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 OF THE 
 
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 or ILLINOIS 
 
 From the Library of 
 
 Arthur Hill Daniels 
 
 Professor of Philosophy 
 
 Acting President 1933/34 
 
 Presented by Mrs. Daniels 
 
 8^5 
 
 V. I
 
 Digitized by the Internet Archive 
 
 in 2010 with funding from 
 
 University of Illinois Urbana-Champaign 
 
 http://www.archive.org/details/marcella01war
 
 MARCELLA 
 
 VOL. I.
 
 JJ>«^
 
 ^4l^L<^ -4 ^ u/^z^ 

 
 MAECELLA 
 
 BY 
 
 MES. HUMPHRY AVARD 
 
 AuTHOE OF "Robert Elsmeke," "The History of David Grieve," Etc. 
 
 IN TWO VOLUMES 
 VOL. L 
 
 MACMILLAN AND CO. 
 
 AND LONDON 
 1894 
 
 All rights reserved
 
 
 Copyright, 1894, 
 By MACMILLAN AND CO. 
 
 NorfajootJ 5|resg : 
 
 J. S. Gushing & Co. — Berwick & Smith. 
 
 Boston, Mass.-, U.S.A.
 
 gas 
 v./ 
 
 "^ TO MY FATHER 
 
 <t.- C inscribe this Book 
 
 4-- IN LOVE AND GRATITUDE 
 
 V.
 
 BOOK I. 
 
 If nature put not forth her power 
 About the opening of the flower, 
 Who is it that could live an hour ? "
 
 MARCELLA 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 "The mists — and the sun — and the first streaks 
 of yellow in the beeches — beautiful ! — beautiful! " 
 
 And with a long breath of delight Marcella Boyce 
 threw herself on her knees by the window she had 
 just opened, and, propping her face upon her hands, 
 devoured the scene before her with that passionate 
 intensity of pleasure which had been her gift and 
 heritage through life. 
 
 She looked out upon a broad and level lawn, 
 smoothed by the care of centuries, flanked on either 
 side by groups of old trees — some Scotch firs, some 
 beeches, a cedar or two — groups where the slow 
 selective hand of time had been at work for genera- 
 tions, developing here the delightful roundness of 
 quiet mass and shade, and there the bold caprice of 
 bare fir trunks and ragged branches, standing black 
 against the sky. Beyond the lawn stretched a green 
 descent indefinitely long, carrjdng the eye indeed 
 almost to the limit of the view, and becoming from 
 the lawn onwards a wide irregular avenue, bordered 
 by beeches of a splendid maturity, ending at last in a 
 
 VOL. I. 1 1
 
 2 MARCELLA, 
 
 far distant gap where a gate — and a gate of some 
 importance — clearly should have been, yet was not. 
 The size of the trees, the wide uplands of the falling 
 valley to the left of the avenue, now rich in the tints 
 of harvest, the autumn sun pouring steadily through 
 the vanishing mists, the green breadth of the vast 
 lawn, the unbroken peace of wood and cultivated 
 ground, all carried with them a confused general 
 impression of well-being and of dignity. Marcella 
 drew it in — this impression — with avidity. Yet at 
 the same moment she noticed involuntarily the gate- 
 less gap at the end of the avenue, the choked condi- 
 tion of the garden paths on either side of the lawn, 
 and the unsightly tufts of grass spotting the broad 
 gravel terrace beneath her window. 
 
 " It is a heavenly place, all said and done," she pro- 
 tested to herself with a little frown. " But no doubt 
 it would have been better still if Uncle Robert had 
 looked after it and we could afford to keep the garden 
 decent. Still — " 
 
 She dropped on a stool beside the open window, 
 and as her eyes steeped themselves afresh in what 
 they saw, the frown disappeared again in the former 
 look of glowing content — that content of youth which 
 is never merely passive, nay, rather, contains an inva- 
 riable element of covetous eagerness. 
 
 It was but three months or so since Marcella's 
 father, Mr. Eichard Boyce, had succeeded to the 
 ownership of Mellor Park the old home of the 
 Boyces, and it was little more than six weeks since 
 Marcella had received her summons home from the 
 students' boarding-house in Kensington, where she
 
 MARCELLA. 3 
 
 had been lately living. She had ardently wished 
 to assist in the June " settling-in/' having not been 
 able to apply her mind to the music or painting she 
 was supposed to be studying, nor indeed to any other 
 subject whatever, since the news of their inheritance 
 had reached her. But her mother in a dry little note 
 had let it be known that she preferred to manage the 
 move for herself. Marcella had better go on with her 
 studies as long as possible. 
 
 Yet Marcella was here at last. And as she looked 
 round her large bare room, with its old dilapidated 
 furniture, and then out again to woods and lawns, it 
 seemed to her that all was now well, and that her 
 childhood with its squalors and miseries was blotted 
 out — atoned for by this last kind sudden stroke of 
 fate, which might have been delayed so deplorably ! — 
 since no one could have reasonably expected that an 
 apparently sound man of sixty would have succumbed 
 in three days to the sort of common chill a hunter and 
 sportsman must have resisted successfully a score of 
 times before. 
 
 Her great desire now was to put the past — the 
 greater part of it at any rate — behind her altogether. 
 Its shabby worries were surely done with, poor as she 
 and her parents still were, relatively to their present 
 position. At least she was no longer the self-conscious 
 schoolgirl, paid for at a lower rate than her compan- 
 ions, stinted in dress, pocket-money, and education, 
 and fiercely resentful at every turn of some real or 
 fancied slur; she was no longer even the half-Bohe- 
 mian student of these past two years, enjoying herself 
 in London so far as the iron necessity of keeping her
 
 4 MARCELLA. 
 
 boarding-house expenses down to the lowest possible 
 figure would allow. She was something altogether 
 different. She was Marcella Boyce, a "finished" and 
 grown-up young Avoman of twenty-one, the only daugh- 
 ter and child of Mr. Boyce of Mellor Park, inheritress 
 of one of the most ancient names in Midland England, 
 and just entering on a life which to her own fancy 
 and will, at any rate, promised the highest possible 
 degree of interest and novelty. 
 
 Yet, in the very act of putting her past away from 
 her, she only succeeded, so it seemed, in inviting it to 
 repossess her. 
 
 For against her will, she fell straightway — in this 
 quiet of the autumn morning — into a riot of memory, 
 setting her past self against her present more con- 
 sciously than she had done yet, recalling scene after 
 scene and stage after stage with feelings of sarcasm, 
 or amusement, or disgust, which showed themselves 
 freely as they came and went, in the fine plastic face 
 turned to the September woods. 
 
 She had been at school since she was nine years 
 old — there was the dominant fact in these motley 
 uncomfortable years behind her, which, in her young 
 ignorance of the irrevocableness of living, she wished 
 so impatiently to forget. As to the time before her 
 school life, she had a dim memory of seemly and 
 pleasant things, of a house in London, of a large and 
 bright nursery, of a smiling mother who took constant 
 notice of her, of games, little friends, and birthday 
 parties. What had led to the complete disappearance 
 of this earliest " set," to use a theatrical phrase, from 
 the scenery of her childhood, Marcella did not yet
 
 M ABC ELL A. 6 
 
 adequately know, though she had some theories and 
 many suspicions in the background of her mind. But 
 at any rate this first image of memory was succeeded 
 by another j)recise as the first was vague — the image 
 of a tall white house, set against a white chalk cliff 
 rising in terraces behind it and alongside it, where 
 she had spent the years from nine to fourteen, and 
 where, if she were set down blindfold, now, at twenty- 
 one, she could have found her way to every room 
 and door and cupboard and stair with a perfect and 
 fascinated familiarity. 
 
 When she entered that house she was a lanky, black- 
 eyed creature, tall for her age, and endowed or, as she 
 herself would have put it, cursed with an abundance of 
 curly unmanageable hair, whereof the brushing and 
 tending soon became to a nervous clumsy child, not 
 long parted from her nurse, one of the worst plagues 
 of her existence. During her home life she had been 
 an average child of the quick and clever type, with 
 average faults. But something in the bare, ugly rooms, 
 the discipline, the teaching, the companionship of Miss 
 Frederick's Cliff House School for Young Ladies, 
 transformed little Marcella Boyce, for the time being, 
 into a demon. She hated her lessons, though, when 
 she chose, she could do them in a hundredth part of 
 the time taken by her companions ; she hated getting 
 up in the wintry dark, and her cold ablutions with 
 some dozen others in the comfortless lavatory ; she 
 hated the meals in the long schoolroom, where, because 
 twice meat was forbidden and twice pudding allowed, 
 she invariably hungered fiercely for more mutton and 
 scorned her second course, making a sort of dramatic
 
 b MABCELLA. 
 
 story to herself out of Miss Frederick's tyranny and 
 her own thwarted appetite as she sat black-browed 
 and brooding in her place. She was not a favourite 
 with her companions, and she was a perpetual diffi- 
 culty and trouble to her perfectly well-intentioned 
 schoolmistress. The whole of her first year was one 
 continual series of sulks, quarrels, and revolts. 
 
 Perhaps her blackest days were the days she spent 
 occasionally in bed, when Miss Frederick, at her wit's 
 end, would take advantage of one of the child's per- 
 petual colds to try the effects of a day's seclusion and 
 solitary confinement, administered in such a form that 
 it could do her charge no harm, and might, she hoped, 
 do her good. " For I do believe a great part of it's 
 liver or nerves ! No child in her right senses could 
 behave so," she would declare to the mild and stout 
 French lady who had been her partner for years, and 
 who was more inclined to befriend and excuse Marcella 
 than any one else in the house — no one exactly knew 
 why. 
 
 Now the rule of the house when any girl was or- 
 dered to bed with a cold was, in the first place, that 
 she should not put her arms outside the bedclothes — 
 for if you were allowed to read and amuse yourself 
 in bed you might as well be up ; that the housemaid 
 should visit the patient in the early morning with a 
 cup of senna-tea, and at long and regular intervals 
 throughout the day with beef-tea and gruel ; and that 
 no one should come to see and talk with her, unless, 
 indeed, it were the doctor, quiet being in all cases of 
 sickness the first condition of recovery, and the nat- 
 ural schoolgirl in Miss Frederick's persuasion being
 
 MAR CELL A. 7 
 
 more or less inclined to complain without cause if ill- 
 ness were made agreeable. 
 
 For some fourteen hours, therefore, on these days 
 of durance Marcella was left almost wholly alone, 
 nothing but a wild mass of black hair and a pair of 
 roving, defiant eyes in a pale face showing above the 
 bedclothes whenever the housemaid chose to visit her — 
 a pitiable morsel, in truth, of rather forlorn humanity. 
 For though she had her movements of fierce revolt, 
 when she was within an ace of throwing the semia-tea 
 in Martha's face, and rushing downstairs in her night- 
 gown to denounce Miss Frederick in the midst of 
 an astonished schoolroom, something generally inter- 
 posed ; not conscience, it is to be feared, or any wish 
 "to be good," but only an aching, inmost sense of 
 childish loneliness and helplessness; a perception that 
 she had indeed tried everybody's patience to the limit, 
 and that these days in bed represented crises which 
 must be borne with even by such a rebel as Marcie 
 Boyce. 
 
 So she submitted, and presently learnt, under dire 
 stress of boredom, to amuse herself a good deal by de- 
 veloping a natural capacity for dreaming awake. Hour 
 by hour she followed out an endless story of which she 
 was always the heroine. Before the annoyance of her 
 afternoon gruel, which she loathed, was well forgotten, 
 she was in full fairjMand again, figuring generally as 
 the trusted friend and companion of the Princess of 
 Wales — of that beautiful Alexandra, the top and 
 model of English society whose portrait in the win- 
 dow of the little stationer's shop at Marswell — the 
 small country town near Cliff House — had attracted
 
 8 MARCELLA. 
 
 the child's attention once, on a dreary walk, and had 
 ever since governed her dreams. Marcella had no 
 fairy-tales, but she spun a whole cycle for herself 
 around the lovely Princess who came to seem to her 
 before long her own particular property. She had 
 only to shut her eyes and she had caught her idol's 
 attention — either by some look or act of passionate 
 yet unobtrusive homage as she passed the royal car- 
 riage in the street — or by throwing herself in front 
 of the divinity's runaway horses — or by a series of 
 social steps easily devised by an imaginative child, 
 well aware, in spite of appearances, that she was of 
 an old family and had aristocratic relations. Then, 
 when the Princess had held out a gracious hand and 
 smiled, all was delight ! Marcella grew up on the in- 
 stant : she was beautiful, of course ; she had, so people 
 said, the " Boyce eyes and hair ; " she had sweeping 
 gowns, generally of white muslin with cherry-coloured 
 ribbons ; she went here and there with the Princess, 
 laughing and talking quite calmly with the greatest 
 people in the land, her romantic friendship with the 
 adored of England making her all the time the ob- 
 served of all observers, bringing her a thousand deli- 
 cate flatteries and attentions. 
 
