eating his dinner with de- 
 cided zest and perfect unconcern, suggests 
 himself to Griselda as the very incarnation of 
 selfishness. Of course he knows ; but it is 
 nothing to him. She looks round her and 
 loses herself a little in the touch of fairyland 
 the room presents. It is as it were an echo 
 from the past, a glimpse into the old life 
 when her father still lived, that she hardly 
 knew was dear to her until she had lost it. 
 The glitter of the silver, the glass, the intense 
 perfume of the glowing flowers, the rich tint 
 of the fruits, all seem part of a dream ; a
 
 UNDER-CURRENTS 133 
 
 sweet one too. Oh, to escape from this hate- 
 ful hfe here, and hve always amongst 
 
 'As I was saymg to your sister, I am 
 afraid you will find life here rather dull,' 
 says Dysart, his voice breaking through the 
 cloud of thought that is encompassing her. 
 
 ' I am never dull,' returns Griselda slowly. 
 
 'You may rank yourself amongst the 
 clever ones of the earth if you escape bore- 
 dom down here,' says he. ' Your mind must 
 to you, indeed, " a kingdom be," if you can 
 make out even one yawnless day.' 
 
 'As for that, I've often yawned when I 
 wasn't dull,' says Griselda. ' To me yawning 
 is a joy. It's like sneezing to some people. 
 I'm always sure that I'm thoroughly warm 
 and comfortable when I do it.' 
 
 Mr. Dysart, as though he sees something 
 in this, stares at her profoundly for a moment 
 or two. In reahty, he is wondering why both
 
 1 34 UNDER-CURRENTS 
 
 girls should liave taken so instantaneous a 
 dislike to him. As a rule women were civil 
 enough ; yet here were two to whom he was 
 an utter stranger, and aggressive was the only- 
 word he could apply to their looks and words, 
 though both were studiously polite. 
 
 ■ ' Like a cat,' says he presently, in a 
 thoughtful tone. 
 
 ' Oh, I'm not a cat,' says Griselda, with 
 some open resentment this time. Then, as 
 though irresistibly amused at the absurd idea 
 that he could possibly have meant it, she 
 bursts into sudden inextinguishable laughter. 
 When Griselda laughs it is impossible not to 
 join in, so bright, so young, so gay is the 
 sound, and presently Dysart, forgetting that 
 feeling of irritation that has been so strong in 
 him for the past hour, gives way to mirth 
 also. Glancing at Vera, he sees, however, 
 that she seems dead to what has been passing.
 
 UNDER- C URRENTS 135 
 
 or at all events has not caught the infectious 
 breath of amusement. Her mouth looks 
 mournful, her whole air unsympathetic. 
 
 ' I like cats,' she says, so languidly that 
 one can see at once that she is merely trying 
 to make conversation — that she really cares is 
 a question. 
 
 ' And I like dogs,' says he, addressing her 
 directly. ' Come here. Jinks.' 
 
 The small terrier, springing up from some 
 place unknown, commences an ecstatic dance 
 upon his hind legs, that presently brings him 
 within his master's grasp, who, catching him 
 by the back of his neck, hauls him up to a 
 seat upon his knees. 
 
 'He's very well mannered, I assure you,' 
 says Dysart, looking at Vera. 
 
 ' You teach him tricks?' says she, a touch 
 of disdain in her tone. ' Don't you think that 
 rather degrades the poor brute ? Surely we
 
 136 UNDER-CURRENTS 
 
 human beings ape and pretend, and act the 
 hypocrite enough, without condemning poor 
 dumb beasts to do the same. Do you know 
 I can't bear to see them dancing and jumping 
 to order. I prefer them as nature meant 
 they should be, happy, affectionate, faithfuh 
 I. am sorry you teach him tricks; it makes a 
 dog, to my mind, always looks so poor.' 
 
 'Yes?' says he, rubbing the dog's nose 
 reflectively as he speaks. ' But you see — the 
 fact is — I've never taught him or any other 
 dog a trick in my life.' 
 
 He has scored decidedly, and something 
 in his manner of scorinc^ has broufrht to a 
 head the fancy that she should in all pro- 
 bability hate him. That she should have 
 been foolishly led into lecturing him on a 
 fault of which he was after all not guilty, 
 annoys her profoundly, and sends for a mo- 
 ment the hot blood to her face. It dies
 
 UNDER-CURRENTS 137 
 
 almost as quickly as it is born, but not so 
 quickly that he does not see it, and as he 
 bends his head afterwards over the dog, it 
 becomes clear to her that he is with difficulty 
 suppressing a smile. 
 
 ' Bo you stay long ? ' asks Griselda pre- 
 sently, looking at her cousin. 
 
 'I don't know how you may view it. I 
 return to town the day after to-morrow — 
 very early on that day.' 
 
 ' I call that a short stay,' with a more 
 gracious glance ; he seems nice to the dog, 
 anyway. ' Do you often come down ? ' 
 
 ' Not very. As a rule,' politely, ' there is 
 little to bring me.' 
 
 ' There is your father,' says Griselda, who 
 as a child had been terrible, and even now 
 creates a shudder now and then. Vera casts 
 an indignant glance at her. 
 
 ' So there is,' says Dysart, giving her the
 
 1 38 UNDER- C URRENTS 
 
 benefit of a long clear glance. ' But though 
 he and I are better friends than many fathers 
 and sons I know, still we can get on capitally 
 when apart. My father, as you know, is pecu- 
 liar, and loves solitude, and I — have my work.' 
 
 ' Work ? What work ? ' asks Griselda, 
 with interest. 
 
 ' I'm a barrister,' says he, as if a little 
 amused. 
 
 ' Oh, I know. A great many elder sons 
 are barristers, but then they don't work. If 
 that is all, I ' 
 
 ' But I assure you it is not all. You must 
 not pick up these erroneous ideas about me. 
 Whether I must or must not work for my 
 living is a thing that does not concern me. I 
 work — you will hardly believe it in this pro- 
 saic age — but I actually seek after fame. I 
 should like to get on in my profession ; to be 
 more than a mere trifler.'
 
 UNDER-CURRENTS 139 
 
 ' You are cliarming,' sa3^s Griselda saucily. 
 ' You talk like a book — a blue-book. But 
 you have not told me why your father will 
 not let us see any one, why ' 
 
 ' Griselda ! ' says Miss Dysart, a little 
 sharply. She rises as she speaks, and Dysart 
 opens the door for her. As Griselda passes 
 him he says easily : 
 
 ' I cannot tell you everything at once, 
 you see ; but I dare say there will be time 
 given me. As for my father he is eccentric, 
 and, I fear, hard to live with. But if ever I 
 can help you, call on me.' 
 
 Griselda gives him a smile for this, and 
 follows her sister into the drawing-room. 
 
 ' After all, he isn't half bad,' she says, 
 with a little nod. 
 
 ' I was right, however. Did you ever see 
 a father and son so like ? ' asks Vera coldly. 
 
 ' Often,' returns Griselda with conviction.
 
 I40 UNDER-CURRENTS 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 Not from the heart beneath — 
 'Twas a bubble born of breath. 
 Neither sneer nor vaunt, 
 Nor reproach nor taunt. 
 
 ' Well, I'm off,' says Griselda, poking her 
 pretty head into the summer-house where 
 Vera sits reading. It is next day, and a very 
 lovely day too. In spite of all the malignant 
 trees that would fain shut out the blessed god 
 of light, some of his beams penetrate through 
 their luxuriant foliage, and deluge the sad- 
 looking garden with their glory. In the 
 summer-house all is shade ; outside there is a 
 wider light, and a heat that is almost Indian. 
 ' For your ramble,' says Vera, laying down
 
 UNDER-CURRENTS 141 
 
 her book. ' So you won't take my advice ? 
 Very good. Go on, and you'll see that you 
 won't prosper.' Her tone is half gay, half 
 serious. 
 
 ' Is advice ever taken ? Especially when 
 suns are so hot and woods so cool. Come, 
 Vera, give me your blessing ere I depart this 
 life, at all events, for regions unknown.' 
 
 ' Oh, don't be long,' entreats Vera with a 
 sudden rush of anxiety. ' Don't now. Yes, 
 I'm in deadly earnest. There is that man all 
 over the place, let loose as it were for my 
 discomfiture, and if he turns up in this part 
 of the world I suppose I shall have to talk 
 to him.' 
 
 ' What a calamity ! ' says Griselda with a 
 little feigned drooping of her mouth. ' After 
 all, I don't think I'll go. It would be cruel 
 to desert you in your pressing need.' Here 
 she changes her tone. ' Eeally, Vera,' briskly,
 
 142 UNDER-CURRENTS 
 
 ' really and truly I sometimes feel strange 
 doubts as to whether your father could indeed 
 have been mine, or your mother either ! ' 
 This is a comphcated speech, but it serves. 
 'My good child, why can't you accept with 
 open mouth the gifts the gods provide. In 
 this barren wilderness even manna may be 
 regarded with rapture — even Seaton ! Better 
 any man than no man, say I.' 
 
 ' So say not I then,' with great spirit. 
 She has leaned forward upon her elbow, and 
 her eyes are brilliant with a little suspicion of 
 anger. ' Give me a desert island, rather than 
 the society of a man whom I know it will 
 require only time to teach me to detest. 
 And how you can call him so familiarly 
 " Seaton," passes my ' 
 
 A pause ! An awful pause. Who is it 
 that has turned the corner of the summer- 
 house, and is looking in at them with a
 
 UNDER-CURRENTS 143 
 
 curious expression round his mouth ? Griselda 
 is the first to recover. 
 
 ' Isn't it absurd ? ' she says, smihng rather 
 lamely. ' But I assure you, Seaton, your sudden 
 appearance quite took away my breath. You 
 should stamp when you come to a house like 
 this. The grass all round it is so thick.' 
 
 ' Too thick ! ' says Dysart, with a swift 
 glance at Vera, who has lost all her colour. 
 ' For the future I shall try to remember. I 
 am very sorry I startled you.' He has ad- 
 dressed himself entirely to Griselda, unless 
 that one lightning glance of contemptuous re- 
 proach cast at Vera could be counted. ' But 
 I was on my way to one of the farms, and this 
 is the lowest, is the nearest path to it. I shall 
 never cease to regret ' — here he stops dead 
 short, and turns his eyes unreservedly on 
 Vera — ' that I did not take the upper one.' 
 
 He makes both girls a slight bow, and
 
 144 UNDER-CURRENTS 
 
 walks swiftly onwards on the unlucky path he 
 had chosen. 
 
 ' Oh, Vera, do something ! ' cries Griselda, 
 in a small agony of consternation, clasping her 
 hands. Vera, thus admonished, springs to her 
 feet, and driven half by honest shame, and 
 half by impulse, rushes out of the summer- 
 house and runs after Dysart as he is fast dis- 
 appearing through the shrubs. Eeaching 
 him, panting and pale with agitation, she lays 
 her hand timidly upon his arm. 
 
 ' I am so grieved,' she says, her charming 
 face very pained, her lips white. ' There are 
 moments when one hardly knows what one 
 says, and ' 
 
 ' There are such moments, certainly,' says 
 he, interrupting her remorselessly. ' But they 
 can hardly be classed with those in which the 
 calm confidences of one sister are exchanged 
 with the other. And why should you apolo-
 
 UNDER-CURRENTS 145 
 
 gise ? I assure you, you need not. I do not 
 seek for, or desire, anything of the kind.' 
 
 It ahnost seems to her that he has shaken 
 her hand from his arm. Drawing back, she 
 sees him proceed upon his way, and then 
 returns to Griselda. 
 
 ' Well ? ' says Griselda, with all a woman's 
 curiosity. ' He didn't slay you, at all events. 
 What did he say ? Was he angry ? ' 
 
 ' Not violent, if you mean that,' says Miss 
 Dysart, dropping on to the uncomfortable gar- 
 den seat with a haste that suggests exhaustion. 
 
 ' He was cold — insolent ; he But I told 
 
 you,' with a sudden outburst of passion, ' that 
 he was like his father.' 
 
 ' Well, it was enough to enrage any man,' 
 says Griselda. ' But I thought he wouldn't 
 have cared so much. Why should he ? Don't 
 you know, we are strangers. Our opinion 
 can't be of such overpowering importance to 
 
 VOL. I. L
 
 146 UNDER-CURRENTS 
 
 him. Yet of course he might argue from the 
 same point, that, being such strangers, why- 
 should we, without giving him a hearing, con- 
 demn him at once ? ' 
 
 ' Not we. It was I only,' says Vera. 
 
 ' Well, it was all talk. I don't believe you 
 
 dislike him as much as ' 
 
 'I really think I hate him,' says Vera 
 vehemently. The recollection of his con- 
 temptuous glance, the way in which he had 
 disdained her apology ; above all, that slight 
 he had offered her when he had displaced her 
 hand from his arm, all rankle in her breast, 
 and a hot flow of shame renders her usually 
 pale face brilliant. ' There, never mind him,' 
 she says, with a little frown. ' He is not stay- 
 ing long, fortunately, and this episode will 
 bear good fruit of one sort at least. He will 
 not trouble me with his society whilst you 
 are away. Now hurry, Griselda, do.'
 
 UNDER-CURRENTS 147 
 
 She is a little impatient — a rare thing with 
 her. 
 
 ' I don't think I'll go at all,' says Griselda, 
 looking her through and through. 
 
 ' Nonsense ! ' Miss Dysart rises and pushes 
 her playfully towards the opening in the 
 yew hedge that will lead her to the beloved 
 woods. ' I am safe now. I tell you, so long 
 as you are back in time for dinner, I don't 
 care. A tete-a-tete with that — that bear, is 
 all I dread.' 
 
 Griselda, with a light laugh, drawn irre- 
 sistibly by the gorgeous lovehness of the hghts 
 and shadows of the land below, runs down 
 the pathway and is soon lost to view. 
 
 It is a simple matter to clamber down 
 the steep wall and reach the path beneath, a 
 simpler matter still to cross the stepping- 
 stones of the river — now running low because 
 of the dead summer heat that all the week 
 
 12
 
 148 UNDER-CURRENTS 
 
 has raged o'er hill and vale — and gain the 
 tender shelter of tlie woods beyond. 
 
 With a glad sense of freedom she walks 
 quickly onwards, free from thought of any 
 sort, save the exquisite knowledge of the 
 beauty with wdiich nature has surrounded 
 her. 
 
 Stopping to pluck a flower here, to climb 
 a hillock there, she finds herself after a while 
 at the entrance to a narrow passage, a little 
 green lane as it were, banked up on either 
 side by miniature hills, soft and moss-crowned. 
 Entering this fairy defile, she stands breath- 
 less, delighted, in the centre of a tiny emerald- 
 green valley, so closely surrounded by heights 
 of living green, with here and there a touch 
 -of jagged rock enriched by ferns — that almost 
 it seems to her impossible to leave it, save by 
 wings, or that one small lane that even now 
 seems blotted out or melted into all the other
 
 UNDER-CURRENTS 149 
 
 greenery around. It is like a fort, but one of 
 nature's forming ; one of tliose quaint delicate 
 freaks in whicli she so deliglits. And through 
 this delicious valley, filling it at every turn, 
 Avliat is the sound that runs like sweetest 
 music ? Surely it is the melody of a rushing, 
 tumbling stream. 
 
 Yes ; the stream again ! At the far end 
 of this dainty vale it is tearing over its 
 pebbles at a pace that almost frightens one 
 this sultry day. It seems quite like an old 
 friend to her, and, with a sort of remorseful 
 recollection of how she had sought to avoid 
 it, she runs to it now, and gazes with satis- 
 faction into its sparkling waters. 
 
 ' 'Tis you ! ' cries a voice full of unmistak- 
 able delight just behind her. 'I guessed I 
 w^as in for something good, luck all the morn- 
 ing has been so dead against me ! '
 
 I5o= UNDER-CURRENTS 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 ^ Others mistrust and say, but time escapes. 
 Live now, or never ! ' 
 He said, ' What's time ? Leave Now for dogs and apes ; 
 Man has For ever.' 
 
 ^ Well ! ' says Griselda after the first long 
 pause, trying to look indignant ; ' I must say 
 you are tlie most impossible person to avoid, 
 that ever I met.' 
 
 ' "Were you trying to do it ? ' asks he 
 reproachfully. ' Why ? And where were 
 you all yesterday ? I waited from eleven 
 until eight, and then I was so hungry I 
 couldn't stand it any longer, so I went 
 home.' 
 
 ' I don't know why you waited,' with some
 
 UNDER-CURRENTS 151 
 
 dignity ; ' I never said I was going to — to 
 walk in this wood — yesterday.' 
 
 'No. But you never said also that you 
 were not going to walk here, so I hoped on. 
 I think,' with a second upbraiding glance, 
 ' you might have come.' 
 
