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 < H
 
 XI BRAHY 
 
 OF THE 
 
 U N IVLRSITY 
 
 Of ILLINOIS 
 
 823
 
 A POINT OF CONSCIENCE 
 
 VOL. I.
 
 NEW NOVELS. 
 
 WHEN LEAVES WERE GREEN. By Sydney Hodges. 
 
 3 vols. 
 MRS. TREGASKISS. By Mrs. Campbell Praed. 3 vols. 
 MARRIED OR SINGLE ? By B. M. Croker. 3 vols. 
 A WOMAN INTERVENES. By Robert Barr. i vol. 
 THE TRACK OF A STORM. By Owen Hall, i vol. 
 LILITH. By George MacDonald. i vol. 
 LADY KILPATRIOK. By Robert Buchanan, i vol. 
 THE MYSTERY OF JAMAICA TERRACE. By Dick 
 
 Donovan, i vol. 
 CLARENCE. By Bret Harte. i vol. 
 THE GOLDEN ROCK. By Ernest Glanville. i vol. 
 MONTE CARLO STORIES. By Joan Barrett, i vol. 
 THE FAT AND THE THIN. By E. Zola, i vol. 
 
 London : CHATTO & WINDUS, Piccadilly.
 
 POINT OF CONSCIENCE 
 
 BY 
 
 MRS. HUNGERFORD 
 
 AUTHOR OF 
 MOLLY BAWN,' ' THE PROFESSOR'S EXPERIMENT,' ' LADY VERNER's FLIGHT,' ETC. 
 
 IN THREE VOLUMES 
 VOL. I. 
 
 LONDON 
 CHATTO & WINDUS, PICCADILLY 
 
 1896
 
 Digitized by the Internet Archive 
 
 in 2009 with funding from 
 
 University of Illinois Urbana-Champaign 
 
 http://www.archive.org/details/pointofconscienc01duch
 
 
 A POINT OF CONSCIENCE 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 1 Affection lights a brighter flame 
 Than ever blazed by art' 
 
 ' I really think we may congratulate 
 ourselves about this governess,' says Lady 
 Maria, leaning back in her chair, and 
 Metting her lovely old hands, with their 
 rt knitting, drop into her lap. ' She seems a 
 most excellent creature.' 
 
 With Lady Maria most people inferior to 
 herself are ' creatures.' A ' nice ' creature, 
 or a ' good ' creature, if it happens to be 
 the doctor's or the curate's wife, and she 
 approves of her ; an ' excellent ' creature, 
 if it be the butler or the governess ; 
 
 VOL. I. I 

 
 2 A POINT OF CONSCIENCE 
 
 whilst a ' worthy ' creature does for the 
 butcher, the baker, and the candlestick 
 maker. 
 
 ' She's very pretty/ returns Mrs. Ver- 
 schoyle, a tall, handsome, fashionable- 
 looking woman of about forty, with a 
 touch of humour in her clear gray eyes. 
 It is perhaps this touch of humour that 
 has endeared her so strongly to her 
 mother-in-law, with whom she has lived 
 ever since the death of her husband, Lady 
 Maria's eldest son — a death that took place 
 five years ago, and was so much to these 
 two women of the world that they found 
 it impossible to forget it. 
 
 ' Oh, pretty !' says Lady Maria, with a 
 shrug. ' What has prettiness to do with 
 it ? Beauty is not necessary in one's 
 governess. In fact, I always think that 
 sort of person should be born plain. To 
 be distinctly plain, without being actually 
 repulsive, would be so wise of them !' 
 
 ' It is so hard fcr them to arrange it 
 beforehand,' says Mrs. Verschoyle. * But 
 you haven't looked sufficiently at Miss
 
 A POINT OF CONSCIENCE 3 
 
 Royce. She has not been wise. She is 
 not plain/ 
 
 'That black little thing!' 
 
 * Very dark, I allow you ; but wonderful 
 colouring. The name is English enough ; 
 but her face, with those black eyes and 
 that olive skin, is almost French.' 
 
 1 French ! Good gracious, Jane I why 
 didn't you say all this before ? She has 
 been here for a month now, and ' 
 
 * Why should I ? She seems an admir- 
 able governess ; she suits Jinnie (who, as 
 you know, is not very easily suited), and 
 what more do I want ?' 
 
 ' I can see you have taken a dislike to 
 her.' 
 
 * Indeed I have not. Efficiency in a 
 governess is all that one requires, as I have 
 just been saying.' 
 
 6 For all that,' says Lady Maria, * you 
 are a mass of prejudices.' 
 
 * Am I ?' Mrs. Verschoyle looks 
 amused. ' Let me tell you, though, that 
 not one out of the mass would lead me 
 astray in my judgment.'
 
 4 A POINT OF CONSCIENCE 
 
 ' What an absurd speech ! As if preju- 
 dices were not made for that special 
 purpose — to lead one astray. I hope you 
 will not set your face against Miss Royce, 
 Jane. Don't, my dear. She sings so well, 
 and is such a quiet creature. Quite a 
 treasure, / call her. One ' — raising her- 
 self in her chair to give emphasis to her 
 clinching argument — ' one never sees 
 her!' 
 
 Mrs. Verschoyie smiles. 
 
 ' You score there,' says she. ' She 
 certainly is seldom to be seen — a splen- 
 did thing in governesses. Miss Royce 
 is wise in her manners, if not in her 
 face.' 
 
 ' To drag up one's last words is not 
 good manners, Jane,' says Lady Maria, 
 putting down her knitting again — a long, 
 seemingly interminable row of red and 
 black wool, meant for the comforting of 
 some deep-sea fisherman. ' For the rest, 
 let me forget Miss Royce for a while. 
 By - the - by ' — inconsequently — ' what a 
 curious Christian name she has !'
 
 A POINT OF CONSCIENCE 5 
 
 ' Yes — Maden. It suggests the missing 
 I. I am sure it must be an abbreviation 
 of something. But she is very reticent ; 
 she will not speak of herself or let one be 
 friends with her.' 
 
 ' Just as well/ says Lady Maria indif- 
 ferently. 
 
 ' Oh, I don't know ! Poor little thing ! 
 I am almost sure she has known rough 
 passages in her life/ 
 
 'Well, she ought to find it all the 
 smoother here,' says Lady Maria comfort- 
 ably. ' Don't I see somebody coming 
 down the hill ? Is it Sidney ? By the 
 way, what a rolling stone he is !' 
 
 Mrs. Verschoyle raises her head and 
 glances across the sunny landscape outside, 
 over the flowering beds and the budding 
 rose-trees, over the tennis-courts below 
 (already being shaven and rolled in antici- 
 pation of the coming summer), to the 
 gentle hill beyond. 
 
 * Anthony, I think', says she, peering 
 uncertainly, ' and, beyond doubt, that is 
 Jinnie ' — her daughter's small form being
 
 6 A POINT OF CONSCIENCE 
 
 unmistakable — ' and Miss Royce. And 
 yes, it is Sidney, too.' 
 
 ' Talk of the ,' begins Lady Maria, 
 
 with a shrug. 
 
 She laughs gaily, checking herself at 
 the naughty word. Her laugh is in- 
 fectious and wonderfully young, consider- 
 ing that she is a grandmother, and not 
 even a young one at that. Grief and dis- 
 appointment had failed to check the in- 
 domitable spirit that had been born with 
 her (as, indeed, with most of the Amyots), 
 and she had had much of both. 
 
 The marriage of her elder and favourite 
 son with Jane Brandreth, the daughter and 
 heiress of an old house slightly connected 
 with her own, had been a cause of keen 
 pleasure to her, and had helped to dull the 
 sense of loneliness that had shadowed her 
 after her husband's death. But sorrow 
 follows hard upon the heels of joy, and 
 when the tiny grandchild (a girl, too !) 
 was barely a twelvemonth old, George 
 Verschoyle had gone over to the majority. 
 It was a blow that stunned, and it left its
 
 A POINT OF CONSCIENCE 7 
 
 indelible mark on the mother who loved, 
 the wife who adored him. 
 
 The child, too, was only a girl ! Poor 
 George left no heir. And thus Anthony 
 Verschoyle stepped into his inheritance. 
 At first, when real and honest grief for the 
 brother he loved was full upon him, 
 Anthony cared little for the pomp and 
 glory of it, though to be head of all the 
 Verschoyles, and master of The Towers, 
 were as good things as a man could come 
 into in these dull days ; but later on, as 
 was only natural, he grew to feel and 
 know the meaning of possession, though 
 of all men he would probably be the 
 slowest to give in thus to Nature's 
 cruelties. Perhaps he never quite felt or 
 knew that he cared for the change in his 
 fortune until Cecil Fairfax came back to 
 live in her own home, Fairtown, a charm- 
 ing place situated about four miles from 
 The Towers — a fatherless, motherless girl, 
 but rich enough, and of sufficient strength 
 to elect to live alone, without duenna, or 
 companion, or governess, or whatever one
 
 8 A POINT OF CONSCIENCE 
 
 chooses to call the overseer on these 
 occasions. 
 
 It was then that Anthony awoke to a 
 belief in his possessions, and a delight in 
 them. And truly The Towers was worthy 
 of much thought. It stood up there, and 
 stands there now, for the matter of that — 
 on the top of that high hill, surrounded 
 and encompassed by woods and wooded 
 places, and by all the blasts of heaven 
 as well, if the truth be told, at certain 
 seasons of the year. 
 
 Down below in the valley the river ran, 
 mild as a babe in summer, raging and 
 tumbling in the winter, and roaring its 
 wild song, that is always so full of melody. 
 Down in the valley, too, sitting in its 
 leafy pleasaunces under the shadow of The 
 Towers, lay the Dower-house, tranquil, 
 calm, imprisoned in its dainty gardens. 
 Lady Maria, who was never impassioned 
 in her manner, had nevertheless taken a 
 vehement dislike to The Towers on the 
 death of her elder born, the poor George 
 I have spoken of, and had gone down to
 
 A POINT OF CONSCIENCE 9 
 
 the valley and the calm house there, that 
 was always waiting for her, as she said, 
 since her husband left her. The Towers 
 felt cold to her. Her husband had died 
 there, and there, too, had died her dearest 
 possession. She always knew in her soul 
 that George had been dearer to her than 
 his father, a fact that added poignancy in 
 the way of remorse to her grief at his 
 death. Had Heaven meant it as a re- 
 prisal ? 
 
 Any way, at George's death the old 
 place grew too much for her, and she cast 
 it off, as it were, and went down to the 
 Dower-house, that was, as I have said, a 
 dream of beauty. It seemed to call to 
 her, to remind her of the young lover, 
 whose son had become dearer even than 
 himself, ousting him out of the principal 
 place in her heart. There she had lived 
 after her marriage for many years with the 
 elder George, until his father and mother 
 in the big house above had made room for 
 them — they no longer having room left 
 them there, or anywhere on earth, save
 
 io A POINT OF CONSCIENCE 
 
 the small six feet of it that the poorest of 
 us may claim. 
 
 Well, the old people were gone, and now 
 she was the c old people/ compressed into 
 one frail, pretty old lady, and she went back 
 to the house from which she came, and 
 which held the sweetest memories for her. 
 There she had lived with ' George the 
 first/ as in her lightest hours she had called 
 him, and there 6 George the second ' was 
 born. 
 
 Anthony, her other son, had been cut to 
 the heart by her going, but she had been 
 very determined, and George's widow had 
 gone with her. 
 
 6 You will both desert me/ said Anthony, 
 standing, a little pale, and facing them both. 
 
 * Yes, darling/ said his mother, ' and 
 there is nothing to forgive, Tony. I am 
 going now, because' — playfully — 'I should 
 hate to be turned out later on, when you 
 take to yourself a wife.' 
 
 ' You were not afraid that George would 
 turn you out/ said he, breathing a little 
 quickly.
 
 A POINT OF CONSCIENCE n 
 
 ' Ah ! but I knew George's wife/ said 
 his mother. 
 
 ' Do you think mine will be less easy to 
 know ?' said he, and his heart contracted a 
 little, and then throbbed madly, as he 
 thought of Cecil Fairfax, over there 
 beyond the river in her lonely home. 
 
 * I'm not a seer, Tony. Who can read 
 the future ? And my going ! It is such 
 a little going ! Just a step or two down 
 there, where I can always see you, and 
 where you can come to me at a moment's 
 notice should I be ill or dying.' 
 
 ' God forbid the last,' said he, but he 
 felt cold at heart as he said it. She was 
 forsaking him, no matter what arguments 
 she might use, or in what pretty words she 
 clothed the desertion. 
 
 Any way, she had gone, taking George's 
 widow with her. She had hardly dared at 
 first, in spite of her indomitable pluck, to 
 suggest the change to Jane Verschoyle, 
 who had ever been a fashionable woman, 
 and used to the keener niceties of life. 
 How would she care to come and live in
 
 12 A POINT OF CONSCIENCE 
 
 the depths of the country in a house, lovely 
 indeed, but smaller — much smaller than 
 The Towers ? But she had from the very 
 first loved Jane, who had, indeed, more of 
 Lady Maria in her nature than Lady 
 Maria's begotten children — and she risked 
 the question. 
 
 ' Of course, Jane, the world is wide, and 
 you are a young woman, and handsome — 
 and to bury yourself here ... A house 
 
 in town would suit you ' she broke off, 
 
 compelling a little cough to her assistance 
 — a kind little cough that hid, or as she 
 thought hid, a most sorry and undignified 
 choking in her throat. 
 
 ' So it might,' Jane had responded gently, 
 ' if — she looked up out of her weeds, into 
 the face of her mother-in-law ; the weeds 
 were intensely fashionable, but quite as 
 intense was the undying regret on the face 
 of George's widow — ( if there were not 
 another house in the country, that drags 
 me to it. . . . Mother !' — with a sudden 
 touch of rare passion — 'Jinnie and I are 
 yours ! Do not refuse to have us.'
 
 A POINT OF CONSCIENCE 13 
 
 So it was arranged, and when Lady 
 Maria went to the Dower-house, Jane 
 went too, with her daughter, and that 
 daughter's governess. Of the succession 
 of these governesses there seemed to be no 
 end ; they had reached an eighth edition, 
 indeed, before the child came to its age of 
 to-day — seven years. Then Lady Maria 
 had advertised once more, and Miss Ro\ce 
 had dropped into the quiet life at the 
 Dower-house. 
 
 The latter, as I have said, lies at the foot 
 of the valley, and between it and The 
 Towers a pleasant river runs, spanned by 
 a bridge that catches the eye from the 
 Dower dining-room, whilst from the 
 drawing-room a clear glimpse of the taller 
 of the two towers can be seen standing out 
 grand and massive from the forest of trees 
 that surrounds it. From this tower a red 
 flag waves always, to tell Lady Maria that 
 all is well with her son up there ; but on 
 occasions a green flag is hoisted, and that 
 is to tell Lady Maria that Anthony is 
 coming down to see her, and so on : quite
 
 14 A POINT OF CONSCIENCE 
 
 a little code of loving signals have been 
 now set up between mother and son. For 
 Verschoyle has at last learnt to tolerate his 
 mother's going, and to read between the 
 lines the real meaning of it. 
 
 Besides, very often, in quite a serious 
 spirit, and as though there were no element 
 of the comic sort in it, Lady Maria packs 
 up her bag and baggage, including Mrs. 
 Verschoyle, Jinnie, and governess, to say 
 nothing of maids, and goes up to the top 
 of the hill to stay with her son for a week 
 or so. She always chooses the long way 
 round by the road to get there, taking out 
 her carriage and coachman and footman, 
 paying thus a tribute to her determination 
 to think of The Towers as being quite 
 a long way off, though, as a fact, she 
 might have crossed the rustic bridge in 
 her little pony-carriage and got there in 
 less than a quarter of the time. And there 
 her old rooms are always ready for her ; 
 Anthony never allows any guest to inhabit 
 them ; and there she falls for the moment 
 into the old groove again, with God alone
 
 A POINT OF CONSCIENCE 15 
 
 knows what sad and happy memories, and 
 with the old grace to take her place at the 
 head of her son's table — and is all that her 
 son would have her to be, and perhaps 
 more than most women of her own age 
 could be. 
 
 •jfj ^ TP W T$ 
 
 1 That's unkind !' says Mrs. Verschoyle. 
 She has turned from her glance at the hill 
 that leads with a rush over the pretty toy 
 bridge into the valley below and the 
 Dower grounds. ' And it belies your 
 former judgment. You quite praised Miss 
 Royce only a moment ago.' 
 
 ' Miss Royce ! The romantic Maden ?' 
 Lady Maria pretends to throw up her 
 hands. e I was not thinking of her when 
 I spoke, but of Sidney Fenton.' 
 
 ' Your pauses are eloquent,' says Jane, 
 who does not love Sidney Fenton. 
 
 ' Oh, I mean nothing ; you know he is 
 a sort of nephew of mine, on my husband's 
 side. What I object to is his long stay 
 here. I can see that Anthony does not 
 care for him.'
 
 16 A POINT OF CONSCIENCE 
 
 1 And is too good-hearted to give him 
 his conge '?' 
 
 ' Quite that. Sidney and Anthony could 
 never be really friends ; they are miles 
 apart in every way. And yet ' — knitting 
 a little faster — ' he has his points/ 
 
 ' He is very handsome/ says Jane Ver- 
 schoyle, 
 
 ' Pah !' says Lady Maria. It is the 
 fashion nowadays to say that metaphorically 
 you have made someone ' sit up/ Mrs. 
 Verschoyle has gone one better. Under 
 her speech Lady Maria literally does it. 
 * What do you mean, Jane ? You enrage 
 me ! Have you only one set of sentences? 
 Miss Royce is "pretty." Sidney is "hand- 
 some." Are there no other virtues ? 
 Really, if so, Fd rather have vices ! Have 
 you no opinion ? Are you a mere 
 nothing ?' 
 
 6 1 wish I were/ says Mrs. Verschoyle. 
 ' It would save so much trouble ; besides, 
 negatives have weight ; you never know 
 what's beyond them. But, as a fact, I used 
 a positive. I stated distinctly my views on
 
 A POINT OF CONSCIENCE 17 
 
 the personal charms of Miss Royce and 
 Sidney.' 
 
 1 I wish he would go away,' says Lady 
 Maria irrelevantly. 
 
 6 There we come together, at all events : 
 if — affectionately — ' we are ever really 
 apart. I dislike Sidney in spite of his 
 beaux yeux and his general air of good- 
 nature, and yet' — reluctantly — 'I don't 
 know why. There must be some good in 
 him, I'm sure.' 
 
 ' Not to know is the most fatal argument 
 of all/ says Lady Maria thoughtfully. ' To 
 honestly dislike a person without knowing 
 why proves a reason. That old rhyme, 
 " I do not love thee, Dr. Fell," contained 
 very clever germs.' 
 
 ' He has two months' leave,' says Jane. 
 ' And only three weeks of that expired." 
 
 ' Three ' Lady Maria puts down 
 
 her knitting. ' I have sometimes thought,' 
 begins she, in a troubled tone. 
 
 ' Oh, so have I,' says Mrs. Verschoyle, 
 interrupting her. ' But you mustn't dwell 
 on it.' 
 
 vol. 1. 2
 
 18 A POINT OF CONSCIENCE 
 
 • You think, then ' 
 
 c That Cecil ' Mrs. Verschoyle 
 
 pauses. C I don't think she is in love with 
 Anthony ,' says she, in a low tone. 
 
 ' I had so set my heart on it/ says Lady 
 Maria, alluding to something unspoken. 
 
 ' Don't/ Jane, rising with one of her 
 swift, beautiful movements, brings herself 
 on her knees beside her mother-in-law. 
 'Don't set your heart on that: I — I am 
 afraid she has set her heart on Sidney.' 
 
 ' Well, well !' says Lady Maria. 
 
 A silence follows. She presses Jane's 
 cheek to her own and kisses her linger- 
 ingly, and with love. The old, time-worn 
 theory of hatred between mother-in-law 
 and daughter-in-law is cast to the winds in 
 their case. 
 
 4 Still,' says Lady Maria, as Jane gets to 
 her feet again, ' you may be mistaken, 
 dearest.' 
 
 ' I may ' doubtfully. 
 
 ' And he — Sidney — may not be in love 
 with her.' 
 
 * True : I ' — hastily, with a view to
 
 A POINT OF CONSCIENCE 19 
 
 comfort — ' don't think he is either. But 
 
 — she has money, and Let us forget 
 
 all this, however. Why trouble about 
 bare possibilities ? And, besides, no harm 
 has been done. Perhaps Anthony is not 
 in love with her, either.' 
 
 € Ah ! if one could be sure/ says 
 Anthony's mother. 
 
 She herself, however, is quite sure. No 
 wife, no child, can understand or pierce to 
 the heart of things as can a man's mother. 
 
 ' There is Mr. Popkin coming down the 
 hill now with Carry Desmond,' says Mrs. 
 Verschoyle suddenly, glad of a point of 
 diversion. It has been given to her as a 
 relief to watch the arrivals from the hockey 
 ground, who, as a rule, drop in to tea at 
 the Dower-house. 'I'm certain he has a 
 penchant for Carry.' 
 
 ' Poor Carry !' says Lady Maria, who 
 has not yet come back to her usual kindly 
 indifferent air. 
 
 ' What a criticism !' said Mrs. Ver- 
 schoyle ; ' but I can't help crying yea and 
 amen to it. Carry is too good for curates.
 
 20 A POINT OF CONSCIENCE 
 
 Still, it makes two distinct love affairs in 
 our dull neighbourhood, and that means 
 something.' 
 
 < Two ?' 
 
 ' I'm afraid Aurora Langley — or else her 
 dreadful mother — has fallen in love with 
 poor dear Richie.' 
 
 Lady Maria leans back in her lounge. 
 Her fingers knit faster than ever. Her 
 brows knit too. 
 
 ' What a gossip you are, Jane !' says she.
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 1 So well she's masked under this fair pretence, 
 An infidel would swear she's made of perfect 
 innocence.' 
 
 Mrs. Verschoyle, as if tickled by some 
 inward thought, laughs softly. 
 
 ' That is why you love me/ says she, a 
 little audaciously. 
 
 * For that reason/ 
 
 i Like cleaves to like, you know.' 
 
 c Tut, Jane ! Poor — very poor ! Ill 
 
 quote you as good as that, and better. 
 
 " Extremes meet." How's that, now ?' 
 
 * When they meet they are one,' says 
 Mrs. Verschoyle triumphantly. 
 
 ' Your wits were never made for the 
 good of your soul,' says Lady Maria con-
 
 22 A POINT OF CONSCIENCE 
 
 temptuously. ' Let us try your fingers. 
 Give me a cup of tea/ 
 
 Mrs. Verschoyle rises, pours out the tea, 
 and gives it to her, with one of the tiny hot 
 cakes in which her soul delights. Passing 
 back again to her seat, her eyes glance 
 through the far window that overlooks the 
 drive. 
 
 ' Here comes Mrs. Langley-Binks,' says 
 she, ' and her fair Aurora, rosier than the 
 rosiest morn. , 
 
 ' A boisterous morn would describe her 
 better. Is she driving ?' 
 
 ' Yes. The brand-new carriage, and the 
 brand-new horses. They are all fright- 
 fully new. Richie has just come up with 
 them, and now Mr. Popkin and Carry. 
 How boyish that girl is !' 
 
 * Hoydenish is the word/ 
 
 ' Oh no ; the last word. A boy 
 spoiled, that is all.' 
 
 ' Or a spoiled boy.' 
 
 ' I never know whether Carry is pretty 
 or not, but I always know I love to look 
 at her/
 
 A POINT OF CONSCIENCE 23 
 
 ' That's fascination — a far better thing 
 than mere beauty. Yes, I too like that 
 child. She is youth itself, and there is 
 something so strong and sweet about her/ 
 
 ' Ah ! that sounds intoxicating indeed/ 
 says Mrs. Verschoyle, whereat both the 
 women laugh. 
 
 ' Now, what can Mrs. Langley-Binks 
 mean by coming here again to-day/ says 
 Lady Maria, the wheels of the coming 
 chariot now sounding louder on the 
 gravel. ' She was here only last Thurs- 
 day/ 
 
 ' I told you a moment ago that she and 
 Aurora are anxious to annex our " poor 
 Richard." He is dreadfully poor, dear 
 fellow ! but he is your cousin, and his 
 uncle ' — laughing — ' is a real live lord, and 
 when one has been boiling soap for half a 
 lifetime ' 
 
 Mrs. Verschoyle shrugs her shoulders 
 with meaning. 
 
 ' One should be clean/ supplements 
 Lady Maria dryly. ' And soap is an ex- 
 cellent thing ' (she nearly says ' creature ').
 
 24 A POINT OF CONSCIENCE 
 
 * But these people — they are very pushing; 
 their methods, I fear, are not as clean as 
 their soap.' 
 
 ' No ? Oh, I think they are honest 
 enough. People hanging on the outskirts 
 of Society will always sacrifice a good deal 
 to get into the inner circle, and I really 
 think Mrs. Langley-Binks is quite open in 
 her desire to give Aurora and her fortune 
 for Richie and his connections.' 
 
 ' I begin to pity myself even more than 
 Richie/ says Lady Maria ; c I am one of 
 the connections. Still, really, Jane, I 
 hardly see how the poor boy can do 
 better. I pity him, but the old place 
 must go soon if no fresh grist is brought 
 to the mill. And yet — Dick Amyot's son, 
 and that dreadful girl ! And the Amyots 
 were always so fastidious. ... If there 
 wasn't so much of Aurora, one might . . . 
 or, if her mother could be translated, or 
 cremated, or something. Still, I can see 
 plainly that Richie must either take this 
 chance or let himself go altogether.' 
 
 1 Where ?' asks Mrs. Verschoyle, with a
 
 A POINT OF CONSCIENCE 25 
 
 frivolity she is far from feeling ; and then, 
 as if ashamed of herself, ' Oh, poor old 
 Richie !' 
 
 1 It will mean ruin to him. He is 
 getting into debt as fast as he can in a vain 
 effort to make the place pay. I can see 
 
 nothing before him but Australia, or ' 
 
 She pauses significantly. 
 
 ' Ah, no' — hastily — 'Richie is not made 
 like that. He is quite good, and so 
 honest, and healthy, and handsome. I 
 suppose' — regretfully — 'you are right, and 
 it will have to be Miss Langley-Binks.' 
 
 ' Her mother is even more objectionable 
 than she is; she is perfectly terrible, and 
 such a size, my dear Jane. As broad as 
 
 she is long, and ' Here the door is 
 
 thrown open. ' Oh, how d'ye do, Mrs. 
 Langley-Binks ? Very cold, is it not ? 
 Come nearer to the fire.' 
 
 She motions daintily with her slender, 
 patrician, heavily-ringed hand, that time 
 has failed to deprive of its original charm, 
 to the large woman who has just entered, 
 and pushes a lounging chair a little for-
 
 26 A POINT OF CONSCIENCE 
 
 ward. Mrs. Langley-Binks, after a slight 
 hesitation that might reasonably be laid 
 down to an uncertainty on her part as to 
 whether the seat in question is capable of 
 upholding her, drops into it with an 
 elephantine grace, and an assumption of 
 ease that is plainly far from her. She is 
 followed by her daughter, a generous 
 replica of herself, a girl of about twenty- 
 three, with a truly Wellingtonian nose and 
 a voice like a Gatling gun. 
 
 * You are earlier than usual this evening, 
 Richie,' says Mrs. Verschoyle, standing 
 between a tall fair young man, with 
 handsome, clear-cut features, blue eyes, 
 and an athletic figure, and two girls. One 
 is Miss Langley-Binks, already described, 
 the other Carry Desmond — a girl of nine- 
 teen, a child at heart, and as sweet a 
 creature (as Lady Maria would have said) 
 as one might care to look for. She is very 
 slender, very beautifully made, with the 
 figure of an Atalanta, whom, indeed, she 
 might have run close in many ways, and 
 with a small, shapely head, covered with
 
 A POINT OF CONSCIENCE 27 
 
 closely-cropped curls. Very far from beauty, 
 Carry Desmond has still that charm that 
 creates its own beauty, and lives long after 
 the more classical types lie dead. She has, 
 for one thing, vitality in her looks and 
 every action, that essence of perpetual 
 youth that carries one through and above 
 and beyond all things, and is the most 
 precious gift of all. Hardly the girl to be 
 thrown away on Mr. Popkin, thinks Jane 
 Verschoyle, looking at the curate, who has 
 just come in ; and yet, so poor is she — 
 living with her old aunt in that broken- 
 down old place that her improvident Irish 
 father had taken with a view to making a 
 third fortune out of it (he was always 
 going to make a fresh fortune) — that 
 perhaps even to marry Mr. Popkin might 
 be better than to live as she now is living 
 — better certainly than to have to go out 
 into the world and earn her bread. 
 
 Mr. Popkin has gone over to the fire- 
 place, where the blaze runs merrily up the 
 chimney, in spite of the fact that we are 
 well into the heart of May — cold-hearted
 
 28 A POINT OF CONSCIENCE 
 
 May, as a rule — and Mrs. Verschoyle, with 
 Richie and the two girls, are left for the 
 moment alone. 
 
 ' Half an hour or so, not more,' says 
 Amyot. ' The other side had it all its 
 own way, which, of course, shortened it. 
 They got two goals to our one.' 
 
 ' How dreadful !' says Mrs. Verschoyle, 
 laughing. ' And you, Richie, to be so de- 
 feated, and with Carry on your side, too.' 
 
 c Oh, it wasn't his fault ! He played 
 beautifully 1' declares Miss Langley-Binks 
 in her high scream. 
 
 ' He didn't play a screw,' says Carry 
 Desmond, with the quick decision that 
 belongs to her. * I must say, Richie, I 
 shan't care to be on your side again if you 
 can't do better than you did to-day. You 
 lost us that last goal, beyond doubt.' 
 
 ' You can put it on me if you like,' says 
 Mr. Amyot. ' But if it hadn't been for 
 that ass Popkin, I might have saved it. 
 All on earth he is good for is to get in 
 everybody's way, and kill the game.' 
 
 ' Yes. Yes, really — that is quite so. I
 
 A POINT OF CONSCIENCE 29 
 
 saw it/ says Miss Langley-Binks, her red 
 cheeks growing rosier. 
 
 ' For all that, Richie/ persists Miss 
 Desmond, with a calm condemnation in 
 her eyes, ' I think if you had not made 
 that sudden last rush quite so soon, we 
 might have pushed the ball a little more 
 forward, gradually, as it were (you know 
 Mr. Stokes is of no use at all), and — any 
 way, it's fatal to make a rush too soon.' 
 
 ' Quite a sermon !' says Miss Langley- 
 Binks, with a hysterical laugh. ' Ought 
 to be addressed to Mr. Popkin, you know. 
 He' — with a deliberate glance at Carry — 
 ' would be delighted to hear it from you. 
 Ha ! ha ! Better sermons than he can 
 deliver as a rule, poor little man !' 
 
 Miss Desmond stares at her for a 
 moment only, then goes on : 
 
 ' If you had held back when Jim Drew 
 made that first charge and caught the ball, 
 then things would have been very 
 different. But, instead of that, you ran 
 your stick actually between Sidney's legs, 
 and upset him.'
 
 30 A POINT OF CONSCIENCE 
 
 ' Oh, you are full of theories,' said 
 Richie grievously. ' This New Woman 
 movement has got on your nerves. I 
 wonder all you girls don't get up a hockey 
 club of your own, and leave us dull fellows 
 out in the cold.' 
 
 6 Oh, if you're going to be cross !' says 
 Carry, lifting her charming brows. 
 
 ' I am sure Mr. Amyot could never be 
 cross,' says Miss Langley-Binks, breaking 
 into the discussion, with the heavy air 
 inherited from her mother, and a little 
 amorous air, too, that belongs to herself 
 alone, and sits most sadly on her. ' And 
 really, dear Miss Desmond, if you do think 
 Mr. Amyot a little out of temper, surely ' 
 — with a fatuous look at Amyot, who, for 
 his part, is looking the other way — * it is 
 you who have led him to it/ 
 
 Here Mrs. Verschoyle makes a move- 
 ment. 
 
 ' Richie is never cross,' says she gaily. 
 'Are you, Richie? Come and help me 
 to pour out tea. By-the-bye ' — as Amyot 
 accompanies her across the room — * I
 
 A POINT OF CONSCIENCE 31 
 
 thought I saw Miss Royce and Jinnie 
 coming down the hill just now with 
 Sidney and Anthony.' 
 
 s I dare say. They started before we 
 did.' 
 
 ' They are very late, then.' 
 
 Mrs. Verschoyle is conscious of a faint 
 feeling of annoyance. Surely Miss Royce 
 might have hurried herself a little to help 
 Lady Maria with her guests — to superin- 
 tend the other little tea-tables over there, 
 where Carry is now busy with the dainty 
 cups and saucers and beautiful old Queen 
 Anne teapot. She had never quite liked 
 Miss Royce, without exactly knowing 
 why, and this is, perhaps, the reason why 
 she is so specially kind to her. 
 
 ' Oh, 1 don't know.' Amyot is a little 
 absent in manner. ' Anthony said some- 
 thing about having to go to see Horrocks 
 at one of the up-farms. He's sick, you 
 know, and perhaps they went round with 
 him. Oh, here they are, any way.' 
 
 He glances towards the veranda. One 
 can hear quick steps running up the stone
 
 32 A POINT OF CONSCIENCE 
 
 stairs outside, and now a small long-legged 
 child of about seven springs into the room 
 by the open window and flings herself into 
 Mrs. Verschoyle's arms. 
 
 ' Jinnie ! What a way to come in !' says 
 her mother, in a tone that is meant to be 
 reproving, but falls very short of the mark. 
 
 ' She would come in this way,' says a 
 voice behind Jinnie. ' She said it was the 
 shortest way. I — I hope I am not very 
 late, but ' 
 
 The speaker stops short, and Mrs. Ver- 
 schoyle, having disengaged Jinnie's very 
 vigorous arms from around her neck, 
 looks at her. 
 