 Then, when she was at the very top of ecstasy, 
 floating in the softest summer sea of fancy, some 
 little noise would startle her into opening her eyes, 
 and there beside her in the deepening dusk would be 
 the bare white beds of her two dormitory companions, 
 the ugly wall-paper opposite, and the uncovered boards 
 with their frugal strips of carpet stretching away on 
 either hand. The tea-bell would ring perhaps in the
 
 MABCELLA. 9 
 
 depths far below, and the sound would complete the 
 transformation of the Princess's maid-of-honour into 
 Marcie Boyce, the plain naughty child, whom nobody 
 cared about, whose mother never wrote to her, who in 
 contrast to every other girl in the school had not a 
 single '"'party frock," and who would have to choose 
 next morning between another dumb day of senna-tea 
 and gruel, supposing she chose to plead that her cold 
 was still obstinate, or getting up at half-past six to 
 repeat half a page of Ince's " Outlines of English His- 
 tory " in the chilly schoolroom, at seven. 
 
 Looking back now as from another world on that 
 unkempt fractious Marcie of Cliff House, the Marcella 
 of the present saw with a mixture of amusement and 
 self-pity that one great aggravation of that child's 
 daily miseries had been a certain injured, irritable 
 sense of social difference between herself and her com- 
 panions. Some proportion of the girls at Cliff House 
 were drawn from the tradesman class of two or three 
 neighbouring towns. Their tradesmen papas were 
 sometimes ready to deal on favourable terms with 
 Miss Frederick for the supply of her establishment ; 
 in which case the young ladies concerned evidently 
 felt themselves very much at home, and occasionally 
 gave themselves airs which alternately mystified and 
 enraged a little spitfire outsider like Marcella Boyce. 
 Even at ten years old she perfectly understood that 
 she was one of the Boyces of Brookshire, and that her 
 great-uncle had been a famous Speaker of the House 
 of Commons. The portrait of this great-uncle had 
 hung in the dining room of that pretty London house 
 which now seemed so far away ; her father had again
 
 10 MAECELLA. 
 
 and again pointed it out to the child, and taught her 
 to be proud of it; and more than once her childish 
 eye had been caught by the likeness between it and an 
 old grey-haired gentleman who occasionally came to 
 see them, and whom she called " Grandpapa." Through 
 one influence and another she had dra-wn the glory of 
 it, and the dignity of her race generally, into her 
 childish blood. There they were now — the glory 
 and the dignity — a feverish leaven, driving her per- 
 petually into the most crude and ridiculous outbreaks, 
 which could lead to nothing but humiliation. 
 
 *'I wish my great-uncle were here ! He\l make you 
 remember — you great — you great — big bully you ! " — 
 she shrieked on one occasion Avhen she had been defy- 
 ing a big girl in authority, and the big girl — the 
 stout and comely daughter of a local ironmonger — 
 had been successfully asserting herself. 
 
 The big girl opened her eyes wide and laughed. 
 
 *' Your great-uncle ! Upon my word ! And who 
 may he be, miss ? If it comes to that, I'd like to 
 show my great-uncle David how you've scratched my 
 wrist. He'd give it you. He's almost as strong as 
 father, though he is so old. You get along with you, 
 and behave yourself, and don't talk stuff to me." 
 
 Whereupon Marcella, choking with rage and tears, 
 found herself pushed out of the schoolroom and the 
 door shut upon her. She rushed up to the top terrace, 
 which was the school playground, and sat there in a 
 hidden niche of the wall, shaking and crying, — now 
 planning vengeance on her conqueror, and now hot 
 all over with the recollection of her own ill-bred and 
 impotent folly.
 
 MAECELLA. 11 
 
 No — during those first two years the only pleas- 
 ures, so memory declared, were three : the visits of 
 the cake-woman on Saturday — Marcella sitting in her 
 window could still taste the three-cornered puffs and 
 small sweet pears on which, as much from a fierce sense 
 of freedom and self-assertion as anjrthing else, she had 
 lavished her tiny weekly allowance ; the mad games 
 of "tig," which she led and organised in the top 
 playground; and the kindnesses of fat Mademoiselle 
 Renier, Miss Frederick's partner, who saw a likeness 
 in Marcella to a long-dead small sister of her own, 
 and surreptitiously indulged "the little wild-cat," as 
 the school generally dubbed the Speaker's great-niece, 
 whenever she could. 
 
 But with the third year fresh elements and interests 
 had entered in. Romance awoke, and with it certain 
 sentimental affections. In the first place, a taste for 
 reading had rooted itself — reading of the adventur- 
 ous and poetical kind. There were two or three 
 books which Marcella had absorbed in a way it now 
 made her envious to remember. For at twenty-one 
 people who take interest in many things, and are in a 
 hurry to have opinions, must skim and "turn over" 
 books rather than read them, must use indeed as best 
 they may a scattered and distracted mind, and suffer 
 occasional pangs of conscience as pretenders. But at 
 thirteen — what concentration! what devotion! what 
 joy! One of these precious volumes was Bulwer's 
 "Rienzi"; another was Miss Porter's "Scottish 
 Chiefs"; a third was a little red volume of "Mar- 
 mion " which an aunt had given her. She probably 
 never read any of them through — she had not a
 
 12 MAECELLA. 
 
 particle of industry or method in her composition — 
 but she lived in them. The x^arts which it bored her 
 to read she easily invented for herself, but the scenes 
 and passages which thrilled her she knew by heart ; 
 she had no gift for verse-making, but she laboriously 
 wrote a long poem on the death of Rienzi, and she 
 tried again and again with a not inapt hand to illus- 
 trate for herself in pen and ink the execution of 
 Wallace. 
 
 But all these loves for things and ideas were soon 
 as nothing in comparison with a friendship, and an 
 adoration. 
 
 To take the adoration first. When Marcella came 
 to Cliff House she was recommended by the same rela- 
 tion who gave her " Marmion " to the kind offices of 
 the clergyman of the parish, who happened to be 
 known to some of the Boyce family. He and his 
 wife — they had no children — did their duty amply 
 by the odd undisciplined child. They asked her to 
 tea once or twice ; they invited her to the school-treat, 
 where she was only self-conscious and miserably shy; 
 and Mr. Ellerton had at least one friendly and pastoral 
 talk with Miss Frederick as to the difficulties of her 
 pupil's character. For a long time little came of it. 
 Marcella was hard to tame, and when she Avent to tea 
 at the Bectory Mrs. Ellerton, who was refined and 
 sensible, did not know what to make of her, though 
 in some unaccountable way she was drawn to and 
 interested by the child. But wdth the expansion of 
 her thirteenth year there suddenly developed in Mar- 
 cie's stormy breast an overmastering absorbing passion 
 for these two persons. She did not shoAv it to them
 
 MAR CELL A. 13 
 
 much, but for herself it raised her to another plane of 
 existence, gave her new objects and new standards. 
 She who had hated going to church now counted time 
 entirely by Sundays. To see the pulpit occupied by 
 any other form and face than those of the rector was 
 a calamity hardly to be borne ; if the exit of the school 
 party were delayed by any accident so that Mr. and 
 Mrs. Ellerton overtook them in the churchyard, Mar- 
 cella would walk home on air, quivering with a pas- 
 sionate delight, and in the dreary afternoon of the 
 school Sunday she would spend her time happily in 
 trying to write down the heads of Mr. Ellerton' s ser- 
 mon. In the natural course of things she would, at 
 this time, have taken no interest in such things at all, 
 but whatever had been spoken by him had grace, 
 thrill, meaning. 
 
 Nor was the week quite barren of similar delights. 
 She was generally sent to practise on an old square 
 piano in one of the top rooms. The window in front 
 of her overlooked the long white drive and the distant 
 high road into which it ran. Three times a week on 
 an average Mrs. Ellerton's pony carriage might be 
 expected to pass along that road. Every day Mar- 
 cella watched for it, alive with expectation, her fingers 
 strumming as they pleased. Then with the first gleam 
 of the white pony in the distance, over would go the 
 music stool, and the child leapt to the window, remain- 
 ing fixed there, breathing quick and eagerly till the 
 trees on the left had hidden from her the graceful 
 erect figure of Mrs. Ellerton. Then her moment of 
 Paradise was over ; but the afterglow of it lasted for 
 the day.
 
 14 MARCELLA. 
 
 So much for romance, for feelings as much like 
 love as childhood can kno^y them, full of kindling 
 charm and mystery. Her friendship had been of 
 course different, but it also left deep mark. A tall, 
 consumptive girl among the Clitf House pupils, the 
 motherless daughter of a clergyman-friend of Miss 
 Frederick's, had for some time taken notice of Mar- 
 cella, and at length won her by nothing else, in the 
 first instance, than a remarkable gift for story-telling. 
 She was a parlour-boarder, had a room to herself, and 
 a fire in it when the weather was cold. She was not 
 held strictly to lesson hours ; many delicacies in the 
 way of food Avere provided for her, and Miss Frederick 
 watched over her with a quite maternal solicitude. 
 When winter came she developed a troublesome cough, 
 and the doctor recommended that a little suite of 
 rooms looking south and leading out on the middle 
 terrace of the garden should be given up to her. 
 There was a bedroom, an intermediate dressing-room, 
 and then a little sitting-room built out upon the 
 terrace, with a window-door opening upon it. 
 
 Here Mary Lant spent week after week. When- 
 ever lesson hours were done she clamoured for Marcie 
 Boyce, and Marcella was always eager to go to her. 
 She would fly up stairs and passages, knock at the 
 bedroom door, run down the steps to the queer little 
 dressing-room where the roof nearly came on your 
 head, and down more steps again to the sitting-room. 
 Then when the door was shut, and she was crooning 
 over the fire with her friend, she was entirely happy. 
 The tiny room was built on the edge of the terrace, 
 the ground fell rapidly below it, and the west window
 
 MARCELLA. 15 
 
 commanded a broad expanse of tame arable country, 
 of square fields and hedges, and scattered wood. 
 Marcella, looking back ui3on that room, seemed always 
 to see it flooded with the rays of wintry sunset, a 
 kettle boiling on the fire, her pale friend in a shawl 
 crouching over the warmth, and the branches of a 
 snowberry tree, driven by the wind, beating against 
 the terrace door. 
 
 But what a story-teller was Mary Lant ! She was 
 the inventor of a story called " John and Julia," which 
 went on for weeks and months without ever producing 
 the smallest satiety in Marcella. Unlike her books 
 of adventure, this was a domestic drama of the purest 
 sort ; it was extremely moral and evangelical, designed 
 indeed by its sensitively religious author for Marcie's 
 correction and improvement. There was in it a sub- 
 lime hero, who set everybody's faults to rights and 
 lectured the heroine. In real life Marcella would 
 probably before long have been found trying to kick 
 his shins — a mode of warfare of which in her demon 
 moods she was past mistress. But as Mary Lant 
 described him, she not only bore with and trembled 
 before him — she adored him. The taste for him and 
 his like, as well as for the story-teller herself — a girl 
 of a tremulous, melancholy fibre, sweet-natured, pos- 
 sessed by a Calvinist faith, and already prescient of 
 death — grew upon her. Soon her absorbing desire 
 was to be altogether shut up with Mary, except on 
 Sundays and at practising times. For this purpose 
 she gave herself the worst cold she could achieve, and 
 cherished diligently what she proudlj^ considered to 
 be a racking cough. But Miss Frederick was deaf
 
 16 MAR CELL A. 
 
 to the latter, and only threatened the usual upstairs 
 seclusion and senna-tea for the former, whereupon 
 Marcella in alarm declared that her cold was much 
 better and gave up the cough in despair. It was her 
 first sorrow and cost her some days of i)ale brooding 
 and silence, and some nights of stifled tears, when 
 during an Easter holiday a letter from Miss Frederick 
 to her mother announced the sudden death of Mary 
 Lant.
 