 ' I couldn't,' protests Griselda. ' Even 
 
 If for one moment I had intended to come, 
 which of course I hadn't, still it would have 
 been out of my power. My cousin came 
 down that day.' 
 
 ' Ah ! ' an eloquent silence. Then with all 
 the air of one determined to get it out of her 
 at all hazards, ' Man ? ' 
 
 'Yes.' 
 
 'I see ! Well, of course I could hardly 
 expect it. Your time was fully taken up, no 
 doubt, with him. I don't suppose you so much 
 as remembered my existence. Why should 
 you?'
 
 152- UNDER-CURRENTS 
 
 ' Oh yes, I remembered it,' says Griselda 
 with unkind carelessness. She too is feeling 
 angry. 
 
 ' That was too good of you. And — and so 
 you spent the whole day with this cousin?' 
 
 ' Not quite the whole day. There were 
 intervals.' 
 
 ' Naturally ! You had dinner and lunch, I 
 presume. You have noticed that even the 
 strongest occasions for bliss or woe are not 
 powerful enough to do away with those 
 institutions.' 
 
 'You shouldn't sneer at me for takincj 
 my dinner,' says Griselda with a passing 
 recollection of its unusual goodness. VYou 
 yourself said you were starving at eight last 
 night.' 
 
 ' Well, so I was. So would any fellow be 
 who hadn't even seen a biscuit since dawn. 
 When did he come ? '
 
 UNDER-CURRENTS 1 53^ 
 
 ' About seven, I believe.' 
 
 ' He lost no time. You weren't up then, 
 I suppose. Or — perhaps you got up to 
 receive him ! ' There is a sneer in his tone now 
 that raises her smouldering w^rath to flame. 
 
 ' My cousin arrived at seven last evening,* 
 she says, in a low distinct tone. ' I saw him 
 at eiglit, just as we went in to dinner.' 
 
 ' Only last night ? ' eagerly. ' And is he 
 gone now ? Where is he ? ' 
 
 ' At Greycourt, I suppose,' frigidly. 
 
 'And you have come out here? You 
 have left him ? ' cries he, coming impulsively 
 closer to her. Indeed he makes a movement 
 as if he would have secured her hand, but 
 something in the sorrowful sternness of her 
 gaze restrains him. 
 
 ' Why shouldn't I leave him ? ' asks she, 
 her large clear eyes questioning his. 
 
 ' I don't know,' feebly ; ' I'm only so
 
 154 UNDER-CURRENTS 
 
 awfully glad that you did leave him. That 
 you preferred these woods to him. You're 
 angry with me,' says he suddenly, miserably ; 
 ' I know it by your eyes. I shouldn't have 
 said a great many things that I have said, I 
 know that.' 
 
 ' I don't see how you should know any- 
 thing about my eyes,' says Giiselda, with a 
 last attempt at dignity. She looks at him 
 steadily, and then — perhaps it is the grief 
 and longing in his face that overcomes her 
 ■ — but at last she smiles. 
 
 ' What were you doing .^ ' asks she pre- 
 sently, when she has given time for that unex- 
 pected smile to sink into him. ' Fishing ? ' 
 
 ' Nothing worth the name. Ever since I 
 met — that is — well, I don't care then. Ever 
 since I met you I haven't caught a trout fit 
 to be called one.' 
 
 ' That's a grievance,' says Griselda with a
 
 UNDER-CURRENTS 155 
 
 shy swift glance at him. ' If it continues, 
 you will end by hating me.' 
 
 ' Shall I ? An ending must have a begin-' 
 ning. How have I begun with you, do you 
 think ? ' 
 
 ' On a day like this to ask riddles ! ' 
 parries she scornfully, though a pretty colour 
 has crept into her cheeks. ' No, no ; I never 
 guessed one in my life ; it is no use.' Then, 
 ' How" did you get in here ? ' 
 
 ' Eound the corner. Do you see it ? The 
 stream winds past that rock over there, 
 through so small a space that one scarcely 
 sees it ; I could hardly squeeze my body 
 between the two rocks. Charming spot this, 
 I always think. Are you tired? Shall we 
 sit down for awhile ? ' 
 
 ' I haven't a moment,' says Griselda ; ' I 
 promised Vera to be back in no time.' 
 
 'You promised her more than that, I
 
 1 56 UNDER-CURRENTS 
 
 think,' reproachfully. ' What was it you 
 said about avoiding me when first we met ? 
 I suppose you told her of our meetirg day 
 before yesterday.' 
 
 ' I tell her everything,' says Griselda 
 simply. 
 
 • ' That is quite right. I am glad of that,' 
 returns he earnestly ; ' only I wish your 
 sister could bring herself to give you different 
 counsel. If she saw me again, do you think 
 it would do any good, eh ? ' 
 
 ' Not a bit,' says Griselda laughing. 
 ' The point at which she sticks is, that 
 Uncle Gregory doesn't know. And to tell 
 
 him Oh! that is beyond either of us,' 
 
 with a charming frown, full of horror, 
 
 ' Well, never mind. Time is a wonderful 
 thing ; it works so many changes, and 
 
 perhaps after a while ' He stops short, 
 
 and then, leaning towards her — they are
 
 UNDER-CURRENTS 157 
 
 sitting on a bank by this time — he looks 
 anxiously into her eyes. ' Do you know,' he 
 says, with some hesitation, ' I want you to tell 
 me something. It is so awkward, when I'm 
 thinking of you, not to know ; yesterday I 
 found it really hard. Will you tell me your 
 Christian name ? ' 
 
 'They say people always look like their 
 names. Don't you think,' with a little 
 coquettish glance at him from under her big 
 hat, ' you could guess mine ? ' 
 
 ' I know what I think it ought to be.' 
 
 ' Tell me,' says she, with a pretty curi- 
 osity, edging closer to him. 
 
 ' Pansy ; Heartsease,' softly. She seems 
 rather struck with this, and a gentle cloud 
 gathers on her brow\ 
 
 ' Well ; 'tisn't,' she says, with a regretful 
 sigh. ' It is — I'm almost ashamed to tell you, 
 though of course it wasn't my fault — but it's
 
 1 58 UNDER-CURRENTS 
 
 Griseldal Isn't it a shame? I do think/ 
 pathetically, 'when people have so far the 
 pull over you as to be able to give you a 
 name for all time before you can argue the 
 point — before you can even show your dis- 
 pleasure, not having a tooth wherewith to do 
 battle — that they might have the decency to 
 choose out a possible one. When one is 
 strong, one should be merciful. Now it is 
 Vera who should be Griselda. She is patient, 
 
 if you like, but as for me But,' with 
 
 another swifc look at him, 'your name 
 wouldn't suit me either. You don't know me 
 at all ; I'm not that sort of person. As a 
 rule, I'm afraid I'm rather a worry to people 
 unless they happen to be very fond of me. 
 Vera, now, she doesn't mind me. But Hearts- 
 ease,' pondering slowly over it ; ' oh no — it 
 wouldn't suit me a bit.' 
 
 ' Well, I only know one thing,' says Tom
 
 UNDER-CURRENTS 159 
 
 Peyton hardily, ' that from the moment I 
 parted from you, day before yesterday, I 
 haven't known a second's peace until I found 
 you here to-day by that blessed stream. 
 Then and there my heart found an inexpres- 
 sible ease.' 
 
 He is a terribly downright young man, 
 there can be no doubt about that ; a very 
 direct lover (though as yet she has hardly 
 regarded him in that character), leaving little 
 to the imagination — nothing to be filled up. 
 Griselda perhaps finds him a little embarrass- 
 ing. A soft but brilliant flush mounts to her 
 cheek, and there is within her some secret 
 working that compels her eyes to cling to the 
 green fresh sward at her feet. 
 
 Presently, however, she conquers the 
 absurd shyness of a moment since, and, with 
 a wisdom that cannot be too highly com- 
 mended, ignores his reprehensible plain speak-
 
 i6o UNDER-CURRENTS 
 
 ing, and falls back upon an outside subject 
 that surely gives a wide field for converse of 
 a safe order. 
 
 ' " Heartsease, or my Brother's Wife," ' 
 says she thoughtfully. ' How long ago it 
 seems since I read that book ! I liked it then 
 -^I think. Did you ever read it ? ' She 
 turns upon him two clear eyes, full of calm 
 inquiry. 
 
 ' No — yes — no,' says the young man 
 vaguely. And then with heartfelt thankful- 
 ness, ' I'm glad you re not my brother's wife ! ' 
 
 Was there ever anyone so incorrigible ? 
 Griselda feels a just indignation grow warm 
 within her breast. What does he mean by so 
 persistently ignoring the safe path she has 
 planned out for him ? 
 
 ' Why ? ' she asks severely, regarding him 
 with an unsmiling eye, and speaking promptly, 
 like one filled with a suspicious thirst for
 
 UNDER-CURREA TS i6i 
 
 knowledge. ' Is he such an extremely un- 
 pleasant person ? ' 
 
 ' What I mean is,' says Peyton, with a 
 noble scorn of subterfuge of any sort, drag- 
 ging his real signification boldly to the front, 
 ' that I'm glad you are not the wife of any 
 fellow.' 
 
 ' Oh ! ' says the younger Miss Dysart 
 frigidly. Somehow she is not so confused 
 this time, and is conscious only of a wild, a 
 terrible desire to laugh. There are, unfortu- 
 nately for the young, moments wdien laughter 
 is undignified, and chilled by this dismal 
 knowledge she controls herself, and once more 
 turns aside the dangerous current that 
 threatens to overwhelm her, and steers into 
 quiet waters. ' I wish / knew how to fish,' 
 she says, nodding her head at his rod lying on 
 the ground near her. ' It would be some sort 
 of an occupation in this stupid place.' 
 
 VOL. I. M
 
 l62 UNDER-CURRENTS 
 
 ' Some sort ! — the very best,' cries Peyton 
 entliusiastically, before whom roseate visions 
 have arisen — visions of pretty white hands 
 being taught to handle a rod, visions of lovely 
 blue eyes looking to him for guidance ; and 
 he the teacher, the guide. ' You haven't a 
 conception,' says he, ' of the joys of fishing, of 
 even simple trout-fishing such as this. The 
 pretty curhng water, and then the little 
 breeze that comes, oh ! so softly, just ruffling 
 its bosom ; and then the faint delicate quiver 
 at the end of your line, and the certainty that 
 this is a half-pounder at least (no matter if it 
 isn't) ; and then the last quick touch, and 
 there it lies upon the bank, the beauty, and 
 you feel that after all you have not lived for 
 
 naught.' 
 
 ' Yes ? And when you don't catch any- 
 thing ? ' asks she rather unkindly. This is the 
 second day his basket has been found empty.
 
 UNDER-CURRENTS 163 
 
 'Oil, I see you think I'm but a sorry 
 fisherman/ says he laughing. ' But look at 
 the weather. An eternal glare from morn to 
 eve. And I could tell you if I liked of other 
 times I've had when it wasn't little trout I was 
 waiting for, but salmon. That was up in 
 Scotland with the poor dad. We used to go 
 there every year, and — oh, well ! I'm not so 
 bad a hand at it as you think me ! ' 
 
 ' How do you know I think of you at 
 all?' says she saucily; and then they both 
 laugh. 
 
 ' Well, will you let me teach you ? ' asks 
 he. 
 
 ' I would, only ' she hesitates. ' I 
 
 haven't a rod,' she says at last bluntly ; ' and 
 I shouldn't know how to get it without liis 
 finding out.' 
 
 ' Your uncle ? ' 
 
 ' Oh yes — yes,' impatiently. ' We can
 
 !64 UNDER-CURRENTS 
 
 scarcely breathe with him. Isn't it terrible, 
 the life he compels us to lead — seeing, speak- 
 ing, to nobody ? ' 
 
 ' It's iniquitous,' vehemently. ' What on 
 earth does he mean by it ? You know I 
 hinted as much to you before. Do you think 
 the old gentleman is all there ? Correct up 
 here, I mean ? ' touching his forehead. 
 
 ' Quite correct. I've seen him ; you 
 haven't.' Then, after a pause of considera- 
 tion, ' Too correct ! He could buy and sell 
 the lot of us, it is my opinion, had he reason 
 to do so. That he won't let us know our 
 neighbours is what makes me so angry. It 
 is so selfish. Let him shut himself up by all 
 means, just as much as ever he likes — not one 
 ■of us would interfere with that arrangement 
 or seek to dissuade him from it. He might 
 liave his own way there unquestioned, but 
 why condemn Vera and me to solitary
 
 UxXDER-CURRENTS iSs 
 
 confinement ? It is horrible to think that we 
 must know nobody ! ' 
 
 ' You know me,' suggests Mr. Peyton 
 very humbl}^ yet with a certain nervous hope 
 in his tone. It is indeed as though he were 
 trying a dangerous experiment, and is un- 
 comfortably in the dark as to whether it will 
 prove successful, or go off and reduce him 
 morally to powder. 
 
 It does neither, however. Miss Dysart, 
 having regarded him for a moment or two 
 with calm scrutiny, says : 
 
 ' That's true,' dispassionately ; and then 
 after further reflection, ' Well, so I do ; a 
 little — a very little.' 
 
 ' I feel as if I had known you for years,' 
 says Peyton. ' Some people, don't you think, 
 you know at once, whilst others ' 
 
 ' You must belong to the " others," ' says 
 she, regarding him with a judicial eye.
 
 i66 UyDER-CURRENTS 
 
 ' Why ? Do you mean you don't know 
 me ? ' says he aggrieved. ' Why, they tell me 
 I'm the easiest fellow living to get on with. 
 Oh ! you can't look upon me as a mere 
 stranger now.' 
 
 'I don't see why not,' says Griselda 
 steadily. She turns round on her seat with 
 a httle quick movement as if to confront him 
 more decidedly. ' Do you know that this is 
 only the third time I have ever met you, 
 and ' 
 
 ' And I have only myself to vouch for 
 myself,' says he sadly. ' Well, what can I do 
 to convince you that I am not altogether 
 beneath your notice ? ' 
 
 ' Oh, don't talk like that,' flusliing. ' I 
 want no one to tell me that — that ' — she 
 hesitates, and plucks at her gown with down- 
 cast eyes in the sweetest confusion — ' that
 
 UNDER- CURRENTS 167 
 
 you are a gentleman,' she breathes at last 
 very low. 
 
 ' Why, of course,' briskly. ' I didn't mean 
 
 that so much as You see there are lots of 
 
 gentlemen, so called, whom you mightn't like, 
 don't you see ; and besides that, it makes me 
 wretched to think we can't be more openly 
 acquainted. There's my sister, of course, she 
 lives about twenty miles or so from this. 
 She's in town now, of course, but she'll be 
 down in August, July indeed, I dare say, and 
 — and I've been thinking if we could manage 
 through her.' 
 
 ' I don't think any one could manage 
 Uncle Gregory,' with a mournful shake of her 
 head. ' What's your sister's name ? ' 
 
 ' Grace.' 
 
 ' Yes. But the other one.' 
 
 ' Lady Eiversdale.'
 
 i68 UNDER-CURREiXTS 
 
 ' Well, now I know about your sister, and 
 I know you have no father or mother. But 
 tell me about that unpleasant brother of 
 yours.' 
 
 Mr. Peyton laughs. 
 
 ' I would if I could,' says he geniall}^ 
 ' But the fact is, he is neither pleasant nor 
 unpleasant. He doesn't exist.' 
 
 ' What ! ' says Griselda, eyeing him with 
 evident distrust. ' Just think of what you are 
 saying. And to deny your own brother too ! ' 
 
 Mr. Peyton gives way once again to 
 mirth that proves untimely. 
 
 'Is it a joke?' asks she severely, fixing 
 him with a stern eye. ' Are you going to 
 persist in it — in your — well, your assertion ? ' 
 It is plain she had meant to use a harsher 
 term. 
 
 ' Certainly I do,' says he, now somewhat 
 amazed.
 
 UNDER-CURRENTS 169 
 
 ' But liave you forgotten then ? ' demands 
 she, rising indignantly to her feet. ' Why, 
 only ^YQ minutes ago ' (oh ! how swiftly time 
 runs for the young !) ' you told me you were 
 very glad I wasn't his wife. How could I be 
 the wife of nobody ? ' 
 
 How indeed ! 
 
 This is an unanswerable argument, and 
 Peyton goes down before it. 
 
 ' You misunderstood me,' he says humbly. 
 ' You did indeed. I haven't a brother, never 
 had, and only one sister. I've a lot of uncles 
 and aunts,' deprecatingly, 'if you'd like to 
 hear about them. But they are specially 
 uninteresting.' 
 
 ' I want to hear nothing more at all,' says 
 Griselda, who is plainly offended. ' I only 
 w^ant to go home.' 
 