 Miss Royce's face is well worth looking 
 at — small, dark, vivid, with eyes as nearly 
 black as human eyes can be, and hair to 
 match. The skin is a pure ivory, and the 
 mouth a little large. But the lips are 
 thin, and intensely scarlet. Jinnie's new 
 governess is a tiny creature barely five feet, 
 exquisitely proportioned, and any age at 
 all from seventeen to twenty-two. The 
 dark, fathomless, Oriental eyes are in-
 
 A POINT OF CONSCIENCE 33 
 
 scrutable, but the mouth, with its 
 wonderful colouring, is suggestive of 
 extraordinary strength and determination 
 — and passion. 
 
 1 A little late,' says Mrs. Verschoyle 
 kindly, with the rather exaggerated kind- 
 ness of the person who is determined not 
 to be disagreeable at any cost. Had she 
 liked the girl better, she would probably 
 have given her a good scolding. She 
 looks over her head. 
 
 ' I thought Anthony was with you,' says 
 she to a man of about thirty-four, who has 
 come in with Miss Royce and Jinnie — a 
 very handsome man, dark, and with an 
 agreeable smile. 
 
 1 So he was, up to the bridge/ says 
 Captain Fenton. ' But he got one of his 
 evil fits on him then, and went off at a 
 tangent to see some old, indescribable 
 tenant or other. You know how his con- 
 science works him at times/ 
 
 ' I know. Richie told me he had gone 
 to see old Horrocks ; his rheumatism is 
 very bad, poor old man ! You didn't go 
 
 vol. 1. 3
 
 34 A POINT OF CONSCIENCE 
 
 with him, then ?' She pauses. Richie's 
 assumption of Miss Royce and Jinnie's 
 having accompanied Anthony in his 
 philanthropic mission was evidently an 
 incorrect one. But how, then, was it that 
 Jinnie and her governess — and Sidney — 
 had been so late ? 
 
 c No,' Miss Royce's plaintive voice 
 breaks in on her somewhat troubled 
 thoughts. ' We came straight back here, 
 but at the southern point of the river, 
 where the little bay is, and where the 
 lilies grow, Jinnie said we must stop and 
 let her gather some of them. And so we 
 spent more time there than we should, I'm 
 afraid' — with pretty remorse. ' But we 
 had to wait for her to gather them ; she 
 wanted them so badly. Didn't you, 
 Jinnie ?' 
 
 The soft voice travels now to where the 
 child is sitting, perched upon her grand- 
 mother's knees, her thin but terribly lively 
 legs dangling and swinging against poor 
 Lady Maria's, very much to the detriment 
 of the latter.
 
 A POINT OF CONSCIENCE 35 
 
 4 Yes. But they were faded old things, 
 the ones I could reach — and you wouldn't 
 help me to get the others — and I flung 
 them at Sidney on my way home/ says 
 Jinnie, surnamed the Imp by her uncle 
 Anthony. 
 
 A little frown runs across Mrs. Ver- 
 schoyle's forehead, a strange place for so 
 unkind a thing. Twice since her return 
 has Jinnie's governess brought Jinnie into 
 her explanations. It seems a sort of 
 making use of the child that is distinctly 
 distasteful to Mrs. Verschoyle. Jinnie is 
 one of the class rightly termed enfants 
 terribles^ but one so genuinely honest and 
 truthful that it would be impossible to 
 distrust her lightest statement. So that 
 her mother at once knows she did desire 
 those lilies. But was there no one to 
 suggest to her the desire for them ? And 
 Miss Royce's own words : c We spent 
 more time than we should, waiting for her 
 to get them.' Waiting ! Why should 
 the child's governess not have helped her 
 to get them ? Why, Jinnie might have
 
 36 A POINT OF CONSCIENCE 
 
 fallen into the water for one thing. And 
 then that we. The whole thing jars on 
 Mrs. Verschoyle. Sidney Fenton, as she 
 sees him (her lip curls involuntarily), is 
 quite capable of developing a stupid, silly 
 flirtation with even his little cousin's 
 governess. 
 
 Disgust, largely mingled with contempt, 
 is in her air as she turns aside. All this 
 naturally must find a vent somewhere, and 
 as her eyes light on her daughter, still 
 dangling her thin legs against her grannie's 
 long-suffering shins, she opens her mouth. 
 
 1 Jinnie, get down/ says she, address- 
 ing the astonished Jinnie, who is not 
 accustomed to rebukes (though she ought 
 to be), with extreme severity. ' Get down 
 at once from grannie's knee. You know 
 you are tiring her.' 
 
 Thus do the innocent often suffer for 
 the guilty. The innocent in this case, 
 however, refuses to suffer. 
 
 6 Grannie likes me here,' says Jinnie, her 
 legs swinging higher than ever. 
 
 * Yes, indeed,' says Lady Maria stoutly,
 
 A POINT OF CONSCIENCE 37 
 
 who is about as tired as she can be, but 
 cannot bear to put away from her 
 voluntarily the little form within her 
 arms — the little, slender thing that is all 
 that remains to her of the dear dead son. 
 
 ' Grannie loves me to be here,' repeats 
 Jinnie, now triumphantly, on the head of 
 this encouragement. 
 
 ' But I don't !' says somebody just behind 
 her.
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 * Gratiano speaks an infinite deal of nothing, 
 more than any man in Venice.' 
 
 Anthony Verschoyle has come into the 
 room and up to his mother's chair without 
 Lady Maria or the lively Jinnie being 
 aware of it. He is a well-built young man 
 of about eight-and-twenty, who, in spite 
 of the fact that his eyes are large and clear 
 and his expression remarkably pleasant, can 
 hardly come under the term * handsome ' ; 
 even ' good - looking,' that nineteenth- 
 century compromise, could hardly describe 
 him. But his face, if almost plain, is one to 
 be trusted, and it is a pity that his mouth, 
 the one really beautiful feature he possesses, 
 should be hidden by his short brown 
 moustache. He is quite as well propor-
 
 A POINT OF CONSCIENCE 39 
 
 tioned as his cousin, Richard Amyot — 
 which is saying a good deal for his limbs — 
 and quite an inch taller. He brings a young 
 man in his train — a short, somewhat stout 
 and somewhat nondescript person, who 
 rejoices in exuberant spirits and a pug 
 nose. 
 
 1 Tou, Dicky !' says Lady Maria to this 
 last importation. Her tone is full of 
 surprise ; but the surprise is conquered by 
 delight. Lady Maria is one of those old 
 ladies who like to have men about them — 
 young men ; the younger the better, and 
 the more frivolous the better, too. Mr. 
 Browne suits her on all points. To guess 
 at his age has given pleasant pastime to 
 many of his friends, pleasanter in that it 
 lasts for ever. Dicky's age is known to 
 himself alone. His father — he has one 
 somewhere — has long forgotten it. He 
 forgets Dicky, too, as a rule, for the best 
 part of the year. 
 
 * No use even reminding him of my 
 existence on a Christmas or a New Year's 
 Eve ' Mr. Browne is accustomed to tell
 
 4 o A POINT OF CONSCIENCE 
 
 his intimates (they are many) occasionally. 
 1 Nothing would make the governor part. 
 Bad old papa, I call him !' 
 
 * Put that saucy minx down, mother/ 
 says Anthony Verschoyle. ' She is far too 
 much for you.' 
 
 He stoops, and, lifting Jinnie from his 
 mother's knee, plants her beside him on 
 the ground, keeping her within the en- 
 closure of his arm, however, where, 
 indeed, she stays contentedly enough. 
 Next to her mammy and her grannie, 
 Miss Verschoyle betrays a warm preference 
 for ' Tony ' above all the rest of the world. 
 Sundry measures had been used to make 
 her call Verschoyle Uncle Anthony, but 
 the fight over that has been won by her 
 many a day ago. 
 
 6 How dye do, Popkin ?' says Verschoyle, 
 finding the curate at his elbow. ' How's 
 the bazaar getting on ?' 
 
 ' Better, thank you/ returns Mr. Pop- 
 kin, as if responding to an inquiry about 
 his health. ' Ever since Lady Maria has 
 consented to take a stall, things have been
 
 A POINT OF CONSCIENCE 41 
 
 almost flourishing still, the workin* up of 
 it is very fatiguinV 
 
 Mr. Popkin disdains his g's. Some 
 unkind person, during his last holiday at 
 Ramsgate, had told him that the aristo- 
 cracy had not now time to pronounce all 
 their letters, and that they found words 
 ending in g much more mellifluous when 
 that vulgar letter was left out. Mr. 
 Popkin, who had a cousin a Mayor — and 
 one who had been knighted, too — fell 
 naturally into the spirit of the upper ten, 
 and, being hopelessly enamoured of poor 
 Carry Desmond, saw at once how much 
 sweeter c lovin' ' sounded than ' loving/ 
 He came home a new man, and Mrs. Ban- 
 field, a rather pretty woman, and the 
 terror of Hillesden, said his Ramsgate 
 friend ought to be prosecuted. 
 
 * Killin', I should think/ says Captain 
 Fenton gravely. 
 
 Lady Maria casts a reproving glance at 
 him, but no harm is done, as Mr. Popkin, 
 started on the all-engrossing theme, does 
 not hear him.
 
 42 A POINT OF CONSCIENCE 
 
 ' What I'm afraid of is that the concert 
 part of it won't be all we would wish. So 
 few people here in the singin' line, you 
 know.' 
 
 'True,' says Anthony kindly. 'We 
 must only try and draft in a few from out- 
 side. By-the-by, Mr. Browne is rather 
 famous with his banjo songs. You should 
 enlist him at once. No, don't mind now. 
 I'll do it for you. He's going to stay 
 with me for a month or so. And there is 
 Miss Fairfax; she is a host in herself — 
 such a lovely voice.' 
 
 ' Charmin'! charmin'!' says the curate. 
 
 ' I think you might say a word for me,' 
 says Fenton reproachfully. ' In costume, 
 you know, I'm very effective. I gave 
 them a few little things at Chester last 
 week, and, I hear, Chevalier, who hap- 
 pened to be there, was green with envy. 
 I do hope, Mr. Popkin • — adjusting his 
 glass in his eye — 'you are not' — with a 
 quick change of tone to one that almost 
 exactly resembles Popkin's — ' goin' to
 
 A POINT OF CONSCIENCE 43 
 
 put me out of the actin\ I'd call that 
 disgustinY 
 
 ' Sidney, give Miss Langley-Binks some 
 tea/ interposes Lady Maria severely. 
 
 ' Shall I, Miss Langley-Binks ?' says 
 Sidney, who is determined not to stir. 
 He is standing by the tea-table, where the 
 governess is busying her small brown 
 hands with the cups and saucers, and, as 
 he speaks, he gives her a slight glance, as 
 much as to say he would be inhospitable, 
 or even rude, to Miss Langley-Binks, 
 rather than leave her. It is only * pretty 
 Fanny's way.' He couldn't have helped 
 it to save his life. To show to every 
 pretty woman he meets a tender deference 
 — to make light, and sometimes eager, love 
 to her — is as the breath of his nostrils. 
 
 Miss Royce, lifting her black eyes slowly 
 to his, looks at him strangely, lingeringly. 
 There is a gleam in the fathomless eyes 
 that half amuses, half puzzles him. Then 
 the eyes drop again, and the brown fingers 
 grow busier than ever.
 
 44 A POINT OF CONSCIENCE 
 
 ' Oh no — no, thanks V cries Miss 
 Langley-Binks, in a voice that shakes the 
 room. 
 
 ' Good old girl !' says Sidney, with a 
 sigh of relief, in a low tone to Miss Royce. 
 ' Walls aren't crumbling, are they ? I say, 
 you sing, too, don't you ? Oh yes, you 
 do. I ' — tenderly — c remember that deli- 
 cious little French thing you sang last 
 Thursday/ He turns abruptly to Popkin. 
 c You are bound to make this a success, 
 eh ? Must, you know, with the Bishop 
 and all his robes coming. And what are 
 you talking about, Anthony, when you 
 speak of bringing in outsiders ? Why, 
 with Cecil and Miss Royce we shall do a 
 roaring trade/ 
 
 c Miss Royce — oh yes !' says Verschoyle 
 quickly. ' Miss Royce has a most sweet 
 and singularly expressive little voice ; but 
 it is little, and the Assembly Room is 
 large/ 
 
 6 1 couldn't/ says the governess quickly. 
 ' No ' — nervously — ' no* 
 
 6 You're afraid,' says Sidney. ' Now, I
 
 A POINT OF CONSCIENCE 45 
 
 — man as I am — am not. Tell you what, 
 Popkin: Miss Royce and I will sing a duet 
 together. That will make a change in 
 the bill, and ' 
 
 1 Oh, it'll be lovely !' says Jinnie, cast- 
 ing herself into Captain Fenton's arms. 
 ' Sidney, you're a duckF 
 
 Everyone laughs a little, and the whole 
 thing seems arranged. 
 
 ' It is delightful to see so much energy/ 
 says the curate, bleating very loudly, ' for 
 the good cause. Even amongst — he, he, 
 he ' — the bleats are now immense— 
 * amongst those who are considered wolves 
 in the flock/ He gives a wreathed smile 
 to Sidney, who gives him back another, 
 that sends Jinnie into fits of joy, and makes 
 her mother very angry. But Mr. Popkin 
 is above all such clown's play. 
 
 ' I believe in transmigration/ says 
 Sidney. ' Don't you ? I know I'm going 
 to be a lamb shortly.' 
 
 Mr. Popkin shakes a funny finger at 
 him. All at once he tells himself he likes 
 Captain Fenton. Indeed, most people do.
 
 46 A POINT OF CONSCIENCE 
 
 It is only the very few who don't ; but 
 they are people of discretion. 
 
 ' You are amusin' — very amusinV says 
 Mr. Popkin gaily. ' But we must be 
 serious now, really. This bazaar means a 
 great deal to our parish music. The 
 organ is really too horrifyin' — isn't it, Mr. 
 Verschoyle ? It squeaks — it quite squeaks, 
 I assure you.' 
 
 Mr. Popkin looks at Anthony, and puts 
 his little head to one side. Thus posed, 
 he looks exactly like a superannuated 
 robin. 
 
 * With raffles and — er — other things we 
 shall pull through/ says Anthony. 
 
 ' Ah ! that's just it,' says Carry Desmond, 
 who, with Richard Amyot, has come up. 
 ' But I hear the new Bishop won't hear of 
 raffles — says they're vulgar or something.' 
 
 1 Not vulgar, dear Miss Desmond,' says 
 the curate, clasping his hands tightly, and 
 mowing at her over the top of them ; 
 ' but immoral.' 
 
 * Oh ! it's all the same,' says Miss 
 Desmond, with beautiful breadth of feel-
 
 A POINT OF CONSCIENCE 4; 
 
 ing, and perhaps not so much ignorance 
 as one might imagine. 
 
 ' If you would only do something for us, 
 our fortune would be assured/ says the 
 curate, still leaning over his folded hands, 
 and looking, if possible, a greater ass than 
 even Nature intended him to be. 
 
 1 Well, I can't,' says Carry, throwing up 
 her curly head. * I'm Ai at raffles; get 
 more tickets than most — don't I. Tony ?' 
 — to Verschoyle. c But if this silly old 
 fossil is going to cut them off, good-bye to 
 my help.' 
 
 'I think — I really think, don't you?' 
 says Mr. Popkin, addressing people gener- 
 ally, and evidently ready to change even 
 his opinions for Carry's sake, ' that his 
 lordship is goin' a little too far. I was 
 thinkin' that if he were to allow even a 
 few raffles for sacred things — let us say 
 like the altar-cloth that Lady Maria is 
 givin' — it wouldn't be runnin' in the face 
 of his principles, and we should make 
 considerably more than if we sold things 
 outright.'
 
 48 A POINT OF CONSCIENCE 
 
 I Quite so/ says Sidney. ' Do you 
 know, Popkin, I don't quite believe in 
 that Bishop of yours ? Anything of the 
 swindler about him, do you think ?' 
 
 ' Oh, my dear sir !' 
 
 ' Looks a little as if — you know/ 
 
 I I don't, indeed/ says Popkin. 
 
 ' Well, he objects to raffles, you say — 
 mind, you say — and then you tell us that 
 the tablecloths ' 
 
 'Altar-cloths' 
 
 6 Can be bought cheaper without 
 raffling, at the bazaar. Take my word 
 for it, Popkin, your good old Bishop is 
 going to make a deal on his own account 
 at this fancy fair. You'll see how Mrs. 
 Bishop will be dressed next season. Cloth 
 of gold won't be in it. And, besides ' 
 
 ' My dear Captain Fenton ! No, no ! 
 Nothin of the sort. The Bishop is above 
 suspicion.' 
 
 1 Like Caesar's wife/ says Sidney, who is 
 enjoying himself. 
 
 ' Heavens !' 
 
 Poor Mr. Popkin, feeling his brow
 
 A POINT OF CONSCIENCE 49 
 
 bathed in unnatural heat (that's how he 
 puts it : he studies to be refined), wonders 
 if anyone has heard these terribly scandal- 
 ous remarks about the Lord Bishop. 
 Evidently no one has, and his righteous 
 soul feels relief. 
 
 ' If — if his lordship would allow even a 
 raffle here and there/ says he — as though 
 1 a raffle here and there ' were nothing, 
 and hadn't even a word to say to the big 
 principle of it all — ' we might make 
 quite a good sum for the organ ; but he 
 told me himself he distinctly disapproved 
 of gamblin' of all sorts. Conscientious, no 
 doubt, but to us who want to get a new 
 organ it is bafflin' — very bafflin'. ' 
 
 Mr. Popkin is always so delighted with 
 his new language that he repeats it when- 
 ever repetition is possible. 
 
 ' What is baffling ?' asks Carry, who has 
 not quite heard. 
 
 ' My dear Carry, you ought to at- 
 tend,' says Sidney. * To a bazaar what 
 can be more bafflin' than to have no 
 rafflin' ?' 
 
 VOL. I.
 
 50 A POINT OF CONSCIENCE 
 
 At this even Carry looks severe, and 
 turns away to meet Amyot face to face. 
 
 ' I'm going to fish that stream of Ver- 
 schoyle's to-morrow/ says he, ' the Droon 
 — up at the Den, you know. Will you 
 come ? Of course if it's as bright as to-day 
 I shouldn't go, but if not ■' 
 
 ' Oh, I'll go,' says the girl carelessly. 
 1 Auntie likes a trout now and then, and if 
 I can't land one, you can.' She smiles, 
 opening her wide and kindly mouth with 
 a touch of camaraderie in the smile that 
 makes it almost beautiful. ' About eleven, 
 then — and Til bring some sandwiches this 
 time. Yours ' — with a grimace — ' were 
 awful.' 
 
 e I haven't an aunt, you see,' returns he, 
 in perfect good-humour, ' or ' — he pauses 
 — ' anyone else, for the matter of that.' 
 
 * Oh, but you soon will,' returns she. 
 
 She makes a little grimace, and accom- 
 panies it with a shrug of her shoulders. 
 As she does so, she glances lightly at Miss 
 Langley-Binks, who is standing in the 
 window over there — Miss Langley-Binks.
 
 A POINT OF CONSCIENCE 51 
 
 who is looking back at her with a some- 
 what strained expression on her large face. 
 
 ' Oh, I know what you mean/ says 
 Richie, colouring. ' But that's all nonsense. 
 
 And even ' — heavily sighing — ' if ' He 
 
 pauses, and then, seeing much in Carry's 
 eye, goes on defiantly: ' After all, she isn't 
 a bit worse than Popkin.' He looks across 
 the room at Popkin. ' Oh, hang it! Pop- 
 kin's even worse. 1 
 
 Miss Desmond gives way to laughter, 
 subdued, but gay. 
 
 1 Worse, nonsense ! They are both — 
 worst' says she. 
 
 LIBRARY
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 { A choking gall.' 
 
 * I wonder Cecil hasn't come in this 
 afternoon,' Lady Maria is saying, when the 
 door is thrown open and Miss Fairfax is 
 announced. 
 
 ' At last !' says Anthony quickly, irre- 
 pressibly. Had he been waiting, listening ? 
 His cousin, Captain Fenton, has gone to 
 meet her. 
 
 ' Talk of an angel,' says the latter, in a 
 low tone ; not so low, however, but that 
 Maden Royce can hear it, as, indeed, she 
 can hear anything he says, at almost impos- 
 sible distances, so acute has her ear grown to 
 the sound of his utterances. She pales a little 
 amongst her teacups, and lets the sugar- 
 tongs fall with a clatter against the silver
 
 A POINT OF CONSCIENCE 53 
 
 tray. Miss Fairfax smiles at him, colouring 
 softly. She would have spoken, perhaps, 
 but that now Mr. Verschoyle has reached 
 her, and is holding her hand. 
 
 ' My mother has been expecting you.' 
 
 ' Only your mother !' says Cecil, with a 
 little laugh, and a sudden glance that 
 makes his heart beat. Yet there is nothing 
 in either glance or laugh. Not half so 
 much, indeed, in both united, as there was 
 in that one blush she had given to Sidney 
 — to Sidney who cares so little for it. 
 
 She draws her hand from Anthony's, 
 always with the prettiest air, and goes on 
 to where his mother sits. 
 
 ' So late,' says the latter. 
 
 'Yes, I know. I have come only to 
 go, really. But Maudie Prior made me 
 promise to go and see her this afternoon. 
 She is still very ill, you know ; and, besides, 
 I wanted to see the baby. It's lovely 
 — all eyes ' 
 
 ' And nose,' says Mr. Browne, who, 
 unhappily, happens to be near. ' That's 
 the strong point in a baby. Too much
 
 54 A POINT OF CONSCIENCE 
 
 nose sometimes, they say. But there are 
 always cavillers in every turn of life/ 
 
 ' Why, Dicky, it's you,' says Miss Fair- 
 fax, too much amazed at the suddenness of 
 his presence, thus sprung upon her without 
 a word of warning, to find fault with his 
 abominable sarcasm, his jibe at the adorable 
 babies. 
 
 ' It is,' says Mr. Browne regretfully. 
 ' I have often wished it might be someone 
 else. But it hasn't come off. And it is 
 you, too, my dear Cecil — as I knew you a 
 year ago, but a little " glorified," if I may 
 say so.' 
 
 ' Oh, you — you can say anything !' 
 says Miss Fairfax, with a shrug ; she 
 accompanies the shrug, however, with 
 a charming smile. She likes Dicky 
 Browne. 
 
 Not only her smile, but she herself, is 
 entirely charming. Miss Fairfax is tall — 
 not too tall, not taller than a tall man's 
 heart, for example — and she is straight and 
 supple as a sapling elm. Her beautiful 
 face is full of life and thought, the gray
 
 A POINT OF CONSCIENCE 55 
 
 eyes soft and earnest. Her mouth is 
 replete with tenderness, but with a strength 
 too that is its chief charm. A dear and 
 gentle face, the dearer for its nobility — a 
 nobility that sees no evil in those around 
 her. 
 
 Her father had come into his property 
 when quite a young man, to find it hope- 
 lessly encumbered — impoverished to the 
 last degree, and, indeed, almost at the 
 vanishing-point. 
 
 It was a hard struggle for the man, but 
 he conquered, and came out all right at 
 the other end. He married first an heiress 
 — her name was Keren-happuch, and Mrs. 
 Banfield — always a little disagreeable — 
 said it killed her. Undoubtedly she was 
 Jewish, although her nose was wonderfully 
 modern, and Mr. Fairfax redeemed a great 
 deal of the mortgaged property with her 
 fortune. She was of immense use to him 
 in many ways, though it cannot be said he 
 was of much use to her, beyond changing 
 her name from Cohen to Fairfax. 
 
 He was always devoutly grateful that
 
 56 A POINT OF CONSCIENCE 
 
 she had given him no children, and no 
 doubt it was this gratitude that enabled him 
 to make a very decent show of grief at her 
 funeral. Later on he married again, a 
 mere Gentile, a very lovely girl, nearly as 
 lovely as her daughter is now, and, like the 
 Jewess, well dowered. Like the Jewess, 
 too, she died, and Mr. Fairfax made no 
 decent signs of grief at her funeral. He 
 appeared cold and emotionless — scanda- 
 lously unconcerned, said some — but he 
 died of nothing in particular a few weeks 
 later, unless it was sheer inability to live 
 without her. 
 
 A miser at heart, if not too openly in 
 action, he had amassed to himself riches 
 and redeemed his property. If not born 
 with a silver spoon in his mouth, he 
 certainly died with one in it, but it came 
 too late to be of any use to him. Luck at 
 the eleventh hour is of little good to us 
 poor mortals. 
 
 Cecil at seventeen — two years ago now 
 — came in for a very handsome inheritance. 
 She was not onlv an heiress, but a very
 
 A POINT OF CONSCIENCE 57 
 
 lovely girl — one of the rarest combinations 
 on earth. 
 
 ' Glorified ! What a slander !' says Fenton. 
 • As if there was room for anything of that 
 sort!' 
 
 He has taken her muff from her, in 
 a proprietary sort of way — a way that 
 he has with all women — and is pushing 
 a low chair towards her. Miss Fairfax, 
 with a soft little flush, accepts both 
 services. 
 
 * Tea V says a voice at her elbow. The 
 tone is low, but trembling, abrupt. Cecil, 
 looking up, finds Miss Royce beside her, 
 a cup of tea in her hand. 
 
 'Oh, how d'ye do, Miss Royce? 
 Thank you ; but I don't think I'll take 
 any more tea. I have just had some at 
 Mrs. Prior's. And, besides, really ' 
 
 ' I can't stay ' was to have been the finish 
 of her sentence, but something in the eyes 
 bent on hers checks her speech. The 
 great dark eyes are literally blazing; the 
 face is quite white. But whatever emotion 
 is troubling Jinnie's governess, her manner
 
 58 A POINT OF CONSCIENCE 
 
 remains calm to the verge of coldness. 
 And for a moment only do those strange 
 eyes burn into Cecil's; then they are lifted 
 to Sidney Fenton's, also for a bare moment 
 — and then the cup is carried back to the 
 table from which it came. 
 
 Fenton follows the small childish figure, 
 as it moves away, with an air of secret 
 amusement. He has found himself ex- 
 tremely popular with women ever since 
 he came to years of indiscretion, and that 
 this silly, if out-of-the-common pretty, little 
 girl should have fallen in love with him 
 seems quite in the nature of things. Of 
 late, in the tender growing evenings, when 
 
 ' May, with her world in flower, 
 Seemed still to murmur and smile,' 
 
 he has met her now and again by the river 
 that divides The Towers from the Dower- 
 house. He liked smoking a cigar in the 
 ash grove there (ash, so very appropriate, 
 as he used to tell himself in his airy way), 
 and it was the simplest thing to stroll down 
 there in the evening for that purpose. It
 
 A POINT OF CONSCIENCE 59 
 
 was, no doubt, the simplest thing, too, for 
 the * little Maden ' — another airy flight on 
 his part — to meet him there. A girl was 
 bound to fall in love sooner or later, and it 
 might as well be with him as with anyone 
 else, and she was distinctly worth cultivat- 
 ing. She passed an hour or two, and gave 
 a touch of life to the monotony of the 
 country. Besides, she was pretty — even 
 more, fascinating ; and, of course, it was 
 a calf-love on her part — there would be no 
 difficulty about it afterwards. Perhaps, 
 astute as he believed himself, he hardly 
 understood the ' little Maden.' 
 
 No principles to speak of, no heart, a 
 deeply sympathetic manner, and an im- 
 mense amount of belief in himself, would 
 make up Sidney Fenton's character. But, 
 to give the devil his due, he possesses, au 
 fond, a sort of reckless good-nature that, 
 added to his handsome face and figure, has 
 given him more friends than many a better 
 man can boast. There is, too, something 
 happy and sociable about him that has 
 made him popular in his regiment. As
 
 60 A POINT OF CONSCIENCE 
 
 ' a good fellow all round ' he is generally 
 regarded : one who never groans over his 
 misfortunes — otherwise debts — or crows 
 over his successes. He is, indeed, as good- 
 natured, and as thoroughly worthless, as 
 anyone can be. 
 
 This selfish good-nature now prompts 
 him to follow Miss Royce and say some- 
 thing to her. 
 
 ' Headache again ?' whispers he, under 
 pretence of having some tea. ' You ought 
 to get some air; nothing like air for a bad 
 head/ 
 
 ' Especially by the river,' returns she 
 bitterly. 
 
 ' Do you know, I was going to suggest 
 that,' says he, with a delightful air of sur- 
 prise. ' A breeze off the river is always 
 so cool.' 
 
 To this she makes no reply, and he, 
 watching her, half earnestly, half with an 
 increasing sense of amusement, tells him- 
 self afresh how attractive the small face is, 
 with its dark, glowing eyes and crimson 
 lips.
 
 A POINT OF CONSCIENCE 61 
 
 ' Graceful she was, as some slim marsh-flower 
 shaken 
 Among the sallows, in the breezy spring.' 
 
 ' You will come this evening ?' says he, 
 taking up the sugar-bowl. 
 
 < No !' 
 
 Sharp and angry, though subdued, rings 
 the word. 
 
 ' What have I done ?' asks Fenton, with 
 that subtle touch of reproach he knows so 
 well how to assume. 
 
 Miss Royce at this lifts her head, and 
 casts an expressive glance at Cecil Fairfax, 
 where, at the end of the room, she is 
 standing, very tall and lovely in her silks 
 and laces, talking now to Verschoyle. 
 
 ' Oh, that !' says Fenton. ' Come, now, 
 isn't that a little stupid of you ?' 
 
 ' Is she stupid, too, then ?' 
 
 ' My dear child, what do you mean ?' 
 
 ' Oh, I know ! I know ' — passionately. 
 Her little flower-like face grows deadly 
 pale, her lips quiver. ' She, too ' 
 
 Her voice dies away, but her meaning 
 remains clear. It startles Fenton. Cecil
 
 62 A POINT OF CONSCIENCE 
 
 Fairfax, the unapproachable, as he has 
 always believed her, the heiress. No — a 
 thousand times no ! This child's silly 
 jealousy has led her to this mad belief. 
 There is no more than that in it. Yet the 
 suggested knowledge comes to life in his 
 mind later on, and thrives and bears fruit. 
 
 ' Baby !' says he tenderly. He touches 
 her hand under the pretext of taking up 
 the cream-ewer. c You will come this 
 evening ? You won't let me wait for you 
 for ever ?' 
 
 A faint smile disturbs the sadness of her 
 lips. 
 
 c If I could believe.' 
 
 * In what ? In me ?' 
 
 8 Ah, yes ! And that she ' She 
 
 pauses. ' She ' — with agitation — ' is beau- 
 tiful. How could she be compared with 
 me?' 
 
 The extreme vehemence of the small 
 creature again touches him to hidden 
 mirth. He leans towards her. 
 
 c As moonlight unto sunlight — as water 
 unto wine.'
 
 A POINT OF CONSCIENCE 63 
 
 Her face brightens, her eyes soften. It 
 is the truth, she tells herself. And, in a 
 way, Fenton had been sincere. Cecil 
 Fairfax, with her refined and delicate 
 beauty, and her calm, reserved manner, is 
 almost distasteful to him, whilst this little 
 fervid, unthinking creature, as he deems 
 Maden Royce, is changeable enough in 
 her moods to amuse, and sometimes even 
 to touch him. 
 
 6 This tea is cold,' says Fenton, putting 
 down the cup — ' nearly as cold as you 
 are. I don't care for it now.' He half 
 turns away. 
 
 ' Let me give you another,' says she 
 quickly. ' And ' 
 
 * You will come ?' 
 
 < Yes.' 
 
 Everyone is now on the point of going. 
 There is a little stir in the room. 
 
 ' I hope,' Mrs. Langley-Binks is saying 
 in a general tone, ' that you will all re- 
 member Thursday is my tea-day at the 
 tennis club. I do hope it will be fine, 
 don't you V
 
 64 A POINT OF CONSCIENCE 
 
 ' I do indeed !' says Carry Desmond 
 heartily. She is an ardent tennis-player. 
 The remark, however, had not been meant 
 for her. 
 
 6 Oh, you, of course,' says Mrs. Langley- 
 Binks, with a smile that would frighten 
 you. Carry had won the prize at the 
 last local tournament from Aurora, who 
 plays very well, too, considering her size. 
 6 When people ' — with a melancholy 
 attempt at playfulness — ' are almost profes- 
 sionals, they are doubtless very keen over 
 their game.' 
 
 Carry drops back. 
 
 ' Well, she is a rude old thing !' says 
 she, with all her native honesty, addressing 
 the nearest person to her, who happens to 
 be Mr. Popkin. 
 
 c She is — she is indeed !' says the curate. 
 ' Anything to oblige,' describes his air. 
 6 She — but you know, dear Miss Desmond, 
 that all the annoyance might be averted if 
 you would only ' 
 
 * Oh, bother !' says Carry, who really, in 
 little ways, is dreadful ; and Mr. Popkin,
 
 A POINT OF CONSCIENCE 65 
 
 crushed again, recedes into the back- 
 ground. 
 
 'You, dear Lady Maria, will, I hope, 
 come ?' Mrs. Langley-Binks is saying in 
 her loud voice, before which Lady Maria 
 seems to give way a little. 
 
 'If it is fine, I shall be so glad/ says she. 
 And then, as Mrs. Langley-Binks moves 
 away, she turns plaintively to her son, who 
 happens to be near : c Are you going, 
 Anthony ?' 
 
 'Yes, of course/ says he, with an 
 amused air ; ' and Sidney and Browne will 
 go with me — quite a handsome contingent. 
 I don't honestly think there is any imme- 
 diate danger.' 
 
 ' I give myself into your hands/ says his 
 mother demurely. 
 
 vol. 1.
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 'Age cannot wither her, nor custom stale 
 Her infinite variety.' 
 
 'And a bird overhead sang " Follow," 
 And a bird to the right sang " Here " ; 
 And the arch of the leaves was hollow, 
 And the meaning of May was clear.' 
 