 CHAPTER 11. 
 
 Friendship and love are humanisiag things, and by 
 her fourteenth year Marcella was no longer a clever 
 'little imp, but a fast-maturing and in some ways 
 remarkable girl, with much of the woman in her 
 already. She had begun even to feel an interest in 
 her dress, to speculate occasionally on her appearance. 
 At the fourth breaking-up party after her arrival at 
 Cliff House, Marcella, who had usually figured on these 
 occasions in a linsey-woolsey high to the throat, amid 
 the frilled and sashed splendours of her companions, 
 found lying on her bed, when she went up with the 
 others to dress, a plain white muslin dress with blue 
 ribbons. It was the gift of old Mademoiselle Renier, 
 who affectionately wished her queer, neglected favour- 
 ite to look well. Marcella examined it and fingered it 
 with an excited mixture of feelings. First of all there 
 was the sore and swelling bitterness that she should 
 owe such things to the kindness of the French gover- 
 ness, whereas finery for the occasion had been freely 
 sent to all the other girls from "home." She very 
 nearly turned her back upon the bed and its pretty 
 burden. But then the mere snowy whiteness of the 
 muslin and freshness of the ribbons, and the burning 
 curiosity to see herself decked therein, overcame a 
 nature which, in the midst of its penury, had been 
 VOL. I. — 2 17
 
 18 MABCELLA. 
 
 always really possessed by a more than common hunger 
 for sensuous beauty and seemliness. Marcella wore 
 it, was stormily happy in it, and kissed Mademoiselle 
 Renier for it at night with an effusion, nay, some tears, 
 which no one at Cliff House had ever witnessed in her 
 before except with the accompaniments of rage and 
 fury. 
 
 A little later her father came to see her, the first 
 and only visit he paid to her at school. Marcella, to 
 whom he was by now almost a stranger, received him 
 demurely, making no confidences, and took him over 
 the house and gardens. When he was about to leave 
 her a sudden upswell of paternal sentiment made him 
 ask her if she was happy and if she wanted anything. 
 
 " Yes ! " said Marcella, her large eyes gleaming ; 
 " tell mamma I want a ' fringe.' Every other girl in 
 the school has got one." 
 
 And she pointed disdainfully to her plainly parted 
 hair. Her father, astonished by her unexpected vehe- 
 mence, put up his eyeglass and studied the child's 
 appearance. Three days later, by her mother's per- 
 mission, Marcella was taken to the hairdresser at 
 Marswell by Mademoiselle Eenier, returned in all the 
 glories of a " fringe," and, in acknowledgment thereof, 
 wrote her mother a letter which for the first time had 
 something else than formal news in it. 
 
 Meanwhile new destinies were preparing for her. 
 For a variety of small reasons Mr. Boyce, who had 
 never yet troubled himself about the matter from a 
 distance, was not, upon personal inspection, very 
 favourably struck with his daughter's surroundings. 
 His wife remarked shortly, when he complained to
 
 MABCELLA. 19 
 
 her, that Marcella seemed to her as well off as the 
 daughter of persons of their means could expect to be. 
 But Mr. Boyce stuck to his point. He had just learnt 
 that Harold, the only son of his widowed brother Eob- 
 ert, of Mellor Park, had recently developed a deadly 
 disease, which might be long, but must in the end be 
 sure. If the young man died and he outlived Eobert, 
 Mellor Park would be his ; they would and must 
 return, in spite of certain obstacles, to their natural 
 rank in society, and Marcella must of course be pro- 
 duced as his daughter and heiress. When his wife 
 repulsed him, he went to his eldest sister, an old maid 
 with a small income of her own, who happened to be 
 staying with them, and was the only member of his 
 family with whom he was now on terms. She was 
 struck with his remarks, which bore on family pride, 
 a commodity not always to be reckoned on in the 
 Boyces, but which she herself possessed in abundance ; 
 and when he paused she slowly said that if an ideal 
 school of another type could be found for Marcella, 
 she would be responsible for what it might cost over 
 and above the present arrangement. Marcella's man- 
 ners were certainly rough ; it was difficult to say what 
 she was learning, or with whom she was associating ; 
 accomplishments she appeared to have none. Some- 
 thing should certainly be done for her — considering 
 the family contingencies. But being a strong evan- 
 gelical, the aunt stipulated for " religious influences," 
 and said she would write to a friend. 
 
 The result was that a month or two later Marcella, 
 now close on her fourteenth birthday, was transferred 
 from Cliff House to the charge of a lady who man-
 
 20 MARCELLA. 
 
 aged a small but much-sought-after school for young 
 ladies at Solesby, a watering place on the east coast. 
 
 But when in the course of reminiscence Marcella 
 found herself once more at Solesby, memory began to 
 halt and wander, to choose another tone and method. 
 At Solesby the rough surroundings and primitive 
 teaching of Cliff House, together with her own burn- 
 ing sense of inferiority and disadvantage, had troubled 
 her no more. She was well taught there, and de- 
 veloped quickly from the troublesome child into the 
 young lady duly broken in to all social proprieties. 
 But it was not her lessons or her dancing masters that 
 she remembered. She had made for herself agitations 
 at Cliff House, but wdiat w^ere they as compared to the 
 agitations of Solesby ! Life there had been one long 
 Wertherish romance in which there were few incidents, 
 only feelings, w^hich were themselves events. It con- 
 tained humiliations and pleasures, but they had been 
 all matters of spiritual relation, connected with one 
 hgure only — the figure of her schoolmistress. Miss 
 Pemberton ; and with one emotion only — a passion, an 
 adoration, akin to that she had lavished on the Eller- 
 tons, but now much more expressive and mature. A 
 tall slender woman with brown, grey-besprinkled hair 
 falling in light curls after the fashion of our grand- 
 mothers on either cheek, and braided into a classic 
 knot behind — the face of a saint, an enthusiast — eyes 
 overflowing with feeling above a thin firm mouth — 
 the mouth of the obstinate saint, yet sweet also : this 
 delicate significant picture was stamped on Marcella's 
 heart. What tremors of fear and joy could she not
 
 MAR CELL A. 21 
 
 remember in connection with it? what night-vigils 
 when a tired girl kept herself through long hours 
 awake that she might see at last the door open and a 
 figure with a night-lamp standing an instant in the 
 doorway ? — for Miss Pemberton, who slept little and 
 read late, never went to rest without softly going the 
 rounds of her j^upils' rooms. What storms of con- 
 test, mainly provoked b}^ Marcella for the sake of the 
 emotions, first of combat, then of reconciliation to 
 which they led ! What a strange development on the 
 pupil's side of a certain histrionic gift, a turn for 
 imaginative intrigue, for endless small contrivances 
 such as might rouse or heighten the recurrent excite- 
 ments of feeling ! What agitated moments of relig- 
 ious talk ! What golden dsijs in the holidays, when 
 long-looked-for letters arrived full of religious admo- 
 nition, letters Avhich were carried about and wept 
 over till they fell to pieces under the stress of such a 
 worship — what terrors and agonies of a stimulated 
 conscience — what remorse for sins committed at 
 school — what zeal to confess them in letters of a 
 passionate eloquence — and what indifference mean- 
 while to anything of the same sort that might have 
 happened at home ! 
 
 Strange faculty that women have for thus lavishiug 
 their heart's blood from their very cradles ! Marcella 
 could hardly look back now, in the quiet of thought, 
 to her five years with Miss Pemberton without a 
 shiver of agitation. Yet now she never saw her. It 
 was two years since they parted; the school was 
 broken up; her idol had gone to India to join a 
 widowed brother. It was all over — for ever. Those
 
 22 MARCELLA. 
 
 precious letters had worn themselves away; so, too, 
 had Marcella's religious feelings ; she was once more 
 another being. 
 
 But these two years since she had said good-bye to 
 Solesby and her school days ? Once set thinking of 
 bygones by the stimulus of Mellor and its novelty, 
 Marcella must needs think, too, of her London life, 
 of all that it had opened to her, and meant for her. 
 Fresh agitations! — fresh passions! — but this time 
 impersonal, passions of the mind and sympathies. 
 
 At the time she left Solesby her father and mother 
 were abroad, and it was apparently not convenient 
 that she should join them. Marcella, looking back, 
 could not remember that she had ever been much 
 desired at home. No doubt she had been often moody 
 and tiresome in the holidays ; but she suspected — 
 nay, was certain — that there had been other and 
 more permanent reasons why her parents felt her 
 presence with them a burden. At any rate, when the 
 moment came for her to leave Miss Pemberton, her 
 mother wrote from abroad that, as Marcella had of 
 late shown decided aptitude both for music and paint- 
 ing, it would be well that she should cultivate both 
 gifts for a while more seriously than would be possi- 
 ble at home. Mrs. Boyce had made inquiries, and was 
 quite willing that her daughter should go, for a time, 
 to a lady whose address she enclosed, and to whom 
 she herself had written — a lady who received girl- 
 students working at the South Kensington art classes. 
 
 So began an experience, as novel as it was stren- 
 uous. Marcella soon developed all the airs of inde-
 
 MARCELLA. 28 
 
 pendence and all the jargon of two professions. 
 Working with consuming energy and ambition, she 
 pushed her gifts so far as to become at least a very 
 intelligent, eager, and confident critic of the art of 
 other people — which is much. But though art stirred 
 and trained her, gave her new horizons and new stan- 
 dards, it was not in art that she found ultimately the 
 chief excitement and motive-power of her new life — 
 not in art, but in the birth of social and philanthropic 
 ardour, the sense of a hitherto unsuspected social 
 power. 
 
 One of her girl-friends and fellow-students had two 
 brothers in London, both at work at South Kensington, 
 and living not far from their sister. The three were 
 orphans. They sprang from a nervous, artistic stock, 
 and Marcella had never before come near any one 
 capable of crowding so much living into the twenty- 
 four hours. The two brothers, both of them skilful 
 and artistic designers in different lines, and hard at 
 work all day, were members of a rising Socialist 
 society, and spent their evenings almost entirely on 
 various forms of social effort and Socialist propa- 
 ganda. They seemed to Marcella's young eyes abso- 
 lutely sincere and quite unworldly. They lived as 
 workmen ; and both the luxuries and the charities of 
 the rich were equally odious to them. That there 
 could be any " right " in private property or private 
 wealth had become incredible to them ; their minds 
 were full of lurid images or resentments drawn from 
 the existing state of London; and though one was 
 humorous and handsome, the other, short, sickly, and 
 pedantic, neither could discuss the Socialist ideal with-
 
 24 MABCELLA. 
 
 out passion, nor hear it attacked without anger. And 
 in milder measure their sister, who possessed more 
 artistic gift than either of them, was like unto them. 
 
 Marcella saw much of these three persons, and some- 
 thing of their friends. She went with them to Socialist 
 lectures, or to the public evenings of the Venturist 
 Society, to wliich the brothers belonged. Edie, the 
 sister, assaulted the imagination of her friend, made 
 her read the books of a certain eminent poet and artist, 
 once the poet of love and dreamland, " the idle singer 
 of an empty day," now seer and prophet, the herald of 
 an age to come, in which none shall possess, though all 
 shall enjoy. The brothers, more ambitious, attacked 
 her through the reason, brought her popular transla- 
 tions and selections from Marx and Lassalle, together 
 with each Venturist pamphlet and essay as it appeared ; 
 they flattered her Avith technical talk ; they were full 
 of the importance of women to the new doctrine and 
 the new era. 
 