 ' Oh, don't go like this,' entreats Peyton, 
 taking her hand in spite of her, and looking
 
 1 70 UNDER- C URRENTS 
 
 down with quite an anguished countenance 
 upon the pretty ruffled one below him. 'I 
 think, if you only knew how miserable I was 
 all yesterday, that you would be good to me 
 to-day.' 
 
 Griselda having tried vainly, if delicately, 
 to release her hand, here looks up at him. 
 
 ' You certainly said you had a brother,' 
 says she. 
 
 ' I didn't ; I didn't, I give you my word ; 
 it was all a mistake. Won't you believe me ? 
 Yes, you will.' He has caught her hand by 
 this time, and is looking eagerly with his 
 honest eyes into her face. A little smile 
 widens her lips. 
 
 ' You make one believe,' she says sweetly ; 
 and then, ' Oh ! I must run, I told Vera I 
 
 should be home quite soon, and now ' 
 
 She starts to her feet. 
 
 ' Give me your hand,' says he, ' and we'll
 
 UNDER-CURRENTS 171 
 
 make a fight for it.' And together they race 
 over the soft smooth grass of that lover's 
 valley, through the little green entrance, and 
 so on, until the turrets of Greycourt rise 
 before them. 
 
 'You will come again to-morrow,' says 
 Peyton, retaining her hand still, and gazing 
 eagerly, entreatingly into her eyes. 
 
 ' Oh, not to-morrow.' 
 
 ' The next day, then. I've any amount of 
 rods at the inn ; one a very nice light one. 
 And I'll set it up for you, and have it at that 
 part of the stream where we met to-day. No, 
 you shan't say you won't come. I won't 
 listen. But I'll be there the day after to- 
 morrow, and I'll wait for you till nightfall.' 
 
 'Oh, I wish you wouldn't. I certainly 
 shan't be able to come ; and I won't either ; 
 I won't indeed. Yera says it's very wrong.' 
 
 ' Well, I'll wait,' doggedly.
 
 172 UiXDER-CURRENTS 
 
 ' You must blame yourself then ; not me. 
 I'm not coming. And at all events — I 
 couldn't be there until three ! ' 
 
 ' You will come then ? ' says he, his face 
 lighting up. ' Three — five, any time ; only 
 come.' 
 
 . ' Oh ! I haven't said that,' nervously. 
 ' Good-bye ; I am almost sure I shan't be 
 able.' She moves away from him and then 
 looks back. ' Do put even a crust of bread 
 in your pocket,' she says anxiously. ' It is so 
 wretched to think of your starving like that.' 
 
 ' I shan't feel hungry the next time,' says 
 he, ' because I know you'll come. You 
 couldn't be cruel enough to disappoint me 
 now.' 
 
 'Well, go,' says she. 'If you were 
 seen ' 
 
 'I'm going,' says he reluctantly, and 
 presently, when he has shaken hands with her
 
 UNDER-CURRENTS 173 
 
 for about a minute and a half, talking rapidly 
 all the time to hide the fact that those pretty 
 fingers are still within his grasp, he finally 
 takes himself off.
 
 174 UNDER-CURRENTS 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 Thou only liaet stepped unaware 
 
 Malice, not one can impute ; 
 And why should a heart have been there, 
 
 In the way of a fair woman's foot ? 
 
 Peeping into the summer-house as she runs 
 past it Griselda discovers, to her amazement, 
 that Vera is still in it. 
 
 ' What, have you never stirred ? ' cries she. 
 ' Bless me, have you stayed in this earwiggy 
 place ever since ? But,' hopefully, ' I suppose 
 you did stir ; you went into the house, the 
 gardens, and came back again ? ' 
 
 ' No, I didn't,' says Vera, speaking in the 
 low tense way of one who has been mentally 
 whispering all day, as if afraid of being over- 
 heard. ' I never moved from this. I felt as
 
 UNDER-CURRENTS 175 
 
 if I couldn't,' with a nervous laugh ; ' I knew 
 I might have met him if I had gone anywhere 
 else, but here I was safe. He would hardly 
 venture here again.' 
 
 ' What folly ! ' says Griselda severely, who 
 is nothing if not practical. ' My good girl, 
 have you thought that civilised people always 
 dine ? There will be dinner,' says she, 
 nodding a sapient head. ' You'll have to face 
 him there.' 
 
 ' I've thought of that,' with a quick sigh. 
 
 ' I must say,' says Griselda, with now, it 
 must be confessed, a smothered inclination 
 towards mirth, ' that a more unfortunate 
 affair I never knew. His face — did you see 
 it ? — it was a picture ! ' 
 
 ' Don't go on like that, Griselda,' says her 
 sister impatiently. ' I feel so wretched about 
 it — ^just as if I hated myself!' She stops for 
 a moment, and lifts the palms of her hands and
 
 1 76 UNDER-CURRENTS 
 
 presses them nervously against her hot 
 cheeks. ' To have ofTencled anybody m that 
 rude, inexcusable way makes one feel so 
 horrid ! ' 
 
 'Inexcusable? I don't see that,' says 
 
 Griselda. ' I don't see that it was your fault 
 
 at all. You gave your opinion privately to 
 
 me ; if he chanced to overhear that opinion, 
 
 , whose fault was it ? ' 
 
 'No one's, of course,' she seems a little 
 comforted by this bland disposition of her 
 trouble, and goes on again presently as if 
 agreeing with it. ' Yes, really, and besides, 
 he isn't of so much importance any way. He's 
 really nothing to us, eh ? and one may surely 
 speak to one's own sister without being 
 reviled for it.' It is quite plain now that she 
 is trying to make herself look right to herself 
 Then all at once her tone changes. ' But yet I 
 do wish I had never seen him, and that to-day
 
 UNDER-CURRENTS 177 
 
 had never been,' she cries in a httle hurt 
 
 voice. ' And what was it you said about 
 
 dinner, Griselda? Do you know, I really 
 don't see how I am to get through it ? ' 
 
 ' With a knife and fork and a spoon or 
 two,' says Griselda. ' Well, I do wonder 
 whether he will talk and pass it all over, or 
 sulk and maintain a majestic silence ? ' 
 
 ' I suppose I couldn't have a headache ? * 
 suggests Vera regarding her sister doubt- 
 fully. 
 
 ' Oh no. Not on any account. Why^ 
 Vera, where is your pluck gone ? Don't you 
 suppose he would know ? It would only 
 make bad worse ; create a mountain out of 
 the merest molehill. I really think I should 
 come down if I were you.' 
 
 ' You're not, you see,' says Vera with a 
 little sigh, as if regretful of that incontro- 
 vertible fact. 
 
 VOL. I. N
 
 178 UNDER-CURRENTS 
 
 ' You mean that it is therefore a simple 
 thing for me to argue on the point. Perhaps 
 you even think I want you to come down 
 to dinner to help me with him. If so, stay 
 upstairs, because I don't. And look here, 
 Vera ; after all, what do you and I care ivhat 
 he thinks ? If it will make you happier, have 
 a headache by all means, darling, and I'll see 
 it out with him.' 
 
 She speaks in eager earnest. It has 
 suddenly suggested itself to her that her 
 afternoon has been one of certain enjoyment, 
 Yera's one of dulness unspeakable, nay, 
 something more than that. She determines 
 if possible to save Vera from further dis- 
 comfiture and nervous heartgivings. 
 
 'I shall quite enjoy a tete-a-tete evening 
 with him,' she says smiling. 
 
 'No,' says Vera, after a silent struggle 
 with herself ; ' I should hate to let him think
 
 UNDER-CURRENTS 179 
 
 I cared, thoiigli, of course, I do care ; it is a 
 miserable thing to hurt the feehngs of any- 
 body, even the most unworthy ! ' 
 
 ' Oh, if he could only hear that ! ' says 
 Griselda, throwing back her head and laugh- 
 ing merrily. 
 
 'Well, I dare say I should consider him 
 more,' says Vera, ' if he had not accepted my 
 apology in so rude a fashion. When I think 
 of it, I feel as if I couldn't show any more 
 regret.' 
 
 ' Just so,' says Griselda. ' And if you still 
 want to shirk the dinner, I'll so represent 
 your absence that it will look like indignation, 
 not penitence.' 
 
 ' No. I'll come down,' says Miss Dysart 
 slowly. ' Why should I even feel myself in 
 the wrong ? Only — if there should be a too 
 terrible silence at any time, I shall leave it to 
 you to come to the rescue.' 
 
 2f 2 .
 
 i8o UNDER-CURRENTS 
 
 'You couldn't leave it to a better person,' 
 says Griselda gaily. 
 
 ' Well,' in a lighter tone, ' it is a blessing 
 to have you back. I thought you would 
 never come. Had you a nice walk ? ' 
 
 ' I had,' slowly. It is unlike Griselda to be 
 so terse, and when with the limited reply there 
 comes too a warm blush and a lowering of the 
 tell-tale eyes, Vera pretty well knows it all. 
 
 ' You met him ? ' she says simply. 
 
 'Yes,' apologetically. 'Wasn't it too bad? 
 And I assure you, Vera,' eagerly now, and 
 with eyes uplifted, ' I went in exactly the 
 contrary direction I took last time. I hate a 
 man like that, don't you? — turning up just 
 when he is least wanted.' 
 
 ' Ah, was it tlien ? ' says Vera. 
 
 ' I begin to think that of all men fishermen 
 are the most ubiquitous. I was never so
 
 UNDER-CURRENTS i8i 
 
 startled in my life as when I looked up to-day 
 and found he was beside me. My back was 
 turned, you see, and I didn't know he was 
 there until he spoke.' 
 
 ' He seems a clever young man,' says 
 Vera. 
 
 ' He's not artful or designing, I think, if 
 you mean tliat,' says Griselda reflectively. 
 
 'I only mean that he revels in situations. 
 I don't wish to pretend that he is cleverer 
 than most, or equal to the arranging of them 
 beforehand, but yet I don't see how he can 
 always manage to extort one out of the 
 moment's very barren surroundings, and to 
 turn them on, as it were, just at the correct 
 second ! ' 
 
 ' I really don't think he is a modern 
 Cagliostro, if that is what you are aiming at,' 
 says Griselda again, perhaps now a little
 
 l82 UNDER-CURRENTS 
 
 annoyed at the other's raillery. ' It was all 
 chance.' 
 
 ' Lucky chance ! Your face says that ; 
 why is your tongue less honest ? ' There is 
 a little laugh in Yera's eyes as she turns 
 towards her. 
 
 ' I should be honest to 3^ou or not at all,' 
 says Griselda laughing too, ' you give one no 
 loophole. Yes, then ; I was glad to see him. 
 He is the one oasis in my wilderness, nay 
 more, he is a veritable necessity. I positively 
 believe we shall learn to forget our own lan- 
 guage, you and I, if we are left with no one 
 to air it with, save each other. This solitude 
 a deux is trying.' 
 
 ' You forget — our cousin,' says Vera 
 slowly. 
 
 ' No, but something tells me we shall see 
 little more of him ; whereas the other ' 
 
 ' True, he looks like a fixture ! Oh, that
 
 UNDER-CURRENTS 183 
 
 I dared believe what you say about — about — 
 Uncle Gregory's son ! ' 
 
 Griselda regards her for a moment or two 
 with an expression full of amazed amusement. 
 
 ' How can you be so absurd ? ' she says. 
 ' You are very properly too ashamed to call 
 him Mr. Dysart, and you can't bring yourself 
 to say Seaton. Don't you think you'll find 
 these roundabout methods of mentioning him 
 rather embarrassing in the long run ? Do you 
 know, Vera, I did not think you capable of so 
 strong a dislike ? ' 
 
 ' I puzzle myself,' says Vera with a faint 
 smile. 'But I cannot conquer the thought 
 that in some way he will cause me acute 
 suffering. Of course, it is only a fancy,' with 
 a sudden haughty little movement of her 
 shapely head. ' Who is he, that he should 
 influence my life in any way ? ' She breathes 
 rather quickly, and then throws off by an
 
 i84 UNDER-CURRENTS 
 
 eflfort her angry mood. ' Let us talk of Mr. 
 Peyton,' she says ; ' he is far more interesting 
 even to me. Well,' gaily, ' and did he say 
 that word of love to you ? You remember 
 our compact — your promise to tell me if ever 
 that was spoken ? ' 
 
 ' What is a word of love ? ' asks Griselda 
 reddening. ' He — of course, I haven't for- 
 gotten my promise, but one hardly knows 
 what one means — what he means — I mean. 
 Oh, bother,' with irritable self- contempt, 
 ' what on earth do I mean, I wonder ? ' 
 
 ' / don't,' says Yera. ' I know. So the 
 word has been said ! I suppose it would be 
 indiscreet to ask what it was ? ' 
 
 ' Nonsense ! I don't believe he said a 
 word that even related to love ; all he did 
 say was that he was glad I wasn't " the wife 
 of any fellow." ' 
 
 ' I see,' says Yera pausing ; and then —
 
 UNDER-CURRENTS 185 
 
 'of any other fellow of course; he was 
 evidently leading up to the point that if you 
 were the wife of a fellow called Pey ' 
 
 ' Oh, Vera ! I wonder you aren't 
 ashamed ! ' says the younger Miss Dysart in- 
 dignantly. 
 
 ' Well, so I am,' apologetically. ' Grizel,' 
 holding^ out her hand to lier, ' sit down here 
 beside me ; what you tell me of Mr. Peyton 
 sounds all that it should be, but — I do wish 
 you knew something more about him.' 
 
 ' I'll tell you all I know. That he has a 
 torndown old place somewhere in Derbyshire. 
 That he has one sister. Lady Eiversdale, who 
 lives about twenty miles from this, just on the 
 border of our county, and that he is as poor 
 as a church mouse.' 
 
 ' What a pity it is as it is ! ' says Vera 
 restlessly. ' If he could only come to the 
 house to see us, in the regular orthodox way,
 
 l86 UNDER-CURRENTS 
 
 it would be so much better. I do detest the 
 appearance of anything clandestine.' 
 
 She looks at her sister with a little nervous 
 frown, as if fearing she has gone too far, but 
 Griselda is apparently lost in thought pro- 
 voked by her words, and for quite a minute 
 does not emerge from her mental cloud. 
 
 ' I can't feel like that about it,' she says, 
 looking earnestly at Vera. ' Not with him. 
 It doesn't seem a bit as if I were doing any- 
 thing to be ashamed of. I can't explain it, 
 but I think if you met him, you'd know. He 
 doesn't seem to feel it like that himself. I 
 don't believe it — it has occurred to him.' 
 
 'I think I should like him,' says Vera 
 softly ; with such sympathy that Griselda 
 suddenly remembers how she loves her. ' But 
 don't let things go too far, darhng.' 
 
 She sighs heavily. 
 
 ' You are miserable about that wretched
 
 UNDER-CURRENTS 187 
 
 affair of the morning,' cries Griselda. ' Never 
 mind it. If you will come to dinner I promise 
 you to do all the talking, and as it has to be 
 endured I do entreat you to keep up your 
 spirits.' 
 
 ' Oh, yes. There isn't a decent chance of 
 escape,' says Vera wearily. 
 
 ' Sh ! ' cries Griselda softly, putting up her 
 hand ; the sound of coming footsteps, slow, 
 deliberate footsteps purposely made heavier 
 smites upon their ears. 
 
 ' Good Heavens ! Here he is,' says 
 Griselda, and indeed they have barely time 
 to put on a carefully unconscious demeanour, 
 when Seaton Dysart darkens the door of the 
 summer-house, and looks coldly down on 
 them.
 
 UNDER-CURRENTS 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 How mucli her grace is altered on the sudden ! 
 How long her face is drawn ! How pale she looks! 
 
 ' They told me I should find you here,' he 
 says, speaking to Vera. ' I have come to say 
 good-bye.' 
 
 ' But surely you are not gomg so soon ! 
 not before dmner, not to-night!' cries Gri- 
 selda, thunderstruck by this solution of their 
 difficulty and a little sorry too. Surely, they 
 have been somewhat unkind to him. She has 
 accepted her sister's crime as her own, and 
 after all what had he done? She speaks 
 hurriedly, with an honest regret, unmindful of 
 the disastrous consequences that may follow 
 should he accept her words and stay. ' I 
 thought you said you were not going until '
 
 UNDER-CURRENTS 189 
 
 ' I am going now. Good-bye,' holding out 
 his hand to her with a determination not to 
 be changed. Griselda takes it and shakes it 
 genially, nay warmly. His humour is de- 
 cidedly hostile, and if he acquaints the old 
 
 father of their incivihty Anything to 
 
 propitiate him, she tells herself, will be the 
 correct thing, and she grows positively friendly 
 towards him, and beams upon him with gentle 
 entreaty in her eye. 
 