 A lovely young wind, filled full with all 
 the scents of May, is rushing up through 
 the valley, little shimmering gusts from it 
 making the river run riot. On its bosom 
 it brings the breath of honeysuckle and of 
 wild-roses, whose delicate faces peep out 
 from all the hedgerows round. 
 
 The evening is falling gently, tenderly ; 
 but as yet the night is not quite here, 
 though the shadows in the spaces of the 
 ash grove are already large and fanciful.
 
 A POINT OF CONSCIENCE 67 
 
 Up above in the trees the soft and delicate 
 cooing of wood-pigeons creates in one a 
 desire for sleep, for rest, for forgetfulness 
 of all things ; so still, so altogether fraught 
 with silence, is the coming night, that 
 almost the opening of the buds, the 
 opening of the young leaves, can be heard. 
 
 Something else can be heard, too — the 
 quick, light step of a young girl. 
 
 Quickly, impatiently, she crosses the 
 bridge, where the river calls to her so 
 sadly from below, and enters the thick 
 grove to her right. It is an easy thing for 
 her to come out, and down here for an 
 hour or so. When first she came to the 
 Dower-house she suffered intensely from 
 headaches, and Mrs. Verschoyle had re- 
 commended the cool, sweet air of evening 
 to her as a cure. At first the evening had 
 meant four o'clock, or five ; but now the 
 days have lengthened. 
 
 In this easy household, however, where 
 neither Lady Maria nor Mrs. Verschoyle 
 dreams of unpleasant possibilities, Miss 
 Royce, once Jinnie is disposed of for the
 
 63 A POINT OF CONSCIENCE 
 
 night, is considered off duty, and not 
 dreamt of again until the morning. A 
 careless treatment if unmeant selfishness 
 towards the girl, for which Mrs. Ver- 
 schovle afterwards bitterly reproached her- 
 self 
 
 c At last,' says Sidney Fenton, coming 
 out of the shadow of the wood to meet 
 her. 
 
 ' I am late,' says she. Her breath is 
 coming quickly. Evidently she has run a 
 great part of the way. 
 
 c I thought you were never coming,' 
 returns he, with the lover-like ardour he 
 finds it so easy to assume. As a fact, how- 
 ever, he had been feeling a little uncertain 
 as to her coming at all, for the past five 
 minutes, and, to his own surprise, a little 
 impatient. As has been said, she amuses 
 him, and has dropped into his short stay in 
 this dull country life as a relief to the mono- 
 tony of it. And she is really very pretty 
 and very young, and — he will soon be go- 
 ing away. 
 
 c To love and to ride away ' is no new
 
 A POINT OF CONSCIENCE 6g 
 
 thing with him, and, of course, this 
 child 
 
 He doesn't believe in broken hearts 
 himself, and — well, lightly come, lightly 
 go, is doubtless her creed as well as his, or 
 will be, later on. 
 
 He means no harm to her ; he can 
 swear that ; and she, dear little thing . . . 
 Her eyes were so loving when calm, so 
 much lovelier when enraged. He likes to 
 enrage her, if only to see the quick lights 
 and shades in them — the fierce anger, 
 fading to the wonderful softness of forgive- 
 ness. To mark these effects delights him, 
 and gives a zest to his meetings with 
 her. 
 
 Once he is gone, however, she will, of 
 course, forget him, as many another has 
 had to do. Perhaps he miscalculates a 
 little this time — not allowing for the touch 
 of fire in Maden's blood caught from her 
 French mother. 
 
 'Well, I couldn't help it,' says she. 
 Then suddenly she pulls the little crimson 
 woollen cap she is wearing from her dark
 
 70 A POINT OF CONSCIENCE 
 
 head and flings it to the ground. The 
 gesture is graceful, passionate, suggestive 
 of unrestrained delight. 
 
 c Oh, the joy — the freedom !' cries she, 
 as if in ecstasy. ' I feel like one escaped. 
 And the run here, all through the scented 
 air, and with the mad rush of the river in 
 my ears ! Ah, I felt as if I could rush 
 with it — anywhere — anywhere.' 
 
 1 That's rather unkind, isn't it ?' says 
 Captain Fenton, gazing at her with 
 unfeigned admiration. Standing there, 
 beneath the branching trees, with her 
 small hands clasped against her dusky 
 head, and her eyes alight, she looks like 
 some sylvan sprite — all fire and life. Like 
 a red spot of blood her little cap lies on 
 the greensward a foot or so away from 
 her. l If you had gone with the river, 
 what should I have done ?' 
 
 ' Ah, I shouldn't have gone,' says she. 
 She laughs ; her white teeth gleam. 
 
 1 And your headache ?' 
 
 ' Headache ? Had I a headache ? 
 Ever ? I haven't one now, any way, or,'
 
 A POINT OF CONSCIENCE 71 
 
 laughing gaily, almost wildly, ' a head 
 either, I think/ 
 
 c Maden !' He catches her hands sud- 
 denly, and draws her to him ; but she slips 
 lightly away, and stands back, laughing 
 always, and with a wonderful coquetry in 
 her air. 
 
 ' Do you know how pretty you are ?' 
 says Fenton quickly, eagerly. 
 
 ' Pretty ! I hate the word/ says she, 
 pouting. ' Ah, to be tall, and fair — and 
 beautiful !' 
 
 'Like Cecil Fairfax' — mimicking her 
 tone lightly. 'Well, you can't be tall 
 and fair, you know ; Nature's forbidden 
 that' 
 
 * Yes, I know ' — gloomily. All her 
 charming gaiety of a moment ago is now 
 overclouded. She stands now — so quickly 
 changed are her moods — a little image of 
 despair. 
 
 1 But ' says he, and pauses as if to 
 
 tantalize her. 
 
 ' Yes ' — eagerly. 
 
 ' You can be beautiful — you are!
 
 72 A POINT OF CONSCIENCE 
 
 * But not like her. I have not her 
 charm, her grace/ 
 
 ' A thousandfold more !' cries he, with 
 sudden vehemence that astonishes even 
 himself. 
 
 ' Ah !' Her voice rises triumphantly. 
 And now she gives him her hands, and 
 comes to him with all the late joyousness 
 intensified in every feature of her vivid 
 face, in every action of her small lissome 
 body. 
 
 Some emotion, stronger than he has 
 known for a long time, transitory, no 
 doubt, but real while it lasts, possesses 
 Fenton now. He would have drawn her 
 to his heart, but after a brief moment, that 
 looked like yielding, she again frees her- 
 self lightly from his grasp, and with a 
 little charming gesture forbids him to 
 come nearer. 
 
 ' Sit down here and let us talk,' says 
 she, indicating the fallen trunk of a tree 
 near her. ' This bazaar seems to be 
 absorbing everybody's thoughts.' 
 
 * Not mine,' says he, with a downward
 
 A POINT OF CONSCIENCE 73 
 
 glance at her, a glance she catches and 
 returns with a smile that is warm as sun- 
 shine. 
 
 ' It ought, however.' 
 
 ' How ? Oh, I see. You are to take 
 part in it. You will help at Lady Maria's 
 stall ?' 
 
 6 Yes. And we are all to be in fancy 
 costume.' 
 
 She looks so very fanciful at the present 
 moment, sitting here in the dusky twi- 
 light on the old tree, that it occurs to 
 Fenton that she hardly wants accessories for 
 the part she is going to take at the bazaar. 
 
 ' What are you going as ? — a fairy ?' 
 
 ' No, no ! nothing so frivolous.' 
 
 ' A pixie, then ?' 
 
 6 Wrong again. Fancy Lady Maria's 
 face if you asked her that question !' 
 
 ' Ah, you ought to be a pixie,' says he. 
 4 It would suit you.' 
 
 < Why ?' 
 
 She moves a little nearer to him, blink- 
 ing her pretty lids, with their long, dark 
 eyelashes, rapidly, so curious has she grown.
 
 74 A POINT OF CONSCIENCE 
 
 * Don't you know ?' 
 
 ' No, indeed.' 
 
 ' Well, come closer, and I'll tell you. 
 It isn't safe to speak out loud about pixies 
 in wooded places now ' — he has secured 
 her hand, and is holding it in both his, 
 whilst she with widened eyes is looking 
 into his face — ' because from all time 
 pixies have drawn from men their very 
 hearts — and souls.' 
 
 ' No, no !' she says ; she drags her 
 hand out of his, as if affrighted, and then 
 quite as suddenly pushes it back again. 
 ' Oh, nonsense ! And whose soul, whose 
 heart ? Oh, no, no, no !' 
 
 There is something childish in the 
 expostulation. Is she to be an evil 
 influence in his destiny ? That he loves 
 her she hopes, she fears. Her eyes are 
 full of tears as she looks at him. 
 
 ' 1 shall not be a pixie at the bazaar, 
 or at any other time,' says she ; * and 
 yet ' 
 
 She hesitates, and with a little gesture 
 turns his face to hers.
 
 A POINT OF CONSCIENCE 75 
 
 ' And yet I would I could be one/ says 
 she, ' to turn your soul to mine.' 
 
 Softly, softly blows the tender night 
 wind through the trees ; softly, too, runs 
 the river down below. Above, in the 
 branches, the birds are nesting, little tiny 
 cheeps from unseen recesses making the 
 air sweet with a music magical. Down 
 there the river is rushing, pale gray in its 
 hue ; whilst above the sky is gray, too, 
 sky and water thus making one exquisite 
 blend. 
 
 1 Behind the western bars 
 
 The shrouded Day retreats, 
 And unperceived the stars 
 Steal to their sovran seats.' 
 
 * Maden,' says he, in a low tone, ' do 
 you ever think ?' 
 
 * Ah, too much and too often. But we 
 will not think now. It' — frowning — 
 * troubles me. Well, I am not going to 
 be a pixie, you see.' 
 
 1 I'm not sure.' 
 
 She laughs, and rubs her cheek against 
 his shoulder.
 
 76 A POINT OF CONSCIENCE 
 
 ' Oh no. Only a French peasant. 
 Odd, Lady Maria's choosing that costume 
 for her stall, eh V 
 
 1 Why ? It would suit you better than 
 anything else, if you can't be my pixie. 
 And you could wear that little red cap/ 
 He points to where it is lying in the light 
 of the young May moon, that now has 
 arisen in all its glory, and is flooding even 
 this tree-haunted place with light. ' That 
 suits you, any way.' 
 
 6 You think I would look well as a 
 French peasant, then ?' 
 
 A frown has settled on her brow. 
 
 ' It is an effective costume, and ' 
 
 6 Appropriate ?' 
 
 She is frowning still. 
 
 'Why, what's the matter now?' asks 
 Fenton. 
 
 ' Oh, nothing, only I hate to look like a 
 Frenchwoman.' 
 
 6 Well, you don't,' says he, laughing. 
 
 ' Still ' — she lifts her eyes with evident 
 reluctance to his — ' my mother was 
 French.'
 
 A POINT OF CONSCIENCE 77 
 
 6 And your father ?' 
 
 'English.' 
 
 ' The happiest combination of all/ says 
 Fenton, laughing. ' That's what makes 
 you ' 
 
 < Yes V 
 
 She turns to him ; again the glowing 
 light of happy expectancy is in her 
 eyes. 
 
 t What you are/ 
 
 < Oh, but that — but that !' cries she. 
 She rises impulsively, and with her hands 
 separated, but clenched, looks at him. 
 « Tell me !' 
 
 ' The sweetest — the dearest thing on 
 earth/ says Fenton, forgetting all things — 
 prudence, to-morrow even — with those 
 dark eyes on his. 
 
 ' Ah !' She runs to him. ' If / might 
 think that you thought that.' 
 
 ' You may/ says he, in a low, impas- 
 sioned tone, and for the moment he 
 believes in his own mood. His arms are 
 round her, he stoops over her ; but even 
 at this instant, with one small but firm
 
 78 A POINT OF CONSCIENCE 
 
 hand upon his breast, she pushes him from 
 her. 
 
 * No, you mustn't kiss me,' says she, her 
 eyes on his, her breath coming quickly. 
 c No.' And then all suddenly, as if angry 
 with herself for her cold-heartedness, she 
 relents a little — a very little. 
 
 ' Well, only just my eyes, my hair — not 
 my lips. Now, remember !' 
 
 It is strange, even amusing, but he can 
 see that she really means it. She is always 
 amusing. But what is still more strange 
 is the fact that Fenton respects her mean- 
 ing, and it is only on her hair and her eyes 
 his kisses rest. Upon her lips, not one.
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 1 We'll prove it just, with treacherous bait, 
 To make the preying trout our prey.' 
 
 To-day, as Mr. A my ot acknowledges with 
 disgust as he springs out of bed, is a 
 ' scorcher/ Above, indeed, Sol is running 
 amuck, and the solemn earth beneath is 
 suffering. 
 
 ' Awful rot, thinking of fishing on a 
 day like this Y he tells himself further on. 
 Yet, having arranged with Carry Desmond 
 to meet her at the Droon at a certain 
 hour, he most unwillingly dons his 
 armour — fishing boots, basket, rod, and 
 book with the sacred flies — and starts for 
 the rendezvous. 
 
 #^L. «\Z» 4Z- Ji. 
 
 *7r w vy* tv' 
 
 Up here amongst the hills, where the
 
 80 A POINT OF CONSCIENCE 
 
 river leaps gaily from rock to rock, the 
 shadows are lying and the air is almost 
 cool. The tall trees on either edge of it, 
 with their hanging branches, resist the 
 sun, and here and there in the darkened 
 pools some fishing may be hoped for. The 
 day is exquisite, and full of fresh young- 
 breathings. It is, indeed, hardly possible 
 to move without taking the life of some 
 small perfect thing. The wood-anemones 
 and the cuckoo-flower are making carpets 
 everywhere, while on the banks ' my 
 lady's bedstraw ' is climbing over every- 
 thing its dainty feet can touch, and here, 
 in corners, the gaudy celandine calls loud 
 for praise. 
 
 And the ferns ! The ferns are every- 
 where, gloriously cool, and filled with so 
 many different greens as to suffice the eye. 
 Spring is still with us, as it seems, though 
 summer is very near at hand, its message 
 coming with the May : 
 
 1 May, that mother is of monthes glade, 
 
 When all the freshe flowers, green and red, 
 Be quick again, that Winter deade made, 
 And full of balm is floating every meade.'
 
 A POINT OF CONSCIENCE 81 
 
 6 Oh ! there you are,' says Carry Des- 
 mond, glancing at him over her shoulder 
 as he comes springing over the rocks on 
 her left — a short-cut to the Droon. With 
 rod in hand she is whipping the stream 
 diligently. c I suppose you thought the 
 day too bad for anything, but you were 
 wrong. You generally are. I've got two 
 already ' — with a swift gesture towards 
 her basket, that is lying on the bank above 
 her. 
 
 She vouchsafes him no further, no 
 more ordinary greeting. She and he are 
 indeed comrades too well tried to care for 
 the bare conventionalities of their day. 
 Besides which Carry, it must be confessed, 
 is somewhat of ' a boy spoiled/ as Mrs. 
 Verschoyle always says. 
 
 She had come amongst the Hillesden 
 people seventeen years ago. The old place 
 she lives in was once what the land agents 
 call ' a handsome residence/ but many 
 years of Carry's father's residence in it 
 (this last remark alone will show her Irish 
 origin) had sufficed to bring it to the verge 
 
 vol. i. 6
 
 82 A POINT OF CONSCIENCE 
 
 of dissolution. As a fact, Tudor Hall, 
 for so it was named when Mr. Desmond 
 took it, is now in the last stages of decay. 
 The walls are falling in, the roof is dis- 
 tinctly unsound, not a boarding in any part 
 of the house that a stout step might not 
 crack in two. There has been a hint of 
 late that someone walking without wariness 
 across the drawing-room floor might find 
 himself unawares in the kitchen. 
 
 In the country one's world is very limited, 
 yet Cecil Fairfax had found she was 
 Carry's cousin — a far-off cousin, truly, but 
 still, if distantly connected, of her very 
 blood. Carry's mother had been English, 
 and the second Mrs. Fairfax's first cousin. 
 
 There arose a strong affection between 
 the two girls : one so well off, the other so 
 distinctly poor. Cecil would gladly have 
 loaded Carry and her aunt with benefits, 
 but was refused — more distinctly even by 
 the girl than by her aunt. No, no! They 
 could live alone, she and auntie. They 
 could manage perfectly.
 
 A POINT OF CONSCIENCE 8$ 
 
 ' Well, you are lucky !' says Richie, 
 pulling out the contents of the basket. 
 c Half a pound, or three-quarters, if any- 
 thing.' He hardly looks at her, so intent 
 is he on the trout she has caught. But, 
 then, he knows her looks. ( But it was a 
 beastly day in the beginning, wasn't it ?' 
 
 ' Not half bad, / thought.' 
 
 No more is said. Amyot now grows 
 busy with his tackle, and presently, spring- 
 ing from stone to stone over a rough 
 crossing-place, he reaches the other side of 
 the river, and marching upwards, though 
 scarcely out of sight or call of his com- 
 panion, finds a favourite pool, and casting a 
 green drake lightly on the water, possesses, as 
 all fishermen must do, his soul in patience. 
 
 Slowly, silently, the minutes go by, 
 growing into quarters and half- hours. 
 Carry has made her two trout four, and 
 has learned to her satisfaction that Richie's 
 basket is the better for only one. Both are 
 fishing down the stream, he very much 
 above her, and now at a turn of the river 
 he is out of sight.
 
 84 A POINT OF CONSCIENCE 
 
 The river is swollen almost to its banks, 
 because of the late rains, and is tumbling 
 heavily on its way to the great sea far down 
 there many a mile away. Pale-green it 
 gleams in the shallower parts, and now tea- 
 green in the deeper, and black as night in 
 the big pools where the fish lie hungry; 
 and sometimes there comes a fall, where 
 the spray dashes up in foamy clouds, half 
 drowning the delicate ferns that deck out 
 with charming coquetry the old river's 
 broken sides — kind ferns that always seek 
 to hide, like the ivy, old age, and poverty, 
 and sad decay. A tender wind has risen, 
 moving the gentle ripples of the water 
 here and there on its downward course, 
 but all around is silence. No sound breaks 
 the delicate stillness of the noon, save the 
 song of the stream and the sighing and 
 rustling of ferns and grasses. Sometimes 
 the river's music is broken by the trilling 
 of a bird overhead, but not often. The 
 languorous heat of the May day op- 
 presses the birds as well as the plants and 
 bushes.
 
 A POINT OF CONSCIENCE 85 
 
 Suddenly through this quiet, a voice 
 rings : 
 
 ' Carry, come here, come quickly ! 
 Carry, I say ' 
 
 Miss Desmond draws in her line as 
 quickly as possible, sees that her fly is safe, 
 and then rushes up the hill to Richie. It 
 is no easy journey, springing thus over 
 boulders and fallen stumps of trees, and 
 she is, therefore, hardly prepared to be 
 accosted thus by Mr. Amyot : 
 
 ' Hang it all! you might hurry your- 
 self !' 
 
 He is red with excitement, and is playing 
 his rod with evident difficulty. The line, 
 indeed, seems strung to the last degree, and 
 his eyes are fixed on a bit of the river over 
 there where some stir amongst the weeds 
 tells its own tale. 
 
 ' Hang it all yourself!' says Carry indig- 
 nantly. ' I ran all I could. You didn't 
 expect me to fling my rod into the stream, 
 did you ?' 
 
 1 Never mind me ; I'm sorry. But 
 catch hold, and sit tight,' says Amyot.
 
 86 A POINT OF CONSCIENCE 
 
 With this he thrusts his rod into her 
 hands, and, springing on a branch of an old 
 alder that lies across the river, drags himself 
 as far as he can, then drops into mid-stream. 
 From that a stroke or two takes him to 
 the other side, where his line lies fouled 
 amongst a lot of weeds. 
 
 ' Got caught !' he roars to Carry across 
 the water; ' but there's a fish on, and a 
 whopper, if I know anything. Dig the 
 rod into the bank.' 
 
 Carry, whose ill-temper is always a 
 transitory evil, and hardly likely to be 
 even remembered when a big catch is on, 
 does as she is directed ; and, indeed, there 
 is little time for thought of any kind as the 
 rod begins to grow almost too much for 
 her, so great is the rushing and trembling 
 and returning at end of it. Now Richie is 
 beside her again, and has taken the rod 
 from her, and is tearing down-stream with 
 it, and now up again ; and now the 
 supreme moment has come, and the hand- 
 some, speckled, gasping trout is lying at 
 their feet.
 
 A POINT OF CONSCIENCE 87 
 
 1 Two pounds, if an ounce !' says Richie, 
 running his sleeve across his forehead. 
 
 'Oh, what a beauty !' says Carry. ' It 
 — it seems a shame to kill him. He's a 
 king amongst trout/ 
 
 ' When the terrible deed has been done, 
 you shall have him/ says Amyot. 
 
 ' Oh no ; I have enough of my 
 own.' 
 
 * You shall, though. If you hadn't been 
 there to help me, I should never have been 
 able to extricate the line from that stuff 
 over there.' 
 
 1 You had far better take him to Miss 
 Langley-Binks as a love-offering,' says 
 Carry with a little irrepressible burst of 
 teasing. 
 
 ' Oh, Carry, confound it! let's forget 
 things for once, 9 says Amyot with a groan 
 of disgust. 
 
 ' I don't see how you can forget your 
 clothes,' says she. 'Oh, Richie, really, you 
 know, you are awfully wet.' 
 
 ' Wet or not wet, I feel as jolly as a sand- 
 boy,' says Mr. Amyot. ' It's the biggest
 
 83 A POINT OF CONSCIENCE 
 
 fish I've caught this year, or the last, for 
 the matter of that.' 
 
 c I didn't think it was in it/ says Carry, 
 with almost solemn feeling, indicating the 
 river by a charming movement of her 
 head. 
 
 $ I say, I'm starving,' says Richie sud- 
 denly. ' What have you brought ?' 
 
 c There wasn't much of anything/ con- 
 fesses Carry, without, however, the slightest 
 sign of confusion or mauvaise honte. c Only 
 some cold mutton, and I had to leave 
 enough for auntie's luncheon ; though if 
 she knew, old darling ! she'd have made me 
 take it all. So I'm afraid the sandwiches 
 are rather more bread-and-butter than any- 
 thing else.' 
 
 ' I shouldn't care if they were only 
 bread/ declares Richie, c as long as there 
 was enough of them ; I'm as hungry as a 
 hawk.' 
 
 ' So am 1/ says Carry ; and together the 
 two young, happy, healthy creatures seat 
 themselves on a knoll, and munch hungrily 
 at their somewhat unappetizing, if good
 
 A POINT OF CONSCIENCE 89 
 
 and wholesome, luncheon. But, then, who 
 wants an appetite when one is young and 
 vigorous, and has gone out fishing since 
 eleven o'clock, and when one has the balmy 
 breath of spring-time in one's heart, and a 
 constitution that would baffle even a spe- 
 cialist to find a flaw in it ! 
 
 ' Carry,' says Mr. Amyot, when he has 
 come to the last crumb, ' what do you 
 think I ought to do about that confounded 
 girl ?'
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 1 1 needed rest and comfort, 
 And came to seek them with you.' 
 
 ' I really, honestly think you ought to 
 marry her/ says Miss Desmond, facing this 
 momentous question with all the solemnity 
 it undoubtedly requires. ' She's got 
 thousands, and you've got only pence, and 
 the old place must be kept up.' 
 
 c That's what the Dowager says,' 
 acquiesces Amyot, with a sigh. 
 
 Richie always speaks of Lady Maria as 
 the Dowager ; she, of him, as ' my young 
 relative' or 'that handsome creature 
 Richie.' She always pronounces her 
 favourite term as ' creechaw,' which some- 
 how makes it seem like a new name for a 
 cockatoo.
 
 A POINT OF CONSCIENCE 91 
 
 ' She'd know,' says Carry. c She knows 
 everything. She's ever so clever ; and 
 you really ought to listen to her, Richie. 
 She's a cousin of yours, you know. But 
 about Miss Langley-Binks ' 
 
 ' Oh, that's all right,' says Richie, in a 
 doleful tone. ' It appears her mother 
 threw out hints to the Dowager. What 
 an old beast, eh?' 
 
 ' M — m !' says Carry, conveying in this 
 extraordinary syllable the very sweetest 
 sympathy. 
 
 ' It seems she has set her heart on my 
 old place, and thinks she could make up a 
 new Amyot family with the help of my 
 name and her daughter's money. No 
 family of her own, you know.' 
 
 ' No family. Why, there's Aurora.' 
 
 * Oh, nonsense ! Who's thinking of 
 that sort of family? Rank in the county, 
 you know, is what she's going for. Grand- 
 fathers, and that. And so she's told the 
 Dowager she would be willing to counten- 
 ance — countenance, mind you — an alliance 
 between her daughter's fortune' — bitterly —
 
 92 A POINT OF CONSCIENCE 
 
 ' and my name ! When the Dowager 
 mentioned alliance to me, I felt sick. The 
 Binkses and that class of persons, and 
 Royalties, always speak of alliances. We 
 don't!' 
 
 * You forget Lady Maria.' 
 
 * No, I don't. They are all in the same 
 boat, not a pin's point to choose between 
 her and the Langleys.' 
 
 ' Oh, poor Lady Maria ! Surely she 
 can't be put in a category with Mrs. 
 Langley.' 
 
 * Couldn't she, by Jove ! I tell you 
 what, Carry : she only wants to patch up 
 me and my affairs because my old place 
 belongs in a way to her and her family. 
 To keep up the Name, as she calls it — 
 she always puts a big N on, if you notice 
 — she would sell me to the devil, or — 
 that sack !' 
 
 ' I think you needn't be vulgar, Richie/ 
 
 ' It's not half so vulgar, any way, as 
 
 trying to keep up a name by false means 
 
 — trying to make one by a graft,' says 
 
 Richie ; ' and that's what the Dowager
 
 A POINT OF CONSCIENCE 93 
 
 and your precious Aurora are trying to 
 do.' ' 
 
 ' Not my Aurora, thank you. But still, 
 Richie ' 
 
 1 Yes, I know ' — gloomily — ' lots of 
 fellows have done it. They've taken 
 the plunge for the sake of the family, or 
 the name or title. And if I don't, the 
 old place will be in the market in no 
 time.' 
 
 ' That would break your heart/ says she, 
 shaking her head dismally. 
 
 ' Well, it's a choice of evils. Aurora 
 would break it, too.' 
 
 ■ No, no ! She isn't so bad as that,' 
 says Carry, plainly bent on encouraging 
 him, though with deep commiseration. 
 * She's a kind sort of girl, I think, though 
 she is fat ; and after all, Richie, she's very 
 fond of you, I think.' 
 
 ' Ah, that's it,' says Mr. Amyot, whose 
 voice seems now to come out of his boots ; 
 ' she does like me. You ' — with a last 
 lingering ray of hope — ' you don't think 
 she'd refuse me, do you ?'
 
 94 A POINT OF CONSCIENCE 
 
 I She'll accept you, to a moral/ says 
 Carry ; * you needn't have two thoughts 
 about it.' She pauses. 'And it's better 
 to be fat than a bag of bones, any way.' 
 
 The wind sweeps up the stream and 
 down again, but brings no comfort with 
 it. 
 
 ' Carry,' says Mr. Amyot, ' let us talk of 
 something else.' 
 
 In this he shows himself a true 
 philosopher. 
 
 Carry laughs. 
 
 ' With all my heart,' says she ; ' but of 
 what ? It's fatal to ask a person to talk ; 
 it ties one's tongue. Oh, by-the-by, have 
 you heard that our new Bishop — he must 
 be a silly old thing — has a prejudice 
 against raffles ? That will destroy half our 
 chances at the bazaar. You know raffles 
 run up a thing so ; they are of immense 
 use.' 
 
 ' Have them on the quiet,' suggests 
 Mr. Amyot, with a disgraceful lack of 
 principle 
 
 I I thought of that, too. I expect it
 
 A POINT OF CONSCIENCE 95 
 
 will come to it in the end. Oh, Richie, 
 I wonder how I'll look as a Norwegian 
 peasant.' 
 
 I First - class/ says Amyot carelessly ; 
 ' though, if they had the pluck to get up 
 a rational costume stall, that ' — with a 
 view to teasing her — t would have suited 
 you down to the ground.' 
 
 Miss Desmond casts a brief but curious 
 glance at him, and then, for no reason, 
 apparently, becomes all at once a brilliant 
 pink. 
 
 'Why, you're blushing !' cries Richie, 
 delighted at the success of his venture. 
 ' Yes, you are ; you're as red as fire.' 
 
 I I suppose I can blush if I like/ says 
 Carry valiantly. Whatever little fear — or 
 fancy — brought the unusual blush, it has 
 now been conquered. * A Norwegian I 
 am going to be, any way — that's settled. 
 Auntie's cousin, one of the Meath Des- 
 monds, has a Norwegian dress, and she is 
 going to lend it to me. Lucky, isn't it ? 
 I couldn't have taken part in Cecil's stall 
 if it hadn't been for that. Oh yes ; of
 
 96 A POINT OF CONSCIENCE 
 
 course, Cecil wanted to give me the dress, 
 but — well, I couldn't, you know/ 
 
 ' Yes, I know.' 
 
 ' And auntie couldn't have done any- 
 thing. She's awfully down just now, 
 Richie.' 
 
 ' Nothing fresh ?' — anxiously. 
 
 ' Well, no ; not exactly. The old loan, 
 you know. But we're rather short this 
 year for many reasons, and she doesn't 
 know how to make up the next quarter's 
 money. It's only twenty pounds, really, 
 but ' 
 
 6 1 wish to Heaven I could help you,' 
 says Amyot ; ' but, as it is, it will be cut 
 and run with me presently, I'm afraid, and 
 the old place in the market. Still, Carry, 
 perhaps I could do something, and you 
 would not mind my helping you.' 
 
 ' Not a bit,' says Carry, which, indeed, 
 is the truth. s But you can't, you know; 
 and besides, Richie, I have a small idea of 
 my own. Auntie, it seems, can make out 
 ten pounds, and for the other ten — well, 
 I have an idea, I say.'
 
 A POINT OF CONSCIENCE 97 
 
 ' Popkin ?' — shortly. 
 
 ' Oh no ! not yet. Though ' — with a 
 sigh — ' I expect in the end I shall find 
 myself Mrs. Popkin. What a wretch of a 
 name !' 
 
 'And the little brute himself! Don't 
 do it, Carry, and take my advice/ 
 
 ' Lady Maria says he's a very good 
 young man/ says Carry. 
 
 ' Oh, Lor' ! That puts the finishing 
 stroke/ says Amyot, with wild disgust ; 
 ' though, after all, I shouldn't talk. We're 
 in the same boat.' 
 
 1 Yes. Aurora's got' money.' 
 
 ' And Popkin expectations.' 
 
 € If I'm one of them,' says Miss Des- 
 mond, breaking into most unseemly mirth, 
 ' he'll come to a bad, and, I'm afraid, a 
 speedy end. Oh, I say, Richie, I wonder 
 what Aurora is going to be at the bazaar.' 
 
 1 A houri, I shouldn't wonder/ says 
 Amyot bitterly, after which they both 
 roar with laughter. 
 
 ' I fancy/ says Carry presently, ' that 
 when you marry her you won't be allowed 
 
 vol. 1. 7
 
 98 A POINT OF CONSCIENCE 
 
 to go fishing with me again. She keeps 
 her eye on me. I really think ' — giving 
 way to fresh uncontrollable mirth — ' she 
 thinks you are in love with me/ 
 
 * Well, I like you better than anybody/ 
 says Amyot, regarding her dispassionately. 
 
 ' Oh, and I you, too, dear old thing !' 
 says Carry, with the most open affection. 
 ' If I had had a brother, I should have 
 liked him to be the very image of you/ 
 
 ' I've often had that sort of thought 
 about you/ says Amyot. ' If you were a 
 boy instead of a girl, you're just the sort of 
 chum I'd have chosen.' 
 
 Again the thought that dyed Miss 
 Desmond's cheeks awhile ago makes them 
 a pale pink now. Why would he not 
 have chosen her as a sister ? Is she really 
 so like a boy, then, as Mrs. Verschoyle says ? 
 Well, if so, so much the better for her 
 scheme. She is still thinking deeply, when 
 Richie's conversation — he has been talking 
 fluently — breaks in upon her dreams. 
 
 1 It's all rot, of course, about Aurora/ 
 says he. * If the worst comes to the
 
 A POINT OF CONSCIENCE 99 
 
 worst, there is always America. I shouldn't 
 make half a bad sort of cowboy.' 
 
 ' Horrid !' says she. ' And, besides, to 
 abandon the dear old place ! Oh no ; I 
 think you ought to make a sacrifice for 
 its sake.' 
 
 ' A big sacrifice, ' says Richie gloomily, 
 6 Well ' — with returning cheerfulness — 
 ' there is no hurry, any way; that's one com- 
 fort. Come on ; I think we may as well go 
 home; the sun is blinding. And I think 
 I'll go your way, and give my one great 
 catch to Miss Desmond.' 
 
 * Yes, do ; she will be pleased,' says 
 Carry, scrambling to her feet. ' You shall 
 lay your offering before her, if not before 
 the great Aurora ; and indeed, Richie, I 
 only hope you won't catch your death of 
 cold, sitting here so long in these wet 
 clothes.' 
 
 Ten minutes' walk brings them to the 
 torn-down entrance to an avenue, once 
 gravelled, but now thickly sown with 
 weeds. On either side two lines of elm- 
 trees, now bursting into leaf, stand tall
 
 ioo A POINT OF CONSCIENCE 
 
 and stately, whilst amongst them, strag- 
 gling and uncared for, laurel bushes are 
 running unheeded into wood. On the 
 right-hand the grass slopes downwards 
 and away into a wooded hollow, now 
 warm with scented bluebells. Across the 
 avenue, and here and there amongst the 
 trees, rabbits are scuttling to and fro, their 
 soft white tails making little flashes of 
 light amongst the green. 
 