 The handsome brother was certainly in love with 
 her; the other, probably. Marcella was not in love 
 with either of them, but she was deeply interested in 
 all three, and for the sickly brother she felt at that 
 time a profound admiration — nay, reverence — which 
 influenced her vitally at a critical moment of life. 
 " Blessed are the poor " — " Woe unto you, rich men " 
 — these were the only articles of his scanty creed, but 
 they were held with a fervour, and acted upon with a 
 conviction, which our modern religion seldom com- 
 mands. His influence made Marcella a rent-collector 
 under a lady friend of his in the East End ; because 
 of it, she worked herself beyond her strength in a
 
 MAECELLA. 25 
 
 joint attempt made by some members of the Venturist 
 Society to organise a Tailoresses' Union ; and, to please 
 him, she read articles and blue-books on Sweating and 
 Overcrowding. It was all very moving and very dra- 
 matic ; so, too, was the persuasion Marcella divined in 
 her friends, that she was destined in time, with work 
 and experience, to great things and high place in the 
 movement. 
 
 The wholly unexpected news of Mr. Boyce's acces- 
 sion to Mellor had very various effects upon this little 
 band of comrades. It revived in Marcella ambitions, 
 instincts and tastes wholl}^ different from those of her 
 companions, but natural to her by temperament and 
 inheritance. The elder brother, Anthony Craven, 
 always melancholy and suspicious, divined her im- 
 mediately. 
 
 " How glad you are to be done with Bohemia ! '^ he 
 said to her ironically one day, when he had just dis- 
 covered her with the photographs of Mellor about her. 
 " And how rapidly it works ! " 
 
 ^' What works ? " she asked him angrily. 
 
 " The poison of possession. And what a mean end 
 it puts to things ! A week ago you were all given to 
 causes not your own ; now, how long will it take you 
 to think of us as 'poor fanatics!' — and to be ashamed 
 you ever knew us ? " 
 
 " You mean to say that I am a mean hypocrite ! " 
 she cried. "Do you think that because I delight in — 
 in pretty things and old associations, I must give up 
 all my convictions ? Shall I find no poor at jMellor 
 — no work to do ? It is unkind — unfair. It is 
 the way all reform breaks down — through mutual 
 distrust ! "
 
 26 MARCEL LA. 
 
 He looked at her with, a cold smile in his dark, 
 sunken eyes, and she tnrned from him indignantly. 
 
 When they bade her good-bye at the station, she 
 begged them to write to her. 
 
 '^ jSTo, no ! " said Louis, the handsome younger 
 brother. "If ever you want us, we are there. If 
 you write, we will answer. But you won't need to 
 think about us yet awhile. Good-bye ! " 
 
 And he pressed her hand with a smile. 
 
 The good fellow had put all his own dreams and 
 hopes out of sight with a firm hand since the arrival 
 of her great news. Indeed, Marcella realised in them 
 all that she was renounced. Louis and Edith spoke 
 with affection and regret. As to Anthony, from the 
 moment that he set eyes upon the maid sent to escort 
 her to Mellor, and the first-class ticket that had been 
 purchased for her, Marcella perfectly understood that 
 she had become to him as an enemy. 
 
 " They shall see — I will show them ! '' she said to 
 herself with angry energy, as the train whirled her 
 away. And her sense of their unwarrantable injus- 
 tice kept her tense and silent till she was roused to a 
 childish and passionate pleasure by a first sight of the 
 wide lawns and time-stained front of Mellor. 
 
 Of such elements, such memories of persons, things, 
 and events, was Marcella's reverie by the window 
 made up. One thing, however, which, clearly, this 
 report of it has not explained, is that spirit of ener- 
 getic discontent with her past in which she had en- 
 tered on her musings. Why such soreness of spirit ? 
 Her childhood had been pinched and loveless; but.
 
 MABCELLA. 27 
 
 after all, it could well bear comparison with, that of 
 many another child of impoverished parents. There 
 had been compensations all through — and were not 
 the great passion of her Solesby days, together with 
 the interest and novelty of her London experience, 
 enough to give zest and glow to the whole retrospect ? 
 Ah ! but it will be observed that in this sketch of 
 Marcella's schooldays nothing has been said of Mar- 
 cella's holidays. In this omission the narrative has 
 but followed the hasty, half-conscious gaps and slurs 
 of the girl's own thought. For Marcella never thought 
 of those holidays and all that was connected with them 
 in detail, if she could possibly avoid it. But it was 
 with them, in truth, and with what they implied, that 
 she was so irritably anxious to be done when she. first 
 began to be reflective by the window ; and it was to 
 them she returned with vague, but still intense con- 
 sciousness when the rush of active reminiscence died 
 away. 
 
 That surely was the breakfast bell ringing, and with 
 the dignified ancestral sound which was still so novel 
 and attractive to Marcella's ear. Kecalled to Mellor 
 Park and its circumstances, she went thoughtfully 
 downstairs, pondering a little on the shallow steps of 
 the beautiful Jacobean staircase. Could she ever turn 
 her back upon those holidays ? Was she not rather, 
 so to speak, just embarked upon their sequel, or 
 second volume ? 
 
 But let us go downstairs also.
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 Breakfast was laid in the '' Cliiuese room," a room 
 which, formed part of the stately ^^ garden front," added 
 to the original structure of the house in the eighteenth 
 century by a Boyce whose wife had money. The deco- 
 rations, especially of the domed and vaulted roof, were 
 supposed by their eighteenth century designer to be 
 " Oriental " ; they were, at any rate, intricate and over- 
 laden ; and the figures of mandarins on the worn and 
 discoloured wall-paper had, at least, top-knots, pig- 
 tails, and petticoats to distinguish them from the or- 
 dinary Englishmen of 1760, besides a charming mel- 
 lowness of colour and general effect bestowed on them 
 by time and dilapidation. The marble mantelpiece 
 was elaborately carved in Chinamen and pagodas. 
 There were Chinese curiosities of a miscellaneous 
 kind on the tables, and the beautiful remains of an 
 Indian carpet underfoot. Unluckily, some later Boyce 
 had thrust a crudely Gothic sideboard, with an arched 
 and pillared front, adapted to the purposes of a warm- 
 ing apparatus, into the midst of the mandarins, which 
 disturbed the general effect. But with all its original 
 absurdities, and its modern defacements, the room was 
 a beautiful and stately one. Marcella stepped into it 
 with a slight unconscious straightening of her tall 
 form. It seemed to her that she had never breathed 
 
 28
 
 M ARC ELL A. 29 
 
 easily till now, in the ample space of these rooms and 
 gardens. 
 
 Her father and mother were already at table, to- 
 gether with Mrs. Boyce's brown spaniel Lynn. 
 
 Mr. Boyce was employed in ordering about the tall 
 boy in a worn and greasy livery coat, who represented 
 the men-service of the establishment ; his wife was 
 talking to her dog, but from the lift of her eyebrows, 
 and the twitching of her thin lips, it was plain to 
 Marcella that her mother was as usual of opinion that 
 her father was behaving foolishly* 
 
 " There, for goodness' sake, cut some bread on the 
 sideboard," said the angry master, " and hand it round 
 instead of staring about you like a stuck pig. What 
 they taught you at Sir William Jute's I can't .con- 
 ceive. 7 didn't undertake to make a man-servant of 
 you, sir." 
 
 The pale, harassed lad flew at the bread, cut it 
 with a vast scattering of crumbs, handed it clumsily 
 round, and then took glad advantage of a short supply 
 of coffee to bolt from the room to order more. 
 
 " Idiot ! " said Mr. Boyce, with an angry frown, as 
 he disappeared. 
 
 " If you would allow Ann to do her proper parlour 
 work again," said his wife blandly, "you would, I 
 think, be less annoyed. And as I believe William 
 was boot boy at the Jutes', it is not surprising that 
 he did not learn waiting." 
 
 "I tell you, Evelyn, that our position demands a 
 man-servant!" was the hot reply. "None of my 
 family have ever attempted to run this house with 
 women only. It would be unseemly — unfitting —
 
 30 MABCELLA, 
 
 " Oh, I am no judge of course of what a Boyce may 
 do ! " said his wife carelessly. ^^ I leave that to you 
 and the neighbourhood." 
 
 Mr. Boyce looked uncomfortable, cooled down, and 
 presently when the coffee came back asked his wife for 
 a fresh supply in tones from which all bellicosity had 
 for the time departed. He was a small and singularly 
 thin man, with blue wandering eyes under the blackest 
 possible eyebrows and hair. The cheeks were hollow, 
 the complexion as yellow as that of the typical Anglo- 
 Indian. The special character of the mouth was hidden 
 by a fine black moustache, but his prevailing expres- 
 sion varied between irritability and a kind of plain- 
 tiveness. The conspicuous blue eyes were as a rule 
 melancholy ; but they could be childishly bright and 
 self-assertive. There was a general air of breeding 
 about Eichard Boyce, of that air at any rate which 
 our common generalisations connect with the pride of 
 old family ; his dress was careful and correct to the 
 last detail ; and his hands with their long fingers were 
 of an excessive delicacy, though marred as to beauty 
 by a thinness which nearly amounted to emaciation. 
 
 " The servants say they must leave imless the ghost 
 does, Marcella," said Mrs. Boyce, suddenly, laying a 
 morsel of toast as she spoke on Ljrtin's nose. " Some- 
 one from the village of course has been talking — the 
 cook says she heard something last night, though she 
 will not condescend to particulars — and in general it 
 seems to me that you and I may be left before long 
 to do the house work." 
 
 '' What do they say in the village ? " asked Marcella 
 eagerly.
 
 MARCELLA. 31 
 
 " Oh ! they say there was a Boyce two hundred 
 years ago who fled down here from London after 
 doing something he shouldn't — I really forget what. 
 The sheriff's officers were advancing on the house. 
 Their approach displeased him, and he put an end to 
 himself at the head of the little staircase leading 
 from the tapestry-room down to my sitting-room. 
 Why did he choose the staircase?^' said Mrs. Boyce 
 with light reflectiveness. 
 
 "It won't do," said Marcella, shaking her head. 
 "I know the Boyce they mean. He was a ruffian, 
 but he shot himself in London ; and, an}^ way, he was 
 dead long before that staircase was built.'' 
 
 " Dear me, how well up you are ! " said her mother. 
 "Suppose you give a little lecture on the family in 
 the servants' hall. Though I never knew a ghost yet 
 that was undone by dates." 
 
 There was a satiric detachment in her tone which 
 contrasted sharply with Marcella's amused but sym- 
 pathetic interest. Detachment was perhaps the char- 
 acteristic note of Mrs. Boyce's manner, — a curious 
 separateness, as it were, from all the things and 
 human beings immediately about her. 
 
 Marcella pondered. 
 
 " I shall ask Mr. Harden about the stories," she said 
 presently. '- He will have heard them in the village. 
 I am going to the church this morning." 
 
 Her mother looked at her — a look of quiet exam- 
 ination — and smiled. The Lady Bountiful airs that 
 Marcella had already assumed during the six weeks 
 she had been in the house entertained Mrs. Boyce 
 exceedingly.
 
 32 MARCELLA. 
 
 "Harden!" said Mr. Boyce, catching the name. 
 '•' I wish that man would leave me alone. What have 
 I got to do with a water-supply for the village ? It 
 will be as much as ever I can manage to keep a water- 
 tight roof over our heads during the winter after the 
 way in which Robert has behaved." 
 
 Marcella's cheek flushed. 
 
 " The village water-supply is a disgrace/^ she said 
 with low emphasis. "I never saw such a crew of 
 unhealthy, wretched-looking children in my life as 
 swarm about those cottages. We take the rent, and 
 we ought to look after them. I believe you could be 
 forced to do something, papa — if the local authority 
 were of any use." 
 
 She looked at him defiantly. 
 
 "Nonsense," said Mr. Boyce testily. "They got 
 along in your Uncle Robert's days, and they can get 
 along now. Charity, indeed ! Why, the state of this 
 house and the pinch for money altogether is enough, 
 I should think, to take a man's mind. Don't you go 
 talking to Mr. Harden in the way you do, Marcella. 
 I don't like it, and I won't have it. You have the 
 interests of your family and your home to think of 
 first." 
 
 "Poor starved things!" said Marcella sarcastically 
 — " living in such a de7i ! " 
 
 And she swept her white hand round, as though 
 calling to witness the room in which they sat. 
 