 ' If you must go, do us one service first,' 
 she says. ' Do you see that rose ? ' — a rather 
 unkempt and straggling specimen of its kind 
 that trails in unadmired disorder just out- 
 side the door. 'It has baffled me many a 
 time, but you are tall, oh, taller than most ; 
 will you lift these awkward tendrils, and press 
 them back into shape .^' 
 
 She is smiling divinely at him, a smile that 
 Tom Peyton would have given several years of
 
 190 UNDER-CURRENTS 
 
 his life to possess, but Dysart is disgracefully 
 unmoved by it, and refusing to return it, steps 
 outside, and with a decidedly unwilling air 
 proceeds to lift the drooping tendrils and re- 
 duce them to order. 
 
 Griselda, naturally a girl of great resource, 
 seizes the opportunity she has herself pro- 
 vided. Catching Yera's arm she draws her 
 back out of sight. 
 
 ' Now's your time ! ' she says. ' Say some- 
 thing. Do something. It doesn't matter what, 
 but for Heaven's sake smooth him down one 
 way or another ! If you don't you'll have the 
 old man down upon us like ' 
 
 ' I can't,' gasps Vera fearfully. 
 
 ' You must,' insists Griselda sternly. ' It's 
 impossible to know what sort of man he is. 
 If revengeful, he can play old Harry with us ! ' 
 
 Without waiting to explain what parti- 
 cular game this may mean, or the full signifi-
 
 UNDER-CURREA'TS 191 
 
 cance thereof, slie steps lightly outside, and 
 gazes with undisguised rapture upon Dysart's 
 work. The tendrils have indeed been reduced 
 to order ; the roses are blooming now in a 
 decorous tranquillity. 
 
 ' You ought to be a gardener,' she says 
 with quite a little glow of admiration. 'There, 
 you've done enough. I can circumvent this 
 little tendril whilst you say good-bye to Vera. 
 I am so afraid you will miss your train, and 
 all on my account.' 
 
 Dysart, who has received her raptures 
 rather grimly, drops the tendril in question, 
 and returns to the summer-house with all the 
 manner of one in mad haste to be gone. It is 
 merely a part of an unpleasant whole, he tells 
 himself, that he must first say a chillingly 
 courteous word or two of farewell to the girl 
 who has openly declared towards him such an 
 undying animosity.
 
 192 UNDER-CURRENTS 
 
 ' I am afraid,' says Vera, speaking with 
 cold precision as one delivering herself of an 
 unloved lesson, ' that you are going away thus 
 abruptly because of what you heard me say 
 this morning.' 
 
 ' You are right. That is why I am going,' 
 replies Dysart calmly. 
 
 ' Yes ? ' in a chilling tone and with faintly, 
 lifted brows. ' I regret exceedingly that I 
 should have so unfortunately offended you, 
 but to go for that — it all sounds a little trivial, 
 don't you think ? ' 
 
 ' Not my going, I think. I don't see how 
 I can do otherwise. Why should I make 
 you uncomfortable ? But you may call it 
 trivial if you like, to talk of detesting a man 
 you have only seen for an hour or two, and 
 
 who in those hours ' He pauses. 'Did 
 
 I make myself so specially objectionable?' 
 demands he abruptly, turning to her with
 
 UNDER-CURRENTS 193 
 
 something that is surely anger, but as surely 
 entreaty, in his eyes. 
 
 ' As I told you before,' indifferently, ' one 
 says foolish things now and then.' 
 
 ' Would you have me believe you did not 
 really mean what you said ? ' 
 
 ' T would not have you believe anything,' 
 returns she haughtily. ' Why should I ? ' 
 Her eyes are looking straight past him to 
 where a glowing rose-bush stands, but I doubt 
 if its glories are justly appreciated by her just 
 now. Something akin to passionate dislike 
 towards the man who has thus brought her 
 steadily to book is making her pulses throb. 
 ' I only think it a pity that you should curtail 
 your visit to your father because of a chance 
 remark of mine tliat cannot possibly affect you 
 in any way.' 
 
 ' Is that how yoLi look at it ? ' 
 . ' Is there any other way ? Why should 
 
 VOL. I. o
 
 194 UNDER-CURRENTS 
 
 you care whether or not I detest you ; I, 
 whom you saw for the first time yesterday ? ' 
 
 ' Why indeed ! ' He regards her absently, 
 as if trying to work out in his own mind the 
 answer to this question, and then suddenly : 
 
 ' Nevertheless, I do care,' he says with a 
 touch of vehemence. ' It is the injustice of 
 it to which I object. You had evidently de- 
 termined beforehand to show me no grace. I 
 defy you to deny it ! Come, can you ? ' 
 
 Miss Dysart is silent. The very impetu- 
 osity of his accusation has deadened her 
 power to reply, and besides, is there not truth 
 in it ? Had she not prejudged ? 
 
 ' Was that fair ? ' says he with some heat. 
 ' Strangers as we were to each other, as we 
 are, as we are likely to remain, I ask you how 
 it was I deserved that foregone conclusion ? ' 
 
 ' It surely isn't worth an argument,' says 
 she with a little frown, shrugging her shoulders.
 
 UNDER-CURRENTS 195 
 
 ' I tell you again I am sorry if I have in- 
 convenienced or annoyed you. I confess, too, 
 that if you could assure me you were leaving 
 for some better reason than — than this, I 
 should feel happier.' 
 
 ' I cannot, however,' shortly. 
 
 ' I really wish then,' drawing a little 
 nearer to him, and speaking earnestly, ' that 
 you would reconsider your decision and 
 stay. Have you thought how strange it will 
 appear — your going in such haste — to — to 
 the others ? ' 
 
 ' Until this moment no one has ever ques- 
 tioned my actions,' says he, with a swift smile. 
 ' You are the first to do so. And why should 
 I stay? To give you the time required to 
 perfect your detestation ? No, I shall save 
 myself from that, if I can. Good-bye.' 
 
 He bows coldly without offering her his 
 hand. 
 
 o2
 
 196 VNDER-CURRENTS 
 
 ' By-tlie-by,' he says, turning again at the 
 eloorway, ' I am afraid you will have to put 
 up with me for a few hours every week. I 
 shall promise to make them as short as I 
 possibly can. But my father likes to see me 
 every seven days or so, and I like to see him. 
 Do you think,' a shght smile crossing his face, 
 ^ you will be able to live through it ? ' 
 
 ' I have lived through a good many things,' 
 says Vera, her dark eyes aflame. 
 
 ' That gives you a chance here ; practice 
 makes perfect. I am sorry to be obliged to 
 inconvenience you so far, but if I stayed away, 
 I am afraid my father might want to know 
 why. He might even be so absurd as to 
 miss me.' 
 
 ' Why should you take it for granted that 
 I desire your absence ? ' cries Vera, her voice 
 vibrating with anger. ' Come, remain, or stay 
 away for ever, what is it to me ? '
 
 UNDER-CURRENTS igy 
 
 Her heart is still tlirobbing violently wlieii 
 Griselda — having seen her cousin take his 
 departure — returns to the summer-hoilse. 
 
 ' Well, did you make it up ? ' asks she 
 anxiously. 
 
 ' No,' recklessly, ' I only made bad worse. 
 Once for all, Griselda, try to understand that 
 that hateful man and I have not one sympathy 
 in common. We clash at every turn, every 
 word, every look. He is gone ; that is my one 
 solace. Let us pray he may never return.' 
 
 ' Pray for the moon if you like,' says 
 Griselda. 'Kobody can prevent you, and 
 there may be pleasure in it. But I think you 
 are just as likely to get that prayer answered 
 as the other.' 
 
 ' The proverbial wise woman would have 
 abased herself before you,' says Vera moodily. 
 ' It appears we are to have the pleasure of liis 
 society once every week.'
 
 198 UNDER-CURRENTS 
 
 ' No I Bless my stars, what brings him ? ' 
 
 ' A mutual admiration that exists between 
 his father and himself. He insinuated that 
 they could not live if separated from each 
 other longer than seven days.' 
 
 ' He's no good,' prophesies Griselda solemnly. 
 ' Anyone who could profess to regard that old 
 mummy within with any sort of veneration, 
 must have a screw loose somewhere. He 
 must at all events be a born hypocrite. Just 
 think of Uncle Gregory ! An old fiend whose 
 veins run venom instead of blood ! Oh, no ! 
 You must have mistaken him, Vera.' 
 
 ' I didn't. And you forget he is his son. 
 He might see a charm where we could not, 
 even in so arid a spot.' 
 
 ' Perhaps so. But if he does he's clever,' 
 says Griselda, distinct unbelief in her tone. 
 ' And so he's coming once in every seven days. 
 I was uncertain before, but now certainly life
 
 UNDER- CURRENTS 199 
 
 is not worth living, with such a sword as that 
 hanging weekly over one's head. However, 
 pluck up your courage, Vera. I'll stand by 
 you, and perhaps after all it was only a 
 threat.' 
 
 ' No ; he meant it. There was fell purpose 
 in his eye.' 
 
 ' What reason did he c^ive .^ ' still unbeliev- 
 
 ing. 
 
 ' I told you. To see his father.' 
 ' Tut ! who would believe that ? You 
 would credit Munchausen, I really think, if he 
 only had you to himself for ^nq^ minutes. Do 
 you honestly believe that any living thing 
 ever wanted to see Uncle Gregory the second 
 time .? ' 
 
 ' I can only tell you what he said . And 
 he was rude, very rude ; really, farouche 
 would better describe him. He said too that 
 if he stayed away his father would want to
 
 200 UXDER-CURRENTS 
 
 know why, and of course that would be awk- 
 ward for — me.' 
 
 ' For us,' fondly. ' Did he say that ? I 
 like that. It somehow assures me he is not 
 going to peach,' says Griselda thoughtfully. 
 ' For even such small mercies, let us be 
 thankful.'
 
 UNDER-CURRENJS 201 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 Of all evils, to the generous shame is the most deadly pang. 
 
 July reigns, vice June dethroned, but still the 
 roses hold full sway. In that small inner 
 garden in which Gregory Dysart takes all the 
 walks abroad he ever does, and the love for 
 the flowers in which is the one sole human- 
 ising element about him, the queen of blossoms 
 uprears her head in stately beauty, though in 
 every corner fallen petals may be seen, here, 
 there, everywhere, making a carpet on the 
 tender green swards, heralds, alas ! of a sure- 
 coming death. 
 
 Seaton Dysart has come and gone many a 
 time, to and from Greycourt, and by degrees 
 a httle of the constraint that had characterised
 
 202 UNDER-CURRENTS 
 
 his early visits has worn away. He has even 
 so far advanced as to be ahnost on friendly 
 terms with Griselda. 
 
 But between him and Vera, that first dark 
 veil of distrust still hangs heavily, distrust 
 that, on Vera's side, has taken a blacker hue 
 and merged itself into dislike. In vain does 
 Griselda rally her about it, in vain seek to 
 laugh her into another — a lighter frame of 
 mind. Vera, although taking herself to task 
 and condemning herself for a want of charity 
 hitherto unknown in her gentle bosom, still 
 shrinks from any advance on his part with so 
 cold a determination that sometimes, with a 
 bitter word or two, Dysart swears to himself 
 to abstain from further attempt to break down 
 the barrier that stands between them. 
 
 Yet, ever and always he has come back 
 again to try once more — to seek for kindly 
 word or gentle smile, such as he sees her
 
 UNDER-CURRENTS 203 
 
 lavish on Griselda, to which even a melan- 
 choly little kitten, that has attached itself to 
 her, is no stranger. He has let it be clear to 
 her in various ways that he is willing not only 
 to forgive but to forget that inopportune 
 remark of hers, the memory of which is diffi- 
 cult of banishment ; but with a resolution that 
 puzzles even herself, and belies the really 
 sweet nature resting beneath this strange 
 touch of obduracy, she puts him from her, as 
 it were, and will none of him. 
 
 At arm's length she holds him, rarely lift- 
 ing her soft dark eyes to his ; letting but a 
 meagre smile part her beautiful lips wlien 
 occasion calls for laughter, remaining stonily 
 silent in his presence, unless directly called 
 upon for speech. 
 
 One can see how Dysart chafes beneath 
 all this. But perhaps what troubles him most 
 of all is the suspicion of nervousness her
 
 204 UNDER-CURRENTS 
 
 manner holds when with him — a fear — a look- 
 ing for something that will be for her hurt, 
 and that will surely emanate from him. 
 Good Heavens ! he to hurt her ! After a little 
 while he acknowledges himself beaten, and a 
 terrible sadness mingled with a righteous 
 anger grows warm within his breast. 
 
 ' You are treating him shamefully ! ' cries 
 Griselda, one day. ' What has he done ? 
 That is what I want to know.' She speaks 
 with quite a little rush of indignation. 
 
 ' Nothing. I confess that. It is what he 
 will do that I resent.' 
 
 ' But what is that ? Give over that 
 Sibylline tone, Vera, and give me a proper 
 answer.' 
 
 ' I can't. I don't know myself. I cannot 
 explain it,' says Vera w^earily. 'But I feel 
 sure, I know^ he will make me miserable yet.' 
 
 ' Pooh, nonsense ! A mere fad. How
 
 UNDER-CURRENTS 205 
 
 can he make you wretched without making 
 me so, and I don't feel in the least superstitious 
 about him.' 
 
 ' Well, perhaps he will make us both 
 wretched.' 
 
 ' Not me certainly. As for you, well, 
 really, I shouldn't wonder. And if so you 
 have provoked your own fate. Such a life 
 as you lead that unhappy man. Flesh and 
 blood could not stand it. Yet in spite of 
 that I do not believe he will ever harm you 
 intentionally or otherwise.' 
 
 ' I do. Every time he enters my presence 
 I feel I dislike him more and more. It grows 
 on me, and is an unaccountable prejudice.' 
 
 ' A mere vagary I tell you. Get over it, 
 ducky. Throw it off and get into your right 
 mind once more. I declare but for your 
 croakings and prophesying I could quite like 
 Seaton.'
 
 2o6 UNDER-CURRENTS 
 
 ' Go over to the enemy by all means. I 
 shan't.' 
 
 ' I am not going over to anyone. I shall 
 back you up always, right or wrong, what- 
 ever comes of it. I only mean that to my 
 unassisted vision he appears a likely young 
 man enough — amiable apparently, long-suffer- 
 ing beyond a doubt, and handsome to a 
 charm. I only wish,' leaning her arms upon 
 her knees, and directing a pensive gaze at the 
 bare boards of her bedroom floor, ' that Tom 
 Peyton was half as good-looking.' 
 
 ' Why? What has Mr. Peyton to do wdth 
 you ? ' asks Vera, a little quickly. 
 
 ' Oh, nothing,' airily, ' nothing. Nothing 
 at all. That's just it, you see. If he were 
 anything to me, of course, it wouldn't matter, 
 I should see beauty in him against all beauty's 
 laws. But as it is, every defect and flaw lies 
 open to me. And v^hen one has to see a
 
 UNDER-CURRENTS 207 
 
 person every now and then, it would be as 
 well, I think, that that person shouldn't have 
 a nose that would not misbecome a pug.' 
 
 By all this it will be seen that as yet 
 Griselda's wanderings through the scented 
 woods have not been interdicted, for the 
 simple reason that Mr. Dysart is still in 
 ignorance of them. Mrs. Grunch, who once 
 had seemed keenly desirous of dragging 
 the culprit to justice, had never afterwards 
 taken any notice openly of her absences, 
 by which Griselda fondly but erroneously 
 argued that she had forgotten all about 
 it. Later on, however, she was to be un- 
 deceived. 
 
 Seaton Dysart's arrivals being onl}^ looked 
 for by the girls at about seven o'clock in the 
 evening — just an hour or so before dinner — 
 gave them plenty of time to prepare for his 
 coming. Any day on wliich he was expected,
 
 2o8 UNDER-CURRENTS 
 
 Mrs. Grunch brought a formal message to 
 Vera from her imcle to that effect. Never 
 3^et had their cousin come without the an- 
 nouncement being madcj and so thoroughly 
 understood was it that he would not put in 
 an unexpected appearance, that when after a 
 rather longer absence than usual, an absence 
 extending over all last week and part of this, 
 he turns up at half-past two in the afternoon, 
 his coming causes distinct embarrassment in 
 several quarters. 
 
 ' What's that ? ' says Griselda, starting and 
 dropping her fork (they are at their early 
 dinner). 'Did you hear it? A knock! A 
 thundering knock ! ' 
 
 ' Seaton's knock ! ' says Vera faintly, 
 changing colour. 
 
 'What can have brought him at this 
 hour? London must be reduced to ashes,' 
 hazards Griselda, her tone now as genial as
 
 UNDER-CURRENTS 209 
 
 usual. For one instant a sickening fear tliat 
 it might be Mr. Peyton's knock had made 
 her blood run cold. There had been a short 
 but sharp encounter between him and her the 
 day before yesterday, and a wild fear that he 
 had come up to have it out with her now, 
 and here, had taken possession of her. At 
 such a moment the advent of Seaton is hailed 
 by hei\ at least, with rapture. 
 