 The air of utter desolation, the sugges- 
 tion of poverty that lies on all around, is 
 evidently unheeded by the two who now 
 go up the walk, chatting cheerfully of 
 many things. A turn brings them in 
 view of an old, ivy-covered house, and a 
 little plot of ground at the southern side 
 of it, prettily laid out in flower-beds of 
 the usual ancient designs. The horse- 
 shoe here, near the doorsteps, the star 
 next to it, the diamond beyond that again, 
 and so on. This flower-garden is the 
 apple of the elder Miss Desmond's eye, 
 and it is therefore, on hearing certain 
 * cushings ' and * shooings,' that Richie
 
 A POINT OF CONSCIENCE 101 
 
 and Carry smarten their footsteps as they 
 draw near it. 
 
 In the middle of the sacred plot an old 
 lady, dainty, fragile (she looks as if a 
 respectable puff of wind would blow her 
 away), with a snowy kerchief over her 
 head, is making frantic passes in the air 
 at two impertinent hens, that with many 
 insolent glances, and a considerable amount 
 of the very worst language, are slowly 
 retreating to the yard whence they had 
 come on predatory thoughts intent. 
 
 ' Oh, auntie darling, have they been 
 here again ? What beasts they are !' 
 
 ' Yes, my dear. Yes, indeed ; though, 
 perhaps, that is hardly a nice word.* 
 The old lady looks flushed and tremulous 
 from her late exertions. Her pretty cap, 
 with its pale blue ribbons, has been blown 
 a little to one side ; her skirt, caught by 
 the merry May wind, lets two of the 
 smallest feet in Europe be seen, clad in 
 their velvet slippers. The Desmonds for 
 generations have been able to boast of the 
 beauty of their feet and hands. ' Is that
 
 102 A POINT OF CONSCIENCE 
 
 you, Richie dear ?' She raises her face, 
 fair still, in spite of the white soft hair 
 that surmounts it, as Amyot stoops to kiss 
 her affectionately. It is quite a usual pro- 
 ceeding. He has kissed her ever since he 
 first saw her ; he was then a little fellow 
 in his first knickers. ' How well you 
 look ! But aren't these hens most trouble- 
 some ? — even worse than the rabbits, 
 though they are getting intolerable — a 
 perfect nuisance ! I wish someone would 
 shoot them.' 
 
 Here Carry's face again grows conscious 
 ~a little pink, a little pleased, however. 
 
 ' But the hens are worse,' old Miss 
 Desmond goes on in her plaintive voice. 
 ' Just now nothing would suit them but 
 my young stocks, that I only yesterday 
 spent an hour putting out. And they 
 were also attacking my early bed of 
 mignonette, when ' — warming to the sub- 
 ject — 'I most providentially saw them 
 from the drawing-room window. They 
 trouble me very much/ 
 
 ' They shan't trouble you much longer,'
 
 A POINT OF CONSCIENCE 103 
 
 says Amyot, who is already, indeed, in 
 search of pebbles from the trodden-in old 
 gravel of the avenue ; with these, and a 
 stirring whoop, the hens are finally driven 
 out of sight, the speckled one narrowly 
 escaping having her off-leg broken by one 
 of the pebbles. 
 
 ' I should like to have the garden wired 
 in, 5 says Miss Desmond, whilst Carry 
 adjusts her dainty cap ; ' but wiring costs 
 so much. And so you have been fishing, 
 you two — any sport V 
 
 ' A leviathan,' says Carry, laughing. 
 ■ And he has brought it to lay at your 
 feet.' 
 
 Richie had opened his basket. 
 
 ' My goodness, Richie !' says old Miss 
 Desmond. 'Well, really, my dear, I 
 never saw such a handsome creature ! 
 Though my poor dead brother, Carry's 
 father, you know, used to tell us of trout 
 he caught. And for me, Richie?' 
 
 c Where could I find a better shrine ?' 
 asks Amyot, patting her pretty old hand 
 softly.
 
 104 A POINT OF CONSCIENCE 
 
 1 I suggested that he should give it to 
 Miss Aurora Langley-Binks — goodness, 
 what a mouthful it is!' says Carry — * as 
 a love-offering. But no ! you won the 
 day. You ought to be ashamed of your- 
 self, auntie, cutting out all the young 
 people like this.' 
 
 Miss Desmond laughs, and colours as 
 delicately as a girl of eighteen. Then 
 all at once she grows grave. 
 
 ' Love -offering — to Miss Langley — I 
 don't like that/ says she. ' A Binks and 
 an Amyot. No, Richie, no ! No good 
 could come of such an alliance as that. 
 I hope, my dear, the gossip I have heard 
 about you and that young woman means 
 nothing/ 
 
 ' Don't say that, auntie,' says Carry 
 quickly. ' You know how it will be 
 with his old home if he can't get help 
 somewhere. I — I have been advising 
 him to marry her.' 
 
 ' Carry, you are wrong,' says Miss 
 Desmond, with something in her tone 
 that in anyone else might be called anger.
 
 A POINT OF CONSCIENCE 105 
 
 * I'm not. The old place always calls 
 to one, and he promised his father to 
 keep it up if he could. Didn't you, 
 Richie ?' 
 
 Amyot nods. Once again that dying 
 scene with his father rises before him : 
 the man dying, holding the lad's hand, 
 and imploring him to keep together the 
 old place, where so many Amyots had 
 lived and died. 
 
 6 And you know, auntie darling, how 
 you love this place. Would you let it 
 go without a pang ? Could Richie see 
 his go ?' 
 
 ' Well, well,' says the old maid sadly. 
 She looks round her, at the dilapidated 
 greenhouse that once had been her pride, 
 at the grass growing thickly in the avenue, 
 that used to be so clean. ' It is queer,' 
 says she at last. ' How one shrinks from 
 death ! But I suppose there is something 
 in the sunshine. Come in and have some 
 tea, Richie.' 
 
 ' No, no ! He must go home and 
 change his clothes.'
 
 106 A POINT OF CONSCIENCE 
 
 4 Wet, are you, dear ? In the river 
 catching that fish for me ! Had you 
 whisky, Richie ? My brother always 
 said whisky was a splendid thing out 
 fishing. Well, good-bye, dear.' She 
 holds his hand, looking at him sadly. 
 * Must you do it, Richie — must you ? 
 Well, perhaps.' She sighs. ' Poverty is 
 a hard master, God knows !' says she.
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 1 A soul exasperated in ills falls out with every- 
 thing — its friend, itself.' 
 
 Mrs. Langley-Binks' 'day' for giving 
 tea to the members of the Hillesden 
 Tennis Club has dawned, as the poet says, 
 ' in perfect beauty,' and already, though 
 it is barely three o'clock, the green-painted 
 and backless forms are lined with the 
 timid ones, who fear to come when all 
 may be assembled, and with the inquisi- 
 tive ones, who would not miss an arrival 
 for anything. Over there in the tent 
 Mrs. Langley-Binks' servants are preparing 
 the table and laying it out on quite a 
 grand scale. Most of the members are 
 content to give their teas on a modest 
 one — dainty little tea-cakes, delicately-cut
 
 io8 A POINT OF CONSCIENCE 
 
 bread-and-butter, slices of the generous 
 plum-cake, and the innoxious sponge, and 
 so on. But Mrs. Langley-Binks o'ertops 
 all this — her flowers, her fruit (' some of 
 our own early strawberries, dear Lady 
 Maria '), her bonbons, and other fal-lals, 
 tend to make her * tea ' a very elaborate 
 affair. And if, as Mr. Browne says, it 
 uplifts her soul, who shall say a word 
 against it ? And as for ' you and me, 
 Jinnie — we're nuts on sweeties, eh ?' 
 
 Jinnie has arrived now, seemingly all 
 legs and arms, with her mother, and 
 Miss Royce in attendance. And Lady 
 Maria has come with them, to Mrs. 
 Langley-Binks' intense relief and delight ; 
 she had been trembling, indeed, lest she 
 should not come. That hateful Mrs. 
 Berkeley will be here to a certainty, 
 though she and her hostess of to-day are 
 barely on speaking terms, and would be 
 sure to say her very nastiest things about 
 Lady Maria's staying away. Mrs. Berkeley 
 had given the tea only last week, and 
 Lady Maria had come to it ; but, then,
 
 A POINT OF CONSCIENCE 109 
 
 Mrs. Berkeley, if odd, and very vulgar, 
 and painted out of all knowledge, is still 
 first cousin of the Marquis of Waterdale, 
 the Lord-Lieutenant of the county, and 
 in a small way somebody. There are 
 little tales, here and there, about her. 
 For one thing, she had divorced her first 
 husband — a fatal thing for a woman to 
 do, however in the right she may be — 
 and Mrs. Berkeley had certainly been in 
 her right when she did it. But this 
 militates, however, against her in some 
 ways, and has tended, perhaps, poor soul ! 
 to heighten the venom of her nature; 
 but, for all that, she is somebody, whilst 
 Mrs. Langley-Binks (and in her own 
 bosom, and sometimes in the watches of 
 the night, she acknowledges the dreadful 
 truth) is, in spite of her money, nobody. 
 However, here is Lady Maria, and the 
 enemy cannot crow to-day, and the poor 
 old snob's soul is at rest. 
 
 Mrs. Verschoyle, looking charming in 
 a costume of pale green serge and fur 
 (the weather is still cold), and a little
 
 no A POINT OF CONSCIENCE 
 
 touch of pink in her bonnet, is coming 
 slowly up the path that borders the tennis- 
 courts, when her brother-in-law Anthony, 
 with Captain Fenton and Dicky Browne, 
 check her progress. Carry is with them. 
 
 ' You look so lovely to-day/ says the 
 latter affectionately and impulsively, as is 
 her wont. 
 
 1 We have been admiring you as you 
 came up the path/ says Anthony affection- 
 ately too. 
 
 ' What a dear, dear bonnet !' says Dicky 
 Browne. 
 
 ' And how you become it !' says Sidney. 
 
 Mrs. Verschoyle laughs, and blushes 
 most delicately. 
 
 * Oh no ! you really mustn't/ says she 
 tragically. ' I won't have any compli- 
 ments paid me at this time of day. I'm 
 getting too old for them. There was a 
 time — I don't mind admitting that now' 
 — she is now one of the youngest-looking 
 women on the ground — ' when I used to 
 receive compliments galore. That's a 
 good sound Irish word — isn't it, Carry ?
 
 A POINT OF CONSCIENCE in 
 
 But when one has reached the season of 
 the sere and yellow leaf ' 
 
 ' Only one hasn't/ says Mr. Browne 
 gaily. ' This, unless my intellect has 
 played me false, is just the close of the 
 merry spring-time. You will have to 
 wait a long, long time for your yellow 
 leaf/ 
 
 ' Courtier !' says she with a charming 
 smile. 
 
 The afternoon is growing in beauty. 
 Down by the lazy reaches of the river 
 that runs by one side of the courts some 
 of the people are wandering, whilst here, 
 in the cool shade of branching beeches, 
 little groups are sitting on the uncom- 
 fortable seats, or standing about gossiping 
 gaily of all things in earth — but certainly 
 not in heaven. 
 
 ' By Jove ! here's Mrs. Berkeley/ sud- 
 denly says Amyot, who is leaning over 
 Lady Maria's chair. 
 
 The latter always holds, wherever she 
 goes, a little court of her own, to which, 
 as a rule, the young only are admitted.
 
 ii2 A POINT OF CONSCIENCE 
 
 Lady Maria likes youth. A little flutter 
 runs through the crowd around her now 
 as Richie speaks. 
 
 ' My dear, I hope not/ says Lady 
 Maria, very half-heartedly, however. In 
 her way she likes this queer Mrs. Berkeley; 
 besides, there is a cousinship between them 
 somewhere, and she is great on ' clans.' 
 * There is sure to be some little unpleasant- 
 ness between her and Mrs. Langley.' 
 
 ' Not to-day, perhaps,' says Mrs. Ver- 
 schoyle. ' Even if she isn't, Mrs. Langley 
 is sure to be on her best behaviour.' 
 
 1 And so we shall escape fireworks,' says 
 Sidney Fenton. 
 
 ' Hard to escape them with Mrs. 
 Berkeley,' says Dicky Browne medita- 
 tively. ' Her hair is perfectly suggestive 
 of them. Talk of casting coals of fire 
 on your enemy's head ! If Mrs. Langley- 
 Binks were to cast some on Mrs. Berkeley's, 
 it would be perfectly iniquitous ; 'twould 
 cause a conflagration — burn down the 
 whole town, most likely.' 
 
 ■ It is strange,' says Anthony ; ' but
 
 A POINT OF CONSCIENCE 113 
 
 really, red hair is growing scarce. There 
 seems to be nobody with red hair now- 
 adays.' 
 
 ' It's dyeing out,' says Dicky sadly. 
 
 Lady Maria makes a little pass at him 
 with her long glasses. 
 
 ' Ah, naughty boy !' says she. 
 
 ' I believe it is very unfashionable now- 
 adays to have red hair,' says Mrs. Ver- 
 schoyle. 
 
 6 Such a pity !' says Fenton. l Such a 
 glorious colour, and sets off the com- 
 plexion so.' 
 
 € So does paint,' says Lady Maria. 
 ' Very vulgar, all that kind of thing.' 
 
 * Still, Titian — he admired red hair : 
 was he vulgar?' asks Sidney, with a sup- 
 pressed amusement that annoys Anthony. 
 
 ' Intensely so,' says Lady Maria. ' On 
 his canvases, at all events. But we were 
 not talking of Titian, were we ? — of 
 Mrs. Berkeley, rather. She is, I am 
 afraid, a little — er — well, a very little — 
 you know, dearest' — to Mrs. Verschoyle, 
 who has an anxious eye on Mrs. Berkeley's 
 
 vol. 1. 8
 
 ii 4 A POINT OF CONSCIENCE 
 
 approach ; she is now only about a 
 hundred yards off. ' But certainly very 
 amusing. And in a place like this, my 
 dear Dicky, where there is no one, as a 
 rule, but the curate and the fossils, one 
 can forgive a good deal. However, I am 
 going to say a word or two to her about 
 that silly little Infantry boy she is taking 
 about with her of late. If he had been 
 in the Horse Guards, or even in the 
 Artillery, I'd say nothing ; one could 
 understand ; but she — so well connected, 
 and a widow, and no family — she might 
 surely do better. And ' 
 
 She backs water smartly. The subject 
 of her discourse is now almost on her. 
 
 ' Oh, how d'ye do ?' says a high-pitched 
 voice at her ear. ' I've had such an 
 amusing day. Tell you about it later on. 
 You do look dull. Any tea to-day ? 
 Seems unlikely.' 
 
 Mrs. Berkeley is a tall, thin woman, 
 with a high, aristocratic nose and a 
 mouth that, literally, speaks volumes. 
 She is forty-five if a day, but poses as
 
 A POINT OF CONSCIENCE 115 
 
 thirty. This need not be laid down to 
 her charge. Very many good women 
 have been known to do likewise. 
 
 Perhaps, however, those good women 
 would have been indignant at Mrs. 
 Berkeley's complexion. There might, 
 indeed, have been a question about its 
 arising from extreme good health. Any 
 way, her cheeks are always blooming, and 
 her lashes singularly black. Mrs. Langley- 
 Binks is in the habit of asking her inti- 
 mates how much Mrs. Berkeley pays her 
 maid ; but, then, Mrs. Langley-Binks is 
 so vulgar ! 
 
 Mrs. Berkeley gets through her life in 
 spite of all this. She is tall, as I have 
 said, and her face is long — it runs down, 
 indeed, like a curtain — and she has her 
 own qualities. For example, she can tell 
 a lie of her neighbour so reasonably, so 
 concisely, so entirely without alteration, 
 in spite of the fact that she has told it 
 twenty times before, that after a bit she 
 learns to believe in it herself. In this 
 way she saves her conscience a good deal.
 
 u6 A POINT OF CONSCIENCE 
 
 She has come to-day without the Infantry 
 man, which all feel to be a relief. 
 
 ' I think we shall have it very soon/ 
 says Lady Maria. She draws her skirts 
 aside politely. * Will you sit here ?' 
 
 The only garden-seat with a back to it 
 has been allotted to the Dowager. 
 
 ' No, tha^nks ; hate sitting down. Have 
 only run in for a moment, really. So 
 Mrs. Binks ' — putting a glass in her eye 
 and staring at the florid tea-table in the 
 tent beyond — 4s going to have the usual 
 banquet ? Too much for her, evidently. 
 Five now ' — consulting her watch — ' and 
 not even the modest cup of tea ready ' 
 
 She ends, rather out of breath. 
 
 ' 1 really think you had better sit down,' 
 says Lady Maria, mildly sarcastic. 
 
 * To see it out ?' Mrs. Berkeley shrugs 
 her meagre shoulders. ' I dare say it 
 might prove interesting. " All the deli- 
 cacies of the season," isn't that how she 
 puts it ? Is that Mr. Popkin down there ? 
 I hope she's got brandy pawnee for him. 
 Curates require something special. I'll
 
 A POINT OF CONSCIENCE 117 
 
 ask her presently. She'll think it's a new 
 sort of gown — something Oriental. He's 
 looking our way.' 
 
 ' Oh yes, he's comin', he's comin' !' 
 says Dicky Browne with a glance at 
 Carry — who returns it furiously — and an 
 exact imitation of the curate's voice and 
 peculiar phraseology. 
 
 Mrs. Berkeley laughs, as well as her 
 stays will allow her. 
 
 1 You haven't told us about your amusing 
 day,' says Lady Maria, who really ought 
 to have known better. 
 
 ' No ? Well, I went to lunch with 
 Mrs. Harcount (General's wife), and the 
 Colonel's little daughter was lunching 
 too. Nice little garl, but rightdown awful 
 when one looked into her ! My word ! 
 she beats most. Just in the middle of it 
 she fixed her eyes on Captain Graile — 
 you know, Adjutant; man with brick-red 
 hair — and said out loud for everyone to 
 hear : " Saw you kissin' Miss Jones ' 
 — General's daughter, ye know — "last 
 night." " Sh — sh — sh !" says everybody.
 
 nS A POINT OF CONSCIENCE 
 
 " Yes, I did, and not once, but twenty 
 times !" Wasn't it awful ? Could have 
 heard a shudder run through the room. 
 Thought I'd have gone into my shoes. 
 Captain Graile was purple ; Miss Jones 
 on point of fainting. And as for the 
 General ! Such a row all round as it 
 was. But awful funny little garl, don't 
 you think ?' 
 
 ' Hopeful little " garl," at all events/ 
 says Mr. Browne. 
 
 ' Little beast !' says Carry in a low 
 tone, who feels sorry for poor Miss 
 Jones. 
 
 ' I think she ought to be locked up out 
 of harm's way, and given a sound whip- 
 ping,' says Lady Maria. 
 
 Mrs. Berkeley seems immensely amused 
 at these criticisms. 
 
 ' She is only twelve, you know,' says 
 she. c Whipping too severe, eh ? Par 
 child couldn't be expected to know, you 
 know.' 
 
 1 1 don't think I believe in the ingenue 
 of twelve,' says Mrs. Verschoyle. "Just
 
 A POINT OF CONSCIENCE 119 
 
 fancy Jinnie ever saying anything like 
 that !' 
 
 1 My dear, you couldnt fancy it/ says 
 Lady Maria, with a frown. 
 
 ' Your Jinnie is seven, I think/ says 
 Mrs. Berkeley promptly. ' Wonderful 
 clever little garl for that ! I shouldn't 
 really wonder, if, when she is twelve ' 
 
 She moves gracefully forward to greet 
 someone else, having left her little story 
 behind her. 
 
 ' Odious woman !' says Mrs. Verschoyle, 
 who, usually so placid, is now stirred to 
 her depths. ' After all, I'm sure she is 
 rouged/ 
 
 1 Aspinalled,' says Captain Fenton with 
 severe correction. ' Warranted to wear. 
 Soap and water invited/ 
 
 ' I say,' says Amyot, coming up to them 
 at this moment, ' there's a court over there 
 empty. Let's secure it while we can.' 
 
 • By all means,' says Fenton. 
 
 Maden Royce is standing quite close 
 to him, and in a little flash her eyes meet 
 his : Will he— will he ?
 
 120 A POINT OF CONSCIENCE 
 
 Cecil Fairfax is a little beyond her. 
 
 ' Have a game, Cecil ?' says Sidney. 
 
 Cecil nods. 
 
 Maden stands motionless, her strange 
 face livid. 
 
 ' Miss Royce and I will play you,' says 
 Amyot. ' Will you, Miss Royce ?' 
 
 8 Yes.' 
 
 It is with difficulty she forces herself 
 to speak the husky word. To kill — to 
 kill Cecil is her one desire at this mo- 
 ment, and yet Cecil, of all the people in 
 Hillesden, has been the kindest to the poor 
 little waif. 
 
 Here, providentially, Mrs. Langley- 
 Binks says : 
 
 e Dear Lady Maria, tea is ready. Will 
 you come to the tent, or shall some of 
 my people bring it here to you ?' 
 
 c Thank you, I should prefer to go to 
 the tent/ says Lady Maria, rising. 
 
 ' Come on, Sidney, and we'll give you 
 a licking/ says Amyot gaily, turning to- 
 wards the tennis-court. 
 
 Sidney, finishing, rustles up — Cecil is
 
 A POINT OF CONSCIENCE 121 
 
 talking to Mrs. Langley-Binks ; he would 
 have said something to Miss Royce, but 
 with a passionate gesture she repulses him 
 and follows Amyot.
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 ' I see the devil's hook, and yet cannot help 
 nibbling at his bait' 
 
 ' By Jove ! that's a good set/ says Dicky 
 Browne. 
 
 He is in the pleasantest temper. The 
 tea had been excellent, the iced cham- 
 pagne considerably better, and the cakes 
 beyond reproach ; he has left the sweet- 
 meats, the sandwiches, and the fruit for 
 later on. Jinnie has been his heroic aider 
 and abettor all through. Nobody on earth 
 knows why children like Dicky. He 
 spends hours of his life preparing un- 
 pleasant surprises and artful teasings for 
 them, yet one and all they adore him. 
 Perhaps they like teasings and surprises. 
 
 ' It looks very equal/ says Anthony
 
 A POINT OF CONSCIENCE 123 
 
 Verschoyle, with an attempt at indif- 
 ference a little overdone. 
 
 He moves away as he speaks, and Mr. 
 Browne looks after him meditatively : he 
 is fond of Anthony. 
 
 It is indeed an excellently matched 
 game — Miss Royce and Amyot against 
 Cecil and Captain Fenton. Cecil is a 
 very pretty player, if scarcely strong ; 
 but, then, Fenton is good enough for most 
 people He can generally, in the smaller 
 tournaments, take the cup wherever he 
 goes. 
 
 As for Amyot, he is playing his best, 
 certainly, but that would not bring him 
 within talking distance of Fenton. But 
 Miss Royce ! Miss Royce, whose play- 
 ing up to this has been of the usual kind, 
 not too good and not too bad, seems to 
 be possessed with a very demon of skill 
 to-day. The lookers-on, indeed, grow 
 curious, and those who have been hang- 
 ing round the other courts by degrees 
 desert their friends, and congregate at the 
 foot of this one.
 
 124 A POINT OF CONSCIENCE 
 
 Strangely enough, it seems to them as 
 if the little girl they have known as 
 Jinnie's governess has grown. She cer- 
 tainly seems taller, and her usually im- 
 penetrable face is now pale as the dead, 
 the large dark eyes alone alive in it. 
 Like a creature possessed, she flies here, 
 there, everywhere, smashing her balls into 
 unexpected corners; never forgetting, how- 
 ever, to give to Miss Fairfax — who is 
 weak in her returns — all the difficult 
 balls. 
 
 Five games all ! 
 
 Fenton, surprised, rouses himself and 
 prepares to win the next easily ; but 
 something in the passionate despair of the 
 little, dark, brilliant face behind the net 
 over there touches him with a kind of 
 amused compassion. Well, she shall win. 
 And so the game comes to an end — game 
 and set to Miss Royce — and everyone 
 applauds loudly, and says it was Miss 
 Royce's charming play that carried all 
 before it. 
 
 Maden, colourless, breathless, is going
 
 A POINT OF CONSCIENCE 125 
 
 towards the tent with Amyot, when Cecil 
 and Sidney come up with her. She would 
 not have seen them if possible, but Cecil 
 stops her, laying her hand, with a sweet 
 little gesture, on her arm. In some way 
 Cecil has always liked this small, strange, 
 wayward girl. 
 
 1 How beautifully you played !' says she. 
 * It was almost ' — laughing — ' a pleasure 
 to be beaten by you. Come and have 
 some tea with us ; you must be very 
 tired. She does look pale, Sidney, doesn't 
 she ?' 
 
 The gentle appeal to Fenton, seeming 
 to Maden like an understanding between 
 the two, rouses her worst passions. 
 
 < I am not tired/ says she shortly. 
 ' Pray do not trouble yourself about me. 
 You' — panting — 'believe me — are the 
 very last person — I ' 
 
 Fenton breaks in quietly but calmly. 
 
 ' Oh, you are overdone/ says he. ' My 
 dear Cecil, if you will go on with Amyot, 
 I will take Miss Royce to that seat over 
 there. She is almost faint, and no wonder.'
 
 126 A POINT OF CONSCIENCE 
 
 He gives a cold warning glance to 
 Maden, that brings her suddenly to her- 
 self. Cecil nods kindly, and goes on with 
 Amyot. 
 
 'We'll send some tea/ says she kindly, 
 as she goes. 
 
 ' Or some cup/ suggests, with an un- 
 moved countenance, Mr. Browne, who 
 happens to be standing near. He grows a 
 little thoughtful, however, as they separate. 
 He, with perhaps a few others, had been 
 suspicious of Fenton's play in that last 
 game. He had certainly let Miss Royce 
 win it. ' Mashed on the governess/ says 
 Dicky to himself, 'or the governess mashed 
 on him ? Which ? The latter, I think. 
 I wish Cecil well out of it/ He grows 
 even more thoughtful. As has been said, 
 he is fond of Verschoyle. ' Poor old 
 Anthony !' says he ; and then, with a 
 little click : ' What a beastly idiot a really 
 nice girl can be !' 
 
 He is roused from these extraordinary 
 meditations by the voice of Miss Ver- 
 schoyle, who, in the shortest petticoats
 
 A POINT OF CONSCIENCE 127 
 
 and the longest and thinnest legs, has again 
 sought his side. 
 
 ' Who did win, Dicky?' asks she ex- 
 citedly. ' Go on. Tell me P — in the irre- 
 pressible way of all children. ' Tommy 
 Bagot was pulling my hair, and I had to 
 kick him, so I didn't see.' 
 
 1 This comes of promiscuous flirtations,' 
 says Mr. Browne severely. ' If, as my 
 fiancee^ Jane, you had conducted yourself 
 with even common decency, you might 
 have learned the information you seek for 
 yourself/ 
 
 ' Oh, bother !' says Jinnie. 6 Ah, Dicky, 
 do tell me. I hope it was my Miss 
 Royce.' 
 
 ' Do you ?' Mr. Browne stares at her 
 meditatively. That governess, then, whom 
 he distinctly distrusts, can't be all bad. 
 Jinnie is a person of discrimination, and 
 she evidently likes her. * Well, how can 
 I say ? You know you stood right before 
 me as the game was going on, and you've 
 grown so frightfully tall of late that I 
 couldn't see over your head.'
 
 128 A POINT OF CONSCIENCE 
 
 c That's a story/ says Jinnie, who has 
 no scruples. ' You're ever so much bigger 
 than me. You must have twenty feet, 
 and the carpenter was up yesterday, and 
 he says I've got only nearly four feet.' 
 
 ' Like a donkey/ returns Mr. Browne 
 cheerfully. 
 
 There is an awful silence, and then 
 Jinnie goes for him tooth and nail. 
 
 ' I'm not ! I'm not !' shrieks she. 
 
 * Not what ?' — defending himself as he 
 best may. 
 
 c I'm not like a donkey/ 
 
 ' My poor dear child, you must be. 
 A donkey has four feet ; so have you, 
 according to the carpenter.' 
 
 ' You're a beast !' says Jinnie violently. 
 
 'So is a donkey/ says Mr. Browne, 
 with admirable presence of mind — her 
 attacks are getting severe. ' So we are 
 both wild animals. And I don't see why 
 you should fall upon me, any way. I'm 
 not the carpenter. Why don't you go 
 for him ? Go home and make his life 
 a misery to him if you will. He richly
 
 A POINT OF CONSCIENCE 129 
 
 deserves it. It's not fair to punish me 
 for his fault. It wasn't I, it was he, who 
 
 said you were a Oh, by-the-by ' — 
 
 with a tragic change of tone — 'good 
 heavens ! it has just come back to me 
 that all donkeys are, as a rule, called 
 
 Jinnie! Oh, my poor Jin No F — 
 
 recollecting himself nobly — ' never that 
 again. My poor child, I, even I, in my 
 long-lost home, in the days of my gentle 
 girlhood, had a moke called Jinnie !' 
 
 ' I'll tell my mammy about you ; I will 
 indeed !' says Miss Verschoyle, now quite 
 furious, and with tears in her eyes. ' She'll 
 hate you, she will.' 
 
 ' Oh, don't tell her, then — don't /' en- 
 treats Mr. Browne wildly, apparently now 
 reduced to the last stage of abject fright. 
 ' I'll do anything you like, Jinnie, if you 
 won't tell on me this once. And, besides, 
 look here' — changing his tone with alarm- 
 ing rapidity, and catching her little claw 
 of a hand and clutching it under his arm 
 in the most confidential manner — * there's 
 splendid tuck over there still, in Mrs. 
 
 vol. 1. 9
 
 130 A POINT OF CONSCIENCE 
 
 Binks' pavilion. I hope you have not 
 sunk so low as to call it a tent — a mere 
 tent ; let's go on a maraud/ 
 
 Now, a ' maraud ' would exactly have 
 come within Miss Verschoyle's view of 
 things fascinating ; but perhaps she does 
 not understand the word. 
 
 ' I won't go ! I won't go anywhere 
 with you ever again !' cries she, struggling 
 angrily with him now, and growing very 
 red in the face. 
 
 Her long thin legs in their black silk 
 stockings grow lively. She kicks out 
 vigorously, and Mr. Browne knows that 
 now or never must his invention come 
 into play. 
 
 ' Oh, poor Tommy Bagot !' says he 
 feelingly. Then, quickly : * You won't 
 maraud, then, just because there's danger?' 
 
 The kicks seem softer. 
 
 * It's highway robbery, of course!' Miss 
 Verschoyle's silken legs grow absolutely 
 calm. ' But, tush !' — in a thrilling whisper 
 — ' we may escape. The odds are against 
 us, of course, but You see that big
 
 A POINT OF CONSCIENCE 131 
 
 man over there ' — pointing to Mrs. 
 Langley-Binks' ' pavilion ' — s in the un- 
 comfortably tight stockings, with the 
 lumps on the back of his legs ? Well, 
 he ' — mysteriously — ' is the dragon that 
 guards our prey. When he turns we'll 
 make a grab. I know how to do it. I'm 
 an old hand. And even if we are caught, 
 Jinnie, I don't think the Beak (your uncle 
 Anthony, by the way) can give us more 
 than a month hard. But if you are 
 afraid ' 
 
 * No, no/ says Jinnie, who is not proof 
 against the gentle art of stealing ; she is, 
 indeed, quite fired by this awful suggestion. 
 
 ' Come on, then/ says Mr. Browne 
 valiantly. ' Let's go on a foraging expe- 
 dition ; let's be brigands for once !' 
 
 He takes a long step forward, with a 
 stealthy look here and there, behind and 
 before him, hauling Miss Verschoyle with 
 him. 
 
 ' Oh no !' cries she, in the subdued 
 tone of the practised villain. ' Let's be 
 Pawnee Indians !'
 
 132 A POINT OF CONSCIENCE 
 
 Jinnie's reading has been deep and 
 varied. 
 
 ' So be it/ acquiesces Mr. Browne 
 sepulchrally ; ' but your blood be on your 
 own head !' 
 
 Nothing daunted, even by this ghastly 
 warning, the maiden follows him, and 
 together, prowling behind the green bushes 
 that surround the pavilion, they watch 
 the unconscious ' Chawles/ until Mr. 
 Browne, having caught his eye, gives 
 him a wink to withdraw, whereon 
 6 Chawles/ laughing, devotes wonderful 
 energy to the glasses in the far corner, 
 and Mr. Browne and Jinnie, stealing — 
 stealing always, as if expecting a knife 
 between their ribs at any moment — fall 
 bodily upon a little Crown Derby dish 
 of marrons glaces, and, carrying it away 
 undiscovered, retire behind one of the 
 escallonias outside, and have a most excel- 
 lent time. 
 
 Thus peace, so far as Jinnie and Mr. 
 Browne are concerned, is restored with 
 the most flagrant dishonour.
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 1 As he thinketh in his heart, so is he/ 
 
 Amyot, finding Carry alone, has sunk 
 down upon the grass beside her. He is 
 so despondent that Carry at once knows 
 what is the matter with him. 
 
 ' What has she been doing now ?' asks 
 she. 
 
 ' Been offering me one of her last 
 photos — a big thing, half-size length 
 by Mendelssohn/ says Richie gloomily; 
 then, waxing wrath: < What the deuce 
 is a fellow to say on an occasion like 
 
 that r 
 
 6 Accept it, of course. But I must say 
 I think she ' 
 
 Carry stops abruptly. Of course it is 
 to his eternal advantage if he marries
 
 134 A POINT OF CONSCIENCE 
 
 this rich girl, and is she, his friend, to 
 put a spoke in that wheel ? Certainly 
 not ! 
 
 * It's downright disgusting/ says Richie 
 moodily. 
 
 ' Oh, Richie ! you mustn't think of her 
 like that.' 
 
 * I'll think of her ' — with increasing 
 gloom — 'just as I like. What do I want 
 with her beastly picture?' 
 