 "I tell you," said Mr. Boyce, rising and standing 
 before the fire, whence he angrily surveyed the hand- 
 some daughter who was in truth so little known to 
 him, and whose nature and aims during the close con-
 
 MABCELLA. 33 
 
 tact of the last few weeks had become something of a 
 perplexity and disturbance to him, — " I tell you our 
 great effort, the effort of us all, must be to keep up 
 the family position! — our position. Look at that 
 library, and its condition ; look at the state of these 
 wall-papers ; look at the garden ; look at the estate 
 books if it comes to that. Why, it will be years 
 before, even with all my knowledge of affairs, I can 
 pull the thing through — years ! " 
 
 Mrs. Boyce gave a slight cough — she had pushed 
 back her chair, and was alternately studying her hus- 
 band and daughter. They might have been actors 
 performing for her amusement. And yet, amusement 
 is not precisely the word. For that hazel eye, with 
 its frequent smile, had not a spark of geniality. 
 After a time those about her found something scath- 
 ing in its dry light. 
 
 Now, as soon as her husband became aware that 
 she was watching him, his look wavered, and his 
 mood collapsed. He threw her a curious furtive 
 glance, and fell silent. 
 
 " I suppose Mr. Harden and his sister remind you 
 of your London Socialist friends, Marcella?" asked 
 Mrs. Boyce lightly, in the pause that followed. " You 
 have, I see, taken a great liking for them.^' 
 
 " Oh ! well — I don't know," said Marcella, with a 
 shrug, and something of a proud reticence. "Mr. 
 Harden is very kind — but — he doesn't seem to have 
 thought much about things." 
 
 She never talked about her London friends to her 
 mother, if she could help it. The sentiments of life 
 generally avoided Mrs. Boyce when they could. Mar-
 
 34 MARCELLA. 
 
 cella being all sentiment and impulse, was constantly 
 her mother's victim, do what she would. But in her 
 quiet moments she stood on the defensive. 
 
 " So the Socialists are the only people who think ? " 
 said Mrs. Boyce, who was now standing by the window, 
 pressing her dog's head against her dress as he pushed 
 up against her. " Well, I am sorry for the Hardens. 
 They tell me they give all their substance away — 
 already — and every one says it is going to be a par- 
 ticularly bad winter. The living, I hear, is worth 
 nothing. All the same, I should wish them to look 
 more cheerful. It is the first duty of martyrs." 
 
 Marcella looked at her mother indignantly. It 
 seemed to her often that she said the most heartless 
 things imaginable. 
 
 *^ Cheerful!" she said — "in a village like this — 
 Avith all the young men drifting off to London, and 
 all the well-to-do people dissenters — no one to stand 
 by him — no money and no helpers — the people 
 always ill — wages eleven and twelve shillings a week 
 — and only the old wrecks of men left to do the 
 work ! He might, I think, expect the people in tJiis 
 house to back him up a little. All he asks is that 
 papa should go and satisfy himself with his own eyes 
 as to the difference between our property and Lord 
 Maxwell's — " 
 
 "Lord Maxwell's!" cried Mr. Boyce, rousing him- 
 self from a state of half-melancholy, half-sleepy reverie 
 by the fire, and throwing away his cigarette — " Lord 
 Maxwell ! Difference ! I should think so. Thirty 
 thousand a year, if he has a penny. By the way, 
 I wish he would just have the civility to answer
 
 MARC ELL A. 35 
 
 my note about those coverts over by Willow 
 Scrubs!" 
 
 He had hardly said the words when the door opened 
 to admit William the footman, in his usual tremor of 
 nervousness, carrying a salver and a note. 
 
 ''The man says, please sir, is there any answer, 
 sir ? " 
 
 " Well, that's odd ! " said Mr. Boyce, his look 
 brightening. "Here is Lord Maxwell's answer, just 
 as I was talking of it." 
 
 His wife turned sharply and watched him take it ; 
 her lips parted, a strange expectancy in her whole 
 attitude. He tore it open, read it, and then threw it 
 angrily under the grate. 
 
 *' No answer. Shut the door." The lad retreated. 
 Mr. Boyce sat down and began carefully to put the 
 fire together. His thin left hand shook upon his 
 knee. 
 
 There was a moment's pause of complete silence. 
 Mrs. Boyce's face might have been seen by a close 
 observer to quiver and then stiffen as she stood in the 
 light of the window, a tall and queenl}^ figure in her 
 sweeping black. But she said not a word, and pres- 
 ently left the room. 
 
 Marcella watched her father. 
 
 " Papa — was that a note from Lord Maxwell ? " 
 
 Mr. Boyce looked round with a start, as though 
 surprised that any one was still there. It struck Mar- 
 cella that he looked yellow and shrunken — years older 
 than her mother. An impulse of tenderness, joined 
 with anger and a sudden sick depression — she was 
 conscious of them all as she got up and went across to
 
 36 MARC ELLA. 
 
 him, determined to speak out. Her parents were not 
 her friends, and did not possess her conlidence ; but 
 her constant separation from them since her chiklhood 
 had now sometimes the result of giving her the bold- 
 ness with them that a stranger might have had. She 
 had no habitual deference to break through, and the 
 hindering restraints of memory, though strong, were 
 still less strong than they would have been if she had 
 lived with them day by day and year by year, and had 
 known their lives in close detail instead of guessing at 
 them, as was now so often the case with her. 
 
 " Papa, is Lord J\lax well's note an uncivil one ? " 
 
 Mr. Boyce stooped forward and began to rub his 
 chilly hand over the blaze. 
 
 " Why, that man's only son and I used to loaf and 
 shoot and play cricket together from morning till night 
 when we were boys. Henry Eaeburn was a bit older 
 than I, and he lent me the gun with which I shot my 
 first rabbit. It was in one of the fields over by Soley- 
 hurst, just where the two estates join. After that we 
 were always companions — we used to go out at night 
 with the keepers after poachers ; we spent hours in 
 the snow watching for wood-pigeons ; we shot that 
 pair of kestrels over the inner hall door, in the Wind- 
 mill Hill fields — at least I did — I was a better shot 
 than he by that time. He didn't like Robert — he 
 always wanted me." 
 
 ^^ Well, pax^a, but what does he say ? " asked Mar- 
 cella, impatiently. She laid her hand, however, as 
 she spoke, on her father's shoulder. 
 
 Mr. Boyce winced and looked up at her. He and 
 her mother had originally sent their daughter away
 
 MABCELLA. 37 
 
 from home that they might avoid the daily worry of 
 her awakening curiosities, and one of his resohitions 
 in coming to Mellor Park had been to keep up his 
 dignity with her. But the sight of her dark face bent 
 upon him, softened by a quick and womanly compas- 
 sion, seemed to set free a new impulse in him. 
 
 "He writes in the third person, if you want to 
 know, my dear, and refers me to his agent, very much 
 as though I were some London grocer who had just 
 bought the place. Oh, it is quite evident what he 
 means. They were here without moving all through 
 June and July, and it is now three weeks at least 
 since he and Miss Eaeburn came back from Scotland, 
 and not a card nor a word from either of them ! Nor 
 from the Winterbournes, nor the Levens. Pleasant ! 
 Well, my dear, you must make up your mind to it. 
 I did think — I was fool enough to think — that when 
 I came back to the old place, my father's old friends 
 would let bygones be bygones. I never did them any 
 harm. Let them 'gang their gait,' confound them!" 
 — the little dark man straightened himself fiercely — 
 "I can get my pleasure out of the land; and as for 
 your mother, she'd not lift a finger to propitiate one 
 of them!" 
 
 In the last words, however, there was not a fraction 
 of that sympathetic pride which the ear expected, but 
 rather fresh bitterness and grievance. 
 
 Marcella stood thinking, her mind travelling hither 
 and thither with lightning speed, now over the social 
 events of the last six weeks — now over incidents of 
 those long-past holidays. Was this, indeed, the second 
 volume beginning — the natural sequel to those old
 
 38 MAECELLA. 
 
 mysterious histories of shrinking, disillusion, and 
 repulse ? 
 
 "What was it you wanted about those coverts, 
 papa?" she asked presently, with a quick decision. 
 
 " What the deuce does it matter ? If you want to 
 know, I proposed to him to exchange my coverts over 
 by the Scrubs, which work in with his shooting, for 
 the wood down by the Home Farm. It was an ex- 
 change made year after year in my father's time. 
 When I spoke to the keeper, I found it had been 
 allowed to lapse. Your uncle let the shooting go to 
 rack and ruin after Harold's death. It gave me some- 
 thing to write about, and I was determined to know 
 where I stood — Well ! the old Pharisee can go his 
 way : I'll go mine." 
 
 And with a spasmodic attempt to play the squire of 
 Mellor on his native heath, Eichard Boyce rose, drew 
 his emaciated frame to its full height, and stood 
 looking out drearily to his ancestral lawns — a pict- 
 uresque and elegant figure, for all its weakness and 
 pitiableness. 
 
 " I shall ask Mr. Aldous Raeburn about it, if I see 
 him in the village to-day," said Marcella, quietly. 
 
 Her father started, and looked at her with some 
 attention. 
 
 " What have you seen of Aldous Raeburn ? " he 
 inquired. "I remember hearing that you had come 
 across him." 
 
 " Certainly I have come across him. I have met 
 him once or twice at the Vicarage — and — oh ! on 
 one or two other occasions," said Marcella, carelessly. 
 " He has always made himself agreeable. Mr. Har-
 
 MARCELLA. 39 
 
 den says his grandfather is devoted to him, and will 
 hardly ever let him go away from home. He does a 
 great deal for Lord Maxwell now : writes for him, and 
 helps to manage the estate ; and next year, when 
 the Tories come back and Lord Maxwell is in oihce 
 again — " 
 
 " Why, of course, there'll be plums for the grand- 
 son," said Mr. Boyce with a sneer. '• That goes with- 
 out saying — though we are such a virtuous lot." 
 
 " Oh yes, he'll get on — everybody says so. And 
 he'll deserve it too ! " she added, her eye kindling com- 
 batively as she surveyed her father. " He takes a lot 
 of trouble down here about the cottages and the board 
 of guardians and the farms. The Hardens like him 
 very much, but he is not exactly popular, according to 
 them. His manners are sometimes shy and awkward, 
 and the poor people think he's proud." 
 
 "Ah! a prig I dare say — like some of his uncles 
 before him," said Mr. Boyce, irritably. '- But he was 
 civil to you, you say ? " 
 
 And again he turned a quick considering eye on his 
 daughter. 
 
 " Oh dear ! yes," said Marcella, with a little proud 
 smile. There was a pause ; then she spoke again. 
 " I must go off to the church ; the Hardens have hard 
 work just now with the harvest festival, and I prom- 
 isetl to take them some flowers." 
 
 "Well" — said her father, grudgingly, "so long as 
 you don't promise anything on my account ! I tell 
 you, I haven't got sixpence to spend on subscriptions 
 to anything or anybody. By the way, if you see Rey- 
 nolds anywhere about the drive, you can send him to
 
 40 MARCELLA. 
 
 me. He and I are going round the Home Farm to 
 pick np a few birds if we can, and see what the 
 coverts look like. The stock has all run down, and 
 the place has been poached to death. But he thinks 
 if we take on an extra man in the spring, and spend a 
 little on rearing, we shall do pretty decently next 
 year." 
 
 The colour leapt to Marcella's cheek as she tied on 
 her hat. 
 
 " You will set up another keeper, and you won't do 
 anything for the village ? " she cried, her black eyes 
 lightening; and without another word she opened the 
 French window and walked rapidly away along the 
 terrace, leaving her father both angered and amazed. 
 
 A man like Richard Boyce cannot get comfortably 
 through life without a good deal of masquerading in 
 which those in his immediate neighbourhood are ex- 
 pected to join. His wife had long since consented to 
 play the game, on condition of making it plain the 
 whole time that she was no dupe. As to what Mar- 
 cella's part in the affair might be going to be, her 
 father was as yet uneasily in the dark. What con- 
 stantly astonished him, as she moved and talked under 
 his eye, was the girl's beauty. Surely she had been a 
 plain child, though a striking one. But now she had 
 not only beauty, but the air of beauty. The self- 
 confidence given by the possession of good looks was 
 very evident in her behaviour. She was very accom- 
 plished, too, and more clever than was always quite 
 agreeable to a father whose self-conceit was one of the 
 few compensations left him by misfortune. Such a 
 irirl was sure to be admired. She would have lovers —
 
 M ABC ELL A. 41 
 
 friends of her own. It seemed that already, while 
 Lord Maxwell was preparing to insult the father, his 
 grandson had discovered that the daughter was hand- 
 some. Eichard Boyce fell into a miserable reverie, 
 Avherein the Raeburns' behaviour and Marcella's unex- 
 pected gifts played about equal parts. 
 