 ' Why, what happy wind drove you down 
 at this hour ? ' cries she, with the friendliest 
 air, beaming on him as he comes into the 
 room. 
 
 ' It is good of you to call it happy,' says 
 he, casting a really grateful look at her as he 
 shakes hands silently with Vera. ' In time 
 for luncheon too, I see, though,' with a rather 
 surprised glance at the table, 'you don't 
 seem in a very hospitable mood. Nothing to 
 spare, eh ? Peter, get me something.' 
 
 VOL. I. p
 
 2IO UNDER-CURRENTS 
 
 ' Yes, sir,' says that old fossil, sliambling 
 out of the room in a mighty hurry. 
 
 'We didn't know you were coming, you 
 see,' says Griselda mildly. ' That knowledge 
 would have worked a miracle in this house- 
 hold. And it isn't lunch you see (or rather 
 you don't see) before you ; it is dinner.' 
 
 ' What ! ' says Seaton, flushing a dark red. 
 He has got up from his seat and is regarding 
 her almost sternly. So is Vera, with a light 
 in her eyes meant to strike Griselda into 
 silence, but that reckless person refuses to 
 see it. ' Dinner ? ' 
 
 ' Yes,' said Griselda, returning her cousin's 
 stern glance with the pleasantest little nod. 
 ' Have I said anything indiscreet ? ' 
 
 ' Is it true ? ' asks Seaton, turning to Vera. 
 It is a rather rude question, but there is so 
 much shame and anxiety in his tone that 
 Griselda forgives him.
 
 UNDER-CURRENTS 21 1 
 
 ' Why should it not be true ? ' says Vera 
 coldl}", with a gravity that savours of dis- 
 approval. ' As a rule, we dine early.' 
 
 ' She means that we always dine early 
 except when we know you are coming,' 
 supplements Griselda even more mildly than 
 before. 
 
 'And this ' with a hurried glance at 
 
 the scanty meal, ' do you mean to tell me that 
 — that this is your dinner every day ? ' 
 
 'Literally,' says Griselda cheerfully. 
 ' This is the chop that changeth not. It is 
 not all that one could desire, of course, but if 
 sometimes it might be altered for ' 
 
 ' Griselda ! ' interrupts Vera, rising to her 
 feet. 
 
 ' Why should I not speak ? ' asks Griselda 
 in a meekly injured tone. ' I was merely 
 going to add that a fowl occasionally would 
 be a good deal of moral use to us. I have 
 
 p 2
 
 212 UNDER-CURRENTS 
 
 always heard that to keep the temper in a 
 healthy state, change of food is necessary.' 
 
 ' I feel as if I ought to apologise to you 
 for all this,' says Dysart with a heavy sigh, 
 addressing Vera exclusively, ' and as if, too, 
 no apology could be accepted. But I shall 
 see that it does not occur again.' 
 
 'I beg you will do nothing,' says Vera 
 quickly. ' Nothing. I will not have my uncle 
 spoken to on this subject. Griselda is only 
 in jest ; she speaks like a foolish child. I,' 
 folding her hands tightly together, ' I forbid 
 you to say anything about it.' 
 
 ' I regret that I must disobey you,' says 
 Seaton courteously but with determination. 
 ' My father's house is in part mine, and I will 
 suffer no truest to endure discomfort in it.' 
 
 ' There is no discomfort now. There will 
 be if you try to alter matters in our favour.' 
 
 ' You mean that you will accept nothing
 
 UNDER-CURRENTS 213 
 
 at my hands, is that it ? ' exclaims he, passion 
 that will not be repressed in his tone ; the 
 coldness seems broken up, there is fire in his 
 eyes and a distinct anger. ' You have had 
 that "time" you spoke of; has it fulfilled 
 its missions, has it taught you to detest me? 
 No ! ' detaining her deliberately as she seeks to 
 leave the room. ' Don't go, you should give 
 me a real reason for your studied discourtesy, 
 for I won't believe that I am naturally 
 abhorrent to you. There must be something 
 else.' 
 
 ' If you must know,' says she, looking 
 back defiantly at him, her blood a little hot, 
 ' you are too like your father for me to 
 pretend friendship with you.' 
 
 ' Oh, Yera, I think you shouldn't say that ! ' 
 cries Griselda, now honestly frightened at the 
 storm she has raised, but neither of the others 
 hear her. Yera with one little slender white
 
 214 UNDER-CURRENTS 
 
 hand grasping the back of a chair near her, 
 is looking fixedly at Seaton, whose face has 
 changed. An expression of keen pain crosses 
 it. 
 
 ' Has he been so bad to yon as that ? ' he 
 says, and then, with a profound sigh, ' My 
 poor father ! ' 
 
 There is something so honestly grieved in 
 Ms whole air that Vera's heart smites her. 
 
 'Why will you bring up this discussion 
 again and again ? ' she says with remorseful 
 impatience. ' Why not let me go my way 
 unquestioned, and you yours P What am I to 
 you when all is told ? I am outside your 
 life, I ever shall be ; yet it seems to me as if 
 you were bent on compelling my Hkes and 
 dislikes.' 
 
 ' You are right,' says he, going closer to 
 her, his face very pale, ' I would compeF you 
 to — to more than like me.'
 
 UNDER-CURRENTS 215 
 
 ' Compel ! ' slie has drawn back from him, 
 and her eyes now uplifted look defiance into 
 his. 
 
 ' If I could,' supplements he gently. 
 
 He turns and leaves the room. 
 
 'Now see, see what you have brought 
 upon me,' cries Vera, facing Griselda with 
 vehement aoitation. 
 
 ' Oh, I am so sorry,' says Griselda, immense 
 contrition in her tone. ' I never thought 
 he would get angry like that. I didn't, 
 indeed. And I thought it such a good 
 opportunity ; and I do so hate those chops 
 and ' 
 
 ' Oh, don't ! That will do ! ' says Vera 
 growing cold again, and putting up one hand 
 as if to command silence. 
 
 ' But I must explain to you,' persists 
 Griselda, really unhappy ; ' I am so afraid 
 you think that I was '
 
 2i6 UNDER-CURRENTS 
 
 ' You were vulgar,' says Vera icily, moving 
 away to a distant window. 
 
 ' Oh, darling, what a horrid thing to say ! 
 Don't talk to me like that. Was it vulgar 
 not to pretend it was luncheon ? Or shouldn't 
 I have said anything about the chops at 
 all ? Vera, you know I'd cut my tongue out 
 
 before Why, you're crying ! Why, 
 
 Vera ! Oh ! are you afraid he will speak 
 to his father and make things even more 
 uncomfortable ? You needn't ; I am sure 
 he wou't.' 
 
 ' Oh yes, he will speak to his father ; 
 I saw that in his eye. Nothing will prevent 
 that. But I am not frightened,' proudly. ' I 
 shall wait until his interview is at an end, and 
 then I shall go too — to Uncle Gregory, and 
 ask him as a favour not to alter anything 
 where we are concerned.' 
 
 ' Then it will be mutton to the end of our
 
 UNDER-CURRENTS 217 
 
 days,' says Griselda with a noble effort at 
 resignation, ' as that old miser beyond will be 
 only too delighted to fall in with your wishes, 
 on this subject at all events.'
 
 2i8 UNDER-CURRENTS 
 
 CHAPTEE XV. 
 
 In this world is mucli treacliery, little truth ; here all things 
 are traps ; here everything is beset with snares. 
 
 Meantime, Seaton has been having a tussle 
 sharp and severe with his father, a task most 
 uncongenial, as the old man is hard to battle 
 with, and it is difficult for a son to enjoy a 
 victory that has laid bare the meannesses and 
 poverty of a parent's mind. Having wrung 
 from him, however, a promise that means a 
 considerable increase of comfort to the girls 
 in future, he makes a still further effort to 
 show the righteousness of his cause. 
 
 ' They are all alone in the world,' he says. 
 
 ' Yes, yes,' acknowledges the old man with
 
 UNDER-CURRENTS 219 
 
 a frown. ' Except for me,' hastily, ' I — I 
 alone came to their rescue.' 
 
 ' That is true. It was quite what I should 
 have expected of you ! ' 
 
 It was not, however. This is a mere 
 facon de parler. Nothing under Heaven had 
 more astonished the son than the father's 
 suddenly expressed wish to support his 
 orphan nieces. It had indeed raised him 
 fifty per cent, in his good opinion, and shown 
 lines of lovableness in a nature that up to this 
 had seemed stony beyond hope of impression. 
 
 ' Why should you expect it ? There was 
 no reason,' says the old man sharply. ' It 
 was of my own freewill I took them. There 
 was no coercion, no ' 
 
 ' Of course not, I quite understand.' The 
 younger man being rather deep in thought, is 
 looking with unconscious earnestness at the 
 other, who presently seems to writhe beneath
 
 2 20 UNDER- C URRENTS 
 
 his glance and to draw back from it. ' But 
 still, you must remember always that they are 
 your brother's children,' goes on Seaton, a 
 shade of solemnity falling into his tone. He 
 leans forward in his chair and looks earnestly 
 at the old man. 
 
 •'What do you mean by that?' cries 
 Dysart shrilly. His face has changed, and is 
 now of an ashen grey ; and lie puts out his 
 hands involuntarily, as if to ward off some 
 hateful thought. ' What of that P ' he cries 
 hoarsely. ' What do you mean by your 
 tone ? Don't look at me like that, boy ! 
 What have I done to tliem ? Have I not 
 
 housed, sheltered, fed ' 
 
 ' True ; all true. But surely there is 
 somethinc^ more that mio^ht be done. Kind- 
 
 ness, affection ' 
 
 ' Ah ! ' Dysart interrupts him by a heavy 
 sif^h — one of relief it almost seems.
 
 UNDER-CURRENTS 221 
 
 * I fancied you spoke as though you 
 thought I were compelled to support them,' he 
 says, glancing sideways at his son, a cunning 
 light in his brilliant eyes — horrible eyes ! — 
 contrasting painfully with the death-like 
 pallor, the unearthly emaciation of the face — 
 torches set, as it were, in the sockets of a 
 corpse. ' Do you then question my kindness 
 to them ? ' His tone is hard and repellent 
 now. ' What more am I to do for them ? 
 Would you have me kneel at their feet, and 
 do them homas^e ? ' 
 
 ' It merely occurred to me that being so 
 much alone as you are, leading so solitary 
 a hfe — I unfortunately can give you so little 
 of my time — that you might be glad to look 
 upon them as daughters.' 
 
 ' Well, do I not ? Have I not explained 
 to you how desirous I am of making one of 
 them my daughter ? Hah ! I have you there,
 
 222 UNDER-CURRENTS 
 
 I think ! Is not that affection ? Am I not 
 wiUing to receive her? You should best 
 know.' 
 
 'Yes,' says the young man stonily, his 
 eyes on the ground. 
 
 ' Why, look you, I would give her even 
 you ! You ! My son ! My one possession 
 that has any good in it ! ' 
 
 He sits up more erect, and it is almost 
 terrible to see the flash of passionate affection 
 that for a moment illumines his wicked old 
 face. Seeing it, one would find it impossible 
 to doubt that the sole, supreme passion of his 
 life is centred in his son. Seaton, as if a little 
 surprised by this strange outburst, lifts his 
 head and regards him steadily. 
 
 ' Yes — yes ; I would welcome her as a 
 
 daughter if When, a week ago, you 
 
 told me you were willing to fall in with my 
 wishes and make that girl your wife, it was
 
 UNDER-CURRENTS 223 
 
 one of the happiest moments in my hfe — the 
 happiest for many a long year.' He sinks 
 back in his chair, and a low moaning sound 
 escapes him. Is it for those troublous years 
 in which no light lay ? Then he rouses him- 
 self again, and stooping forward looks eagerly 
 at his son. ' Well, and how goes it, Seaton ? 
 how speeds your wooing ? Eh, eh ? Have 
 you made progress, eh .^ ' 
 
 The expression on the greedy old face as 
 it approaches his own seems almost too much 
 for the younger man at this moment. Pushing 
 back his chair with a rather violent movement 
 he rises to his feet. 
 
 ' None,' he answers coldly. 
 
 Once again a flash of life, vindictive this 
 time, lights the parchment face. 
 
 ' You mean ' he says, a growing fury 
 
 in his eyes. 
 
 ' That you must put that idea out of your
 
 224 UNDER-CURRENTS 
 
 head once for all. I could not combat a 
 dislike active as hers.' 
 
 ' Her dislike ? Hers ? That beggar ! ' his 
 face working. 'What d'ye mean, sir? I tell 
 you it shall be ! Shall ! ' 
 
 ' Talking like that will not mend matters. 
 It certainly will not alter the fact that I myself 
 personally am objectionable to her. I can see 
 that it is almost as much as she can do to be 
 civil to me — to sit at the same table with me. 
 I entreat you not to set your heart upon this 
 thing, for it can never be.' 
 
 ' I tell you again that it shall I ' shrieks 
 the old man violently. ' What ! is the cherished 
 dream of a lifetime to be set aside to suit the 
 whim of a girl, a penniless creature? She 
 shall be your wife, I swear it, though I have 
 to crush the consent out of her.' 
 
 It would be impossible to describe the 
 cruel frenzy with which he says this, clenching
 
 UNDER-CURRENTS 225 
 
 his hands as though he had her within them, 
 the small exquisitely shaped hand, delicate yet 
 so lithe and strong withal, and in such strange 
 keeping with the rest of the frail frame. 
 
 ' You seem to have left me altogether out 
 of it,' says Seaton gravely, shocked at his 
 horrible vehemence. ' Pray try to be calm, 
 and consider how the case stands. The con- 
 sent being wrung from her as you describe, 
 and an unwilling wife flung into my arms, 
 will you tell me what I am to do with her ? ' 
 
 ' Tread her underfoot, rule her with a rod 
 of iron,' says the old man with unabated rage. 
 ' All women are false — false as hell ! Show 
 them no mercy.' 
 
 ' All women are not as some,' says Seaton 
 coldly. ' Many may be false, as you describe 
 them, but Vera is not of that order. I would 
 stake my soul upon her honesty ! ' He frowns 
 heavily as he says this, and a quick breath 
 
 VOL. I. Q
 
 226 UNDER-CURRENTS 
 
 parts his lips. ' As for this discussion ' — slowly 
 
 — ' it is idle. I abandon all thought, all ' 
 
 he pauses, and then continues in a lower tone, 
 * all hope of ever making her my wife ! ' 
 
 ' You give it up ? You will not help me ? ' 
 exclaims Dysart, starting to his feet. ' Do 
 you know what this means to me ? Life or 
 death ! Have you considered that I can dis- 
 inherit you ? And I will do it. I swear by 
 Heaven I will leave you penniless as she is, 
 if you refuse me your support in this matter. 
 Look here, sir ' — his eyes seem starting from 
 his sockets, a little foam has gathered at his 
 lips. The madness born of the accumulated, 
 miserable, burning thoughts of many years — 
 thoughts without channel for outlet — is nearly 
 
 on him now. ' I curse — I curse ' He 
 
 falls back clumsily into his chair a huddled 
 heap. 
 
 Seaton in an agony of remorse and fear
 
 UNDER-CURRENTS 227 
 
 liangs over him, compelling him to swallow a 
 cordial lying on the table near. 
 
 ' Hear, sir ! Be patient. All shall be as 
 you wish. I implore you to think no more of 
 this matter. Yes,' in answer to the fiery eyes 
 now more ghastly than ever in the pallid, 
 powerless face, ' I shall try my best to fulfil 
 your desire.' He feels sick at heart as he says 
 this, and almost despicable, but can he let the 
 old man die for want of a word to appease 
 the consuming rage that has brought death 
 hovering with outstretched wings above him ? 
 And yet, of what avail is it all ? A momentary 
 appeasement. Even as he comforts and re- 
 stores his father, there rises before his mental 
 vision that pale, proud, sorrowful face that is 
 all the world to him, and yet, alas, so little ! 
 
 The paroxysm over, Seaton draws his 
 father into other grooves, and so leads him 
 farther and farther afield, until the dangerous 
 
 Q 2
 
 228 UNDER-CURRENTS 
 
 topic is, he hopes, for the time being at least, 
 forgotten. Yet the hope is fallacious. Dysart, 
 satisfied with the promise wrung from his son 
 not to renounce his hope of making Vera his 
 wife, is clever enough to know that as dropping 
 water wears away a stone, so is nagging death 
 to the fulfihiient of some desires. Perhaps, 
 too, a little feebleness working in that wonder- 
 ful mind warns him to give it a rest. 
 
 ' How are you getting on with your work ? ' 
 he asks presently, hardly a trace of his late 
 agitation in his voice. 'Clients dropping in, 
 eh?' 
 