 ' But it's a compliment, don't you see. 
 And such a big picture, too !' 
 
 1 The bigger the beastlier/ says Mr. 
 Amyot, who has now reached the last 
 stage of misery. 
 
 * Richie ! I really don't think you ought 
 to talk of her like that — not even to me. 
 Poor girl ! what has she done but show 
 a wish to love you ?' 
 
 ' Love me !' Richie's voice breaks into 
 a perfect growl. 
 
 * Well, that's no sin, is it ? She prefers 
 you to everybody else. She would rather 
 marry you than ' 
 
 Mr. Amyot dispenses with the rest of
 
 A POINT OF CONSCIENCE 135 
 
 this sentence ; he flings it aside, indeed, 
 airily. 
 
 * Woman proposes, God disposes,' says 
 he. ' In the meantime, let's talk of some- 
 thing else. How wonderfully Miss Royce 
 played that set against Fenton and Cecil !' 
 
 ' Against Cecil,' says Carry dryly. 
 
 1 Against What do you mean 
 
 now ?' 
 
 ' Oh, I don't know. But I feel sure 
 that Miss Royce can't bear Cecil. Dear, 
 dear Cecil ! who is always so good to 
 her. Defending her against everyone — 
 against right ; and, you know, she is not 
 liked here, Richie. For myself, I can't 
 bear her.' 
 
 * She seems to me an awfully nice little 
 girl,' says Richie, ' and very jolly too.' 
 
 ' I dare say,' says Miss Desmond ; * but 
 she isn't an awfully good little girl, any 
 way.' 
 
 ' Oh, come now, Carry ! that isn't like 
 you.' 
 
 Carry bestows upon him a frank and 
 open smile.
 
 136 A POINT OF CONSCIENCE 
 
 ' I can't help it/ says she. ' She's a 
 regular snake, in my opinion, and you 
 can think her jolly if you like ; but 
 she's horrid, all the same. Richie ' — 
 leaning towards him and speaking low — 
 ' I'll tell you something : she's in love with 
 Sidney.' 
 
 ' Oh, rot !' says Mr. Amyot. 
 
 ' All right — think your own thoughts : 
 I'm sure of it/ says Carry. 'And — and 
 I'm sure of something else too ' — falter- 
 ingly. ' It is really only to you I would 
 say it, Richie : I think Cecil is in love 
 with him.' 
 
 ' Ah ! I have thought that/ says Richie; 
 ' but I— I ' 
 
 He has turned his eyes away from her 
 for a moment, and now something he 
 sees approaching freezes the remainder of 
 his speech upon his lips. Carry hardly 
 notices that he has not finished his sen- 
 tence, because she too has looked afield — 
 in a different direction from his, however 
 — and a desire to rise and flee is in her 
 mind.
 
 A POINT OF CONSCIENCE 137 
 
 Alas ! Richie's mind as well is bent on 
 flight. He gets up. 
 
 * Richie !' gasps Carry. ' Don't desert 
 me now. Richie, if you love me, stay !' 
 
 1 I can't !' declares Richie tragically. 
 ' Nothing under heaven would keep me 
 here a moment longer. Let me go, 
 Carry ' — as Miss Desmond, with a last 
 touch of desperation, makes a grab at 
 his coat. ' It would be no use my stay- 
 ing here.' 
 
 ' Oh, it would — it would !' says Carry. 
 ' It would stave off things.' 
 
 c Not for a second. D'ye think I don't 
 know ?' 
 
 ' You deliberately desert me, then ?' 
 says Carry, tears in her eyes. 
 
 ' Desert you ? What on earth is it to 
 you?' says Mr. Amyot, with open-eyed 
 astonishment. 
 
 * To me ?' with even greater surprise. 
 * What is it to you f you mean.' 
 
 * You're a heartless girl,' says Richie, 
 turning abruptly round and making as 
 big a run for it, in the way of a smart
 
 133 A POINT OF CONSCIENCE 
 
 walk — people are looking on, and he 
 daren't betray himself — across the tennis- 
 ground, and away from Carry, as society 
 will permit, without inquiry. 
 
 8 Richie,' cries Carry once again, and 
 then vindictively, seeing him hopelessly 
 disappear, ' what a beast you are !' 
 
 She turns to find Miss Langley-Binks 
 with a girl friend scudding hastily past 
 her, evidently bent on pursuit. Oh, poor 
 old Richie ! now she understands. Really, 
 that girl would do anything ! If Richie 
 had not been driven to flight, he would 
 certainly not have refused to stand by her 
 when Mr. Popkin came up. 
 
 Mr. Popkin, who has just arrived 
 breathless, and has fallen gracefully into 
 the seat beside her that Richie has just 
 vacated, entertains his own view of Mr. 
 Amyot's abrupt departure. 
 
 ' Sent him away, dear girl ! to enjoy 
 a " teet-a-teet " with me/ says he, in his 
 own beautiful French. 
 
 He cuddles up quite close to Carry 
 now, and looks unutterable things. This
 
 A POINT OF CONSCIENCE 139 
 
 is his usual look when with poor 
 Carry. 
 
 ' If/ says Mrs. Berkeley, when con- 
 versing with her familiars, ' they were 
 unutterable things, they might have some 
 chance of being interesting.' 
 
 * So good of you to secure me this 
 vacant seat/ says the curate fondly. 
 
 1 But I didn't/ says Carry, who, always 
 horribly downright, is now nervous. 
 
 c Ah — is that so? It is Mr. Amyot, 
 then, I have to thank. He ' — tenderly — 
 ' it seems, understood ' 
 
 6 Oh, you are all wrong, you are really/ 
 says Carry. 
 
 ' I hope not/ says Popkin, with extra- 
 ordinary solemnity. ' I feel assured that 
 Amyot, whom I have every reason to 
 believe is a most estimable young man, 
 has pierced the secret of my heart.' 
 
 Here he lays his hand upon that neces- 
 sary adjunct. 
 
 ' I don't think he has. I'm sure no 
 
 one has — and ' She looks round 
 
 desperately, but the only eye she catches
 
 140 A POINT OF CONSCIENCE 
 
 belongs to Dicky Browne, and she regrets 
 she caught it. That young man, I am 
 sorry to record, seems convulsed with 
 some inward trouble. ' And, besides, it's 
 so stupid to have secrets/ 
 
 ' Ah ! you think that,' says Mr. Popkin 
 eagerly. ' Then it shall be a secret no 
 longer. You alone, up to this, knew it ' — 
 infatuated man! — s but as you give me 
 leave, I shall declare my noble devotion to 
 you at every corner.' 
 
 ' Oh, don't !' says Carry feebly. Then 
 a wild desire for laughter overcomes her. 
 c You'd catch cold,' says she. ' Corners 
 mean draughts.' 
 
 ' How beautiful is your mirth !' says 
 Mr. Popkin, hanging his head to one 
 side. ' How it invigorates me after a 
 week's toil ! How I pine to hear it in 
 the rooms of my small home! — not to be 
 small for ever, I beg you to understand ; 
 but if my rooms were palatial, as perhaps 
 in years to come they may be ' — he is 
 now evidently alluding to his chance of 
 a bishopric in the dark ages to come —
 
 A POINT OF CONSCIENCE 141 
 
 ' I should still be quite as charmed to hear 
 its thrilling music in them.' 
 
 'You are very kind — too, too kind/ 
 says Carry, who is too frightened to be 
 indignant. * But ' 
 
 ' " But me no buts," ' quotes the curate 
 in his most playful style. Mrs. Berkeley 
 always says it makes her cry. c No doubt 
 you have qualms as to responsibilities and 
 all that ; but I'll take them off your 
 shoulders. If you marry me ' 
 
 Carry makes a violent gesture. 
 
 ' I don't want to marry anyone,' says 
 she. 
 
 * Ah! that is so sweet, so girlish. I 
 love the girlish things,' says Mr. Popkin, 
 his head a little more at an angle than 
 before. ' Still '—stolidly — ' if you would 
 marry me I could give you ' 
 
 'I don't want' — now desperately — 'any- 
 one to give me anything !' 
 
 'What I always thought you — quite 
 devoid of mercenary feelings/ says the 
 curate with rapt admiration. ' For all 
 that, if you did marry me, you should
 
 142 A POINT OF CONSCIENCE 
 
 have whatever you wanted, and your own 
 way in everything.' 
 
 ' That's just what no woman would 
 like/ says Carry angrily. 
 
 Poor girl ! she knows little of the 
 wonderful opening of the ways for the 
 great New Woman of the future. 
 
 ' Ah, how truly sweet !' coos Mr. Pop- 
 kin. ' No, no, I was not mistaken in 
 you. You are all that I thought you, 
 and more : you ' — tenderly — ' will marry 
 me?' 
 
 ' No !' says Carry in a truly awful tone. 
 ' Mr. Popkin, 1 have told you so before ; 
 why — why do you persist ' 
 
 But even now Carry's courage is desert- 
 ing her. Oh, she has gone too far at 
 last, and what will they all say ? Even 
 auntie, who has said many favourable 
 words of Mr. Popkin of late. The latter 
 immovable gentleman, studying her, sees 
 the instant nervousness in her eyes. 
 
 ' So coy, so coy !' says he to himself, 
 with a beautiful twinkle. 
 
 ' One question, dear Miss Carry,' per-
 
 A POINT OF CONSCIENCE 143 
 
 sists he. ' You forbid me to hope, but 
 I am not so poor a lover, believe me, as 
 to abandon that great blessing because of 
 one word from your sweet lips. Now ' 
 — playfully — ' tell me this — is there 
 another V 
 
 ' Another!' says Carry; ' another what?' 
 
 * Another — like me/ says Mr. Popkin 
 softly. 
 
 ' Not one/ says Carry promptly, and 
 with something in her tone that might 
 be termed devoutly grateful. 
 
 6 Ah ! then I shall still wait, and dwell 
 upon a happy time, when you will have 
 discovered your own heart, and — the place 
 I pray I may find in it.' 
 
 He puts out his hand to lay it upon 
 hers, but Carry deftly, angrily, draws it 
 from beneath his fingers. This unexpected 
 act ruffles him temporarily, especially as 
 Miss Desmond's eyes are a little ablaze 
 and her whole air warlike. 
 
 It is, on the whole, a rather providential 
 thing that at this moment Dicky Browne 
 comes up to them.
 
 144 A POINT OF CONSCIENCE 
 
 c How awfully jolly you two are look- 
 ing.!' says he, with a quite envious air. 
 < Easy to see that you are taking life 
 easily. It seems quite a shame to disturb 
 you ; but I say, Carry, Lady Maria is 
 on the warpath. She brought you, didn't 
 she ? and she's fussing very considerably 
 about your spending so much time with 
 — nothing wrong, you know, Popkin — 
 but an unmarried man, you know . . . 
 and people do talk.' 
 
 Carry, in spite of her joy at the sudden 
 break in on her extremely uncomfortable 
 tete-a-tete, now casts an annihilating glance 
 at him. 
 
 ' With regard to Miss Desmond and 
 me there need be no talk,' says the curate 
 stiffly. ' I am nothing if not honourable.' 
 
 ' I felt that, I knew that,' says Browne, 
 with the utmost gravity ; yet a second 
 later, as he walks away with Carry beside 
 him, the latter feels that he is shaking. 
 
 ' I don't think you need have said that !' 
 says she indignantly. 
 
 < Said what ?'
 
 A POINT OF CONSCIENCE 145 
 
 ' You know ' — angrily — ' very well. It 
 was distinct encouragement, telling him 
 Lady Maria was noticing his attentions 
 to me. His ' — bitterly — ' odious atten- 
 tions !' 
 
 ' Well, I had to say something, you 
 know,' says Mr. Browne. ' I was bound 
 to let him down easy. Would you rather 
 I had kept away altogether ?' 
 
 ■ Oh no V — quickly. ' After all, Dicky, 
 anything you could say would be better 
 than being left alone with him any longer.' 
 
 ' Why ?' asks Mr. Browne, now all open 
 and innocent wonder. c Good gracious, 
 how terrible ! How little one knows any- 
 one ! Was he really so bad as all that ? 
 And before the assembled crowd, too ! 
 My dearest girl ! if you had only given 
 me an inkling of it I should have ground 
 
 him to powder. Even now ' He stops 
 
 deliberately, and looks back to where the 
 curate is still sitting, somewhat isolated, 
 on the wooden bench. * Confide in me, 
 my dear girl. What did he do ?' 
 
 ' Well, I must say I can't bear a fool T 
 
 VOL. I. IO
 
 146 A POINT OF CONSCIENCE 
 
 says Miss Desmond, marching on to where 
 Mrs. Verschoyle, Lady Maria, and others 
 are still sitting, under the shade of a big 
 beech-tree. 
 
 Anthony has just come up, and is talk- 
 ing to his mother. 
 
 'Well, when are you going to spend 
 another long and happy day with me ?' 
 says he. 
 
 ' Better get the bazaar over first, dearest/ 
 
 ' On the contrary, I've been thinking 
 that your drive to the bazaar will be very 
 much shorter from The Towers than from 
 your place. Come up on Tuesday next, 
 every one of you. Jane ' — turning to his 
 sister-in-law — ' that will suit, won't it ?' 
 
 ' Excellently, I think.' 
 
 ' Perhaps, after all — yes, the drive will 
 be shorter/ says Lady Maria ; ' and, having 
 a stall, one must of course be there. Well, 
 to-morrow, then, Tony darling/ 
 
 'That's all right; and now I'll go and 
 get some people to meet and amuse you. 
 You know, Baring is to be down next 
 week ; you admire his pictures, don't you ?
 
 A POINT OF CONSCIENCE 147 
 
 He wants rest, he says — and to take studies 
 of a child.' 
 
 * Does he call that rest ?' 
 
 ' Oh, those artists, painters, sculptors, 
 and so on, never really rest. But he is 
 charming, as you will find.'
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 { The shades of fears far off are soonest seen.' 
 
 To-day, being the first day of the bazaar, 
 is — it seems quite unnecessary to say it — 
 wet. Bazaar-days always are wet. So are 
 Sundays, as a rule, and Bank Holidays. 
 No one knows why. To-day, at all events, 
 the gay and merry Summer, tired of in- 
 gratitude, has gone on the war-path. She 
 has rebelled against the world, the world 
 that has received her sweets for quite four 
 weeks — weeks of unbroken sunshine — 
 quite as a matter of course, without so 
 much as a vote of thanks to her ; and now 
 she is going to ' show them,' as the chil- 
 dren say. But why on a bazaar-day ? 
 
 It began at six, and the rain is now 
 steadily pouring at eleven. Lady Maria,
 
 A POINT OF CONSCIENCE 149 
 
 emerging from her brougham — she always 
 takes and keeps her own carriage and 
 coachman with her wherever she goes — 
 has walked daintily from the flagged pave- 
 ment under the triumphal arch — which 
 now indeed is funereal — into the Assembly 
 Rooms, an umbrella over her head, held 
 by Sidney Fenton. He, of all people, had 
 been told off — indeed, he had volunteered 
 — to see Lady Maria safely installed behind 
 her charming arrangement of bric-a-brac. 
 
 Perhaps, wise man ! he knew that, having 
 done his duty so far, he would not be 
 asked to do it again for the rest of the 
 day. 
 
 The Assembly Hall of Hillesden is very 
 gay with festoons of Indian muslin, and 
 Chinese fans, and the daintily-clad figures 
 that stand, some outside, and some inside 
 the stalls, at the receipt of custom. All the 
 girls are looking their very best in their 
 fancy costumes ; even Miss Langley-Binks, 
 red and blowzy as ever, does not disgrace 
 hers. She has most providentially elected 
 to be a Turkish woman, and this dress,
 
 150 A POINT OF CONSCIENCE 
 
 the veil especially, is eminently becoming 
 to her style of beauty. 
 
 Poor old Carry, it must be confessed, is 
 hardly of the wildly attractive order, though 
 the man who cannot read, beneath her 
 round and boyish face, the strong, sweet 
 nature that belongs to her, must be pitied. 
 Yet even Carry in her borrowed plumes, 
 lent by the Meath cousin, is looking un- 
 commonly well — so well, indeed, that old 
 Miss Desmond's heart, as she looks at her, 
 quite swells with pride. 
 
 Cecil Fairfax is quite beautiful in an Old 
 English costume. But Miss Royce, in 
 her French peasant dress, is the principal 
 feature of the bazaar. And, as if knowing 
 that for once she can brave all scrutiny, a 
 sort of mad daring has taken possession of 
 her. In her eyes a fire is lit that makes 
 those dark, inscrutable orbs a very blaze of 
 beauty; and on her scarlet lips is a smile 
 that no one in Hillesden had ever seen 
 there before. When dressed and presented 
 to her, Lady Maria was electrified, and, 
 being somewhat of a slave to beauty, had
 
 A POINT OF CONSCIENCE 151 
 
 almost forgotten that she was only Jinnie's 
 governess — a woman of no importance — 
 and been very nearly friendly with her. 
 But Mrs. Verschoyle was a little silent. In 
 the storm of admiration that greeted her 
 from every side, this went unnoticed by all 
 but Maden herself, who remembered and 
 resented it bitterly, in spite of the adulation 
 of the others. Mr. Browne had been 
 heard to say that he'd back Lady Maria's 
 stall to do the most roaring trade of the 
 day, and, indeed, went so far as to rashly 
 promise to buy anything Miss Royce 
 offered him, and to take unlimited tickets 
 for her raffles. Ah ! but raffling was not 
 allowed by the new Bishop, Miss Royce 
 reminded him. There were to be no 
 raffles, except — on the sly. 
 
 Fenton had not been able to take his 
 eyes off the exquisite little figure, as it 
 danced here and there through the assem- 
 bling crowds, the rain having kept back 
 very few. He had hardly known, he told 
 himself, how charming, how distinctly 
 beautiful, she was ; all at once it seems to
 
 152 A POINT OF CONSCIENCE 
 
 him that if he were a rich man — Anthony, 
 for example — he would marry her. But 
 the gods have not been kind to him, and 
 even now he knows he has come very 
 nearly to the end of his tether. 
 
 To marry Cecil Fairfax — that thought 
 is in his mind always, but only when he 
 must does he let it come into prominence. 
 Some instinct has told him that Cecil 
 likes him above his fellows. In her gentle, 
 proud way of going, it seems almost im- 
 possible that this discovery should have 
 reached him ; yet it has. Not that he is 
 quite sure, but, still, it is a dream with him 
 that, when all things fail, Cecil will accept 
 him. 
 
 He is deep in debt now ; he will be up 
 to his neck in it presently ; and, of course, 
 in the long-run something will have to be 
 done. To do him justice, he has always 
 sworn against a moneyed marriage — partly 
 through selfishness, no doubt, as to drag 
 through life with a woman uncongenial, 
 distasteful perhaps, would be such a grind- 
 ing bore. Still
 
 A POINT OF CONSCIENCE 153 
 
 He looks across at Cecil now, serenely 
 beautiful in her severe costume, and wonders 
 if he could endure life with her. Maden, 
 beyond doubt, appeals to him ; but Cecil . . . 
 Still, she is very distinguished-looking, and 
 a woman so cold, so self-contained, would 
 hardly interfere much with one's life. 
 
 He is gazing at her, lost a little in 
 thought, when Anthony lays a hand, 
 a somewhat emphatic hand, upon his 
 shoulder. 
 
 ' Dreaming ?' says Verschoyle. 
 
 His voice is hardly his own. There is 
 a sharper ring in it. The day, indeed, has 
 been a disappointment to him. Baring, to 
 whose visit he had looked forward as a 
 means of rendering his mother's visit more 
 agreeable, is ill with influenza. And , . . 
 there are other things . . . He would not 
 have acknowledged it, but a feeling of 
 absolute anguish is tearing at his heart. 
 
 ' Dreaming ! — in this wide-awake day ? 
 No ; I was thinking of ' 
 
 < Of what ?' 
 
 1 Of Cecil. That dress becomes her.
 
 154 A POINT OF CONSCIENCE 
 
 She' — .with careless scrutiny — ' has im- 
 proved, I think, since last I saw her.' 
 
 A dull red darkens Verschoyle's fore- 
 head. Improved ! Could she improve ? 
 And to be discussed in this cold, brutal 
 way — she, his highest ideal, the one woman 
 on earth who seems to him worth winning ! 
 Improvement ! — was there even room for 
 it ? He looks across to where Cecil is 
 standing, gracious, kindly, a happy smile 
 upon her perfect lips. Could he only know 
 why the smile was so happy ! Sidney, 
 with his careful look-out for the future, 
 has been specially attentive to Cecil all 
 day, doing her little services hardly to be 
 noticed by those who come and go, but 
 enough to make her heart beat with a 
 certainty of the fulfilment of her hopes in 
 the future ; the vaguest, slightest little 
 acts, unseen by anyone — except Maden 
 Royce. 
 
 Anthony's silence strikes him, only to 
 lead him into another wrong path. 
 
 ' Oh, I know what you mean. She 
 doesn't suit me, either. Too statuesque for
 
 A POINT OF CONSCIENCE 155 
 
 my part, and it's such confounded trouble 
 bringing down the statue from its pedestal. 
 Not good enough for most fellows.' 
 
 ' The man who dreamt of bringing down 
 Miss Fairfax/ begins Verschoyle, ' would 
 be ' 
 
 He stops, choking. 
 
 ' I know, dear boy — a fool for his pains. 
 I quite agree with you. Still, she has 
 improved. She can unbend a little now 
 and then. I suppose ' — irrelevantly — ' the 
 property is very tightly tied up.' 
 
 ' So I have heard,' said Anthony stiffly. 
 
 ' Hah, that will prove a spoke in her 
 wheel, I shouldn't wonder ! To marry 
 her, then, would be to be entirely depen- 
 dent on Her father was a regular old 
 
 screw, I always heard.' 
 
 ' He was an excellent father, as it seems 
 to me.' 
 
 ' He was an old curmudgeon/ says Cap- 
 tain Fenton. c One of the type who, 
 having made their money hard, are deter- 
 mined to keep it for ever, dead or alive.' 
 
 ' He was determined on keeping it for
 
 156 A POINT OF CONSCIENCE 
 
 his daughter. A very fatherly deed, in my 
 opinion. At all events, in a way it saves 
 her from that modern shark, the heiress- 
 hunter.' 
 
 He looks straight before him, not caring 
 to meet his cousin's eyes. Will he under- 
 stand ? Will the shaft go home ? It does 
 — to give Fenton a sense of mirth. He 
 laughs. 
 
 ' That's one for me,' says he. ' But it 
 falls short. I am not yet past grace, and 
 she would probably not have me, even if 
 I asked her. She is like her father, I 
 think — like that painting of him in her 
 hall.' 
 
 ' There is perhaps something — about 
 the mouth. He was a clever man in 
 many ways.' 
 
 ' Too clever for some people. He ' — 
 cynically — ' was nobody's friend but his 
 own.' He laughs again, amused at his 
 new rendering of the old sad phrase. 'The 
 only way to get on, after all,' says he. 
 
 ' I always thought him much to be 
 pitied,' says Anthony, who has difficulty in
 
 A POINT OF CONSCIENCE 157 
 
 keeping himself from being insolent to a 
 guest in his own house. 
 
 ' Bad as he was/ says Fenton, with a 
 shrug, ' I expect he was livelier company 
 than his daughter/ 
 
 As he says this he moves away, provi- 
 dentially for the character of the bazaar. 
 Verschoyle, his face very white, takes a 
 step after him, then stops abruptly. After 
 all, what has he said ? Not more than 
 any man might say of any woman that he 
 did not care for. It is his own love for her 
 that has made the words offensive. Yet 
 that the man who could speak of her like 
 that should be the one to whom she has 
 given the priceless treasure of her heart — 
 her first, fresh young love ! There is a 
 stifled cry of rage in Anthony's heart, as 
 the injustice of this thing comes home to 
 him. 
 
 Meantime the bazaar is going on gaily. 
 Already the ' takings ' at the different stalls 
 are even greater than had been hoped for. 
 
 ' And to-morrow may be fine/ says the 
 Rector's wife, with splendid faith.
 
 158 A POINT OF CONSCIENCE 
 
 The shooting-gallery is very popular, 
 Carry, however, carrying off most of the 
 prizes, to the chagrin of the younger officers 
 from the barracks at Middleham, and to 
 the delight of her chum Richie. The 
 concert-hall has not, perhaps, been quite 
 such a success. Lady Maria had struggled 
 valiantly, and so had all the others, but in 
 the end it was found impossible to exclude 
 the local talent. 
 
 ' They would be so offended,' said the 
 Rector, who feared a dropping-offfrom his 
 choir. And of course no harm would 
 have come of it, either, if the home people 
 could only have been induced to choose 
 simple ballads. Some of them, indeed, 
 have quite nice little voices — not un- 
 pleasant, by any means — but, alas ! they 
 are all bent on soaring to the highest flights, 
 thinking lightly of singing, after two days' 
 notice, a song that many a celebrated 
 artiste would practise diligently for weeks 
 before singing it in public. 
 
 To-day the undertaker's son has elected 
 to sing first — Gounod's < Serenade,' of all
 
 A POINT OF CONSCIENCE 159 
 
 things in the world. His voice and his 
 French are equally awful, but he is a 
 friend of the townspeople — one of their 
 own people — a songster they have heard, 
 and applauded, and loved, and taken pride 
 in for ten long years, so that wild and 
 vociferous are the cheerings and the 
 demand for an encore at the end of the 
 truly wretched thing. A very renowned 
 singer, Sir John Illworth, had been received 
 almost coldly the turn before. 
 
 Now, as Mr. Browne, heralding a bevy 
 of fair dames and gallant gentlemen — who 
 feel it their duty to pay their shilling at the 
 door — enter the concert-hall, the under- 
 taker's son is * consenting to oblige ' once 
 more, in answer to the vociferous encores 
 from his intimates. ' Love is a little boy,' 
 he has chosen this time — a delicate bit of 
 music, all feeling. Naturally an under- 
 taker's son should be brought up to c feel- 
 ing/ but, alas ! this young man, whatever 
 feelings his heart may be endowed with, 
 has nothing of them in his voice. 
 
 ' Love is a little boy,' sings he stonily,
 
 160 A POINT OF CONSCIENCE 
 
 and just a little, a very little, out of tune, 
 but enough to make Cecil blink her lids. 
 
 The room had been darkened purposely, 
 and, under cover of the twilight thus 
 obtained, Fenton, who is sitting between 
 Cecil and Maden, slips his hand under the 
 light cloak the latter has flung over her by 
 Cecil's gentle advice. He is hardly pre- 
 pared for the quick, almost painful, grip he 
 receives in turn. The girl's very heart 
 seems to be in it. 
 
 ' Whose little boy, I wonder V asks Mr. 
 Browne anxiously. 
 
 He looks at Mrs. Berkeley, who has her 
 Infantry baby beside her, but that lady 
 gives him little encouragement. 
 
 ' How you mock that poor creature !' 
 says she modestly. * I suppose you will be 
 directing the shafts of your wit at me next ; 
 you know I sing after this/ 
 
 ' I didn't know/ says Mr. Browne ; ' but 
 now that I do, I feel a glory added to my 
 life V 
 
 ' Oh, I like that V says Mrs. Berkeley 
 contemptuously.
 
 A POINT OF CONSCIENCE 161 
 
 She casts this over her shoulder at him, 
 and then gives herself back to her Infantry 
 boy. 
 
 Love's ' little boy ' has died out ' of 
 sheer exhaustion/ as Mrs. Berkeley says, 
 and now she has been escorted to the plat- 
 form by Dicky himself, of all people, and 
 * Oh, had I Jubal's lyre ' rings through the 
 room. 
 
 ' What's that ? what's that ?' eagerly 
 questions Jinnie, who by a most unlucky 
 oversight has been brought in. c Liar — 
 liar is it, Dicky ?' 
 
 She is, as usual, hanging round Mr. 
 Browne. 
 
 ' Yes, lyre ! For goodness' sake be quiet, 
 Jinnie.' 
 
 ' Liar,' repeats Jinnie, who is not as well 
 up in her classical music as she might be. 
 ' Mammy says she is one herself. Is she 
 singing about herself? Do people sing 
 about themselves ? Miss Royce says they 
 should not. She says to sing your own 
 praises is bad. But Mrs. Berkeley isn't 
 VOL. i. 1 1
 
 162 A POINT OF CONSCIENCE 
 
 singing her own praises, only her own 
 nasties. Is she good ?' 
 
 ' Is anyone going to take this child away?' 
 asks Dicky desperately, in a low whisper. 
 
 But now, happily, the song comes to an 
 end, and Mrs. Berkeley, who has really 
 sung it very creditably, has come down to 
 receive the congratulations of her friends, 
 who are — outwardly — many, for the de- 
 lightfully simple reason that her tongue is 
 like a barbed wire. 
 
 ' Popkin is going to sing now/ says 
 somebody. 
 
 ' Let's clear out, then,' says Fenton. ' I 
 hear that even at the village club, when he 
 begins, they take off their boots and shy 
 them at him.' 
 
 ' He roars !' says Carry. c It is quite 
 dreadful to hear him.' 
 
 ' Unkind girl !' whispers Mr. Browne 
 sotto voce. 
 
 t It is astonishing,' says Fenton, * what a 
 row one is allowed to make for a shilling. 
 If you made half that, without paying for 
 it, you'd be run in/
 
 A POINT OF CONSCIENCE 163 
 
 ' There he is !' suddenly says Carry, who 
 has treated Mr. Browne's remark with the 
 contempt it deserved. 
 
 ' In all his glory/ responds he. 'But ' — 
 he stops, listening — ' whence these sounds ?' 
 
 And, indeed, from the lower end of the 
 hall the most remarkable cries are arising. 
 Poor Mr. Popkin's efforts are being badly 
 received amongst the lower classes in 
 Hillesden. Fenton, who has a twist in his 
 mind that makes him find a certain joy in 
 others' misfortunes, laughs quietly. He 
 glances at Dicky. 
 
 ' Groans from the pit/ says he. 
 
 ' Of my stomach/ rejoins that worthy in 
 a melancholy tone. ' I'm starving. For 
 goodness' sake, Fenton, let's get out of this 
 and go in search of something to eat.'
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 * For wisdom is most riches ; fooles therefore 
 They are which fortunes doe by vowes devize, 
 Sith each unto himself his life may fortunize.' 
 
 Outside they meet Anthony. 
 
 ' I've been looking for you all every- 
 where/ says he. ' All ' seems to mean 
 Cecil alone, for his eyes go straight to her, 
 and rest there. ' Luncheon is ready. You 
 must be famished. IVe secured a table, so 
 come on/ He goes to Cecil. ' You must 
 be tired out,' says he. 
 
 6 Oh no !' — gaily ; ' the day is only just 
 beginning. But I don't mind telling you, 
 Tony, that I am very, very hungry/ 
 
 The ' you ' delights him ; it sounds 
 sweet, familiar, almost loving ; perhaps, 
 after all
 
 A POINT OF CONSCIENCE 165 
 
 He might have been tempted to say 
 something tender to her, but just at this 
 moment she sees that Miss Royce has 
 severed herself from their little party, and 
 is going away in the direction of Lady 
 Maria's stall. 
 
 ' Oh, poor little girl !' says she quickly. 
 ' Anthony, call her back ; she must be 
 hungry, too ; she has been doing wonders 
 all the morning. I hear she has sold more 
 than anyone in the place ; she is all fire and 
 life, and so pretty. Don't you think so ? 
 Do go and make her join us.' 
 
 Her solicitude for the friendless governess 
 strikes Anthony as a fresh instance of the 
 beauty, the kindliness of her disposition. 
 Long afterwards he remembers it again, 
 and the ingratitude of the other. 
 
 1 Miss Royce/ says he, coming up with 
 the little French peasant, * I hope you will 
 come and lunch with us.' 
 
 ' How kind !' says Maden, giving him a 
 warm and grateful glance. 
 
 * Miss Fairfax sent me to bring you 
 back. She begs you will come. You
 
 166 A POINT OF CONSCIENCE 
 
 must be tired, she says, having been work- 
 ing so energetically all the morning. ' 
 
 When she gave him that lovely smile of 
 a moment ago, he had told himself that 
 Cecil was right (when is she not right with 
 him ?), and that this girl is pretty. But 
 now in a flash the smile has died, and the 
 face has darkened to a sullen, almost 
 repellent, expression. 
 
 ' Miss Fairfax is too good,' says she. 
 Her ivory complexion is almost ghastly. 
 ' But I am not tired, and I think Lady 
 Maria has brought some sandwiches with 
 her.' 
 
 She gives him the faintest, the most 
 graceful little inclination, and then de- 
 liberately continues on her way — to dulness 
 and Lady Maria. Anthony knows at 
 once that nothing could move her, that 
 she is bent on going back — but why ? 
 Well, after all, Lady Maria has evidently 
 brought sandwiches, so this puzzling little 
 girl won't be hungry. He can assure 
 Cecil about that. 
 
 And, indeed, there is no fear of hunger
 
 A POINT OF CONSCIENCE 167 
 
 for the governess. Lady Maria, who 
 would not brave the wilds of the pavilion 
 (and, as the sequel proves, very wisely too), 
 where an uncommonly bad luncheon is 
 served at five shillings a head, has pro- 
 vided herself with a handsome supply of 
 the daintiest sandwiches and a bottle of 
 moselle. Jinnie had refused to leave her 
 uncle Anthony, and so Miss Royce and 
 Lady Maria share this repast between 
 them. Lady Maria is very generous with 
 it, even with the moselle, and is so good 
 as to carry on a lively conversation with 
 Jinnie's governess — all about Jinnie ! 
 
 In a glow of satisfaction at having been 
 so kind, you know, to the insignificant 
 girl, the Dowager goes back to her stall 
 again, oblivious of the fact that the ' in- 
 significant girl ' would not only have 
 given up the dainty sandwiches and the 
 moselle, but even Lady Maria's own ex- 
 cellent company, to have been fed on 
 bread and water in any place where Sidney 
 Fenton might be. 
 