 Meanwhile Marcella was gathering flowers in the 
 " Cedar garden," the most adorable corner of Mellor 
 Park, where the original Tudor house, grey, mullioned 
 and ivy-covered," ran at right angles into the later 
 " garden front," which projected beyond it to the south, 
 making thereby a sunny and sheltered corner where 
 roses, clematis, hollyhocks, and sunflowers grew with a 
 more lavish height and blossom than elsewhere, as 
 though conscious they must do their part in a whole 
 of beauty. The grass indeed wanted mowing, and 
 the first autumn leaves lay thickly drifted upon it ; the 
 flowers were untied and untrimmed. But under the 
 condition of two gardeners to ten acres of garden, 
 nature does very much as she pleases, and Mr. Boyce 
 when he came that way grumbled in vain. 
 
 As for Marcella, she was alternately moved to revolt 
 and tenderness by the ragged charm of the old place. 
 
 On the one hand, it angered her that anything so 
 plainly meant for beauty and dignity should go so 
 neglected and unkempt. On the other, if house and 
 gardens had been spick and span like the other houses 
 of the neigbourhood, if there had been sound roofs, a 
 modern water-supply, shutters, greenhouses, and weed- 
 less paths, — in short, the general self-complacent air 
 of a well-kept country house, — where would liave been
 
 42 MABCELLA. 
 
 that thrilling intimate appeal, as for something for- 
 lornly lovely, which the old place so constantly made 
 upon her ? It seemed to depend even upon her, the 
 latest born of all its children — to ask for tendance 
 and cherishing even from her. She was always plan- 
 ning how — with a minimum of money to spend — it 
 could be comforted and healed, and in the planning had 
 grown in these few weeks to love it as though she had 
 been bred there. 
 
 But this morning Marcella picked her roses and 
 sunflowers in tumult and depression of spirit. What 
 loas this past which in these new surroundings was like 
 some vainly fled tyrant clutching at them again ? She 
 energetically decided that the time had come for her 
 to demand the truth. Yet, of whom ? Marcella knew 
 very well that to force her mother to any line of action 
 Mrs. Boyce was unwilling to follow, was beyond her 
 power. And it was not easy to go to her father 
 directly and say, " Tell me exactly how and why it is 
 that society has turned its back upon you." All the 
 same, it ivas due to them all, due to herself especially, 
 now that she was grown up and at home, that she 
 should not be kept in the dark any longer like a baby, 
 that she should be put in possession of the facts which, 
 after all, threatened to stand here at Mellor Park, as 
 untowardly in their, in her way, as they had done in 
 the shabby school and lodging-house existence of all 
 those bygone years. 
 
 Perhaps the secret of her impatience was that she 
 
 ' did not, and could not, believe that the facts, if faced, 
 
 would turn out to be insurmountable. Her instinct 
 
 told her as she looked back that their relation toward
 
 MAR CELL A. 43 
 
 society in the past, though full of discomforts and 
 humiliations, had not been the relation of outcasts. 
 Their poverty and the shifts to which poverty drives 
 people had brought them the disrespect of one class ; 
 and as to the acquaintances and friends of their own 
 rank, what had been mainly shown them had been a 
 sort of cool distaste for their comj)any, an insulting 
 readiness to forget the existence of people who had 
 so to speak lost their social bloom, and laid themselves 
 open to the contemptuous disapproval or pity of the 
 world. Everybody, it seemed, knew their affairs, and 
 knowing them saw no personal advantage and dis- 
 tinction in the Boyces' acquaintance, but rather the 
 contrary. 
 
 As she put the facts together a little, she realised, 
 however, that the breach had always been deepest be- 
 tween her father and his relations, or his oldest friends. 
 A little shiver j)assed through her as she reflected that 
 here, in his own country, where his history was best 
 known, the feeling towards him, whatever it rested 
 upon, might very probably be strongest. Well, it ivas 
 hard upon them I — hard upon her mother — hard upon 
 her. In her first ecstasy over the old ancestral house 
 and the dignities of her new position, how little she 
 had thought of these things ! And there they were 
 all the time — dogging and thwarting. 
 
 She walked slowly along, with her burden of 
 flowers, through a laurel path which led straight to 
 the drive, and so, across it, to the little church. The 
 church stood all alone there under the great limes of 
 the Park, far away from parsonage and village — the 
 property, it seemed, of the big house. When Marcella
 
 44 MARCELLA. 
 
 entered, the doors on the north and south sides were 
 both standing open, for the vicar and his sister had 
 been already at work there, and had but gone back to 
 the parsonage for a bit of necessary business, meaning 
 to return in half an hour. 
 
 It was the unpretending church of a hamlet, girt 
 outside by the humble graves of toiling and forgotten 
 generations, and adorned, or, at any rate, diversified 
 within by a group of mural monuments, of various 
 styles and dates, but all of them bearing, in some way 
 or another, the name of Boyce — conspicuous amongst 
 them a florid cherub-crowned tomb in the chancel, 
 marking the remains of that Parliamentarian Boyce 
 who fought side by side with Hampden, his boyish 
 friend, at Chalgrove Field, lived to be driven out of 
 Westminster by Colonel Pryde, and to spend his later 
 years at Mellor, in disgrace, first with the Protector, 
 and then with the Eestoration. From these monu- 
 ments alone a tolerably faithful idea of the Boyce 
 family could have been gathered. Clearly not a 
 family of any very great pretensions — a race for the 
 most part of frugal, upright country gentlemen — to 
 be found, with scarcely an exception, on the side of 
 political liberty, and of a Whiggish religion ; men who 
 had given their sons to die at Quebec, and Plassy, and 
 Trafalgar, for the making of England's Empire ; who 
 would have voted with Fox, but that the terrors of 
 Burke, and a dogged sense that the country must be 
 carried on, drove them into supporting Pitt; who, at 
 home, dispensed alternate justice and doles, and when 
 their wives died put up inscriptions to them intended 
 to bear witness at once to the Latinitv of a Bovce's
 
 MARCELLA. 45 
 
 education, and the pious strength of his legitimate 
 affections — a tedious race perhaps and pig-headed, 
 tyrannical too here and there, but on the whole hon- 
 ourable English stuff — the stuff which has made, 
 and still in new forms sustains, the fabric of a great 
 state. 
 
 Only once was there a break in the uniform charac- 
 ter of the monuments — a break corresponding to the 
 highest moment of the Boyce fortunes, a moment 
 when the respectability of the family rose suddenly 
 into brilliance, and the prose of generations broke 
 into a few years of poetry. Somewhere in the last 
 century an earlier Eichard Boyce went abroad to 
 make the grand tour. He was a man of parts, the 
 friend of Horace Walpole and of Gray, and his intro- 
 ductions opened to him whatever doors he might wish 
 to enter, at a time when the upper classes of the lead- 
 ing European nations were far more intimately and 
 familiarly acquainted with each other than they are 
 now. He married at Eome an Italian lady of high 
 birth and large fortune. Then he brought her home 
 to Mellor, where straightway the garden front was 
 built with all its fantastic and beautiful decoration, 
 the great avenue was planted, pictures began to in- 
 vade the house, and a musical library was collected 
 whereof the innumerable faded volumes, bearing each 
 of them the entwined names of Eichard and Marcella 
 Boyce, had been during the last few weeks mines of 
 delight and curiosity to the ^larcella of to-day. 
 
 The Italian wife bore her lord two sons, and then 
 in early middle life she died — much loved and ] assion- 
 ately mourned. Her tomb bore no long-winded pane-
 
 46 MARC ELL A. 
 
 gyric. Her name only, her parentage and birthplace — 
 for she was Italian to the last^ and her husband loved 
 her the better for it — the dates of her birth and death, 
 and then two lines from Dante's Vita Nuova. 
 
 The portrait of this earlier Marcella hung still in 
 the room where her music-books survived, — a dark 
 blurred picture by an inferior hand ; but the ^Marcella 
 of to-day had long since eagerly decided that her own 
 physique and her father's were to be traced to its 
 original, as well, no doubt, as the artistic aptitudes of 
 both — aptitudes not hitherto conspicuous in her re- 
 spectable race. 
 
 In reality, however, she loved every one of them — 
 these Jacobean and Georgian squires with their inter- 
 minable epitaphs. Now, as she stood in the church, 
 looking about her, her flowers lying beside her in a 
 tumbled heap on the chancel step, cheerfulness, delight, 
 nay, the indomitable pride and exultation of her youth, 
 came back upon her in one great lifting wave. The 
 depression of her father's repentances and trepidar 
 tions fell away ; she felt herself in her place, under 
 the shelter of her forefathers, incorporated and re- 
 deemed, as it were, into their guild of honour. 
 
 There were difficulties in her path, no doubt — but 
 she had her vantage-ground, and would use it for her 
 own profit and that of others. She had no cause for 
 shame ; and in these days of the developed individual 
 the old solidarity of the family has become injustice 
 and wrong. Her mind filled tumultuously with the 
 evidence these last two years had brought her of her 
 natural power over men and things. 8he knew per- 
 fectly well that she could do and dare what other
 
 MARCELLA. 47 
 
 girls of her age could never venture — that she had 
 fascination, resource, brain. 
 
 Already, in these few weeks — Smiles played about 
 her lips as she thought of that quiet grave gentle- 
 man of thirty she had been meeting at the Hardens'. 
 His grandfather might write what he pleased. It did 
 not alter the fact that during the last few weeks ^Ir. 
 Aldous Kaeburn, clearly one of the 2^<^f'tis most cov- 
 eted, and one of the men most observed, in the neigh- 
 bourhood, had taken and shown a very marked interest 
 in Mr. Boyce's daughter — all the more marked because 
 of the reserved manner with which it had to contend. 
 
 Xo I whatev^er happened, she would carve her path, 
 make her own way, and her parents' too. At twenty- 
 one, nothing looks irrevocable. A woman's charm,, a 
 woman's energy should do it all. 
 
 Ay, and something else too. She looked quickly 
 round the church, her mind swelling with the sense of 
 the Cravens' injustice and distrust. Never could she 
 be more conscious than here — on this very spot — of 
 mission, of an urging call to the service of man. In 
 front of her was the Boyces' family pew, carved and 
 becushioned, but behind it stretched bench after bench 
 of plain and humble oak, on which the village sat when 
 it came to church. Here, for the first time, had Mar- 
 cella been brought face to face with the agricultural 
 world as it is — no stage ruralism, but the bare fact in 
 one of its most pitiful aspects. Men of sixty and up- 
 wards, grey and furrowed like the chalk soil into which 
 they had worked their lives ; not old as age goes, but 
 already the refuse of their generation, and paid for at 
 the rate of refuse ; with no prospect but the workhouse,
 
 48 M ABC ELLA. 
 
 if the grave should be delayed, yet quiet, impassive, 
 resigned, now showing a furtive childish amusement 
 if a schoolboy misbehaved, or a dog strayed into church, 
 now joining with a stolid unconsciousness in the tre- 
 mendous sayings of the Psalms ; women coarse, or 
 worn, or hopeless ; girls and boys and young children 
 already blanched and emaciated beyond even the nor- 
 mal Londoner from the effects of insanitary cottages, 
 bad water, and starvation food — these figures and types 
 had been a ghastly and quickening revelation to Mar- 
 cella. In London the agricultural labourer, of whom 
 she had heard much, had been to her as a pawn in the 
 game of discussion. Here he was in the flesh; and 
 she was called upon to live with him, and not only to 
 talk about him. Under circumstances of peculiar 
 responsibility too. For it was very clear that upon 
 the owner of Mellor depended, and had always de- 
 pended, the labourer of Mellor. 
 
 Well, she had tried to live with them ever since she 
 came — had gone in and out of their cottages in flat 
 horror and amazement at them and their lives and their 
 surroundings ; alternately pleased and repelled by their 
 cringing ; now enjoying her position among them with 
 the natural aristocratic instinct of women, noAV grind- 
 ing her teeth over her father's and uncle's behaviour 
 and the little good she saw any prospect of doing for 
 her new subjects. 
 