 ' Pretty well,' says Seaton disparagingly, 
 with however something in his tone that says 
 he could say more an' he would — more to his 
 credit, did not modesty forbid. 
 
 ' That's well. That's right,' says Dysart, 
 rubbing his palms together in a nervous fever- 
 ish way. ' For there's little money here, I may
 
 UNDER-CURRENTS 229 
 
 tell you. All swallowed up by these thieving 
 rascals round me. Only last week a huge 
 bill, an iniquitous bill, came in from one of 
 the tenants. Eepairs — repairs always is their 
 cry. They are like the horse leech and his 
 daughters. And then there are your cousins ! 
 You think they do not count, that meat for 
 one means meat for two, but that is because 
 you understand nothing. I'm beggared be- 
 tween them all, I tell you. I'm a poor man, 
 Seaton — a very poor man.' The wretched 
 voice dwindles almost into a whine. 
 
 ' Yes — I think I do understand,' says 
 Seaton, with wonderful composure. He even 
 manages to smile kindly at the extremely un- 
 pleasant father with whom nature has en- 
 dowed him ; yet it is by a supreme effort only 
 that he keeps back the unfilial sense of loath- 
 ing that fills him. It is all so pitiful, so poor, 
 so false. The old man trembling on the
 
 230 UNDER CURRENTS 
 
 brink of the grave that yawns ready for him, 
 dinging with greedy hands to the gold that 
 he yet dreads to acknowledge, lest he be de- 
 frauded of it ; an old man fabulously rich 
 through long years of saving, who yet grudges 
 to his orphan nieces a morsel of bread ! 
 ■ A sensation of sickness takes hold of 
 Seaton. Eising rather abruptly, he mutters 
 an excuse or two and quits the room.
 
 UNDER-CURRENTS 231 
 
 CHAPTER XYI. 
 
 Strong are the instincts with which God has guarded the 
 sacredness of marriage. 
 
 Vera having made up her mind to go to her 
 uncle and fully explain to him that neither 
 she nor Griselda desire any change in their 
 way of living, waits patiently for Seaton's 
 departure from his father's den, and now, 
 at last, seeing the coast clear, goes quickly 
 forward, as if afraid lest her determination 
 should weaken. 
 
 ' Uncle Gregory, I wish to say something 
 to you,' she is beginning hurriedly, hating her 
 task and hating her hearer, when suddenly 
 she is interrupted. 
 
 ' Hah ! For the first time, let me say, I
 
 232 UNDER-CURRENTS 
 
 am glad to see you,' says the old man grimly. 
 ' Hitherto I have been remiss, I fear, in such 
 minor matters of etiquette. Sit down. I, 
 too, have something to say to you.' 
 
 That she is in for a severe scolding be- 
 cause of Seaton's attempt at interference on 
 her and Griselda's behalf, becomes a certainty 
 to Miss Dysart, as she draws forward an ex- 
 tremely shaky chair, and cautiously seats- 
 herself upon it. 
 
 ' You cannot be more annoyed than I 
 
 am ' she is beginning faintly, when once 
 
 again he strikes in. 
 
 ' Who is annoyed .^ ' he demands fiercely,, 
 shaking his head at her. ' Tush, girl, I've 
 heard enough about your grievances. There 
 are a few other things in the world to be con- 
 sidered. Attend to me.' Here he fixes his 
 piercing eyes on lier and says sharply, ' You 
 have met mv son several times ? '
 
 UNDER-CURRENTS 233 
 
 ' Yes,' says Vera slowly, being still 
 possessed by the idea that she is about to 
 receive a reprimand. 
 
 ' You like him ? ' with a watchful glance. 
 
 ' I can hardly say so much,' coldly. ' He 
 is neither more nor less than a complete 
 stranger to me.' 
 
 ' As yet. Time will cure that ; and I 
 speak thus early to you because it is well that 
 you should make up your mind beforehand 
 to like him.' 
 
 Something in his tone compels Vera to 
 turn more directly towards him. 
 
 ' Why ? ' she asks. 
 
 ' Because in him you see your future hus- 
 band.' 
 
 There is a dead pause. The old man sits 
 with bright unblinking eyes fixed upon the 
 girl, who has risen to her feet and is staring 
 back at him as if hardly daring to understand.
 
 234 UNDER.CURRENTS 
 
 From red to white, from white to red she 
 grows ; her breath fails her, passionate indig- 
 nation burns hot within her breast. Then 
 suddenly she throws her anger from her as 
 unworthy, and faces her uncle with a steady 
 gaze. 
 
 - ' Absurd ! ' she says contemptuously. 
 
 ' Call it so, if you will,' with an offended 
 flash from his dark eyes, ' but regard it as 
 a fact for all that. You will marry your 
 cousin, let me assure you.' 
 
 ' That I certainly shall not,' decisively. 
 
 ' That you certainly shall.' 
 
 ' Do not compel me to contradict you 
 again,' says Vera with dignity. ' Try to 
 understand that no living power shall make 
 me marry anyone against my will.' 
 
 ' A dead power may, however. Did you 
 not know that your marriage with my son
 
 UNDER-CURRENTS 235 
 
 was the last wish, the last command of your 
 father ? ' 
 
 He is lying well, so well that at first the 
 girl forgets to doubt him. 
 
 ' My father ? ' she says with much amaze- 
 ment. ' He never so much as mentioned my 
 cousin's name to me.' 
 
 ' To me, however, he did. Do you wish 
 to see the letter ? ' 
 
 This is a bold stroke. Yera hesitates — 
 then, ' JSTo,' says she steadily. ' Even if my 
 father did express such a wish, I should not 
 for a moment accede to it. I shall not marry 
 to please anyone, dead or living, except my- 
 self.' 
 
 The colour has flamed again into her 
 white cheeks, and she has unconsciously but 
 haughtily thrown back her head. Eesolution 
 is so strongly marked on every feature that
 
 236 UNDER-CURRENTS 
 
 for a second or two Mr. Dysart tastes of the 
 bitterness of defeat. Only the taste, however. 
 Presently he rallies. What ! is he so easily to 
 be induced to abandon the scheme of his life, 
 to give up the one thing to which a late con- 
 science clings as its salve for all the ill-spent 
 past, when it lay dormant ? A thousand times, 
 no ! He feels as if he could shout aloud that 
 defiant monosyllable. Surely, frail as he seems, 
 as he is, the power, the will, in him to force 
 the wills of others is not yet dead. 
 
 ' You take high ground,' he says with a 
 sneer. ' You defy me I You refuse to give 
 ear to the sacred command of a dead father ! 
 Why? For what weighty purpose do you 
 thus array yourself against me ? What fault 
 do you find in my son ? ' 
 
 ' I have not studied him,' with a curl of 
 her short upper lip. ' It is a matter of the 
 purest indifierence to me whether he be im-
 
 UNDER-CURRENTS 237 
 
 maculate or " a sinner above all the Gali- 
 leans."' 
 
 ' You confess, then, you do not know 
 him ? By your own showing he is an utter 
 stranger to you. His smallest vices and vir- 
 tues are unknown. When, therefore, you do 
 know him ' 
 
 ' I shall still be as determined as I am to- 
 day never to marry him.' 
 
 ' And why ? Surely, most sapient damsel, 
 you have a good reason for this most un- 
 reasonable determination ? ' As he speaks 
 there is an expression on his face that says he 
 would gladly kill her where she stands if 
 only he dared. Vera, seeing it, smiles bitterly 
 to herself, but not for a second does she quail 
 before it. There is enough of his own blood 
 in her to uphold her in this hour. 
 
 ' I have endured enough already through 
 my own family,' she says in a low tone, but
 
 238 UNDER-CURRENTS 
 
 distinctly. ' I refuse to link myself further 
 with it.' 
 
 ' How dare you, girl ? ' cries her uncle, 
 flinging off all restraint and letting the fury 
 that is consuming him have way. ' How dare 
 you stand thus before me and insult me to 
 my face ? Fool, do you indeed believe that 
 what I have set my mind upon can be lightly 
 thrust aside to suit the pleasure of a perverse 
 child? If you will not regard my plan for 
 your future well-being from a kindly side, 
 think then of the advantages to yourself to 
 be derived therefrom — the wealth, the posi- 
 tion that will accrue to you from the union I 
 offer you.' 
 
 ' Do not dream that you can tempt me,' 
 says she, scorn now upon her beautiful lips. 
 ' I think only of the fact that he is your son. 
 What wealth could compensate me for that ? ' 
 
 If she had expected an outburst after this,
 
 UNDER-CURRENTS 239 
 
 that would put an end to the interview, she is 
 disappointed. Mr. Dysart, on the contrary, 
 seems to grow calmer and regards her more 
 with attention. 
 
 ' Insolence does not touch me,' he said 
 quietly. 'It does not affect me at all. In 
 spite of your ill-advised and singularly rude 
 speech I would still recommend you to take 
 to heart the offer I make you. Marry my 
 son, and in time you will be richer than 
 most.' (It is singular that in his wild desire 
 to win his cause he had forgotten his usual 
 role of poor man.) ' You are a woman ; all 
 such are mercenary. Think, therefore! I 
 desire you once more to consider how such 
 a marriage will improve your prospects.' 
 
 ' What I am considering,' returns she 
 slowly, 'is the strangeness of it all. Your 
 anxiety, your overpowering anxiety to marry 
 your son to — a pauper ! '
 
 240 UNDER-CURRENTS 
 
 She speaks the word with accentuated 
 bitterness. She has not forgotten it. It had 
 clung to her hurt memory during all these 
 days, these weeks spent in this hateful house. 
 As she says it, however, she is a little startled 
 by the sudden change that overspreads the 
 old man's face. An odd change ; not anger, 
 not shame, but one of sickening fear ! 
 
 It endures for so short a time that almost 
 Vera persuades herself it has not been ; but 
 later on the memory of it haunts her. 
 
 ' That surprises you,' he says quickly, in a 
 suave tone, the friendliest she has ever yet 
 heard from him. ' But you must remember 
 — as I hinted to you just now — that your 
 marriage with my son was a pet scheme of 
 your father's and mine, before he died, and I 
 am not accustomed to have my stated wishes 
 disobeyed. Hence any haste or anger I may 
 have displayed.'
 
 UNDER-CURRENTS 241 
 
 ' I am very sorry for that,' icily, ' as this 
 wish of yours ' — a very shght emphasis — 
 ' will most certainly be disobeyed.' 
 
 'So you now think. We shall see,' re- 
 turns he in a tone as icy. He rises to his 
 feet and points to the door. ' Go, and think 
 it over.' 
 
 ' I need not ; it is unworthy of a single 
 thought. I am not your slave, sir, that you 
 shall command or coerce me.' She pauses 
 half-way to the door and looks back at him. 
 ' One question,' she says. ' May I ask if — 
 if your son is aware of this arrangement ? ' 
 
 * I have spoken to him of it,' says Dysart 
 after a second's thought. 
 
 ' And is he willing to — to — oh, it is 
 abominable ! ' cries the girl with a shudder of 
 shame that shakes all her slight body. She 
 bites her lips cruelly in an effort to suppress 
 
 VOL. I. R
 
 242 UNDER-CURRENTS 
 
 the fierce storm of indignation that threatens 
 to overcome her. 
 
 ' My son is wilhng,' says Mr. Dysart 
 slowly. 
 
 For a moment she tells herself that he is 
 lying. No ; even though he be that old 
 man's son, even though at this moment she 
 feels again the same strange shrinking from 
 him that always seizes her when in his pre- 
 sence, she cannot believe Seaton so altogether 
 base. Certainly her uncle had forsworn him- 
 .self when he spoke of her father's desire to 
 ^ee her married to her cousin. If once he 
 lied, why not twice? Is Seaton to be so 
 ^exonerated or not ? 
 
 At this moment the door is thrown open 
 and Seaton himself enters.
 
 UNDER-CURRENTS 243 
 
 CHAPTEE XYII. 
 
 Judge not ; the workings of his brain 
 And of his heart thou canst not see. 
 
 He gives a quick glance first at lier pale, dis- 
 turbed face, then at his father's. Something 
 in his tells her all. 
 
 ' You knew ! ' she cries. Her tone is low, 
 but each word rings clear as a bell through 
 the cool silence of the darkened room. ' You 
 knew ! ' 
 
 If the saving of his very soul had depended 
 on it, Seaton could not have answered her just 
 then. He did know. And the thought that 
 his father, his own father, should have so 
 desecrated the happy ignorance of her heart 
 strikes him cold and dumb. His father ! In 
 
 R 2
 
 244 UNDER-CURRENTS 
 
 that lies the sting. Would it be possible for 
 her ever after to separate the two — would not 
 she rather bracket them in her detestation ? 
 It was a cursedly cruel thing of the old man 
 to do, and has slain more than her peace of 
 mind. 
 
 • She has drawn closer to him, and is gazing 
 at him with remorseless eyes. 
 
 ' Oh, coward ! ' she breathes very low, her 
 slender hands clenched. 
 
 Again he would have spoken, have made 
 some defence, however poor, but words are 
 denied him ; he can think of, can see, only 
 those dark contemptuous eyes looking into 
 his, the sad reproachfid mouth, the broad 
 pure brow, on which the ripphng curls lie 
 lightly, lovingly. 
 
 ' Was it not enough,' she says, still in that 
 same clear penetrating voice, ' enough that I 
 was unhappily, so unhappily, dependent on
 
 UiXDER-CURRENTS 245 
 
 you ? You knew me to be here, defenceless, 
 homeless, fatherless, in your power, and still 
 you struck ! Oh, through all I did not in my 
 most secret thoughts accuse you of such base- 
 ness as this ! ' 
 
 Eoused from his lethargy and stung by 
 her contempt he would now have made his 
 defence, but with a scornful gesture she 
 waves him aside and leaves the room. 
 
 ' Great Heaven ! how did you dare so to 
 insult her ? ' cries the young man in terrible 
 agitation, addressing his father. He casts a 
 burning glance at him. Dysart cowers be- 
 fore it. 
 
 ' Out of evil comes good,' he says sullenly, 
 ^ and I did it for the best.' He stretches 
 out his hand to his son. ' See then,' he 
 cries entreatingly, 'I did it for you — for 
 
 you! 
 
 ' For me ! You ruin the one hope I had,
 
 246 UNDER-CURRENT S 
 
 which meant silence — time — and you say it 
 was for my good ! ' 
 
 ' I thought to compel her, to frighten her 
 into consent, and I will yet,' cries he eagerly. 
 * Nay, Seaton, do not look thus upon me. I 
 have not betrayed you without meaning and 
 all for the fulfilling of your desire — and mine ! ' 
 
 ' To-day you were annoyed with me be- 
 cause your scheme was failing,' says Seaton, 
 very pale, ' but it is you yourself who have 
 now put a final stop to it.' 
 
 ' Not so, boy,' with a frown. ' What ! d'ye 
 think she can conquer me ? Nay, I know 
 women. A few whimpers, a few" tears, a 
 calhng upon the heaven above to come to 
 their succour, a heaven deaf and blind and 
 dumb, mind you — and then — submission^ and 
 then ' 
 
 He breaks off with a sinister chuckle. 
 
 ' You misunderstand me,' says Seaton,
 
 UNDER-CURRENTS 247 
 
 curbing liis passion with difficulty. ' I would 
 not have her as a gift on such terms. Is it 
 a slave I want, think you ? No, not another 
 word ! I cannot stand it to-night. Forgive 
 me, father, if I seem abrupt, but ' 
 
 He seems heartbroken as he turns aside 
 and disappears through the doorway. 
 
 Long after he has gone the old man sits 
 motionless, his head bowed upon his breast. 
 
 ' Curse her ! ' he says at last, ' the same 
 blood all through, and always to my undoing ! 
 Cursed be her lot indeed if she comes between 
 him and me ! But that shall never be.' 
 
 He walks feebly up and down the room, 
 leaning on his staff, the dark inscrutable eyes 
 fixed upon the floor. Presently he turns 
 aside, and passing through a door on his right 
 hand gropes his way along the unlit passage 
 until he comes to another and smaller door 
 that brings him to the corridor that runs by
 
 248 UNDER-CURRENTS 
 
 the western end of the house. Unlocking and 
 entering an apartment here, that apartment 
 where the strange old cabinet stands, he 
 fastens the door securely behind him, and 
 goes quickly up to it. 
 
 Kneeling down beside it he unlocks the 
 secret door, and taking out the withered 
 parchment opens and reads it with a feverish 
 haste. It seems as though he hopes thus to 
 slake the raging thirst for reveno'e that is tor- 
 menting him. 
 
 Long he kneels thus, conning each word 
 with curious care, gloating over the contents 
 of that mysterious document. So lost is he 
 in his perusal of it, that he fails to hear the 
 approach of Mrs. Grunch until she lays her 
 hand upon his shoulder. 
 