 1 A much better luncheon, I assure you,
 
 168 A POINT OF CONSCIENCE 
 
 Miss Royce, poor as it is/ Lady Maria 
 had said, ' than what is provided over 
 there. I know these bazaar feeds — they 
 are unspeakable.' 
 
 But when the heart is young, and love 
 is the guiding star, who cares for well- 
 baked meats — or ill-baked, for the matter 
 of that ? 
 
 # * # * * 
 
 At the luncheon in the pavilion, merri- 
 ment is reigning. Fenton, whose motto 
 is ever, ' When far from the lips that we 
 love, make love to the lips that are near,' 
 has seated himself beside Cecil, whose 
 pale, beautiful face has flushed a little at 
 his nearness, and into whose eyes a glad 
 light has sprung. 
 
 ' Has anyone seen the new Bishop ?' 
 asks Mrs. Verschoyle presently, in between 
 her efforts to dissect a chicken that must 
 have seen at all events threescore months 
 and ten. 
 
 ' I have/ says Carry Desmond. ' He 
 is a great, large man, with a big '
 
 A POINT OF CONSCIENCE 169 
 
 ' Caroline V says Mr. Browne, in an 
 awful tone. 
 
 ' Face !' says Carry indignantly. ' What 
 on earth did you think I was going to 
 gay ?' This calls for smothered mirth on 
 the part of some of the more frivolous 
 members. The good Bishop, if a Friar of 
 Orders Grey, would take a considerable 
 girdle. But Carry, innocently uncon- 
 scious, goes on. ' I've not seen his wife, 
 though/ says she ; ' but Cecil — it was you, 
 Cecil, wasn't it ? — said she was buying 
 things right and left all day/ 
 
 ' She is elderly, but very kind-looking,' 
 says Miss Fairfax. * I expect we shall 
 like them immensely.' 
 
 6 Oh, this chicken is uneatable !' says 
 Anthony suddenly. ' My dear Jane, have 
 something else.' 
 
 c It isn't half bad,' says Mrs. Verschoyle; 
 1 and, besides, we must all suffer for our — 
 bazaar. The ham, at all events, is ex- 
 cellent.' 
 
 ' Don't abuse the poor old rooster,' says 
 Mr. Browne tenderly ; ' it has done all it
 
 170 A POINT OF CONSCIENCE 
 
 could. If it had been allowed to live 
 longer it might, perhaps, have done 
 more/ 
 
 ' Longer ! Browne, collect yourself,' 
 says Sidney, who, however, is not eating 
 chicken. 
 
 ' Well, it's gone to its rest now, at all 
 events,' says Dicky, with a deep sigh, 
 * and we should all speak kindly of the 
 dead. Peace to its ashes, say I.' 
 
 'A good rabbit would be better than it/ 
 declares Anthony wrathfully. 
 
 ' Talking of rabbits/ says Amyot, ' did 
 you hear that Bilbery is making twelve 
 pounds a week by his ?' 
 
 Colonel Bilbery is a neighbour, who 
 does not, however, come into this story. 
 
 ' I shouldn't wonder/ says Anthony. 
 ' Very good warrens there, and rabbits 
 seem to be the most saleable of all things 
 nowadays amongst the lower classes. 
 There's quite a boom on them/ 
 
 ' I don't like them,' says Mrs. Ver- 
 schoyle. ' They always taste to me like 
 white paint/
 
 A POINT OF CONSCIENCE 171 
 
 ' You astonish me !' says Mr. Browne. 
 ' Fancy eating white paint ! When do 
 you do it — breakfast or afternoon tea V 
 
 The conversation for a long time turns 
 on rabbits, their culture, their worth in the 
 market, their price. And to it all Carry 
 has been listening attentively. Indeed, as 
 the discussion continues, she seems to lean 
 more forward, more eagerly, until at last 
 her attitude might be described as breath- 
 less. 
 
 Twelve pounds a week ! That is the 
 one remark that seems to have hammered 
 itself into her brain. Oh, if she could 
 only make three pounds a week by the 
 rabbits that are running wild about her 
 place — doing nothing except destroying 
 auntie's gardens — she could lift a weight 
 from that darling auntie's shoulders ! Such 
 frail little shoulders, too ! 
 
 An idea, long forming in her mind, now 
 takes distinct shape ; and at this same 
 moment, all at once as it were, she re- 
 members (though what on earth can it 
 have to do with money, and rabbits, and
 
 172 A POINT OF CONSCIENCE 
 
 auntie ?) that a local manufacturer had 
 sent in a big roll of tweed to be — well, 
 balloted for. Raffling, open raffling, is 
 forbidden. Her hand slips into her 
 pocket. No, nothing ! She remembers 
 now she had spent her last shilling on a 
 toy for Jinnie, and a shilling is exactly the 
 sum that will make you a ' shareholder ' 
 in the big roll of tweed. Blank dis- 
 appointment clouds her face for a moment. 
 Auntie has gone home, and won't be back 
 until four, and the tickets for the tweed 
 are almost sold. ' Hope,' however, 
 c springs eternal ' in Miss Desmond's 
 breast, and now, as her eyes happen to fall 
 on Richie, she is all life and joy again. 
 He will lend her the fateful shilling that 
 shall secure her the desired tweed. 
 
 Here Verschoyle, seeing Mrs. Berkeley 
 in the distance, studying with a little 
 critical air the names of the different items 
 on the menu as though hardly knowing 
 how to decide (she has decided on a cup 
 of coffee and a sandwich), rises, and goes 
 towards her. He has no great love for
 
 A POINT OF CONSCIENCE 173 
 
 the sharp-ton gued lady, though she is 
 always extremely silver-tongued to him, 
 but he knows she can ill afford to pay 
 five shillings for her luncheon, and the 
 ' Infantry Boy ' is carefully conspicuous 
 by his absence. Infantry Boys' incomes 
 don't run to bazaar luncheons as a rule, 
 and, as Verschoyle tells himself, it is 
 uncommonly good of her to have come 
 here at all to-day with her very limited 
 means. 
 
 <Oh, Mrs. Berkeley,' says he, 'you really 
 mustn't go and lunch over there all by 
 yourself. I want another guest badly at 
 our table. Won't you join us ? 
 
 'Very glad — very glad indeed,' says 
 Mrs. Berkeley, with a touch of condescen- 
 sion that tickles Verschoyle immensely, 
 and presently she is sitting at their table 
 in quite an amiable temper for her. It is 
 ever so much better to be here than taking 
 a solitary cup of coffee over there ; and, 
 besides, it has even occurred to her that 
 perhaps — who knows ? — Mr. Verschoyle 
 may have a secret admiration for her.
 
 174 A POINT OF CONSCIENCE 
 
 Any way, it will be something to tell the 
 faithless Infantry Boy. 
 
 * How's Popkin been getting on all 
 day ?' asks Amyot presently. ' He seemed 
 great at the Girls' Friendly stall a while 
 ago.' 
 
 ' Oh, he's struggling strugglin',' says 
 Mr. Brown, with an exact imitation of 
 Popkin's squeak. 
 
 ' Mrs. Langley - Binks' stall is very 
 handsome,' says Carry, with a view to 
 changing the conversation. 
 
 * Yes, isn't it ?' says Miss Fairfax, turn- 
 ing for a moment from her conversation 
 with Fenton, which seems to be engross- 
 ing, and which, as it goes on, leaves Ver- 
 schoyle more and more absent-minded, 
 replying sometimes, indeed, at random to 
 Mrs. Berkeley's liveliest sallies. 
 
 That lady, hearing her enemy's name, 
 rushes to the front. 
 
 ' Reg'lar bazaar in itself,' says she, with 
 a sneer. 
 
 ' She seems to have spared neither time 
 nor care,' says Mrs. Verschoyle gently.
 
 A POINT OF CONSCIENCE 175 
 
 ' Nor money. Quite Oriental ! And 
 her dear garl !' says Mrs. Berkeley, in her 
 own extraordinary lingo. ' So entirely in 
 keeping in those trousers.' 
 
 ' Oh, hang it ! she has something else 
 on/ says Mr. Browne, frowning. He 
 whispers this ; but Dicky's whispers, un- 
 fortunately, are calculated to ring through 
 a room. His father often said he was an 
 actor, spoiled. 
 
 c And the veil/ says Fenton severely, 
 addressing Mrs. Berkeley. 
 
 6 Stroke of genius, that veil/ says she, at 
 which, I regret to say, some of them 
 laugh. ' In fact, the whole thing means 
 business. The stall, an Eastern bazaar ; 
 the daughter, an Eastern garl. And the 
 money spent ! Ah, dear Captain Fenton, 
 when one is hopelessly on the wrong side 
 of Society's Rubicon, one willingly pays a 
 good deal to be allowed to cross it.' 
 
 ' Poor Mrs. Langley-Binks !' says Ver- 
 schoyle, laughing. ' If not quite in the 
 swim, still, she is very near it. A few 
 more years '
 
 176 A POINT OF CONSCIENCE 
 
 ' If anyone is going to sing that 
 
 hymn ' begins Mr. Browne, rising, 
 
 but Carry pulls him down. 
 
 'A few more strokes/ puts in Fenton, 
 laughing — ' stick to your metaphor, An- 
 thony — and the rapids will be passed. I 
 congratulate you/ he nods to Verschoyle — 
 * you know your world / then he turns to 
 Amyot, ' And a rotten one it is/ says he, in 
 a low tone. 
 
 * I don't think so/ says Richie. ' If a 
 few years can turn some of the Langley- 
 Binks into clever, cultivated people, why 
 should they not have a look-in as well as 
 ourselves ? Nobody can help the fact of 
 their grandfather being a soap-boiler. Was 
 it soap ?' 
 
 At this moment Verscholye's butler, who 
 has been brought down and pressed into 
 the service, as have most of the servants 
 belonging to the county families round, 
 hands Mrs. Berkeley a dish. It looks 
 rather nondescript, and she turns to Ver- 
 schoyle. 
 
 1 What is it ?'
 
 A POINT OF CONSCIENCE 177 
 
 • I should not care to answer for it/ says 
 he, peering at it. ' Better be sure than 
 sorry.' 
 
 c You advise me to let it alone ?' 
 
 * Oh no ; that would be to make you 
 take it. Curiosity is a woman's bane, ever 
 since the world began. 5 
 
 ' Do you know much of women ?' asks 
 she, with the little glance she had always 
 found so effective — ten years ago. 
 
 Unhappily, Verschoyle at this moment 
 has let his unruly eyes wander again to 
 where Cecil and Fenton are now sitting 
 very close together, and so he loses the 
 thread of her argument. The butler is 
 still waiting in an adamantine posture, 
 and Mrs. Berkeley dismisses him im- 
 patiently. 
 
 ' No, I shall not try it,' says she, address- 
 ing Verschoyle directly, and so compelling 
 his attention to return to her. ' Better 
 not, in spite of the curiosity you attri- 
 bute to me ; I have such a nervous diges- 
 tion.' 
 
 ' I shouldn't have thought you had a 
 
 vol. 1. 12
 
 178 A POINT OF CONSCIENCE 
 
 digestion at all/ says Verschoyle, with a 
 sort of wild grab at the heart of her speech, 
 the beginning of which he had either not 
 heard or forgotten. 
 
 It might have been a risky speech, 
 but Mrs. Berkeley accepts it as a com- 
 pliment. 
 
 ' Ah, that is how it always is/ says she ; 
 * no one understands anyone. One looks 
 at a person, and says she is in perfect health, 
 as ' — reproachfully — ' you evidently think 
 me. Or she is lovable, or hateful, or 
 hideously dull, or a very star of intellect ! 
 Or else ' — with a second reproachful glance 
 — c that she has a splendid digestion. And, 
 after all, one knows nothing. I have spent 
 all my life in studying character' — this 
 with the air of a Balzac — c and now I tell 
 myself I know nothing. I don't under- 
 stand anyone. I ' — with one of the old, 
 rather worn-out glances at him — ' don't 
 even know you.' 
 
 Verschoyle laughs, and then, feeling 
 bored, casts an imploring glance at his 
 sister-in-law.
 
 A POINT OF CONSCIENCE 179 
 
 ' No ?' says he. ' And such an easy sub- 
 ject, too ! It argues badly for you.' 
 
 Mrs. Verschoyle has risen in response to 
 his speaking glance. 
 
 * To our work ! to our work !' cries she 
 gaily.
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 ' Oh ! that 'twere possible/ 
 
 Carry lingers behind until she can reach 
 Amyot. 
 
 ' Richie/ says she, ' come here.' (' Here ' 
 is in a corner of the canvas pavilion.) 
 ' Can you lend me a shilling ?' 
 
 She is not in the least shamefaced. It 
 would be as unlikely to look for shame in 
 the face of a girl who is asking her brother 
 for a little loan, as in the face of Carry. 
 Has he not been as good as a brother to 
 her all her life ? 
 
 ' A shilling !' says he, with contemp- 
 tuous, good-natured laughter. c What's 
 the good of a shilling to you ? Half my 
 fortune, if you will, which ' — a little rue-
 
 A POINT OF CONSCIENCE 181 
 
 fully — ' amounts to about five pounds at 
 the present moment.' 
 
 * No, no ; nothing but a shilling.' 
 
 c Take five/ says he ; c you ' — with a 
 prophetic air — ' will be sure to want it/ 
 
 ' I shan't, indeed ; and besides, auntie 
 will be here in a moment. No ; give me 
 one, Richie.' 
 
 He tries to force three or four into her 
 hand, but valiantly she refuses. Valiantly 
 indeed ! for in her blood is the love of 
 spending, inherited from many Irish an- 
 cestors. But she does resist, and, going off 
 with her one borrowed shilling, she buys 
 forthwith a ticket for the desired roll of 
 tweed. As it happens, it is the very last 
 ticket : Amyot, who has followed her with 
 the intention of buying her some more 
 tickets, discovers this. 
 
 ' Just in time,' says she, turning to him, 
 with a little catch in her breath ; ' it was 
 the very last.' 
 
 ' You're sure to win,' says he, with a 
 faint grimace that she might have resented, 
 but that time isn't given her.
 
 182 A POINT OF CONSCIENCE 
 
 * Carry/ says an anxious stall-holder, 
 coming up to her, ' are you doing any- 
 thing ?' 
 
 ' N — o,' says Carry, a little vaguely ; 
 her mind has now fled far beyond these 
 decorated walls, and is busy cutting out 
 the tweed into 
 
 6 Well, you might raffle this for me/ 
 says Mrs. Ronaldson, a tall young woman 
 of twenty-five or so. ' But very quietly, 
 mind. I have nineteen tickets already sold, 
 and only want twenty-five to make up the 
 whole thing. Do, like a darling, go round 
 to the most likely-looking people you can 
 see, and induce them to give you the rest. 
 Oh yes, I know you belong to Cecil for the 
 day, but you might give me a tiny look-in. 
 But for goodness' sake, Carry, whatever 
 you do, avoid the Bishop's party. You 
 know he is mad on raffles, and we haven't 
 prepared our books for balloting. Isn't 
 it awful humbug, that balloting ? You 
 understand, any way, about the Bishop ?' 
 — pressing a book of tickets into her 
 hand.
 
 A POINT OF CONSCIENCE 183 
 
 1 I know.' Carry nods her head sa- 
 gaciously. 
 
 1 You ' — anxiously — ' know the Bishop, 
 too ?' 
 
 ' Not a bit/ says Carry. ' But I'm 
 certain anyone would know a Bishop at 
 sight, or a Bishop's wife, either. He wears 
 breeches, doesn't he ?' 
 
 ' Yes. But his wife doesn't/ 
 ' So much the better for the Bishop,' 
 says Carry, with a smothered laugh. 
 
 ' Oh no. I hear she is quite a nice 
 woman — and particularly gentle. One of 
 the womanly women who are so much 
 despised of late, but who ' — the speaker 
 breaks off and goes on with a smile of con- 
 viction — 'are always, I think, so much 
 happier than — those others. Of course, I 
 understand your allusion about wearing 
 the ' She laughs ; she is a gay- 
 hearted person, and very sensible too. 
 'But no nice woman ever wants to wear 
 them.' 
 
 Miss Desmond's face changes. 
 
 ' No nice woman wants to wear '
 
 1 84 A POINT OF CONSCIENCE 
 
 She breaks off; her manner is cold. ' Well, 
 where is the thing you want me to raffle ?' 
 says she, a little impatiently. c I suppose 
 you know, however, that the tickets won't 
 be drawn until to-morrow ?' 
 
 ' Yes, I know. And that gives me hope 
 that you will be able to get the other six. 
 I'd have asked that wonderful little person 
 who is Jinnie's governess, but she seems 
 up to her neck. Funny colouring, isn't it ? 
 . . . There go, Carry, and do your best for 
 me.' 
 
 'Well, I'll do what I can to-day/ 
 says Carry. ' And I'll finish it to- 
 morrow.' 
 
 She certainly does finish it to-morrow ! 
 
 That ' wonderful little person,' Miss 
 Royce, is beginning to flag. Her extra- 
 ordinary spirits of the morning have quite 
 toned down now ; she is looking, indeed, 
 like a pale drooping flower, as Fenton, an 
 hour after luncheon, approaches Lady 
 Maria's stall. It is the first time she has 
 seen him since she saw him pass with Cecil 
 Fairfax to the pavilion, and by an odd co-
 
 A POINT OF CONSCIENCE 185 
 
 incidence she has not seen Cecil either. 
 The latter has been tempted by Carry (who 
 ought to have been selling those six tickets) 
 to go to the shooting-gallery, where, of 
 course, Miss Desmond herself carries off 
 all the prizes. She is, indeed, a crack shot, 
 as Amyot tells everyone, and who is very 
 openly proud of his ' chum's' achievements 
 — to the wrath of Miss Langley-Binks, 
 who had insisted on trying her own skill. 
 1 She could hit most things,' she said ; and 
 at all events she did hit something ; she 
 knocked the hat off an old gentleman who 
 was standing two yards to one side of the 
 target, and whose language afterwards is 
 too bad for publication. He had, indeed, 
 to be sh — sh — sh'd out of the room by 
 Dicky Browne and Amyot, lest a breach of 
 the peace should ensue. 
 
 In the meantime Maden has put to- 
 gether in her own mind Fenton's absence 
 and Cecil's. And an awful agony of 
 jealousy is destroying her. * Oh, to be 
 dead ! to be dead !' is the cry from her 
 heart — that, silent, yet seems to be calling
 
 186 A POINT OF CONSCIENCE 
 
 aloud to all the world. The very silence 
 of it suffocates her. 
 
 She is now leaning listlessly against the 
 corner of the stall, when she sees Cecil 
 come with Carry from the direction of the 
 shooting-gallery, and go straight to Cecil's 
 stall, which has been looked after in her 
 absence by a kindly spinster ; and almost 
 immediately after that Fenton comes on 
 the scene by a different doorway. 
 
 ' Too clever !' thinks Maden to herself 
 out of a heart filled with that deadly poison 
 that is consuming her. ' She by one door, 
 he by the other ! And all to deceive me ! 
 Oh, it is too much !' 
 
 'What's the matter with you ?' asks 
 Fenton, going straight to her. ' You look 
 awfully fagged.' 
 
 ' Do I ?' 
 
 ' Have you not been out of this all 
 day ?' 
 
 ' You forget, surely. I was in the con- 
 cert-room.' 
 
 She casts an anguished and most bitter 
 glance at him. Has he forgotten that
 
 A POINT OF CONSCIENCE 187 
 
 dear moment when his hand sought hers ? 
 Is it so small a thing to him, the meeting 
 of those hands — that to her seems so sweet, 
 so filled with eager joy — the memory 
 alone of which has almost kept her from 
 going mad during these two past intolerable 
 hours ? 
 
 ' I am not likely to forget that/ says 
 Fenton tenderly. He is always fascinated 
 by her changeful temper. The fact that 
 she is angry now gives her a fresh charm, 
 and adds to the pleasure of that remem- 
 bered passionate hand-clasp. * But ' — lower- 
 ing his voice — ' is it possible, my darling, 
 you have had no rest, no change ?' 
 
 ' Rest ! I shall never know rest again.' 
 
 ' Oh, don't speak like that, Maden. 
 Something has disturbed you. What is 
 it?' 
 
 ' What is it always ?' She has kept her 
 face marvellously in repose up to this, 
 fearing the eyes of lookers-on ; but now 
 a little convulsion of feeling passes over 
 it, and, afraid, she draws back between 
 the narrow division that separates Lady
 
 188 A POINT OF CONSCIENCE 
 
 Marias stall from the next. Fenton 
 follows her. He is curious now, and for 
 once in his life forgetful of himself. The 
 anguish, the stormy passion, in the girl's 
 eyes draw him. 
 
 ' Well, what ?' asks he in a low tone. 
 
 1 You — you — you !' The voice is as 
 low as his tone, but the words seem to 
 flash out, and her eyes are now a little 
 wild. ' All day — all day you have been 
 with her.' 
 
 ' My dearest child !' 
 
 ' Oh, I know — I know what you would 
 say ! Two hours is not a whole day ; but 
 it has been many days to me — a hideous 
 eternity !' 
 
 ' But I haven't been with Miss Fairfax 
 — is it Miss Fairfax you mean ? — for the 
 last two hours. Directly luncheon was 
 over I left her. She was in the shooting- 
 gallery, I hear, and I was shooting clay 
 pigeons in the field outside. You can ask 
 anyone you like — Verschoyle if you like — 
 about that. Come, don't be a fool, 
 Maden.'
 
 A POINT OF CONSCIENCE 189 
 
 • Swear it !' says she, with her eyes still 
 blazing, but the faint return of colour to 
 her cheeks. 
 
 ' Of course I swear it. Now pull your- 
 self together. It won't do for us — for 
 you' — with hasty correction — 'to be talked 
 about. And here, by-the-by, is Miss 
 Fairfax coming towards us. Do try and 
 smile, Maden, for Heaven's sake !' 
 
 A born actress, as are most people with 
 French blood in their veins, she manages a 
 brilliant smile in time for Cecil's arrival ; 
 she has crossed from her own stall, which 
 is just opposite. There is nothing in the 
 smile, either, but a bare friendliness, as 
 Fenton notices with relief. With another, 
 the effort might have been overdone. 
 
 ' Ah ! you are looking better now,' says 
 Miss Fairfax, with a kindly glance at the 
 governess. ' But I assure you, Sidney ' — 
 turning to Fenton — ' when I saw her a few 
 minutes ago she was looking almost ill. 
 She has been doing too much. I think 
 she ought to go and have some tea — don't 
 you ?'
 
 190 A POINT OF CONSCIENCE 
 
 ' I want nothing, thank you — nothing/ 
 says Miss Royce hurriedly, her eyes on 
 the ground. She seldom looks at Cecil 
 when Cecil is looking at her. 
 
 ' But indeed you must be tired.' 
 
 1 1 am not/ says Miss Royce coldly, 
 repellently. * Ah ! she wants to get rid of 
 me — to send me away from him, to keep 
 him to herself/ is her secret, most un- 
 generous thought, and with it rises a 
 perfect storm of vicious anger that almost 
 shakes her slender body. ' I won't go ! I 
 won't P 
 
 c Still, you look it/ says Cecil with 
 gentle persistence ; indeed, she is getting 
 a little alarmed about the girl — she seems 
 so strange, so unlike her usually reserved 
 self. ' Sidney, won't you persuade Miss 
 Royce to have a cup of tea, or anything 
 else she fancies ?' She lays her hand 
 lightly on Maden's shoulder. ' You and 
 Captain Fenton are very good friends, I 
 think ' — smiling sweetly. Poor Cecil ! 
 e Go with him, then, and rest for a little 
 while. Rest and tea often do wonders.
 
 A POINT OF CONSCIENCE 191 
 
 Please see that she has both, Sidney. 
 Half an hour can well be spared to so 
 hard a worker/ She turns to Miss Royce, 
 and again presses the governess's shoulder 
 with a friendly hand. The shoulder seems 
 to burn as she does it. ' And don't be 
 uneasy; take plenty of time. I shall ex- 
 plain to Lady Maria.' She smiles her 
 beautiful, calm smile, and with an almost 
 affectionate gesture pushes the girl towards 
 Fenton. ' Now, remember, I depend on 
 you to be good to her, Sidney — to look 
 well after her.' 
 
 She moves lightly away to where Lady 
 Maria is sitting, and the other two go — 
 silent always — towards th'e open door on 
 their left that leads to the tea-room. 
 
 In Maden's heart a very demon of 
 passionate remorse is surging — remorse, 
 not untouched by rage. She — she to be 
 so magnanimous, so unsuspecting, so free 
 from all degrading thoughts ! Oh, how 
 grand, how above all praise, she is ! 
 Should she — Maden — ever even strive to 
 climb into a larger, purer life, and spend
 
 192 A POINT OF CONSCIENCE 
 
 her whole life in the climbing, she knows 
 she could never reach the height that Cecil 
 Fairfax has attained. 
 
 She draws a sharp, heavy breath, as of 
 one in mortal pain. Well, well, that is all 
 over — that is acknowledged. She glances 
 at her companion, walking stolidly beside 
 her, but with no apparent thought of her, 
 and the reaction sets in — a wild reaction 
 that wrecks all her better thoughts of a 
 moment since. 
 
 Ah ! it is all because she does not fear 
 the insignificant governess that she has been 
 so good to her — not now only, but on so 
 many different occasions. It has never 
 occurred to the haughty, proud, beautiful 
 heiress that a girl like her — a mere gover- 
 ness — would so much as dare to lift her 
 eyes to the man whom she, the heiress, 
 has chosen from all other men to be her 
 husband. There was no open scorn of 
 her in Miss Fairfax, no contempt, only a 
 mere indifference — an indifference that re- 
 pudiated the idea that she — a mere depen- 
 dent — could come between her and Fenton.
 
 A POINT OF CONSCIENCE 193 
 
 The girl had penetrated Cecil's secret 
 easily. To her, poor Cecil's carefully 
 guarded secret of her love for Sidney 
 Fenton is as clear as day — a secret that 
 Cecil's extreme sensitiveness has kept con- 
 cealed from most people, almost from her- 
 self. But Maden, with the omniscience 
 of love, has divined it long ago, and the 
 indifference of the girl so far above her in 
 rank to her claim on love, galls and tears 
 at her restless, unhappy heart. 
 
 Oh, to let her see, to let her know ! 
 To compel her to understand where the 
 truth is — to make her learn where his 
 love is really given ! Jealous as she is of 
 Cecil, she knows that Fenton prefers her- 
 self infinitely ; but she knows, too, how 
 unstable he is, and that he is in money 
 difficulties, and that Cecil is mistress of a 
 large fortune. 
 
 Yet to compel her to fling down her 
 sure indifference and know the pangs 
 of jealousy that she has known ! Ah ! 
 that would be the sweetness of life 
 indeed. 
 
 vol. 1. 13
 
 194 A POINT OF CONSCIENCE 
 
 And yet, and yet, of all those in this 
 place into which the stream of life has 
 drifted her, Cecil has been the kindest 
 person she has known, the only one who 
 from the very first — and long before 
 Sidney Fenton's arrival — had shown a dis- 
 position to be a friend to her. 
 
 She walks on, lost in a mist of madden- 
 ing thoughts, that constitute fears, and 
 griefs, and shuddering remorse. 
 
 As for Fenton, his thoughts are very 
 different — briefer, and certainly more 
 wanting in passion. A suppressed disgust 
 that Cecil should so readily have given 
 him up to the tender mercies of another 
 woman angers him, and spoils a little the 
 latent hope of gaining her that is always 
 with him — of marrying her, should all 
 things fail, as now, indeed, seems very 
 likely. Her indifference augurs ill for the 
 future. 
 
 And the future is looking black indeed. 
 He is in about the tightest place he has ever 
 been in in his life. His uncle, who had 
 stood by him (if very begrudgingly) up to
 
 A POINT OF CONSCIENCE 195 
 
 this, has by a late post coldly, and with — ■ 
 as Fenton thinks — most unnecessary rude- 
 ness, refused to advance him so much as 
 another paltry fiver, even if the loss of it 
 should send him to the workhouse. 
 
 He had made an end of that delightful 
 effusion by applying to it the match that 
 lit his cigar ; but it is easier to burn a 
 letter than to forget the contents of it. 
 Still, Fenton, light-hearted — ' light ' in 
 this sense really means no - hearted — 
 tells himself he can still hang on for a 
 while ; and, after all, who knows what 
 may turn up at any round of the wheel — 
 in the next six months, for example ? If 
 nothing does — well, he must take the 
 plunge ; and the plunge for him had 
 always found Cecil Fairfax at the bottom 
 of it. 
 
 But this cold sending away of him with 
 Maden — and Maden of all others, good 
 Heaven ! — seems to destroy his calcula- 
 tions. To plunge into unknown depths 
 with a chance of being found and resusci- 
 tated is one thing ; to plunge and sink,
 
 196 A POINT OF CONSCIENCE 
 
 and sink, and disappear for ever — ah ! that 
 is another. 
 
 All at once a new reading of the situa- 
 tion comes to him, and restores him to his 
 usual happy-go-lucky self. Why, this 
 sending of him away with Maden only 
 proves that Cecil has taken no note of his 
 flirtation (a very careful one) with the 
 little witch beside him, who now, by the 
 way, looks rather down on her luck. He 
 glances at Maden. Yes, she is pale — and 
 how silent ! 
 
 Well, thank Heaven ! Cecil, as it seems, 
 has seen nothing ; and he must be careful 
 that there is nothing for her to see ; and 
 he is going away in a few days, and , . . 
 And, of course, if Cecil hasn't noticed any- 
 thing, nobody else has. And, besides (with 
 a frown), there is nothing to notice : a man 
 may pay a few attentions to a pretty girl 
 without all the world crying aloud and 
 demanding the reason of it. 
 
 But why is she so quiet ?
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 1 Our ways are on the waters wan and wild.' 
 
 ' You are tired/ says he at last. 
 
 They are near the tea-room, but she 
 turns away from it. There is a little rustic 
 bower beyond ; she moves towards it, and 
 he follows her. 
 
 ' I will bring you your tea here,' says 
 he. 
 
 He is amazed at himself; a certain ex- 
 citement, that might almost be termed 
 joy, has entered into him. He will be 
 alone with her for half an hour, at all 
 events, in this little ridiculous nest of 
 earwigs. 
 
 He brings her her tea presently, and the 
 most respectable cakes he can find, with an 
 air so loving that the cakes (though by an
 
 198 A POINT OF CONSCIENCE 
 
 ordinary person, outside the pale of love's 
 young dream, they might be calmly and 
 truthfully regarded as three weeks old) 
 grow young again. 
 
 ' They are horrid, I am afraid/ says he, 
 alluding to them. 
 
 6 No, no ; they are very nice. They ' — 
 with a softened glance at him — ' are the 
 very nicest cakes I ever ate !' 
 
 Fenton feels distinctly sorry for her. 
 
 * I tell you what ' says he. 
 
 But he disappears as he says it, and after 
 five minutes spent in entreaties to the 
 butler from The Towers, he succeeds in 
 bringing back to her some sandwiches that 
 are almost eatable. 
 
 ' But the others ' 
 
 ' Never mind the antiques/ says he ; 
 1 eat these.' 
 
 And Maden, who had made a pretence 
 of eating Lady Maria's very superior sand- 
 wiches, feels now, being distinctly hungry, 
 very eager for them, and eats them readily 
 — and drinks, too, the glass of sherry he 
 has brought with them. But with returned
 
 A POINT OF CONSCIENCE 199 
 
 strength comes, too, the return of the old 
 torture. 
 
 c Tell me/ says she — ' oh, Sidney, you 
 were angry with me a moment ago. But, 
 angry or not, I must speak now/ 
 
 ' I am so often angry with you, or you 
 with me/ says he, ' that one more turn 
 scarcely matters. Well, what is it now ?' 
 
 His tone is whimsical, half amused, half 
 impatient. 
 
 < Tell me ' She breaks off. < Oh, I 
 
 don't know what I was going to say ; but 
 if you could tell me that you hate that tall, 
 fair woman, I should be happy/ 
 
 1 Oh, what nonsense !' says Sidney, with 
 now only amusement in his glance. What 
 a little fury she is ! ' I am thankful to say 
 I hate nobody — 'tisn't good enough ; and 
 I love nobody either, except ' 
 
 He pauses, attracted by the brilliant eyes 
 burning into his, as though demanding the 
 right termination of his speech. He puts 
 out his hand and takes the small white 
 trembling one that rests upon her knee. 
 
 ' You/ says he.
 
 200 A POINT OF CONSCIENCE 
 
 The flash of joy that irradiates her face 
 wakes him to the moment. 
 
 'Come; we have been here long enough,' 
 says he. 
 
 ' Ah ! true — true ; and people talk.' 
 
 She gets up at once, as if eager to obey 
 his least command. The beautiful depressed 
 little face of a while ago is now radiant. 
 
 ' But I needn't go back to Lady Maria 
 just yet, need I ?' 
 
 ' No. Miss Fairfax, if you remember, 
 said she would explain to Lady Maria, 
 and that you might have half an hour's 
 rest.' 
 
 Silence for a moment, and then the 
 terribly twisted nature breaks out again : 
 
 ' Miss Fairfax is very good, but she is 
 not the judge of my strength. I shall go 
 back now — yes, now at once.' 
 
 He had been unwilling to tempt the 
 malice of his world a moment ago by 
 remaining any longer alone with her, but 
 now, at this voluntary giving up of his 
 society on her part, his desire to be with 
 her awakes afresh.
 
 A POINT OF CONSCIENCE 201 
 
 ' You are a little ungenerous to Miss 
 Fairfax, surely. You are bent on making 
 her your bete noire without a vestige of 
 reason for it. Let me take you for a little 
 walk.' 
 
 ' No ; I shall go back.' 
 
 His defence of Cecil has enraged her 
 again. She is walking steadfastly in the 
 direction of the bazaar. 
 
 ' Maden ! a word/ says he. He is amazed 
 at his own eagerness. ' When shall I see 
 you again alone ?' 
 