 AVhat, their friend and champion, and ultimately 
 their redeemer too ? Well, and why not ? Weak 
 women have done greater things in the world. As 
 she stood on the chancel step, vowing herself to these 
 great things, she was conscious of a dramatic moment
 
 MAE CELL A. 49 
 
 — would not have been sorry, perhaps, if some admir- 
 ing eye could have seen and understood her. 
 
 But there was a saving sincerity at the root of her, 
 and her strained mood sank naturally into a girlish 
 excitement. 
 
 " We shall see ! — We shall see ! " she said aloud, 
 and was startled to hear her words quite plainly in the 
 silent church. As she spoke she stooped to separate 
 her flowers and see what quantities she had of each. 
 
 But while she did so a sound of distant voices made 
 her raise herself again. She walked (\o^v^l the church 
 and stood at the open south door, looking and waiting. 
 Before her stretched a green field path leading across 
 the park to the village. The vicar and his sister were 
 coming along it towards the church, both flower-laden, 
 and beside walked a tall man in a brown shooting suit, 
 with his gun in his hand and his dog beside him. 
 
 The excitement in Marcella's eyes leapt up afresh 
 for a moment as she saw the group, and then subsided 
 into a luminous and steady glow. She waited quietly 
 for them, hardly responding to the affectionate signals 
 of the vicar's sister; but inwardly she was not quiet 
 at all. For the tall man in the brown shooting coat 
 was Mr. Aldous Raeburn. 
 
 VOL. I. — 4
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 ^' How kind of you ! " said the rector's sister, enthu- 
 siastically ; " but I thought you would come and help 
 us." 
 
 And as Marcella took some of her burdens from 
 her, Miss Harden kissed Marcella's cheek with a sort 
 of timid eagerness. She had fallen in love with Miss 
 Boyce from the beginning, was now just advanced to 
 this privilege of kissing, and being entirely convinced 
 that her new friend possessed all virtues and all knowl- 
 edge, found it not difficult to hold that she had been 
 divinel}' sent to sustain her brother and herself in the 
 disheartening task of civilising Mellor. Mary Harden 
 was naturally a short, roundly made girl, neither 
 pretty nor plain, with grey-blue eyes, a shy manner, 
 and a heart all goodness. Her brother was like unto 
 her — also short, round, and full-faced, with the same 
 attractive eyes. Both were singularly young in aspect 
 — a boy and girl pair. Both had the worn, pinched 
 look which Mrs. Boyce complained of, and which, 
 indeed, went oddly with their whole physique. It 
 was as though creatures built for a normal life of 
 easy give and take with their fellows had fallen upon 
 some unfitting and jarring experience. One striking 
 difference, indeed, there was between them, for amid 
 the brother's timidity and sweetness there lay, clearly 
 
 50
 
 MARCELLA. 51 
 
 to be felt and seen, the consciousness of the priest — 
 nascent and immature, but already urging and charac- 
 teristic. 
 
 Only one face of the three showed any other emo- 
 tion than quick pleasure at the sight of Marcella 
 l>oyce. Aldous Kaeburn was clearly embarrassed 
 thereby. Indeed, as he laid down his gun outside the 
 low churchyard wall, while Marcella and the Hardens 
 were greeting, that generally self-possessed though 
 modest person was conscious of a quite disabling per- 
 turbation of mind. Why m the name of all good 
 manners and decency had he allowed himself to be 
 discovered in shooting trim, on that particular morn- 
 ing, by Mr. Boyce's daughter on her father's land, 
 and within a stone's throw of her father's house ? 
 Was he not perfectly well aware of the curt note 
 which his grandfather had that morning despatched 
 to the new owner of Mellor ? Had he not ineffect- 
 ually tried to delay execution the night before, thereby 
 puzzling and half-offending his grandfather? Had 
 not the incident weighed on him ever since, wounding 
 an admiration and sympathy which seemed to have 
 stolen upon him in the dark, during these few weeks 
 since he had made Miss Boyce's acquaintance, so strong 
 and startling did he all in a moment feel them to be ? 
 
 And then to intrude upon her thus, out of nothing 
 apparently but sheer moth-like incapacity to keep 
 away ! The church footpath indeed was public prop- 
 erty, and Miss Harden's burdens had cried aloud to 
 any passing male to help her. But why in this neigh- 
 bourhood at all ? — why not rather on the other side 
 of the county ? He could have scourged himself on
 
 52 MARCELLA, 
 
 the spot for an unpardonable breach of manners and 
 feeling. 
 
 However, Miss Boyce certainly made no sign. She 
 received him without any empressement, but also with- 
 out the smallest symptom of offence. They all moved 
 into the church together, Mr. Eaeburn carrying a vast 
 bundle of ivy and fern, the rector and his sister laden 
 with closely-packed baskets of cut flowers. Every- 
 thing was laid down on the chancel steps beside Mar- 
 cella's contribution, and then the Hardens began to 
 plan out operations. Miss Harden ran over on her 
 fingers the contributions which had been sent in to 
 the rectory, or were presently coming over to the 
 church in a hand-cart. " Lord Maxwell has sent the 
 most beautiful pots for the chancel," she said, with a 
 grateful look at young Kaeburn. "It will be quite 
 a show." To which the young rector assented warmly. 
 It was very good, indeed, of Lord MaxAvell to remem- 
 ber them always so liberally at times like these, when 
 they had so little direct claim upon him. They were 
 not his church or his parish, but he never forgot them 
 all the same, and Mellor was grateful. The rector 
 had all his sister's gentle effusiveness, but a profes- 
 sional dignity besides, even in his thanks, which made 
 itself felt. 
 
 Marcella flushed as he was speaking. 
 
 "I went to see what I could get in the way of 
 greenhouse things," she said in a sudden proud voice. 
 "But we have nothing. There are the houses, but 
 there is nothing in them. But you shall have all our 
 out-of-door flowers, and I think a good deal might be 
 done with autumn leaves and wild things if you will 
 let me try."
 
 MABCELLA. 53 
 
 A speech which brought a flush to Mr. Eaeburn's 
 cheek as he stood in the background, and led Mary 
 Harden into an eager asking of Marcella's counsels, 
 and an eager praising of her floAvers. 
 
 Aldous Eaeburn said nothing, but his discomfort 
 increased with every moment. Why had his grand- 
 father been so oflB.cious in this matter of the flowers ? 
 All very well when Mellor was empty, or in the days 
 of a miser and eccentric, without womankind, like 
 Robert Boyce. But now — the act began to seem to 
 him offensive, a fresh affront offered to an unprotected 
 girl, whose quivering sensitive look as she stood talk- 
 ing to the Hardens touched him profoundly. Mellor 
 church might almost be regarded as the Boyces' pri- 
 vate chapel, so bound up was it with the family and the 
 house. He realised painfully that he ought to be 
 gone — yet could not tear himself away. Her passion- 
 ate willingness to spend herself for the place and peo- 
 ple she had made her own at first sight, checked every 
 now and then by a proud and sore reserve — it was 
 too pretty, too sad. It stung and spurred him as he 
 watched her ; one moment his foot moved for depart- 
 ure, the next he was resolving that somehow or other 
 he must make speech with her — excuse — explain. 
 Ridiculous ! How was it possible that he should do 
 either ! 
 
 He had met her — perhaps had tried to meet her — 
 tolerably often since their first chance encounter weeks 
 ago in the vicarage drawing-room. All through there 
 had been on his side the uncomfortable knowledge of 
 his grandfather's antipathy to Richard Boyce, and of 
 the social steps to which that antipathy would in-
 
 54 MARCELLA. 
 
 evitably lead. But Miss Boyce had never shown the 
 smallest consciousness, so far, of anything untoward 
 or unusual in her position. She had been clearly 
 taken up with the interest and pleasure of this new 
 spectacle upon which she had entered. The old 
 house, its associations, its history, the beautiful coun- 
 try in which it lay, the speech and characteristics of 
 rural labour as compared with that of the town, — he 
 had heard her talk of all these things with a fresh- 
 ness, a human sympathy, a freedom from conventional 
 phrase, and, no doubt, a touch of egotism and extrava- 
 gance, which rivetted attention. The egotism and ex- 
 travagance, however, after a first moment of critical 
 discomfort on his part, had not in the end repelled 
 him at all. The girl's vivid beauty glorified them; 
 made them seem to him a mere special fulness of life. 
 So that in his new preoccupation with herself, and by 
 contact with her frank self-confidence, he had almost 
 forgotten her position, and his own indirect relation 
 to it. Then had come that unlucky note from Mellor ; 
 his grandfather's prompt reply to it ; his own ineffec- 
 tive protest; and now this tongue-tiedness — this 
 clumsy intrusion — which she must feel to be an in- 
 delicacy — an outrage. 
 
 Suddenly he heard Miss Harden saying, with peni- 
 tent emphasis, " I am stupid ! I have left the scissors 
 and the wire on the table at home ; we can't get on 
 without them ; it is really too bad of me." 
 
 " I will go for them," said Marcella promptly. " Here 
 is the hand-cart just arrived and some people come to 
 help ; you can't be spared. I will be back directly." 
 
 And, gathering up her black skirt in a slim white
 
 MARCELLA. 55 
 
 hand, she sped down the church, and was out of the 
 south door before the Hardens had time to protest, or 
 Aklous Raeburn understood what she was doing. 
 
 A vexed word from Miss Harden enlightened him, 
 and he went after the fugitive, overtaking her just 
 where his gun and dog lay, outside the churchyard. 
 
 " Let me go, Miss Boyce," he said, as he caught her 
 up. " My dog and I will run there and back." 
 
 But Marcella hardly looked at him, or paused. 
 
 " Oh no ! " she said quickly, " I should like the 
 walk." 
 
 He hesitated ; then, with a flush which altered his 
 usually quiet, self-contained expression, he moved on 
 beside her. 
 
 " Allow me to go with you then. You are sure to 
 find fresh loads to bring back. If it's like our harvest, 
 festival, the things keep dropping in all day." 
 
 Marcella's eyes were still on the ground. 
 
 " I thought you were on your way to shoot, Mr. 
 Eaeburn ? " 
 
 " So I was, but there is no hurry ; if I can be useful. 
 Both the birds and the keeper can wait." 
 
 " Where are you going ? " 
 
 " To some ontlying fields of ours on the Windmill 
 Hill. There is a tenant there who wants to see 
 me. He is a prosy person with a host of grievances. 
 I took my gun as a possible means of escape from 
 him." 
 
 "Windmill Hill? I know the name. Oh! I re- 
 member : it was there — my father has just been telling 
 me — that your father and he shot the pair of kestrels, 
 when they were boys together."
 
 66 MARCELLA. 
 
 Her tone was quite liglit, but someliow it had 
 an accent, an emphasis, which made Aldous Raeburn 
 supremely uncomfortable. In his disquiet, he thought 
 of various things to say ; but he was not ready, nor 
 naturally effusive ; the turn of them did not please 
 him ; and he remained silent. 
 
 Meantime Marcella's heart was beating fast. She 
 was meditating a coup. 
 
 " Mr. Eaeburn ! " 
 
 " Yes ! " 
 
 '^ Will you think me a very extraordinary person if 
 I ask you a question ? Your father and mine were 
 great friends, weren't they, as boys? — your family 
 and mine were friends, altogether ? " 
 
 " I believe so — I have always heard so," said her 
 companion, flushing still redder. 
 
 " You knew Uncle Robert — Lord Maxwell did ? " 
 
 "Yes — as much as anybody knew him — but — '^ 
 
 " Oh, I know : he shut himself up and hated his 
 neighbours. Still you knew him, and papa and your 
 father were boys together. Well then, if you won't 
 mind telling me — I know it's bold to ask, but I have 
 reasons — why does Lord Maxwell write to papa in 
 the third person, and why has your aunt. Miss Eae- 
 burn, never found time in all these weeks to call on 
 mamma ? " 
 
 She turned and faced him, her splendid eyes one 
 challenge. The glow and hre of the whole gesture — 
 the daring of it, and yet the suggestion of womanish 
 weakness in the hand which trembled against her 
 dress and in the twitching lip — if it had been fine 
 acting, it could not have been more complete. And,
 
 MARCELLA. 57 
 
 in a sense, acting there was in it. Marcella's emo- 
 tions were real, but her mind seldom deserted her. 
 One half of her was impulsive and passionate ; the 
 other half looked on and put in finishing touches. 
 