 ' What, don't you know it by heart yet .^ ' 
 asks she derisively.
 
 UNDER-CURRENTS 249 
 
 Meantime Vera has rushed upstairs to her 
 room ; her brain seems on fire ; her thoughts 
 refuse to concentrate themselves. Fhnging 
 herself into a low chair she takes her head 
 into her hands and presses her trembling 
 fingers convulsively against lier forehead. 
 
 Oh, the indignity, the horror, the shame 
 of it all ! Her temples are throbbing, a low 
 dry sob escapes her. She is deeply thankful 
 that Griselda has gone cut — not even to her 
 could she have spoken just now — she could 
 not have explained this thing, she could not 
 endure the look in the girl's face as she 
 heard it. 
 
 And that last speech of the old man's — 
 that crowned all ! It was in keeping with the 
 sorry scene. ' My son is willing.' Willing ! 
 willing to make this hateful sacrifice ! Willing 
 to marry even her to please his father, to 
 curry favour with him lest he fall out of his
 
 250 UNDER-CURRENTS 
 
 good graces, and lose the money that the old 
 man must leave behind him when death 
 strikes. 
 
 Oh, the dastard ! The poor pitiful 
 wretch, thus to sell his manhood, his honour, 
 his whole life, for the sake of paltry gold ! 
 He had paled when he saw her ; he knew 
 then that his contemptible attitude was plain 
 to her, that his father had betrayed him. 
 Some remnant of grace had made his colour 
 fade, and she wondered how he had the 
 courage, the hardihood, to stand there to face 
 her, knowing that she knew all. 
 
 Eising she begins to pace the room with 
 rapid footsteps. 
 
 That it should come to this ! That she 
 should be openly insulted, brought so low 
 that a man should dare to think of her as 
 won before even her consent was asked ! She 
 had dreamed her dreams, as all girls will;
 
 UNDER-CURRENTS 251 
 
 had lingered many a time in fancy over some 
 vague hour in the future, when some vague 
 somebody should be glad, even proud, to win 
 her love — nay, more, should count that love 
 the one great good the earth could give him. 
 And now she is to be delivered up into the 
 hands of a man who has, with many sighs 
 doubtless, and many a frown and deep regret, 
 declared himself willing to burden himself 
 with her for life ! What a touch of resigna- 
 tion lies in the word ! 
 
 Her lip curls. After all they had miscal- 
 culated. They should have chosen some 
 other woman to play that meek part. She 
 pauses suddenly in her rapid walk as though 
 some new strange thought has come to her. 
 Why had she been chosen? Why should a 
 man so miserly as Gregory Dysart elect to 
 wed his son to a girl whom he himself had 
 in choicest language, dubbed a ' pauper ' ?
 
 252 UNDER-CURRENTS 
 
 Surely there must be something in this. And 
 why should the younger man lend himself to 
 such a scheme? Surely some weighty mean- 
 ing was attached to it. There had been 
 little love lost between her father, the elder 
 brother, and Gregory ; therefore no sentimen- 
 tal nonsense could have suggested the idea of 
 a marriage between the cousins to the latter. 
 Sentiment and Gregory Dysart ! She almost 
 laughs aloud at the strange combination she 
 has formed. 
 
 Yet, think as she will, no light comes to 
 her. Backwards and forwards she beats her 
 brains, trying to work out the troublesome 
 problem presented to her, coming always to a 
 mental cul de sac that drives her back upon 
 herself bewildered.
 
 UNDER-CURRENTS 253 
 
 CHAPTER XVIII. 
 
 How do I love thee ? Let me count the ways. 
 I love thee to the depth, the breadth, and height 
 My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight 
 For the ends of Being and ideal Grace. 
 
 It is now close upon noon, and Griselda 
 walking briskly, yet with a carefully indif- 
 ferent air upon her (because he is a wonder- 
 fully ubiquitous person, and it is almost 
 impossible to know round what corner he 
 may not spring himself upon you at a 
 moment's notice), is endeavouring to get 
 what good she can out of the glorious after- 
 noon. 
 
 It is indeed exceptionally lovely. The soft 
 shower that fell an hour ago is now half 
 forgotten, living only in the hearts of the tiny
 
 254 UNDER-CURRENTS 
 
 myriad raindrops that nestle in the flowers 
 and hang here and there from the more 
 secluded branches. The sun is shining forth 
 again with a redoubled brilliancy, and the 
 great hanging clusters of the honeysuckle 
 bursting from bud to blossom, emitting 
 perfumes richer than those of Araby, fill all 
 the air with sweets. 
 
 Daisies pied, and violets blue, 
 And lady-smocks all silver white, 
 And cuckoo-buds of yellow bue — 
 
 all, all are here, with a thousand other gems 
 of Nature's rearing. The sky is streaked with 
 soft blue lines that fade into a world of fleecy 
 whiteness, and against it stand out some giant 
 firs growing upwards from a rocky hill ; 
 whilst through all these comes a rushing 
 tremulous sound, mingling with them yet dis- 
 tinct, that tells of the cool tumbling of waters 
 over stones unseen, and that yet is half
 
 UNDER-CURRENTS 255 
 
 silenced by the glorious pgean that the birds 
 are giving forth from this their leafy home. 
 
 Griselda in her big white sun-bonnet that 
 suits so charmingly her mignonne face, and 
 from out of which her soft eyes glance so 
 coquettishly, looks as if Nature had appro- 
 priated her and made her one with her sur- 
 roundings. Happily unconscious of all that 
 has taken place at Greycourt, she walks 
 merrily onward, drinking in sweet draughts 
 with every step. 
 
 Not that her mind is so free from care 
 either, as she would have you believe. There 
 was that quarrel with Peyton the day before 
 yesterday, in which she cannot think she was 
 altogether blameless, try as she will. An un- 
 comfortable feehng that, if she should chance 
 to meet him to-day, she will be hardly able 
 to present as innocent a front as she would 
 desire, is rendering her nervous ; and even as
 
 256 UNDER-CURRENTS 
 
 she SO thinks, she turns a corner and comes 
 upon that young man standing knee deep in 
 the stream, which here ahnost rises to the 
 dignity of a river, minus boots and stockings, 
 and with his trousers well tucked-up. 
 
 ' Well, really ! ' says Griselda, stopping 
 short and striking a shocked attitude. She 
 could not have argued it out, but it instantly 
 dawns upon her that here is an excellent 
 opportunity of pretending to be offended, and 
 so placing him in the wrong. If she had 
 hoped to abash him, however, by this mode 
 of address, she is decidedly out of it. 
 
 'Oh, how d'ye do?' says he in an un- 
 moved tone, lifting his cap with his dis- 
 engaged hand. 
 
 'Such a position for a gentleman!' says 
 Griselda, drawing nearer to the bank of the 
 stream, which, of course, as she was so 
 terribly shocked, she ought not to have done.
 
 UNDER-CURRENTS 257 
 
 ' Capital one on a hot day,' with increas- 
 in£j nonchalance. 
 
 ' It's not a capital one when I'm present ! ' 
 wrath fully. 
 
 'I couldn't possibly know you would be 
 present. I had entirely given you up. I 
 never expected to see you again.' 
 
 ' Why ? ' 
 
 'You know very well what you said to 
 me when we parted — last month,' says he, 
 chewing the end of a fresh cast very dili- 
 gently. 
 
 ' Last month ! ' 
 
 ' You can call it anything you like. I've 
 no doubt it seems like five minutes ago to 
 you. But, at all events, I remember what 
 you said then — and besides, you didn't come 
 yesterday.' 
 
 ' And do you suppose I am bound to come 
 here every day ? ' demands she with very just 
 
 VOL. I. s
 
 258 UNDER-CURRENTS 
 
 indignation — really he is going to the Fair 
 with the thing. 
 
 ' I don't know what I suppose. Who 
 could argue in the middle of a stream ? ' says 
 Mr. Peyton, making for the bank with all 
 haste. ' There is only one thing of which 
 I'm morally certain, and that is, that you'll 
 break my heart before you've done with me.' 
 
 ' I shan't,' says she ironically ; ' I promise 
 you that.' 
 
 ' You do ? I'll keep you to your word,' 
 returns he grimly. As he speaks, the bank 
 being slippery, he loses his footing and 
 splashes back once more into the water. 
 
 ' You are much more likely to break your 
 leg,' says Griselda scornfully, who is dying to 
 laugh, but that dignity forbids. ' Well ' — as 
 he at last lands on the grass beside her — ' I 
 must say you are a spectacle.' 
 
 ' For gods and men,' supplements he
 
 UNDER-CURRENTS 259 
 
 promptly. ' I regret, of course, that you 
 should have come upon me in this trim, but 
 here are my shoes and socks, and I'll be into 
 them in no time.' 
 
 ' I'm glad you apologised at once,' says 
 she, with a little gleam of unkind sarcasm, 
 ' and may I ask what brought you here ? I 
 did think this spot was unknown to you ; 
 that's why I came here to-day.' 
 
 'Ah, yes. Just so. That's why I came 
 too,' says Mr. Peyton coolly, after a final 
 struggle with his right boot. 
 
 Griselda, too indignant to take notice of 
 this, turns abruptly away and pursues her 
 walk alono^ the eds^e of the stream. Mr. 
 Peyton having now conquered the left boot, 
 follows her, and silently, but with a determi- 
 nation not to be subdued, takes up a position 
 by her side. Of course, to show cither anger 
 or surprise at this would give him an advan-
 
 26o UNDER CURRENTS 
 
 tage ; so Griselda, after a moment's considera- 
 tion, decides upon going in for ordinary 
 society conversation. 
 
 * A charming day, is it not ? ' she asks 
 calmly if not affably. 
 
 ' More than that, surely. A regular hey- 
 day in my estimation,' returns Mr. Peyton 
 mildly. The fact that there is no meaning in 
 this finishes Griselda. There is a struggle 
 strong but brief, and then she bursts into un- 
 controllable mirth. 
 
 ' I have amused you,' says Mr. Peyton, 
 regarding her reproachfully. ' I am to under- 
 stand you laugh at me ? This is adding 
 insult to injury.' Here his own gravity is 
 threatened. ' " Beware the fury of a patient 
 man,"' he says, and then gives way, and 
 breaks into laughter, merry as her own. 
 
 ' Oh, I thought you'd never come,' he 
 says. ' What kept you ? '
 
 UNDER-CURRENTS 261 
 
 ' Ill-temper,' confesses she sweetly. ' That 
 row-royal of ours was too much for me. I 
 didn't get over it until this moment.' 
 
 ' You are a cruel little thing,' says he re- 
 sentfully, whilst looking at her with adoring 
 eyes. 
 
 ' Do you think so ? Oh, I don't,' says she 
 with an unprejudiced air. ' And as for being 
 little, I am nearly as tall as yourself, only for 
 an inch or two.' 
 
 ' That would be a good deal if added to 
 the length of one's nose,' says he reflectively. 
 Perhaps he is thinking of his own nose, 
 which is short indeed, and wishing he could 
 place them there. ' Anyhow, Griselda, you 
 have been cruel.' 
 
 ' I really think, perhaps, that you oughtn't 
 to call me by my christian name,' says she 
 uncertainly. 
 
 ' Well, I won't if I can help it. But when
 
 262 • UNDER-CURRENTS 
 
 one thinks of you so, and so much too 
 
 And, after all, it is great nonsense, all that 
 sort of thing. Long ago there were no sur- 
 names, and how did they manage then ? ' He 
 is growing triumphant. Let her answer that 
 if she can. 
 
 • ' That was in the dark ages ; I do hope 
 you don't want to go back to them,' says 
 she severely. ' And as for what you say, 
 
 would you like every man to call ' She 
 
 checks herself only just in time — ' well, to 
 call your sister, let us say, by her christian 
 name ? ' 
 
 ' I shouldn't like every man or any man 
 to call you by yours,' says he, disdaining pre- 
 tence of any kind, ' but — but I wish you 
 would give me permission, Griselda.' 
 
 ' I'm sure it will be better not,' says 
 Griselda hesitating. ' Of course I shan't mind 
 when you do it by chance, or when you
 
 UNDER-CURRENTS 263 
 
 forget, or when you are in a hurry ; but as a 
 usual thing — no.' 
 
 ' So be it,' says he, in the heartbroken 
 tone lovers assume when denied the smallest 
 trifle. A silence follows upon this. Griselda, 
 having pulled two or three long pieces of 
 grass from a high bank by which she passes 
 — grass so dry and yellow now as to be al- 
 most hay — is occupying herself by drawing 
 them leisurely through her fingers. But 
 even such an enthralling amusement as this 
 will not satisfy for ever. Presently she casts 
 an inquiring glance at him from under the 
 sun-bonnet. 
 
 ' What are you thinking of .^ ' asks she 
 demurely. 
 
 ' Of you,' bluntly. Truly he is a terrible 
 
 person. 
 
 ' Well, what of me ? ' with a resigned 
 sigh.
 
 264 UNDER-CURRENTS 
 
 * Only something I was reading yesterday,' 
 ' What could that have to do with me ? 
 
 Let me hear it, then.' 
 
 ' I don't know, after all, that it had so 
 much to do with you as me.' 
 
 'Is it a riddle ? ' stopping short, and 
 giving him now a rather indignant glance 
 from under the bonnet. 
 
 * Oh, no ; at least, not more so than usual. 
 'Twas poetry,' says he, with beautiful sim- 
 phcity. ' Just a line or two that struck me. 
 Shall I repeat them .^ 
 
 'Love 
 For love's own sake and for the love thereof 
 Let no harsh words untune your gracious mood ; 
 For good it were, if anything be good, 
 To comfort me in this pain's plague of mine.' 
 
 ' I really wish you wouldn't,' says she 
 nervously, when he has made this appeal to 
 her better self in a truly eloquent tone. ' It's 
 quite horrid of you.' Here she edges away 
 from him. ' I've so often told Vera that you
 
 UNDER-CURRENTS 265 
 
 never say things like that, that I feel just as 
 if I were telling lies when you do. And, 
 besides, it's such nonsense. "My gracious 
 mood " — why where does that come in ? ' 
 
 ' Sometimes, at odd moments, you are 
 civil,' says the young man moodily. ' I only 
 wish you could cry them "even" now and 
 again.' 
 
 ' And what is your pain's plague ? ' asks 
 she in a distinctly hilarious manner. ' If 
 standing about in the water for hours has 
 brouE^ht it on, I don't see how I'm to be 
 blamed for it. But I never heard rheumatism 
 called by such an astounding title before.' 
 Here her eyes grow roguish and her lips part. 
 'Besides, it's all wrong,' she says; 'plagues 
 are infectious ; rheumatism, your pain, isn't.' 
 
 'Not so far as you are concerned, cer- 
 tainly,' says he with bitterness. ' No fear 
 you will take it.'
 
 266 UNDER-CURRENTS 
 
 ' You look as if that was matter for re- 
 gret,' says she, peering round at him mis- 
 chievously. ' Oh, what an unkind speech ! 
 Who is " cruel " now ? Would you see me 
 racked with pain ? I don't think, unless I 
 had heard it with my own ears, I should 
 have believed that of you.' 
 
 ' You don't believe it now either,' says he 
 solidly. ' You know my meaning as well as 
 I do. I wonder what you gain by trying to 
 make me miserable? I'm sorry now that I 
 repeated that poetry to you.' 
 
 She laughs. 
 
 ' That's the funniest part of it,' says she 
 (the funniest !) ; ' the idea of your repeating 
 poetry, I mean. You don't look like that.' 
 
 ' Why .^ ' demands he, now very properly 
 incensed. 
 
 • Well, you don't — that's all. And Swin- 
 burne, too, of all people ! I've always heard,'
 
 UNDER-CURRENTS 267 
 
 says she maliciously, ' that people who hke 
 Swinburne are those who have been in love 
 over and over again, and have no heart left 
 to do anything but sneer at honest affec- 
 tion.' 
 
 ' You've heard a good deal,' says he ; ' do 
 you believe it all ? And as for that, Swin- 
 burne is not the only poet I admire. Here ! 
 in spite of your reception of ray first lines, I'll 
 give you two more.' He is regarding her 
 rather defiantly, yet with sorrow in his 
 eyes. 
 
 ^ Joy of my life ! full oft for loving you, 
 I bless my lot, that was so lucky placed.' 
 
 ' What ! Chaucer too ! ' cries she, lifting 
 brows and shoulders in affected astonishment. 
 
 ' Not Chaucer,' says he with an unsmiling 
 eye, ' Spenser.' 
 
 ' Oh, it's all the same,' declares she with 
 quite a noble impartiality.
 