 ' I don't know/ 
 
 ' I don't see what I've done now to 
 make you so uncivil to me. To-night, 
 after dinner, in the garden ?' 
 
 ' To-night ?' She pauses, and pales a 
 little. ' But when ?' 
 
 ' Half-past ten or so ; the men all go 
 into the billiard-room then.' 
 
 ' You want me to come ?' 
 
 Her eyes are on his, with a strange, 
 searching expression in them. 
 
 t Would I ask you if I didn't ?' says he, 
 though all at once it occurs to him that he
 
 202 A POINT OF CONSCIENCE 
 
 is playing with fire. c I shall dwell on the 
 thought of meeting you until we meet/ 
 
 A little silence. She is now at the 
 entrance-door of the bazaar. She looks 
 back at him. 
 
 ' Oh, if you don't mean it all !' says 
 she. 
 
 Her eyes are full of hot tears. Is there 
 a menace in her tone ? 
 
 He has no time to decide ; she has 
 glided in beneath the heavy curtain, and is 
 gone. When she reaches Lady Maria's 
 side, her eyes are as dry, her pale face as 
 inscrutable, as ever. 
 
 ' Miss Royce has come back again/ says 
 Carry, who is lounging idly at Miss Fair- 
 fax's stall. 
 
 The day is nearly over, and business is 
 very slack. 
 
 ' So soon ? Poor little thing ! she hardly 
 gives herself even a chance of rest ; and she 
 was looking so tired a moment ago. I 
 sent her away with Sidney to get a little 
 air and a cup of tea.' 
 
 ' I don't think she looks so very bad/
 
 A POINT OF CONSCIENCE 203 
 
 says Carry curtly. Grammar is not her 
 strong point. 
 
 1 Well, she looked wretched when I sent 
 her away. What a pretty girl she is ! I 
 think there is something that amounts to 
 fascination in her face.' 
 
 < Do you ?' 
 
 ' My dear Carry, what a tone ! And 
 you, who are always so tolerant ! Why, 
 what do you think of her ?' 
 
 * I think she's a beast !' says Miss Des- 
 mond, whose language is always choice. 
 
 ' Carry !' 
 
 6 Yes, I do — a little pig ! I can't tell 
 you why, or anything else about it, because 
 I don't know myself; but I do hate that 
 girl !' 
 
 ' You are growing frightfully interesting,' 
 says Miss Fairfax, who is openly amused. 
 ' Go on ; tell me more.' 
 
 ' I can't. I tell you, I don't know why 
 I dislike her, but' — she hesitates, then 
 says impulsively : ' unless it is that I think 
 she doesn't like you.' 
 
 6 Oh, nonsense ! Why should she dis-
 
 2o 4 A POINT OF CONSCIENCE 
 
 like me ?' says Cecil. ' Put that out of 
 
 your head, Carry, and Where are 
 
 you going now ?' 
 
 'Mr. Popkin's coming; I'm off!' says 
 Carry, slipping from the edge of the stall 
 on which she has been perched, and vanish- 
 ing in the twinkling of an eye. 
 
 Customers are getting fewer and fewer, 
 and already the stall-holders are shrouding 
 their wares, to keep them safe for to- 
 morrow's campaign. 
 
 ' How are you getting on, dearest ?' asks 
 Mrs. Verschoyle, coming up to Lady Maria. 
 ' Don't you think you had better be think- 
 ing of home ? Not too tired, I hope ?' 
 
 ' Not so much tired as bored,' says Lady 
 Maria ; which, of course, means the same 
 thing, but she would have died rather than 
 say she was tired. 
 
 ' Bored ?' 
 
 ' Yes, terribly. And the fatiguing part 
 of it is that the more you're bored the less 
 you must show it. You have to be what 
 that absurd Sidney calls, "on the grin" all 
 the time, especially at functions of this
 
 A POINT OF CONSCIENCE 205 
 
 sort. Mrs. Langley-Binks has been espe- 
 cially trying — spent quite half an hour 
 with me talking of nothing but poor dear 
 Richie ! Really, only for the boy's own 
 sake — and undoubtedly Aurora has a great 
 deal of money — I might have been tempted 
 to be rude to her.' 
 
 1 Oh no, you wouldn't/ says Mrs. Ver- 
 schoyle, smiling. 
 
 ' Why not, Jane ? The bore au naturel 
 deserves nothing less than extinction. By- 
 the-by, I was reading yesterday an article in 
 the Monthly called " Bores and Bored." It 
 was very able.' 
 
 ' Bores of a century ago : I read it.' 
 
 ' Yes. They don't put in our bores of 
 to-day because they wouldn't waste an 
 article on them, for the simple reason that 
 we all suffer them so gladly. No one 
 seems to address to them those witty, if 
 extremely rude, remarks with which our 
 ancestors used to repress them, or at all 
 events made laudable attempts to do so, for 
 the bore is difficult to tackle.' 
 
 ' We are all too well bred nowadays to
 
 206 A POINT OF CONSCIENCE 
 
 make a famous repartee/ says Mrs. Ver- 
 schoyle. ' Let us go home instead/ 
 
 < After all,' says Lady Maria, laughing — 
 she always recovers her temper under 
 Mrs. Verschoyle's treatment, ' I dare say I 
 am a bit of a bore myself. The only 
 difference between bores and interesting 
 people lies in this, Jane, that the bores 
 wait only for you to say " Yes " and " No " 
 to their small-talk, and the others wait to 
 say " Yes " and " No " to yours.' 
 
 ' You're getting cynical,' says Mrs. 
 Verschoyle ; * you had better leave this 
 and come back to The Towers.' 
 
 * Do you really think we can go away 
 now with any show of decency ?' 
 
 ' It is half-past six,' says Mrs. Verschoyle, 
 after a consultation with her watch. 
 'Even slave-drivers could not require 
 more.' 
 
 ' Well, well ! where's Anthony ?' asks 
 Lady Maria, rising. She pauses, then 
 looks back at Mrs. Verschoyle. ' What 
 has annoyed me more than anything,' says 
 she, ' is what I have just seen. That silly
 
 A POINT OF CONSCIENCE 207 
 
 creature, Carry Desmond, has been almost 
 openly unpleasant to Mr. Popkin. She 
 was standing with Cecil over there a little 
 while ago, and just as poor Mr. Popkin 
 was going up to speak to her, she sprang 
 to the ground — she was sitting on Cecil's 
 stall in a most unladylike attitude — and 
 ran away. It was the very rudest rebuff. 
 I really shouldn't wonder if the poor man 
 never spoke to her again.' 
 
 ' Carry is very impulsive, but she is a 
 good — a dear girl,' says Mrs. Verschoyle. 
 < And Mr. Popkin ' 
 
 ' Well, what of Mr. Popkin ?' 
 
 ' He's not pretty,' says Mrs. Verschoyle, 
 with a frivolity that one would not have 
 expected from her. ' Honestly, dearest, 1 
 can't think how any girl (in her senses, 
 of course) could elect to marry Mr. 
 Popkin.' 
 
 ' My dear Jane,' says Lady Maria wrath- 
 fully — she is evidently very tired, and so is 
 her temper; the day has been too much 
 for her — ' of all things on earth a fool is 
 the worst.'
 
 2o8 A POINT OF CONSCIENCE 
 
 ' Well, that's my argument about Mr. 
 Popkin.' 
 
 ' I was alluding to you/ says Lady Maria 
 severely. c That girl hasn't a penny in the 
 world, and I hear that her aunt is very 
 deeply in debt. Presently she won't have 
 a roof over her head. Isn't it better for 
 Carry to provide one for her ? Mr. Pop- 
 kin, I understand, has a small income of 
 his own, irrespective of his profession, and 
 will come in for something considerable on 
 the death of a maiden aunt.' 
 
 ' It was sure to be a maiden aunt/ says 
 Mrs. Verschoyle. 
 
 ' My good Jane/ says Lady Maria — 
 who really is in a most unreasonable mood 
 — ' dont be a fool !' 
 
 c One has so little choice,' says Mrs. 
 Verschoyle amiably. ' One is born a fool, 
 or a musician, or a painter, or anything 
 else you like.' She does not seem in the 
 least ruffled, and she feels what she seems. 
 c I forget, however, you don't like a fool. 
 Still, it is very hard to be anything else now- 
 adays. It is the easiest profession of all.'
 
 A POINT OF CONSCIENCE 209 
 
 She leans over Lady Maria and kisses 
 her softly on her cheek. It is a fact — a 
 singular one, I think, but still a fact — that 
 she loves Lady Maria, although she is her 
 mother-in-law. And the older woman 
 loves her with quite as deep, if not a 
 deeper affection. Jane is, indeed, a necessity 
 to her. 
 
 ' Come home,' says Mrs. Verschoyle. 
 
 Lady Maria rises. 
 
 c I suppose I may as well/ says she. 
 Then, with a touch of humour : l Tell the 
 boy to put up the shutters, Jane, and not to 
 forget to take them down again in the 
 morning. ' 
 
 vol. 1. 14
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 ' We sail the sea of life : a calm one finds, 
 And one a tempest.' 
 
 Verschoyle was anxious that Miss Royce 
 should be included in his dinner to-night ; 
 but Lady Maria put her veto on it. No, 
 it was impossible. She would not hear 
 of it. 
 
 Verschoyle went as far as " But ' 
 
 And it was enough. Lady Maria 
 launched into a generous and long-winded 
 view of her ideas on the subject of gover- 
 nesses, dependents, and so forth. It was 
 quite a mistake, that sort of thing, and 
 would only lead to unpleasantness in the 
 future. Once asked to come down to 
 dinner, she would certainly expect to be 
 asked again, and that would raise fresh
 
 A POINT OF CONSCIENCE 211 
 
 complications. Miss Royce had never 
 dined even with Jane and her, therefore 
 she could not possibly be offended. And 
 for one thing (there had already been 
 several), she might not have a dinner- 
 gown ; and why break through a good 
 rule ? 
 
 Miss Fairfax, Verschoyle suggested, 
 might, perhaps, lend her one — or Carry. 
 After all, Carry wasn't well off, and yet 
 
 she 
 
 Anthony, with a man's extraordinary 
 want of knowledge of women's gowns, 
 has not seen that Carry's dinner get-up 
 is, to say the least of it, extremely ancient. 
 ' My dearest Tony !' Lady Maria's 
 hands had made a gentle protest. One 
 did not lend one's frocks to — er — people, 
 even the most excellent creatures, and she 
 was sure Miss Royce was one, unless — er 
 — they were of one's class. And, indeed, 
 to lend a frock at all — but on an 
 emergency, and amongst one's own set ! 
 But to a girl like Miss Royce, practically 
 unknown, though quite the nicest creature
 
 212 A POINT OF CONSCIENCE 
 
 — no, no, it could not be heard of! And 
 Tony was really kind-hearted — as he 
 always was — but, then, he must give a 
 thought to Jinnie, darling child ! Lady 
 Maria is a slave to her only grand- 
 daughter. Jinnie would be sure to be 
 troublesome after this long, fatiguing day 
 at the bazaar; and she had always been 
 accustomed to take her tea with Miss 
 Royce, and would, in all probability, make 
 a scene if Miss Royce left her this evening. 
 This evening especially, when the dear 
 child must be a little overdone, and there- 
 fore inclined to be fractious, as even the 
 best children would be. There seems a 
 note of doubt as to whether Jinnie can be 
 counted amongst the c best ' in this speech, 
 yet her stanch grandmother would have 
 been indignant if you had so much as hinted 
 that to her. 
 
 Verschoyle, of course, did not press the 
 point further, especially as Mrs. Verschoyle, 
 who was present, and who, as a rule, was 
 kindness itself to everyone, did not put in 
 one pleading word for her daughter's
 
 A POINT OF CONSCIENCE 213 
 
 governess. Her silence struck Anthony 
 as almost ominous, and, indeed, he would 
 have liked to have asked her the reason of 
 it, but there was no time. And even if he 
 had, Mrs. Verschoyle would certainly have 
 found herself at a loss for a clear answer. 
 Yet the doubt — the doubt was there — 
 lying hidden in her heart. 
 
 »4&. -ii. .w, *&£» 41- 
 
 7P ^ ^ W -7? 
 
 So, later on, in a charming room upstairs, 
 a charming repast is sent up to Miss Royce 
 and her pupil — a repast to which the pupil 
 does full justice, but that Miss Royce never 
 touches. Jinnie, with so silent and so pre- 
 occupied a companion, tires presently, and 
 the governess, having seen her safely off to 
 bed in the hands of her maid, puts out the 
 lamps in the charming if very solitary 
 room, and, crouching in the cushioned 
 recess in the window, bends her dark, 
 angry face upon her upturned -palms, and 
 stares, with black, rebellious eyes, into the 
 night. 
 
 Even now, at nine o'clock, it is not 
 altogether dark. A delicate last memory
 
 2i 4 A POINT OF CONSCIENCE 
 
 of the gone twilight is lying over the 
 gardens, giving them a delicious sense of 
 mystery. Overhead, in the heavens, 
 
 1 The stars hang bright above, 
 Silent as if they watched the sleeping earth.' 
 
 Maden sits watching them, fascination 
 in her eyes. Oh, to be there, to be with 
 them, to feel as they feel — nothing ! From 
 the sleeping flowers beneath an odorous 
 breath is rising, and through the window 
 she has flung open, as if gasping for air, as 
 if craving for the passing night wind to 
 come in and cool her burning forehead, 
 this breath rushes in. It is sweet and 
 heavy with dewy perfume. She welcomes 
 it gladly, in the mad hope that, sweeping 
 across her brow, it may perhaps ease the 
 aching of her head, which, however, is not 
 so bad as the aching of her heart. 
 
 A sense of injustice is thrilling her, of 
 hatred of the world — the world so near to 
 her — now sitting downstairs at the dinner- 
 table, laughing and talking, in their gay 
 dresses, whilst she
 
 A POINT OF CONSCIENCE 215 
 
 Oh, God ! to be dead and done with it 
 all, or else to know a real life — to know 
 love fulfilled — which is the real life ! A 
 life with Sidney ! Her undisciplined, pas- 
 sionate heart has been beating all day with 
 varied emotions. Mrs. Verschoyle's silent 
 depreciation of her somewhat too vivid 
 personality had been penetrated by her 
 quick wit ; and Lady Maria's half-insolent 
 admiration of her had cut even deeper. 
 Ah ! now afresh she grinds under the 
 memory of it. 
 
 ' She spoke to me,' she breathes to her- 
 self violently, ' almost as though I were 
 within a few hundred miles of her world ! 
 And only because I happened to look 
 pretty. I was a toy to her, a thing of 
 delight for a moment. She gave no 
 thought to me — myself: I was not a gir], 
 to her, with a heart and brain ; I was only 
 a doll dressed up for her delectation. To- 
 morrow — even now — I am cast back into 
 the blackness of darkness for ever — into 
 the companionship of Jinnie.' 
 
 She leans back against the unrestful
 
 216 A POINT OF CONSCIENCE 
 
 shutter, and closes her eyes in a misery 
 of despair. She begins to hate Jinnie. 
 
 ' So tired — so tired, my heart, and 
 I ' 
 
 Presently a little sound from beneath 
 breaks in upon her wandering thoughts. 
 She starts. It can't be half-past ten yet. 
 It was at that hour she had promised to 
 meet him. She rises softly and leans 
 out. 
 
 The windows below have been opened, 
 and now the lights from the dining and 
 larger drawing room are rushing out into 
 the night, flooding the terraces with a 
 vague, artificial light. She can hear Mr. 
 Browne's voice, and now Amyot's, and now 
 Mr. Verschoyle's — the latter, she knows 
 with a sense of passionate relief, is with 
 Miss Fairfax. Something in Verschoyle's 
 voice — it comes up to her quite clearly — 
 something that is tender and loving, yet 
 fearing, makes Miss Royce understand that 
 Verschoyle desires nothing greater than to 
 be allowed to stay with Miss Fairfax for 
 ever.
 
 A POINT OF CONSCIENCE 217 
 
 Relief first, and then a fresh burst of 
 jealousy. Is she to have all, then ? Are 
 all to bend to her sway ? Is she to have 
 beauty and fortune, and then another 
 fortune laid at her feet ? . . . After this 
 comes a reaction. 
 
 Oh, what does it matter, what does any- 
 thing matter, if she will only marry 
 Verschoyle and let Sidney go free ? Not 
 for a moment, even when with Fenton, 
 has she lost sight of the fact (that surely 
 some instinct only has told her) that Fenton 
 has some vague, far-off thought of marry- 
 ing Cecil Fairfax. Not now, perhaps, but 
 some time. He may love her — Maden — 
 but he will marry the heiress. Oh, if only 
 Miss Fairfax might prove worldly-wise, 
 and marry Mr. Verschoyle ! But, alas ! 
 that is too much to hope for. The same 
 instinct that has warned her of Fenton's 
 mercenary views tells her that Cecil Fair- 
 fax has a soul that could never be dragged 
 down to disgraceful depths. 
 
 She beats a sad little tattoo on the 
 window-sill, and then leans out again
 
 218 A POINT OF CONSCIENCE 
 
 cautiously. Where is he? Her room is 
 very high up, and quite dark now that she 
 has extinguished her lamp, so that there is 
 really no fear of her being seen. Yet it is 
 with a shrinking fear that she bends for- 
 ward to look down on the terrace below — 
 now bright with moving forms — to see if 
 he is coming. 
 
 Carry, in her little plain, old-fashioned, 
 black dinner-dress — her only one, and one 
 that has done such good service that really 
 it ought to be sent to some Chelsea 
 Hospital now, and given a pension — is dis- 
 cussing some subject with Mr. Amyot in a 
 rather severe way. The words t trout/ 
 ' flies,' come up to Maden, and then ' rifle/ 
 ' cartridges/ 
 
 6 Good gracious, what a queer girl !' 
 thinks Miss Royce. But she has no time 
 to examine into the queerness. Her eyes 
 are on Cecil Fairfax, who is still leaning 
 over the terrace railings talking to Anthony 
 Verschoyle. 
 
 Such an exquisite figure in its pale pink 
 gown, and with a little diamond comb in
 
 A POINT OF CONSCIENCE 219 
 
 the hair ! She is talking gaily, her elbows 
 on the railings — Verschoyle had slipped a 
 small fur rug under them — and her pretty 
 ringed ringers clasped. As she talks they 
 clasp and unclasp, the jewels in the rings 
 flashing in the lamplight that comes from 
 the window behind her. 
 
 By intuition Maden, watching, knows 
 that Verschoyle would have given half his 
 fortune to kiss those pretty fingers — the 
 whole of it to kiss the bare, naked arm so 
 dangerously near him. By intuition, too, 
 she knows that Miss Fairfax is entirely 
 careless of his devotion. There is no 
 woman born who cannot divine the fact 
 of a man's being in love with her, and 
 therefore Cecil, in a sort of side-glance as 
 it were, has long ago allowed herself to 
 know that Anthony admires her. But not 
 by word, or act, or thought has she wil- 
 fully encouraged him. 
 
 All this Maden can read, with her eyes 
 upon that lovely vision down below. She 
 knows, too, that with only one word from 
 Fenton, the fastidious, beautiful, and alto-
 
 220 A POINT OF CONSCIENCE 
 
 gether unsuspicious Cecil Fairfax would 
 link her fate with his. 
 
 All things seem clear to the little 
 sphinx staring down from the darkness 
 of her window into the lamplit terrace 
 beneath. 
 
 The little sphinx is conscious of a sense 
 of happiness. He — though no doubt that 
 lovely vision in pink brocade is waiting for 
 him — has not yet come out. No. He is 
 waiting — waiting for her. A great exalta- 
 tion takes her. Oh, how good life is, 
 after all! Waiting for her! She must 
 not keep him waiting. What was the 
 hour — ten-thirty ? 
 
 She draws her lithe body inwards 
 silently, and as silently leaves her cushioned 
 window-sill, and gropes her way to the 
 mantelpiece. Then she lets her deft 
 fingers wander over the marble slab until 
 she comes to the match-box. Striking a 
 light, she glances at the clock. 
 
 ' Only ten ! Oh, how horribly slow 
 time goes sometimes ! Only ten : she — 
 he' — with quick correction, and joy in the
 
 A POINT OF CONSCIENCE 221 
 
 thought — ' will have full thirty minutes 
 more to wait before ' 
 
 Well, well ! at least that time must 
 perforce elapse before all these idle wan- 
 derers on the terrace go indoors. Then, 
 and then only, will it be possible for her 
 to slip out and join him in that scented, 
 lovely garden. 
 
 She has blown out the candle, and has 
 made her way back to the open window 
 again. She may as well see when they 
 do go in, and whether Miss Fairfax, with 
 all her superiority (with a sneer), is not 
 likely to succumb to the charms of The 
 Towers — if not to the charms of its 
 master. 
 
 It seems to her, as she reaches the win- 
 dow, that the voices have ceased in a 
 degree — that fewer people are on the 
 terrace. But one or two — is it two ? — 
 people are still talking. 
 
 Her breath is coming very fast now. 
 Her face is livid. Further she leans out. 
 Whose are the voices ? 
 
 Too well she knows. The scene on the
 
 222 A POINT OF CONSCIENCE 
 
 terrace is changed. Verschoyle is gone, so 
 is Mr. Browne ; so are all the rest, except 
 Cecil Fairfax — and now with her is 
 Fenton. 
 
 Breathlessly the girl above stares at 
 them, listening — listening. 
 
 The voices do not come up to her so 
 clearly now. The two heads are so close 
 together that speech in the ordinary dis- 
 tinct tone is unnecessary. 
 
 Even as she looks Fenton says something 
 to Miss Fairfax at which she lifts her arms 
 from the railings and looks at him. Not 
 unkindly — oh, no, no, no! — only too 
 kindly ! And her smile ! The tortured 
 child above can see it plainly in the moon- 
 light, that now is flooding the sky and 
 overpowering the lamplight. There is 
 rebuke in it, perhaps, but only the rebuke 
 that means forgiveness, and — and a great 
 deal more. 
 
 Sidney laughs, and catches her hand. 
 
 ' Come, let us take a little run through 
 the garden this lovely night/ says he in 
 his happy, debonair way.
 
 A POINT OF CONSCIENCE 223 
 
 He is speaking in his ordinary tone now, 
 and the words come clearly to Maden. 
 
 Miss Fairfax seems to hesitate a moment, 
 then, as if a little against her better thoughts, 
 and yet as if not able to resist the growing 
 charm of the night — or her companion — 
 she turns towards the steps of the terrace, 
 her hand always in his (she had not made 
 more than a slight effort to withdraw it), 
 and presently he and she are out of sight.
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 ' Passions, like seas, will have their ebbs and flows.' 
 
 For a long time the girl stays upon her 
 knees, looking into the silent garden. They 
 have gone ! They have passed out of sight 
 behind the rhododendron hedge that divides 
 this garden from the other. Everything 
 has gone ! 
 
 Just at first, in the shock of her anger, 
 this seems possible to her ; but ' everything* 
 is never really gone from us so long as this 
 world's sky is over our heads. 
 
 Languidly, as if half dead, she rouses 
 herself presently from her crushing dreams, 
 and, dragging herself again to the clock, 
 looks at it. 
 
 A quarter to eleven ! 
 
 Suddenly a feverish anxiety seizes on her
 
 A POINT OF CONSCIENCE 225 
 
 — to go to him — to go at once — to have 
 all her fears ended, or confirmed. Yes — 
 yes — yes ! But is she late ? Half-past ten 
 
 he had said, and now And if it is 
 
 true — oh no, it can't be ! A convulsion of 
 trembling overpowers her at this thought, 
 and compels her to desist from the fasten- 
 ing of her cloak. 
 
 Then, with a strength one would not 
 have dreamed of in such a frail and slender 
 body, she pulls herself together once 
 again. 
 
 Well, if so — if it is true — if he is false — 
 then he will be glad of the excuse of her 
 failing to meet him at the appointed hour 
 — to get away, and — and 
 
 But if not — if he is not false — then he 
 will be there. 
 
 Cold now and shivering, though the 
 night is exceptionally warm, she steals 
 down the staircase, trembling at every turn 
 lest she may be heard, and presently reaches 
 the little door near the armoury that leads 
 to the gardens. 
 
 How it creaks ! With her heart in her 
 
 vol. 1. 15
 
 226 A POINT OF CONSCIENCE 
 
 mouth she waits, then draws it a little 
 further open, then waits again — and now, 
 now at last her way is free to her, and with 
 a sort of relief she runs out into the scented, 
 moonlit, peaceful garden. 
 
 The soft freshness of the air beating on 
 her brow cools it. The stars have now 
 come out more brilliantly in the clear sky, 
 and the few luminous clouds that are 
 floating across it scarcely dim their bright- 
 ness. 
 
 ' Day is past ! 
 Stars have set their watch at last ; 
 Founts that through the deep woods flow 
 Make sweet sounds, unheard till now ; 
 Flowers have shut with fading light — 
 
 Good-night !' 
 
 With swift feet she flies across the 
 delicately-cut sward to where he had told 
 her to meet him. Fear, anger, desperation 
 — but anguish, too, and love — are in her 
 heart. 
 
 Will he be there ? 
 
 When at last she does see him, hidden 
 amongst the rhododendrons, a gasping sob
 
 A POINT OF CONSCIENCE 227 
 
 bursts from her. She pauses for a moment 
 in her bird-like flight, pressing her hand 
 to her heart, and then in a moment the 
 distance between them is nothing at all, 
 and she is lying on his breast, her arms 
 around his neck. 
 
 Oh, he has not forsaken her ! — he has 
 waited for her, after all ! 
 
 There are many fools like Maden, and 
 God help them all, say I ! 
 
 There is no sound upon the night air 
 save the rushing of the river down below, 
 and the girl's quick breathing. 
 
 6 What a little whirlwind !' says Fenton, 
 crushing the slender figure in his arms. 
 
 There is no question now of whether he 
 may or may not kiss her lips : hers are 
 pressed vehemently, despairingly, against 
 his. 
 
 ' Say it — say it !' demands she presently, 
 leaning back from him. 
 
 ' Say what, my darling ?' 
 
 1 That you do not love her ! Oh, I saw 
 you with her in the garden out here, and 
 I thought I should have gone mad ! You '
 
 228 A POINT OF CONSCIENCE 
 
 — passionately — 'don't love her, I know — I 
 know you don't ; but ' — with a quick burst 
 of rage — i say it !' 
 
 She stamps her foot. 
 
 * Of course not' Fenton's voice is low 
 and guarded. ' But, for Heaven's sake, 
 speak more quietly !' 
 
 He draws her back still further into the 
 shrubberies, more out of the lights that are 
 still streaming through the drawing-room 
 windows. 
 
 6 And, after all,' says he, ' I think it is I 
 who ought to feel aggrieved.' 
 
 < You !' 
 
 ' Even I who speak.' Her little bursts 
 of temper, as he calls them, always amuse 
 him. He is incapable of understanding 
 the under-current of pain and anguish out 
 of which they have risen. ' Here have I 
 been waiting for your little highness for 
 quite half an hour, with not so much as a 
 cigarette to console me, only to receive a 
 severe scolding at the end.' 
 
 Was that all ? Has he forgotten the 
 kisses so freely given, that even already she
 
 A POINT OF CONSCIENCE 229 
 
 is repenting of? His lightness, coming on 
 the head of her own overwrought feelings, 
 drives her nearly mad. 
 
 ' Is it so much to you to wait ?' asks she, 
 in a stifled tone. 
 
 ' To wait for you — a great deal.' The 
 tone is still teasing, careless. 
 
 c Well, you need wait no longer/ says 
 she. 
 
 Turning, she walks rapidly out of the 
 little sweet-scented, vaguely-lit spot where 
 they have been standing — not so rapidly, 
 however, but that he, rushing after her, 
 with a queer new feeling in his heart, is 
 quite in time to catch her and draw her 
 back again. In the doing of this his hand, 
 striking against a short jagged branch of a 
 tree, gets a rather ugly scratch, tearing the 
 skin and causing a few drops of blood to 
 run down his wrist. 
 
 c Oh ! what is that ?' cries she, recoiling 
 from him first, and then creeping closer, 
 as if fascinated. ' It ' — her small white, 
 flower-like face grows whiter still — ' it is 
 blood !'
 
 230 A POINT OF CONSCIENCE 
 
 ' Why, so it is !' says he, laughing. 
 c Now, see what your unkind pranks have 
 done for me !' 
 
 He is laughing, but she takes it with 
 terrible seriousness. 
 
 ' Do you think it was my fault ? Oh, 
 dearest, no !' 
 
 ' Nonsense ! it is the merest scratch.' 
 
 ' But when ' 
 
 ' And quite an old one ; the skin got 
 broken again, I suppose.' 
 
 ' It isn't true !' cries she vehemently, if 
 softly. ' You hurt your hand just this 
 moment, when ' 
 
 ■ I pulled you back to make you listen 
 to reason/ interrupts he audaciously. 
 
 'Or ' 
 
 She pauses, and looks up at him. A 
 stray moonbeam straggling through the 
 branches, perhaps in search of her, lights 
 up the two large tears that are lying in her 
 eyes, making the dark, impulsive face even 
 more adorable. 
 
 ' Come, I must mend your hand,' says 
 she.
 
 A POINT OF CONSCIENCE 231 
 
 She pulls out her handkerchief and binds 
 it carefully round the torn skin. Fenton, 
 with a sense of amusement, lets her have 
 her will, half guessing that this tender 
 ministering to him is a strange and lovely- 
 joy to her. 
 
 ' Now ' — anxiously — ' is it better ? Does 
 it hurt you much ? I wish you could 
 know how sorry I am. Are you sure it 
 feels easier?' 
 
 ' Quite — quite sure. Indeed, it feels 
 almost well/ says Fenton enthusiastically. 
 
 ' That isn't another one ?' asks she. 
 
 ' Another ?' — slightly at a loss. 
 
 ' Lie ' — simply. 
 
 ' Oh, Maden, what an awful word !' 
 
 ' I don't care.' She seldom does care, 
 poor child ! ' You know you did tell me 
 one a moment ago about its being an old 
 wound.' She pauses. ' To think I should 
 have hurt you !' says she. 
 
 The strongest resemblance to a remorse- 
 ful pang that Fenton has ever known shoots 
 through his heart now. 
 
 ' But, any way, I didn't mean it/ she
 
 232 A POINT OF CONSCIENCE 
 
 goes on. ' I couldn't,' she sighs softly. 
 ' Oh, how fond I am of you !' says she. 
 
 In another moment she is in his arms. 
 Dear, dear little girl, how sweet she is ! 
 This new mood suits her so. She nestles 
 closer to him, and a little quick breath 
 parts her lips ; it is an expression of perfect 
 happiness. 
 
 So still, so still is everything ! The very 
 quiet seems part of her joy ; it ' is like a 
 hand laid softly on the soul.' 
 
 ' Do you know,' says she after a while, 
 * I don't care at all now about Miss Fairfax. 
 I know that you love me — me only. You 
 wouldn't have had your darling hand torn 
 like that, and borne without a murmur such 
 pain ' — she evidently thinks he has been 
 heroically enduring tortures — ' for anyone 
 but her you loved, and that is ' 
 
 She puts up one little hand, and in the 
 sweetest way draws down his face to hers. 
 
 • Is me ? Isn't it ?' 
 
 Once again Fenton, case-hardened as he 
 is, is conscious of a feeling of shame ; it is 
 the deeper because of the strange, ridi-
 
 A POINT OF CONSCIENCE 233 
 
 culous fancy that of late has crept into his 
 heart that he is half in love with this little 
 wild girl. His feeling for her is at all 
 events the one only honest liking for any 
 woman he has ever known. 
 
 ' You — or no one,' says he, a little 
 huskily. 
 
 ' I must go now.' 
 
 She looks round, and then, pushing the 
 branches aside, gives her attention to the 
 house. It is dark downstairs. No longer 
 any glimmer of light in drawing-room or 
 dining-room. The billiard-room is at the 
 other side. 
 
 ' Oh, it must be dreadfully late !' cries she. 
 
 ' Not so very late ; stay for a little 
 while,' entreats he, his hand almost crush- 
 ing hers. 
 
 1 No, no !' 
 
 She slips from him, and out on to the 
 gravelled walk. The moon is shining 
 brilliantly down upon her — a little seduc- 
 tive figure, with her black hair and gleam- 
 ing, mischievous eyes. She moves a 
 step or two, hearing him follow, then
 
 234 A POINT OF CONSCIENCE 
 
 pauses again and looks back at him over 
 her shoulder. 
 
 ' When I came ... a scolding was not 
 the only thing I gave you/ says she saucily. 
 
 There is an impetuous crash through the 
 bushes towards her, and at this moment 
 she moon, so often unkind to lovers, goes 
 tmartly behind a cloud. 
 
 ' Maden !' calls he. 
 
 But Maden is gone. The darkness has 
 swallowed her up. In the faint, far dis- 
 tance the sound of small flying feet maybe 
 heard — no more. And now, when the 
 moon comes out again, sailing in all her 
 glory over an undimmed sky, there is 
 nothing for Fenton to see but an empty, if 
 lovely, garden, and no sound but the rush 
 of the river that divides The Towers from 
 the Dower-house. 
 
 He can see the handkerchief upon his 
 hand, however. Hers ! Slowly he unwinds 
 it and takes it off. It is slightly stained with 
 blood. Raising it, he presses it to his lips. 
 
 c On my soul/ says he, ' if I had only 
 monev enough, I'd '
 
 CHAPTER XVII. 
 
 ' But take heed : 
 I say, be wary ; look between thy feet, 
 Lest a snare take them, though the ground be good/ 
 
 Now that her happiness, her excitement, is 
 at an end, it is with fear and trembling 
 that Miss Royce approaches the house. 
 How will it be with her if all the doors 
 are locked? She tries the armoury door 
 first, being nearest to her, but that resists 
 all appeals. The butler, no doubt, had 
 fastened that on his way downstairs. The 
 billiard-room window is wide open, and 
 laughter and voices come to her through 
 it as she stands trembling in the outer 
 darkness ; but, naturally, there is no help 
 there. 
 
 Making her way eagerly to the front-
 
 256 A POINT OF CONSCIENCE 
 
 door, in the mad hope that perhaps some- 
 one might have forgotten to close it so 
 early, she finds it hermetically sealed, and 
 a little more wandering proves the side- 
 door that opens out of the schoolroom just 
 as unkind. The conservatory, then. No ! 
 
 A sensation of sickness almost over- 
 comes her. Oh ! what is she to do — out 
 here in the dark night, with nothing but 
 the ghostly shadows to keep her company, 
 and with the horrible fear that someone 
 may go to her room and find it empty, 
 
 and Oh, why had she come out at 
 
 all ? or, being out, why had she not 
 thought of going back sooner ? And then 
 all at once the memory of the time spent 
 with Fenton comes back to her. Again 
 her eyes are looking into his — again she 
 feels his arms around her, his kisses on her 
 lips, and repentance dies. No! a thousand 
 times no ! Whatever comes, she has 
 been happy for once — for once in all her 
 life. 
 
 This little delirium dies, as things must, 
 and again, standing beneath the veranda,
 
 A POINT OF CONSCIENCE 237 
 
 she ponders as to how she is to get in. 
 Of course, she could knock and be at 
 once admitted, either by one of the ser- 
 vants, or perhaps by Mr. Verschoyle 
 himself, who is still in the billiard-room. 
 And she might, perhaps, explain that she 
 had gone for a walk because of her bad 
 headache — she is not always truthful, poor 
 Maden! — but, then, they would be sure to 
 notice that Sidney had been absent, too, 
 for some time, and would connect both 
 things, and 
 
 No, no ; it was not to be thought of. 
 
 Crouching against the ivied wall of the 
 terrace, and lifting her head to let the 
 night dew fall upon her bursting forehead, 
 her eyes suddenly rest upon a window — 
 rest and stay there. 
 
 Oh, dear, kind Heaven, it is open ! 
 She has only to run up the veranda-steps — 
 to lift it a little more — to make her way 
 through the dark drawing-room — to run 
 upstairs to her own room, and all will be 
 well ; and there will be no one to meet 
 her, to question her. Lady Maria, Mrs.
 
 238 A POINT OF CONSCIExNCE 
 
 Verschoyle — all the women are in bed, or 
 in their rooms, and, indeed, have been there 
 an hour or so. 
 
 Slowly, cautiously, she runs up the 
 steps, lifts the sash, and, aided by the 
 moonbeams, makes her way through 
 spindle-legged chairs and dainty tables, 
 past screens that might topple over at any 
 moment, and great jars filled with scented 
 flowers, without upsetting anything, and 
 so gains the hall. 
 
 It is bright with light, but empty and 
 silent. Not a sound comes to her from 
 any part of the house, except now and 
 again a faint roar of laughter from the 
 billiard-room, that seems reminiscent of 
 Dicky Browne. 
 
 She is safe ! 
 
 Lightly running across the hall, she 
 mounts the stairs and reaches the first 
 corridor. Already a sense of delight in 
 her adventure is filling her half-savage 
 little soul. If only one dared more, one 
 could enjoy more, and fear makes nothing 
 but fools of most. Here is she, after a
 
 A POINT OF CONSCIENCE 239 
 
 quite wild adventure, coming back safe, 
 undiscovered, and 
 
 The opening of a door — the shining 
 of a small lamp — and Mrs. Verschoyle, 
 in a white cashmere dressing-gown, comes 
 out of her room, and, as if hardly believing 
 her senses, stands quite still and stares at 
 her. 
 
 It is a supreme moment. Through 
 Miss Royce's facile brain runs a quick 
 thought as to what is the best face to put 
 upon it. The little shawl around her 
 shoulders, the hat hanging loosely on her 
 hand, precludes the possibility of saying 
 she had not been out. What, then ? 
 
 All at once a recklessness, that is always 
 part of her, overrides everything else, and 
 she stands still, staring back at Mrs. Ver- 
 schoyle (who is most genuinely astonished) 
 with her small, haughty head thrown back, 
 and her black eyes glistening. There is 
 battle in them. 
 
 ' Out? You have been out?' says Mrs. 
 Verschoyle, as though hardly believing her 
 senses.
 
 240 A POINT OF CONSCIENCE 
 
 ' Yes ; I have been out ' — concisely. 
 
 The tone brings Mrs. Verschoyle back 
 to her usual calm examination of all things. 
 Besides, something in the girl's face 
 
 ' It is very late, is it not, to be out of 
 the house ?' says she coldly, but gently. 
 
 1 1 don't know.' Miss Royce's tone 
 now is reckless to the last degree. i Your 
 world and mine seem to differ so much, 
 that ' 
 
 ' My daughter's governess^ says Mrs. 
 Verschoyle — good and charming woman 
 as she is, she cannot resist the emphasis 
 on the * governess ' — that term of servitude 
 — ' should not be so much out of her 
 mother's world as not to know the con- 
 venances of her life. You say you don't 
 know that you should not be out of the 
 house at half-past eleven o'clock — but you 
 ought to know.' 
 
 * I have seen you and many others " out 
 of the house," as you call it, later than 
 that.' 
 
 ' Very likely. But that was when Lady 
 Maria had a dance. You must have
 
 A POINT OF CONSCIENCE 241 
 
 known — you must have thought yourself, 
 that ' 
 
 She pauses, not desirous of going on — 
 not wishing to expound her iniquity in 
 cold blood, and colder words, to this girl 
 standing before her in the flickering, un- 
 certain light of the lamp she holds. Her 
 tone is very gentle still, in spite of the 
 fact that the girl's face has grown defiant. 
 
 ' I thought of nothing,' says Maden, 
 her eyes on the ground. The white lids 
 droop over them, thus hiding the blazing 
 anger that lives in their depths. 
 
 ' Nothing ?' 
 
 6 Nothing, except that my head ached 
 badly after all that hateful bazaar business, 
 and that no opportunity was given me to 
 go out and cool it.' 
 
 * You think,' says Mrs. Verschoyle after 
 a pause that is quick with meaning, ' that 
 we are neglectful of you ! But ' — kindly 
 — ' you should remember that neither 
 Lady Maria nor I knew you had a 
 headache.' 
 
 ' A headache and a heartache are easily 
 
 VOL. I. l6
 
 242 A POINT OF CONSCIENCE 
 
 hidden/ says Miss Royce, making a little 
 attempt to pass her. But Mrs. Verschoyle, 
 laying a hand upon her arm, stops her. 
 
 c No ; let us see this out,' says she. 
 ' You talk of headache, and ' — regarding 
 her anxiously — ' heartache/ 
 
 ' No, no ' — quickly. ' That was a mere 
 figure of speech.' 
 
 ' Well, then, as for the headache — you 
 see, it troubles me that my girl's governess 
 should lay neglect to my charge ; but all 
 day I saw you from time to time, and it 
 seemed to me that you were enjoying 
 yourself during the morning, and ' — her 
 clear eyes here met Maden's fairly, and 
 with meaning in them — c in the afternoon 
 too.' 
 
 ' You watched me, then ?' says the girl. 
 
 Like a flash the accusation comes from 
 her. 
 
 * Watched you !' 
 
 Mrs. Verschoyle flushes through her 
 clear, delicate skin. Had she watched her ? 
 What an odious thought, and what an 
 odious girl, to suggest it ! If she had
 
 A POINT OF CONSCIENCE 243 
 
 glanced towards her once or twice, it was 
 only to see that Sidney and she 
 
 Poor Mrs. Verschoyle ! After all, those 
 who rush to the succour of their friends 
 are very apt to fall into the net themselves, 
 and then who pulls them out ? She had 
 certainly had no thought of compromising 
 Miss Royce through her surveillance of 
 her ; she had thought only of saving Cecil 
 pain. 
 
 1 I think you must have watched me, 
 to know so much,' says Miss Royce 
 coolly. ' And why ? Did you grudge 
 me, then, my one day — my one day?' 
 Suddenly she lifts her head and lets her 
 eyes be seen, and all the rage and fury of 
 her soul, that is pouring through them. 
 ' My one day, out of all your many !' 
 
 She stops as if choking, and flings out 
 one hand against the wall nearest her, as 
 if for support. Unkind wall ! A little 
 trickle of blood from the small pretty hand 
 runs down its painted sides. 
 
 ' I think you had better go to bed/ 
 says Mrs. Verschoyle, who, to do her
 
 244 A POINT OF CONSCIENCE 
 
 justice, had not seen the injury done to 
 the small hand. She had turned away 
 at once. There was no more to be said. 
 And the girl has always been distasteful 
 to her, though why she hardly knows, 
 but to-night she is actually repulsive. 
 
 She goes in her usual slow way to her 
 bedroom, not heeding the little stricken 
 figure in the darkness behind her. 
 
 This seems hard, unnatural ; but there 
 are few people in this conventional world 
 who would not have done the same. 
 There are many who would have done a 
 great deal worse — who would have given 
 their daughter's governess her dismissal on 
 the spot. 
 
 That stringent measure would have 
 destroyed all Mrs. Verschoyle's later fears. 
 But she does not dismiss her. She shrinks 
 from the action. Perhaps — perhaps, after 
 all, there is nothing in it. Gaining her 
 room, she sits down before her glass ; her 
 maid had been dismissed an hour ago, and 
 only the volatile disposition of Lady Maria, 
 who had sent her word to come and gossip,
 
 A POINT OF CONSCIENCE 245 
 
 had led her to sit up to this late time — 
 to Miss Royce's discomfiture. 
 
 Now, in the safe seclusion of her bed- 
 room, Mrs. Verschoyle gives full reins to 
 her fears. To be out in the grounds until 
 half-past eleven, when all decent people 
 who have no dances in hand are usually 
 abed ! What was she doing ? And — was 
 there anyone — with 
 
 Mrs. Verschoyle's thoughts grow faint 
 here. Oh, of course not. Of course not. 
 And yet 
 
 Is it wise to give Jinnie into her care — 
 Jinnie who is so sweet, and wild, and . . a 
 dreadful ? 
 
 She must only wait and see ! She cer- 
 tainly could not be unjust, and though 
 Miss Royce had been anything but re- 
 spectful to her, as her employer, just now, 
 still 
 
 Mrs. Verschoyle's gentle nature asserts 
 itself here. 
 
 Well, we have all got tempers of our 
 own, and the girl no doubt was over- 
 wrought after her long day's work at the
 
 246 A POINT OF CONSCIENCE 
 
 bazaar ; and, besides, the adulation she had 
 received (and which was so new to her, 
 and — thoughtfully — very bad for her) had 
 unhinged her brain. 
 
 At this point she locks her door, and, 
 sinking on her knees, prays for herself and 
 all mankind. 
 
 A thought of Miss Royce coming to 
 her (in the middle of a prayer for Jinnie), 
 she once again renews her supplications to 
 Heaven, and prays earnestly for that poor 
 little sinner — prays that she may not be 
 injurious in any way to — Jinnie !
 
 CHAPTER XVIII. 
 
 1 Quick glances, like the thrilling wires, transfuse 
 The telegraphic look !' 
 
 To-day, the second of the bazaar, has 
 opened in perfect splendour. Very different 
 is its entrance into the world from that of its 
 brother of yesterday. This day has begun 
 life as a thoroughly well-behaved child, 
 and seems likely to sustain its character to 
 the verge of old age. 
 
 Carry, who yesterday was too much 
 occupied in the shooting-gallery to give 
 any thought to the morrow, now recollects 
 that she had promised someone — that tall 
 Mrs. Ronaldson who had the fifth stall on 
 the right-hand side — to sell some remain- 
 ing six tickets for something for her. One 
 or two she disposes of, and now walks
 
 248 A POINT OF CONSCIENCE 
 
 anxiously about, determined to make up for 
 lost time. 
 
 The attendance is much fuller to-day, 
 on account of the weather for one thing, 
 and, for another, the second day of a bazaar 
 is regarded by the poorer classes as a time 
 for making cheap purchases. Few people 
 care to take away their ' wares/ and so for 
 the sake of the charity in hand they sell 
 them cheaply, and at the eleventh hour for 
 a mere trifle. Mrs. Langley-Binks, who 
 was born amongst commercial people, and 
 has the ineradicable longing for a bargain 
 that it takes hundreds of years to destroy, 
 is taking large advantage of this decadence 
 on the part of her sister stall-holders, and, 
 under pretence of being immensely liberal 
 — considering she has taken a stall herself 
 — is buying in many of 'their little 'bits ' at 
 far less than their honest value. 
 
 The concert-room is again open, and 
 into it Mr. Browne, because it affords him 
 such a fund of amusement (suppressed 
 amusement), and Mrs. Berkeley — for the 
 same reason, perhaps — and many others
 
 A POINT OF CONSCIENCE 249 
 
 because of sheer idleness — wander after a 
 while. 
 
 Miss Langley-Binks, ticket-book in hand, 
 seeing Amyot at the end of a bench, goes 
 for him. People disposing of tickets are 
 allowed in free. 
 
 • Oh, Mr. Amyot,' says she, with awful 
 gaiety, c I have been looking for you every- 
 where !' Richie shudders. ' A tea-cosy. 
 I am sure you will take a ticket from me, 
 whoever else may fail me.' 
 
 ' Delighted/ says Richie, with a frozen 
 smile. 
 
 ' Two, perhaps ?' with what she fondly, 
 but erroneously, believes to be a witching 
 smile. 
 
 1 Three !' says Amyot, without a groan. 
 
 Perhaps — who knows ? — hang it all ! — 
 he may have to marry this confounded girl, 
 after all. It is easy enough to talk of 
 going to the Antipodes, but it's not so easy 
 to leave the dear old place — and — and all 
 one's friends. There are moments when 
 Richie's heart fails him. 
 
 Miss Langley-Binks, delighted with
 
 250 A POINT OF CONSCIENCE 
 
 what she afterwards calls his empresse- 
 ment y goes off to find ' fresh woods and 
 pastures new/ leaving Amyot, not desole^ 
 as she is quite sure, but immensely re- 
 lieved. 
 
 In between the songs and other things 
 recitations may be heard, and Mr. Popkin 
 is now about to hold forth at the top of his 
 high squeaking voice. His eye is on Carry 
 Desmond, who, sitting next to Mr. Browne, 
 is beginning to feel uncomfortable. The 
 curate's eye means business. 
 
 And, after all, she has no right to be 
 here at all ; she came in ostensibly to sell 
 tickets, and here she is chatting gaily with 
 Dicky Browne. She hasn't up to this felt 
 dishonest, because no one on earth would 
 care to listen to a recitation from Mr. 
 Popkin ; but now all at once her conscience 
 smites her, and she tries to rise from her 
 seat. In vain. Mr. Browne has caught 
 hold of her frock, and, without the rend- 
 ing of that necessary garment from her 
 body, flight is impossible. 
 
 ' Sit tight/ says he, ' and meditate
 
 A POINT OF CONSCIENCE 251 
 
 upon your sins. This is going to be 
 Popkin's best sermon, and it is addressed 
 to you.' 
 
 * 'Tis not !' says Carry indignantly. 
 
 c You are wrong as usual, my dear girl. 
 Look at him.' 
 
 ' I won't,' says Carry. 
 
 * Very ungrateful. He, poor dear ! is 
 looking very much at you.' 
 
 He is, indeed. All the curate's forces 
 are directed at Carry, and it is not possible 
 to believe he has chosen his recitation 
 without the idea of an appeal to her. 
 Always with his glance full on her, he 
 begins : 
 
 1 " Oh, ever thus from childhood's hour 
 I've seen my fondest hopes decay. 
 I never loved a tree or flower, 
 
 But 'twas the first to fade away." ' 
 
 1 Good heavens, Carry, you'd better 
 consult somebody !' whispers Mr. Browne 
 hurriedly. ' Old Blande isn't bad. How 
 are your lungs — your heart ? You must 
 let me look at your tongue presently.'
 
 252 A POINT OF CONSCIENCE 
 
 1 " I never nursed a dear gazelle 
 
 To glad me with its soft black eye, 
 But when it came to know me well, 
 And love me, it was sure to die." ' 
 
 1 Carry ! I feel distinctly anxious/ says 
 Mr. Browne, whispering again. ' Do you 
 love him ?' 
 
 1 I wish you'd let me go ' — wrathfully. 
 
 ' Because, if so, my poor child, your 
 doom is sealed. He seems to me to be 
 uncanny, a kind of a magician of some 
 unholy sort. Carry, answer me !' 
 
 ' I suppose you think you're funny,' 
 says Miss Desmond furiously. 
 
 ' Funny ! At such an hour as this ! 
 Caroline, I must have an answer. Do you 
 love that man ?' 
 
 * No !' says Carry, the more vehemently 
 in that she has to whisper it. 
 
 My dear girl, you lift a weight off my 
 mind. But why didn't you say so before? 
 I fancied you might have fallen a victim to 
 his charms. Now I quite understand how 
 matters are. Popkin, beyond doubt, has 
 the evil eye. And if a poor little innocent
 
 A POINT OF CONSCIENCE 253 
 
 gazelle could not escape him, or a simple 
 flower, where — where on earth could you 
 and I be ? And his eye, the fatal eye, is 
 on you, Carry. Let us rise and flee !' 
 
 Carry gladly rises. Passing Mrs. Berke- 
 ley on their way out, who happens to be 
 standing at Mrs. Ronaldson's stall, she 
 stops them to ask how things have been 
 faring within. Whereon Dicky gives 
 her a graphic description of Popkin's reci- 
 tation. 
 
 ' Isn't he too silly for anything ?' says 
 Mrs. Berkeley. ' I used to call him 
 " Yass, yass, yass "—you know that silly 
 way he has of saying the simple " yes " — 
 but after this I shall leave out thejy.' 
 
 Carry laughs involuntarily, but heartily, 
 and is on the point of saying something, 
 when Amyot comes quickly up to her. 
 
 ' They are going to draw for that tweed 
 now,' says he. ' Wouldn't you like to 
 come ?' 
 
 < Oh, I should.' 
 
 She gives a little hurried nod to Dicky 
 Browne and rushes away with Amyot.
 
 254 A POINT OF CONSCIENCE 
 
 ' How handsome Mr. Amyot is !' says 
 Mrs. Ronaldson, looking after him. 
 
 1 Very,' says Mrs. Berkeley. ' But on 
 his last legs, I hear. Not a penny. I 
 expect poor Lady Maria would wish him 
 in a far country.' 
 
 1 But why ?' asks Mr. Browne casually. 
 
 ' Well, her cousin, you know, and so 
 utterly impecunious. One's poor relations 
 are never very dear to us/ 
 
 There is a touch of bitterness in her 
 tone. Have her relations been glad to 
 put a county or two between them and 
 her? 
 
 ' I quite agree with you,' says Mrs. 
 Ronaldson, who has only lately come to 
 the neighbourhood, and hardly knows the 
 ropes as yet, clever though she is. ' Poor 
 relations ' — shrugging her pretty shoulders 
 — c are impossible. They have, as a rule, 
 very little manners to speak of, and literally 
 no clothes/ 
 
 ' Oh, my goodness V says Mr. Browne 
 faintly. 
 
 At which both women laugh.
 
 A POINT OF CONSCIENCE 255 
 
 ' Well, have they ?' asks Mrs. Ronaldson. 
 ' I defy you to contradict me. As for me, 
 whenever I ask a poor relation to stay with 
 me, I send her first a decent cheque, so 
 that she may show up properly when she 
 does come.' 
 
 ' How careful !' says Mr. Browne. 
 
 ' More careful than you know. Very 
 often the cheque proves too much for 
 them. They keep it, and dont come. 
 So we both benefit, and my conscience is 
 clear for another twelve months. See ?' 
 
 Mr. Browne sees.
 
 CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 1 Art sick ? Art sad ? Art angry with the world ? 
 Do all friends fail thee ?' 
 
 The names are actually being drawn as 
 Carry Desmond and Amyot come up. 
 The drawing is taking place behind one of 
 the stalls, and the folded papers are lying 
 in the Rector's hat. This seems a voucher 
 for the honesty of the raffle. 
 
 Miss Langley-Binks, having from afar 
 seen Richie go behind the scenes, has 
 followed him. She is indeed, as a rule, a 
 little shameless about her pursuit of him ; 
 but this time an excuse lies ready to her 
 hand — she, too, has taken a ticket for the 
 roll of tweed. 
 
 'Oh, Mr. Amyot, don't you hope I'll 
 win ?' says she.
 
 A POINT OF CONSCIENCE 257 
 
 6 1 don't know/ says Richie. ' Would 
 tweed suit you ? Are you fond of it ?' 
 
 * Oh, it isn't that ; it's the winning. I 
 have set my mind on getting this tweed, 
 and whatever I set my mind on I — it's 
 queer, isn't it ?' — with an engaging smile — 
 'but I really almost always get it.' 
 
 Amyot shivers. Has she set her mind 
 on him ? There seems to be no second 
 question about it. Well, there's always the 
 ranch, and the far, far distance. 
 
 At this moment Cecil, who is drawing 
 the papers from the immaculate hat, says 
 quite clearly : 
 
 8 Miss Langley-Binks !' 
 
 Richie is conscious of a desire to laugh 
 aloud, which, however, he nobly suppresses. 
 After all, if she has failed over a beastly old 
 roll of tweed, she can't be so almighty 
 strong. And, of course, he won't have to 
 marry her, after all — something will turn 
 up. This modern Micawber recovers his 
 spirits instantly. 
 
 1 I'm afraid you've lost,' says he. ' Per- 
 haps your mind wasn't sitting long enough.' 
 
 vol. 1. 17
 
 258 A POINT OF CONSCIENCE 
 
 Here he is astonished by an act on Miss 
 Langley - Binks' part hitherto unprece- 
 dented : she actually leaves him. 
 
 He follows her departing figure, which 
 goes away with a greater rapidity than he 
 has ever noticed in her actions before, and 
 finally disappears behind the stall at the 
 very end of the room, where (he is unable 
 to see this, however) she precipitates herself 
 upon the bosom of a friend. The friend, 
 providentially, is five feet six, and stoutly 
 proportioned. 
 
 'What is it, Aurora? What is it, my 
 lovely crumb ?' 
 
 1 Oh ! he said — he said ' 
 
 ' That unkind young man again ! — that 
 Amyot bear I But it is only his dreadful 
 manners, dearest ; I know he loves you. 
 Come, now, what did he say?' 
 
 ' Oh, he said I was a hen /' says Miss 
 Langley-Binks, now nearly in hysterics. 
 
 ' A hen ! Aurora V 
 
 c Yes' — with increasing vehemence — 'a 
 brooding hen V 
 
 ' Good heavens, Aurora ! your brain
 
 A POINT OF CONSCIENCE 259 
 
 must be disordered. All this fatigue has 
 turned your head. He ' 
 
 ' And that ' — now with a smothered 
 shriek — ' I had not been sitting long 
 enough /' 
 
 1 1 think you ought to come home/ says 
 her faithful friend, in austere accents. This 
 last statement has proved too much even 
 for her. 
 
 ' Oh, no, no !' gurgles Aurora. 
 
 ' Then explain ' — severely. 
 
 But sobs choke Aurora's utterance. 
 
 ' Then you shall come home/ says the 
 faithful friend, and presently she removes 
 her. 
 
 * # # # % 
 
 In the meantime the raffle is going 
 slowly on. Name after name is called out, 
 but never Carry's ; and now the little 
 folded bits of paper have dwindled lower 
 and lower, until at last there ought to be 
 only two left. Carry grows pale with 
 excitement. Can it — can it be true that 
 she has a real chance ? Oh, how slowly —
 
 26o A POINT OF CONSCIENCE 
 
 how awfully slowly — he undoes that little 
 scrap ! 
 
 c Mrs. Longden !' reads out the Rector 
 in a clear voice, and Carry very nearly 
 gives way to a scream of delight. Then 
 a last dreadful fear attacks her : if, after 
 all, her name had never been put in — if 
 they had forgotten that she had taken a 
 ticket ! Her blood runs cold. The 
 Rector has been fumbling for the last bit 
 of paper, and now peers curiously into 
 the hat. 
 
 ' Why, there's nothing here/ says he, 
 c and I thought one hundred was the 
 number of the tickets.' 
 
 c Yes, certainly,' says the lady at whose 
 stall the roll of tweed had been exhibited. 
 She, too, peers into the hat, but in vain — 
 not a vestige of paper is to be seen. 
 
 Poor Carry ! Her face falls, and a 
 rather choking sensation is troubling her 
 throat. She is about to slip noiselessly 
 away, when Amyot, who too has been 
 examining the hat, says quickly : 
 
 ' Why, what's that ?'
 
 A POINT OF CONSCIENCE 261 
 
 And there, certainly, hidden beneath the 
 lining of the Rector's tall hat, is the missing 
 slip of paper. 
 
 1 Come back, Carry !' says Amyot, 
 catching her sleeve. 
 
 And now the paper has been opened, 
 and the Rector, with open pleasure, calls 
 aloud : ' Miss C. Desmond !' Carry is a 
 pet of his. 
 
 c How curious — how very curious I' says 
 he. ' My dear Amyot, I'm immensely 
 obliged ! But for you, I should probably 
 have gone about with that roll of tweed 
 upon my head, if not upon my conscience, 
 for the next twelve months.' 
 
 So Carry won the tweed. 
 
 ' Fancy it's being there all the time !' 
 says she faintly, when she and Richie have 
 seated themselves upon a bench in one of 
 the corners. ' Why, it was bound to be 
 mine from the start ! Oh, Richie, is it 
 fair, do you think ? No one had a chance, 
 you see, but me.' 
 
 8 The chance was your name getting in 
 there instead of somebody else's,' says
 
 262 A POINT OF CONSCIENCE 
 
 Richie. ' Of course it is fair. And ' — 
 affectionately — ' I'm jolly glad youVe 
 won it !' 
 
 'Dear old Richie ! Oh, Richei' — ecstati- 
 cally — ' if you only knew what it means 
 to me !' 
 
 ' Why, a new gown, of course.' 
 
 ' And more — much more than that.' 
 
 1 Would it run to a gown for Miss Des- 
 mond, too ?' 
 
 ' Yes, yes, certainly ; but it isn't only 
 
 that, either ' She checks herself 
 
 abruptly, though she seems to be on the 
 very brink of a declaration. ' It isn't often 
 luck comes our way, Richie, is it ?' 
 
 c Once in a blue moon.' 
 
 1 I wish ' — gloomily — ' one could some- 
 times get up a bazaar for one's self 
 
 At this they both laugh in spite of 
 themselves. But their mirth is short. 
 
 ' It's beastly to be poor,' says Richie, 
 relapsing once again into gloom. 
 
 c You may say that,' says Carry, with 
 heartfelt meaning. ' I wouldn't care for 
 myself, really ; but poor darling auntie is
 
 A POINT OF CONSCIENCE 263 
 
 in such a hole just now. I think ' — taking 
 her knees into her slim embrace — ' I told 
 you about it : she's got to pay up twenty 
 pounds on an old loan by November next. 
 She ' — with a heavy sigh, and a growing 
 mist of tears in her kindly eyes — ' is in 
 such a pucker !' 
 
 ' I remember — you told me. I say, 
 Carry, there's that red cow of mine — the 
 brute without the horns, you know. I 
 hate her — I do, 'pon my honour ! I hate 
 her so much that I'm bound to sell her 
 sooner or later, and she might bring 
 in ' 
 
 ' If you say another word ' — wrathfully 
 — ' I'll never speak to you again !' She 
 looks at him with frowning, angry brows. 
 ' Can't I have the comfort of telling you 
 my troubles without your saying things 
 like that ? And, besides, all is not lost yet. 
 I ' — colouring slightly — ' am thinking out 
 something ; I've got an idea, in fact, and 
 I'm going to work it.' 
 
 ' An idea ! What is it ?' 
 
 ' Ah ! well, we'll see. By the way,
 
 264 A POINT OF CONSCIENCE 
 
 Richie, what did you say to Aurora just 
 now ?' 
 
 ' To Miss Langley-Binks ? Say to her? 
 I don't know. Why ?' 
 
 1 Well, it must have been something, 
 because directly after you had been speak- 
 ing to her she flashed by me with her face 
 on fire, and evidently as angry as she could 
 be ; and that says something. You know, 
 Richie, you ought not to be rude to 
 her — no, indeed ! I really do think you 
 ought to marry her.' 
 
 ' Oh, I dare say ! It is all very fine for 
 you ! You aren't asked to marry her !' says 
 Amyot indignantly. 
 
 6 I'm asked to marry somebody else just 
 as bad !' says Carry, in her turn indignant. 
 
 ' Yes ; but you won't do it.' 
 
 ' I don't know ' — despondently — c when 
 I think of poor auntie's troubles and every- 
 thing ; and things can't go on like this for 
 ever. And there's no one else to marry.' 
 
 ' Well, I must say girls are easily satisfied,' 
 says Richie contemptuously. 
 
 He casts a disparaging glance at her — a
 
 A POINT OF CONSCIENCE 265 
 
 glance meant to wither her and her weak 
 leaning towards Popkin, whom Amyot in 
 his soul abhors. But if he meant to wither 
 Carry, he finds himself mistaken. 
 
 ' Do you mean Aurora ?' asks she, with 
 a little grimace. ' Well, poor girl ! it is 
 stupid of her to admire you so much ; but, 
 surely, you should be the last to censure 
 her!' 
 
 ' Look here ' begins Amyot. 
 
 But this admirably severe beginning has 
 no ending. Carry, tucking her arm into 
 his, pulls him closer to her. 
 
 ' Oh, I can't quarrel to-day,' says she — 
 ' not even with you !' This is evidently 
 meant as a high compliment. * Why, only 
 for you I shouldn't have won my lovely 
 tweed ! That was a lucky shilling, Richie, 
 you gave me. Oh, by-the-by ' — with a 
 rather conscience-stricken air, and a search- 
 ing in her pocket — ' here it is ! I got it 
 from auntie to give you. But really, 
 Richie ' — with a rather shamed shake of 
 her head — * I never thought of it until this 
 minute.
 
 266 A POINT OF CONSCIENCE 
 
 She is holding out her hand to him 
 with the shilling in it, but he pushes it 
 back roughly. 
 
 * Oh, hang it, Carry ! As if I wanted 
 that beastly thing !' 
 
 ' I don't suppose you want it/ says she ; 
 ' but you must take it, all the same/ 
 
 c I shan't indeed/ says he. ' If I can't 
 do that much for you ' 
 
 ' Oh, you might — you might indeed !' 
 says she earnestly ; ' but auntie wouldn't 
 like it. It would make her very sorry. 
 She would fret over it. That ' — a little 
 sadly — c is another thing about being poor, 
 Richie, isn't it ? One suffers so much 
 more from pride — of sorts.' 
 
 ' I dare say ' — moodily — ' but I tell you 
 what, Carry : that's a lucky shilling. Oh 
 yes, I know, of course, it isn't the shilling 
 that won the tweed, but it has something 
 to do with it. Why can't you make a 
 hole in it and hang it round your neck ?' 
 He is half in fun, half in earnest. 
 
 Carry hesitates. It seems to herself as 
 though she has grown superstitious all at
 
 A POINT OF CONSCIENCE 267 
 
 once. There is Irish blood in her veins ; 
 
 and perhaps And if this lucky shilling 
 
 should help her in this new venture of 
 hers, that is quickly growing to perfection 
 in her brain 
 
 1 You mean that you don't wish to take 
 it back ?' says she, still in a hesitating frame 
 of mind. 
 
 ' I mean that I want you to keep it as a 
 talisman,' says Amyot, who cannot bear to 
 think she holds herself so far aloof from 
 real friendship with him, as to refuse to 
 take a shilling from him in an hour of 
 need. 
 
 He looks so earnest about it, and they 
 are certainly always on such brotherly and 
 sisterly terms, that Carry for the last time 
 pauses. 
 
 'Well, if you really think it might bring 
 
 luck ' says she slowly ; and then, after 
 
 a full minute's secret thought, * I shouldn't 
 wonder if you were right. If not the 
 real shilling that won that tweed, still, 
 it represents it.' Her eyes grow quite 
 mystical. c Yes, yes ; as you say, it may
 
 268 A POINT OF CONSCIENCE 
 
 be lucky, and I will hang it round my 
 neck.' 
 
 She is silent again for a moment, as if 
 thinking. If she were to hang it round 
 her neck whenever she went out in search 
 of 
 
 There is no doubt but that she is very 
 Irish ! 
 
 ? Yes — it's settled/ says she at last, with 
 all the air of one who has come to a 
 decision over, let us say, the Armenian 
 question. ' I'll wear it. But how shall 
 I bore a hole in it ?' 
 
 ' I'll come up to-morrow — no, by the 
 way, we'll be at The Towers to-morrow ; 
 but I'll come up the day after, or any day 
 that will suit you, and do it for you.' 
 
 * All right,' says she in her bright way. 
 Then suddenly she springs to her feet. 
 
 * Oh, I say, Richie ! I haven't yet filled 
 up Mrs. Ronaldson's ticket-book for this ' 
 
 —pulling the book in question out of her 
 pocket. ' I must do so this minute. It is 
 to be raffled at five sharp.' 
 ' How many more tickets ?'
 
 A POINT OF CONSCIENCE 269 
 
 c Only one, thank goodness !' 
 ' Then sit down again. I'll take it/ 
 6 Indeed you shall not, Richie ' — very 
 severely. * You have spent already a great 
 deal more than you ought to have spent.' 
 
 ' Ask the Bishop, then,' says Amyot, 
 with a little grin. ' He loves raffles, I'm 
 told/ 
 
 ' Oh ! I've been told already to steer 
 clear of the Bishop — and his wife, too/ 
 says Carry, laughing. She steps briskly 
 into the middle of the hall, and looks 
 round her for a likely customer. 
 
 END of vol. 1. 
 
 BILLING AND SONS, PRINTERS, GUILDFORD.
 
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