 268 UNDER-CURRENTS 
 
 They have left the denser portions "of the 
 wood rather behind them now, and have come 
 to where the Hght falls with a better hope of 
 being seen. The stream, however, that always 
 follows them, is still here, and the trees beside 
 it are bending down as if heavy with love, 
 and are dipping their long branches into it, as 
 it runs darkly, swiftly by on its way to the 
 ocean. The delicate, pleasant, gurgling noise 
 it makes is as music of the finest and sweetest 
 to the ear, as it rushes with a soft mad haste 
 over its pebbles, throwing out gleaming rays 
 of orange brown and gold as it springs from 
 stone to stone. 
 
 Above them runs a strip of dirty grey 
 that after awhile resolves itself into a road to 
 Griselda's eyes. 
 
 ' Why, we are near the highway,' she says, 
 pausing as if in doubt. 
 
 'A mere private road. One that leads
 
 UNDER-CURRENTS 269 
 
 only to Greycourt,' says he reassuringly, 
 though still coldly. 
 
 'That means privacy indeed,' says she 
 laughing. 'Do you know I never saw it 
 before. Let us go closer that I may know it 
 better.' 
 
 When they have so far reached it that 
 only twenty yards or so divides them from it, 
 Mr. Peyton, whose conversation up to this has 
 been conspicuous by its absence, makes a 
 remark
 
 270 UNDER-CURRENTS 
 
 CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 oil, happiness enjoyed but of a few ! 
 And if possess'd as soon decay'd and done 
 As is the morning's silver melting dew 
 Against the golden splendour of the sun. 
 
 ' Your shoe is untied,' he says slowly, as if 
 fulfilling an unpleasant duty, and with quite 
 an access of gloom. 
 
 'Is it ? What a worry these shoes are ! ' 
 says Griselda, standing still to cast a reproach- 
 ful glance at the ribbons of this troublesome, 
 if charming, shoe. ' I never come out, I 
 never indeed have them on for ^yq minutes 
 without being made absolutely wretched by 
 them.' 
 
 ' Oh, don't think it is so easy to make you 
 wretched,' says he bitterly, his eyes fixed on
 
 UNDER-CURRENTS 271 
 
 the emancipated ribbon that is fluttering in 
 the soft breeze. 
 
 'Well, you see you are wrong,' sharply. 
 And then, more sharply still, ' Aren't you 
 going to tie it ? ' 
 
 ' I really hardly thought you would allow 
 me,' says he, and with an extremely ill grace 
 he drops upon his knee before her and 
 proceeds to reduce the fluttering ribbons to 
 order. 
 
 Apparently, simple as it seems, it takes an 
 enormous time to do this. The tying of an 
 ordinary bow knot, one would imagine, being 
 an act of everyday occurrence, could not 
 occupy the better part of fiye minutes in the 
 doing of it, yet so it is. All ye who are 
 ignorant of the matter learn now this won- 
 drous fact, that it took Mr. Peyton, who was 
 by no means a dunderhead, quite the twelfth 
 part of an hour to bring the younger Miss
 
 272 UNDER-CURRENTS 
 
 Dysart's shoe strings into a proper frame of 
 mind. 
 
 It is not carelessness either that has ren- 
 dered his movements slow. To the most in- 
 attentive observer it must be plain that he 
 has thrown his whole soul into his task, yet it 
 seems difficult of completion. 
 
 ' Don't you think it would be wise to call 
 in assistance ? ' suggests she sweetly after a 
 bit. ' It seems a little too much for you.' 
 
 Something in her tone kills within him all 
 animosity. He laughs. 
 
 ' Griselda/ says he, still kneeling and look- 
 ing up at her with imploring eyes, ' tell me 
 you didn't mean what you said to me.' 
 
 ' About that string getting the better of 
 you? Tm sorry,' with a regretful shake of 
 her head. ' But how am I to go back of it ? 
 You must see for yourself that it is true. 
 Why, you haven't conquered if yet.'
 
 UNDER-CURRENTS 273 
 
 ' Nonsense ! You know I don't mean that. 
 
 But I say, Griselda, if you only knew 
 
 what a kind little lovely face you have got 
 you wouldn't belie it. Do say you didn't 
 mean what you said when we parted the day 
 before yesterday ! ' 
 
 ' Good Heavens ! ' says Griselda, ' you 
 might as well say the day before you were 
 born and be done with it. How am I to re- 
 member so far back as that ? ' 
 
 ' Yet you do remember,' persists he, ' and 
 if you don't I'll remind you. It ' 
 
 ' Oh no, don't ! ' hastily, with determina- 
 tion. 
 
 'Yes, I certainly shall. You said you 
 
 were absolutely certain that you would never 
 
 ike me very much better than you did then.' 
 
 ' I'm sorry again,' says Griselda demurely. 
 But I'm afraid I can't go back of that either.* 
 
 ' You must,' decisively. 
 
 VOL. I. T
 
 274 UNDER-CURRENTS 
 
 ' " Must " is for the king, and '' shall " is 
 for the queen,' retorts she saucily, ' and I 
 have yet to learn that you are the proud 
 possessor of a crown. Who then shall make 
 me?' 
 
 ' I shall,' declares Mr. Peyton, dread mean- 
 ing in his eye. ' To begin with, I shall keep 
 you here until you retract in full. I shall,' 
 suiting the action to the word, 'hold on to 
 this shoe ribbon until you have gone back of 
 every word you then said.' 
 
 ' If I stayed here until to-morrow's dawn 
 — if I stayed here for ever, I shouldn't do 
 that,' returns she hotly. 
 
 ' All right. I'm perfectly willing to stay 
 here for ever.' 
 
 ' I wouldn't be silly if I were you,' says 
 she, trying to move the foot in prison without 
 result, and growing a trifle uneasy. Of 
 course he doesn't mean it, but still — 'Mr.
 
 UNBER-CURRENTS 275 
 
 Peyton,' with a sudden touch of hauteur, ' let 
 me go at once ! ' 
 
 She stamps rather angrily with the 
 unfettered foot upon the ground and threatens 
 him with a pair of lovely indignant eyes, that 
 flash all sorts of reprisals ; but Peyton, who 
 is surely brave above his fellows, returns her 
 glance unmoved and holds on manfully to the 
 other — the captured foot. 
 
 It is rather an absurd position, no doubt, 
 but the situation has its compensations ; it 
 leaves him at least, as he fondly believes, 
 master of the field, and he clings to it — the 
 foot — with a Spartan fervour not to be 
 shaken. 
 
 'I have you now at all events,' he says 
 grimly, giving the ribbon he is holding a little 
 vicious pull just for the satisfaction of show- 
 ing her how completely she is in his power. 
 How can she run away without her foot.^
 
 276 UNDER-CURRENTS 
 
 Alas, for his hopes ! and oh, for the 
 ingenuity of the feebler, the woman's mind. 
 
 * Have you, indeed ! ' cries she, impetuous 
 anger in her tone, and then there is a 
 little swift movement on lier part, a tiny 
 wriggle of her whole pretty svelte body as 
 it were, and lo ! in a moment she is 
 many yards away from him, whilst he still 
 kneels, verily in the dust of humiliation, 
 gazing at something in his hand. It is 
 the shoe, the husk, the empty worthless 
 shell! 
 
 ' So now ! ' cries she triumphantly. All 
 her ill- humour has gone from her in a flasli. 
 Her gayest, merriest, most provoking, and 
 therefore most attractive mood, is on her. 
 ' Who singes small now, eh ? Who calls me 
 captive ? Pouf, a fig for your masterful 
 ways ! I'm not conquered yet.' 
 
 She dancGO with absolute crlee in tlie
 
 UNDER-CURRENTS 277 
 
 centre of that lucklessly open bit of sward, 
 forgetful of the high-road beyond. The warm, 
 sweet sunbeams dance with her as if over- 
 joyed at her beauty and youth, and the music 
 of the birds in the glade behind seems to 
 make one delicious sound with her merry 
 laughter. 
 
 ' Oh, don't do that ! ' cries Peyton 
 anxiously, springing to his full height. 
 ' Think of your foot without its shoe. There 
 may be stones about. It may get hurt. See, 
 here is your shoe, I give in, I give it up. Let 
 me put it on for you.' 
 
 ' I thank you ; no,' says she. ' What ! 
 trust you again ? ' 
 
 ' You might,' says he. 
 
 ' Pas si bete I I'll trust you never again,' 
 declares she, retiring as he advances. 
 ' Throw me my shoe, I can put it on for 
 myself very easily. There are not many
 
 278 UNDER-CURRENTS 
 
 maids at Greycourt to attend on me. Uncle 
 Gregory ' 
 
 The word freezes on her hps. Had she 
 invoked that dread old man ? A sound that 
 they had been madly oblivious of up to this 
 now strikes like thunder on their ears, as, his 
 senses sharpened by Griselda's look of terror, 
 Peyton turns his eyes towards the road. 
 There, seated in the old barouche that jingles 
 as it goes, and holds together no man knows 
 how, is Mr. Dysart ! his white corpse-like 
 face showing clear against the massive foliage 
 behind, his brilliant eyes fixed on Griselda. 
 There is a stretch of road behind him open to 
 where they stand, so that he must have seen 
 many things of wdiich they would willingly 
 have left him in ignorance. He must indeed 
 have seen Peyton as he knelt at Griselda's 
 feet. 
 
 It is all over presently. A turn of the
 
 UNDER-CURRENTS 279 
 
 road takes liim out of view, but the mischief 
 is accomphshed, and the bad deeds that they 
 have done will surely live to be heard con- 
 siderably more about later on. 
 
 ' He saw me ! I noticed the glitter in his 
 horrid eyes,' says Griselda fearfully, the tears 
 gathering in her own. ' Oh, what shall I 
 do?' 
 
 ' He's old, he must be short-sighted,' says 
 Mr. Peyton, with a feeble glimmering of hope 
 that o'oes out next moment. 
 
 ' Blind ! He'd see through a stone wall. 
 He'd see through you,' says the younger 
 Miss Dysart miserably ; and then, as if in 
 after-thought, • that would not be hard for 
 him,' 
 
 ' Look here, never mind him ; I'll go back 
 with you and explain all. You shan't be 
 made unhappy by anyone,' says Peyton 
 stoutly, to whose honest heart it is agony to
 
 28o UNDER-CURRENTS 
 
 think of his well-beloved being in this sore 
 strait. 
 
 ' WelJ, and what then ? ' says she, 
 regarding him with growing surprise. Is he 
 in earnest ? Has he no conception of what 
 sort of person her Uncle Gregory is ? ' What 
 will you say to him ? What good can you or 
 anyone do ? Oh, what a scolding I shall get ! 
 What on earth shall I do ? ' Her eyes, 
 lovely eyes that should know only happiness, 
 are filling fast with tears. 
 
 ' Say to him ? ' cries Mr. Peyton forcibly. 
 ' I'll just say that I love you, that you are no 
 man's slave to be scolded or abused, and — 
 if you'll only come, darling — that I'll take 
 you away and marry you. Where will the 
 scolding come in then ? ' radiantly. 
 
 Griselda regards him for a little while 
 with unspeakable astonishment. 
 
 ' Oh,' says she at last, ' what a pity it is
 
 UNDER-CURRENTS 281 
 
 that you were not born with even one spark 
 of sense ! ' 
 
 Hurrying home, and gaining it without 
 meeting anybody — a mercy she beheved 
 would have been denied her — Griselda rushes 
 up to the bedroom that is hers and Yera's, 
 only to find that its welcome shelter is 
 debarred her. The door is locked. 
 
 Once — twice — she softly hammers with 
 her knuckles on the panel of it, without 
 answer of any kind. Then she calls aloud, 
 though in a subdued tone, on Vera. Almost 
 immediately the door is unlocked from inside, 
 and Vera herself stands on the threshold. 
 
 But such a changed Vera — a Vera so 
 white, so terribly altered, that Griselda's 
 already frightened spirit now dies wirthin 
 her. 
 
 ' Vera, what is it ? What has happened?'
 
 282 UNDER-CURRENTS 
 
 cries slie, catching her sister's arm and re- 
 garding lier with eager, anxious eyes. 
 
 ' Happened ? ' says Vera, so absently, yet 
 with such miserable eyes, that Griselda grows 
 doubly fearful. 
 
 ' Oh, what is it ? Do speak, darling ! ' 
 she entreats, with such an agony of appre- 
 hension in her tone that Yera shakes off her 
 depression so far as to be able to give her a 
 satisfactory answer. 
 
 ' It is really nothing,' she says bitterly. 
 ' A mere trifle. It only means that they are 
 going to marry me, whether I like it or not, 
 to — to Seaton ! ' 
 
 Something in her manner that is wild 
 and very unhappy touches Griselda even 
 more than this extraordinary announcement. 
 Drawing her down on the sofa near her she 
 encircles her with her arms. 
 
 ' Surely you exaggerate ? ' she says.
 
 UNDER-CURRENTS 283 
 
 ' Why, for one thing, let them make what 
 arrangements they will, there is no law that 
 can carry them out. And as for us, darling, 
 why, we can go away, you and I, and fend 
 for ourselves one way or another ; or even if 
 we stay, why, there is no power on earth that 
 can compel anyone to say Yes, at the altar, so 
 long as they have breath left them to shout 
 a good sensible No. So you keep up heart, 
 and remember I'm here.' 
 
 ' Oh, Griselda, oh, if you had heard him ! ' 
 She begins to tremble softly like an aspen 
 leaf, and then suddenly she flings her arms 
 around Griselda's neck and bursts into a 
 passion of tears. 
 
 ' That's right ! That will make you feel 
 better. What an old wretch he is ! There 
 now, darling, poor darling ! There now, 
 there ! ' 
 
 It is plainly part of Griselda's faith, that
 
 284 UNDER-CURRENTS 
 
 soft rubbings and tender pattings of the back, 
 mingled witli kisses, are full of healing power, 
 because she administers all these with a 
 liberal mind. By degrees, and through many- 
 sobs. Vera — helped out, no doubt, by 
 Griselda's medicinal course — reveals to her 
 all that had taken place in the afternoon. 
 
 ' Well, I am surprised about Seaton,' says 
 Griselda presently. ' But are you sure you 
 are not mistaken? He may have been led 
 into it by that wily old father of his. I 
 would not condemn him altogether, if I were 
 you, until I had heard something more of 
 it.' 
 
 ' I want to hear nothing more ; I know. 
 Did I not always tell you thei-e was reason 
 for my strange dislike to him ? Whenever I 
 saw him I felt as if I were shrinking into 
 myself. I felt, do you see, that I should 
 suffer indignity at his hands. I was right ;
 
 UNDER-CURRENTS 285 
 
 such strong presentiments must bear fruit — 
 bitter fruit in this instance.' 
 
 ' Still, Seaton — if it had been anyone else,' 
 says Griselda, in a puzzled tone. ' He seems 
 so unlike that sort of thing.' 
 
 At this Vera loses patience. 
 
 ' If you are going to defend him,' she says, 
 with a touch of asperity, ' I had far rather 
 you went away and left me to myself.' 
 
 ' I can't,' says Griselda, remembering how 
 she rushed along the corridor to escape notice, 
 and how here in this room is her one chance 
 of safety. Up to this, lost in astonished con- 
 cern for her sister, she had most unselfishly 
 put her own trouble behind her, but now 
 it looks out at her with redoubled strength. 
 ' If you are unhappy, so am I. Honestly, 
 Vera, I don't know what on earth I shall 
 do!' 
 
 All the consolation she could have offered
 
 286 UNDER-CURRENTS 
 
 would not have done Vera as much good as 
 this hint. It rouses her. 
 
 ' You in trouble too ! ' she says, looking 
 up with interest in her sad eyes ; and 
 presently — Griselda being only too glad to 
 unburden herself — she is in full possession of 
 all the facts of Griselda's latest escapade. 
 
 ' What will be the end of it ? ' asks Griselda. 
 'Murder? Suicide? Will he kill me, or 
 shall I kill him, or shall I make away with 
 myself? I feel that would be the most 
 considerate thing. Oh, when I think of 
 Uncle Gregory's face, I feel as if I should like 
 to have a bad fever that would confine me to 
 my room for six v/eeks. He is so old that 
 Tm sure he is afraid of infection.' 
 
 'He must have gone out driving shortly 
 after I left him. After all, Griselda, he is so 
 taken up with this precious scheme of his, 
 that perhaps he will forget about you.'
 
 UNDER-CURRENTS 287 
 
 ' Does he ever forget ? Don't try to delude 
 yourself, or me either, my good child. I 
 shall fortify myself with a capital dinner, 
 thanks to Seaton — that abominable Seaton, I 
 mean,' warned by her sister's eye, ' and wait 
 with as good a grace as I can for the explosion 
 that is sure to come.' 
 
 END OF THE FIRST VOLUME. 
 
 rniNTED BY 
 
 8P0TTISW00DE AND CO., NEW-SmEET 8QUABE 
 
 LONDON
 
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