 Acting or no, the surprise of her outburst swept the 
 man beside her off his feet. He found himself floun- 
 dering in a sea of excuses — not for his relations, but 
 for himself. He ought never to have intruded; it 
 was odious, unpardonable ; he had no business what- 
 ever to put himself in her way ! Would she please 
 understand that it was an accident ? It should not 
 happen again. He quite understood that she could 
 not regard him with friendliness. And so on. He 
 had never so lost his self-possession. 
 
 Meanwhile Marcella's brows contracted. She took 
 his excuses as a fresh offence. 
 
 ^' You mean, I suppose, that I have no right to ask 
 such questions!'^ she cried; ''that I am not behaving 
 like a lady — as one of your relations would ? Well, 
 I dare say ! I was not brought up like that. I was 
 not brought up at all; I have had to make myself. 
 So you must avoid me if you like. Of course you will. 
 But I resolved there — in the church — that I would 
 make just one effort, before everything crystallises, to 
 break through. If we must live on here hating our 
 neighbours and being cut by them, I thought I would 
 just ask you why, first. There is no one else to ask. 
 Hardly anybody has called, except the Hardens, and a 
 few new people that don't matter. And / have nothing 
 to be ashamed of," said the girl passionately, ''nor has 
 mamma. Papa, I suppose, did some bad things long 
 ago. I have never known — I don't know now — what
 
 58 MARCELLA. 
 
 they were. But I should like to understand. Is every- 
 body going to cut us because of that ? " 
 
 With a great effort Aldous Raeburn pulled himself 
 together, certain fine instincts both of race and con- 
 duct coming to his help. He met her excited look by 
 one which had both dignity and friendliness. 
 
 "I will tell you what I can, Miss Boyce. If you 
 ask me, it is right I should. You must forgive me if 
 I say anything that hurts you. I will try not — I will 
 try not ! " he repeated earnestly. " In the first place, 
 I know hardly anything in detail. I do not remember 
 that I have ever wished to know. But I gather that 
 some years ago — when I was still a lad — something 
 in Mr. Boyce's life — some financial matters, I believe 
 — during the time that he was member of Parlia- 
 ment, made a scandal, and especially among his family 
 and old friends. It was the effect upon his old father, 
 I think, who, as you know, died soon afterwards — '^ 
 
 Marcella started. 
 
 " I didn't know," she said quickly. 
 
 Aldous Raeburn' s distress grew. 
 
 "I really oughtn't to speak of these things," he 
 said, " for I don't know them accurately. But I want 
 to answer what you said — I do indeed. It was that, 
 I think, chiefly. Everybody here respected and loved 
 your grandfather — my grandfather did — and there 
 was great feeling for him — " 
 
 " I see ! I see ! " said Marcella, her chest heaving ; 
 "and against papa." 
 
 She walked on quickly, hardly seeing where she 
 was going, her eyes dim with tears. There was a 
 wretched pause. Then Aldous Raeburn broke out —
 
 MARC ELL A. 59 
 
 " But after all it is very long ago. And there may- 
 have been some harsh judgment. My grandfather 
 may have been misinformed as to some of the facts. 
 And I — " 
 
 He hesitated, struck with the awkwardness of what 
 he was going to say. But Marcella understood him. 
 
 " And you will try and make him alter his mind ? " 
 she said, not ungratefully, but still with a touch of 
 sarcasm in her tone. "No, Mr. Raeburn, I don't 
 think that will succeed." 
 
 They walked on in silence for a little while. At 
 last he said, turning upon her a face in which she 
 could not but see the true feeling of a just and kindly 
 man — 
 
 "I meant that if my grandfather could be led to 
 express himself in a way which Mr. Boyce could 
 accept, even if there were no great friendship as there 
 used to be, there might be something better than this 
 — this, which — which — is so painful. And any 
 way, Miss Boyce, whatever happens, will you let me 
 say this once, that there is no word, no feeling in this 
 neighbourhood — how could there be ? — towards you 
 and your mother, but one of respect and admiration ? 
 Do believe that, even if you feel that you can never 
 be friendly towards me and mine again — or forget 
 the things I have said ! " 
 
 " Respect and admiration ! " said Marcella, wonder- 
 ing, and still scornful. '' Pity, perhaps. There might 
 be that. But any way mamma goes with papa. She 
 always has done. She always will. So shall I, of 
 course. But I am sorry — horrihly sore and sorry! 
 I was so delighted to come here. I have been very
 
 60 MARCELLA. 
 
 little at home, and understood hardly anything about 
 this worry — not how serious it was, nor what it 
 meant. Oh! I am sorry — there was so much I 
 wanted to do here — if anybody could only under- 
 stand what it means to me to come to this place ! " 
 
 They had reached the brow of a little rising ground. 
 Just below them, beyond a stubble field in which there 
 were a few bent forms of gleaners, lay the small scat- 
 tered village, hardly seen amid its trees, the curls of 
 its blue smoke ascending steadily on this calm Septem- 
 ber morning against a great belt of distant beechwood 
 which begirt the hamlet and the common along which 
 it lay. The stubble field was a feast of shade and tint, 
 of apricots and golds shot with the subtlest purples 
 and browns ; the flame of the wild-cherry leaf and the 
 deeper crimson of the haws made every hedge a won- 
 der ; the apples gleamed in the cottage garden ; and a 
 cloudless sun poured down on field and hedge, and on 
 the half-hidden medley of tiled roofs, sharp gables, and 
 jutting dormers which made the village. 
 
 Instinctively both stopped, Marcella locked her 
 hands behind her in a gesture familiar to her in 
 moments of excitement; the light wind blew back 
 her dress in soft, eddying folds ; for the moment, in 
 her tall grace, she had the air of some young Victory 
 poised upon a height, till you looked at her face, 
 which was, indeed, not exultant at all, but tragic, 
 extravagantly tragic, as Aldous Kaeburn, in his English 
 reserve, would perhaps have thought in the case of any 
 woman with tamer eyes and a less winning mouth. 
 
 "I don't want to talk about myself," she began. 
 "But you know, Mr. Raeburn — you must know —
 
 MARCELLA. 61 
 
 what a state of things there is here — you know what 
 a disgrace that village is. Oh ! one reads books, but 
 I never thought people could actually live like that — 
 here in the wide country, with room for all. It makes 
 me lie awake at night. We are not rich — we are very 
 poor — the house is all out of repair, and the estate, as 
 of course you know, is in a wretched condition. But 
 when I see these cottages, and the water, and the 
 children, I ask what right we have to anything we get. 
 I had some friends in London who were Socialists, and 
 I followed and agreed with them, but here one sees ! 
 Yes, indeed ! — it is too great a risk to let the indi- 
 vidual alone when all these lives depend upon him. 
 Uncle Robert was an eccentric and a miser ; and look 
 at the death-rate of the village — look at the children ; 
 you can see how it has crushed the Hardens already. 
 No, we have no right to it ! — it ought to be taken from 
 us ; some day it will be taken from us ! " 
 
 Aldous Eaeburn smiled, and was himself again. A 
 woman's speculations were easier to deal with than a 
 woman's distress. 
 
 ^^It is not so hopeless as that, I think," he said 
 kindly. " The Mellor cottages are in a bad state cer- 
 tainly. But you have no idea how soon a little energy 
 and money and thought sets things to rights." 
 
 "But we have no money!" cried Marcella. "And 
 if he is miserable here, my father will have no energ}^ 
 to do anything. He will not care what happens. He 
 will defy everybody, and just spend what he has on 
 himself. And it will make me wretched — wretched. 
 Look at that cottage to the right, Mr. Raeburn. It is 
 Jim Hurd's — a man who works mainly on the Church
 
 62 MARCELLA. 
 
 Farm, when he is in work. But he is deformed, and 
 not so strong as others. The farmers too seem to be 
 cutting down labour everywhere — of course I don't 
 understand — I am so new to it. Hurd and his family 
 had an awful winter, last winter — hardly kept body 
 and soul together. And now he is out of work already 
 — the man at the Church Farm turned him off directly 
 after harvest. He sees no prospect of getting work 
 by the winter. He spends his days tramping to look 
 for it ; but nothing turns up. Last winter they parted 
 with all they could sell. This winter it must be the 
 workhouse ! It's heart-breaking. And he has a mind ; 
 he can feel ! I lend him the Labour paper I take in, 
 and get him to talk. He has more education than 
 most, and oh! the bitterness at the bottom of him. 
 But not against persons — individuals. It is like a 
 sort of blind patience when you come to that — they 
 make excuses even for Uncle Robert, to whom they 
 have paid rent all these years for a cottage which is a 
 crime — yes, a crime ! The woman must have been 
 such a pretty creature — and refined too. She is con- 
 sumptive, of course — what else could you expect with 
 that cottage and that food ? So is the eldest boy — a 
 little white atomy ! And the other children. Talk of 
 London — I never saw such sickly objects as there are 
 in this village. Twelve shillings a week, and work 
 about half the year ! Oh ! they ojight to hate us ! — I 
 try to make them," cried Marcella, her eyes gleaming. 
 "They ought to hate all of us landowners, and the 
 whole wicked system. It keeps them from the land 
 which they ought to be sharing with us ; it makes one 
 man master, instead of all men brothers. And who is
 
 MARCELLA. 63 
 
 fit to be master? Which of us? Everybody is so 
 ready to take the charge of other people's lives, and 
 then look at the result ! " 
 
 " Well, the result, even in rural England, is not 
 always so bad," said Aldous Raeburn, smiling a little, 
 but more coldly. INIarcella, glancing at him, under- 
 stood in a moment that she had roused a certain fam- 
 ily and class pride in him — a pride which was not 
 going to assert itself, but none the less implied the 
 sudden opening of a gTilf between herself and him. 
 In an instant her quick imagination realised herself 
 as the daughter and niece of two discredited members 
 of a great class. When she attacked the class, or the 
 system, the man beside her — any man in similar cir- 
 cumstances — must naturally think : " Ah, well, poor 
 girl — Dick Boyce's daughter — what can you expect ? " 
 W^hereas — Aldous Eaeburn ! — she thought of the dig- 
 nity of the Maxwell name, of the width of the Max- 
 well possessions, balanced only by the high reputation 
 of the family for honourable, just and Christian liv- 
 ing, whether as amongst themselves or towards their 
 neighbours and dependents. A shiver of passionate 
 vanity, wrath, and longing passed through her as her 
 tall frame stiffened. 
 
 "There are model squires, of course," she said 
 slowly, striving at least for a personal dignity which 
 should match his. " There are plenty of landowners 
 who do their duty as they understand it — no one 
 denies that. But that does not affect the system ; 
 the grandson of the best man may be the worst, but 
 his one-man power remains the same. No ! the time 
 has come for a wider basis. Paternal government and
 
 64 MARCELLA. 
 
 charity were very well in their way — democratic self- 
 government will manage to do without them !" 
 
 She flung him a gay, quivering, defiant look. It 
 delighted her to pit these wide and threatening gener- 
 alisations against the Maxwell power — to show the 
 heir of it that she at least — father or no father — 
 was no hereditary subject of his, and bound to no 
 blind admiration of the Maxwell methods and posi- 
 tion. 
 
 Aldous Raeburn took her onslaught very calmly, 
 smiling frankly back at her indeed all the time. Miss 
 Boyce's opinions could hardly matter to him intel- 
 lectually, whatever charm and stimulus he might 
 find in her talk. This subject of the duties, rights, 
 and prospects of his class went, as it happened, 
 very deep with him — too deep for chance discussion. 
 What she said, if he ever stopped to think of it in 
 itself, seemed to him a compound of elements derived 
 partly from her personal history, partly from the ran- 
 dom opinions that young people of a generous type 
 pick up from newspapers and magazines. She had 
 touched his family pride for an instant ; but only for 
 an instant. What he was abidingly conscious of, was 
 of a beautiful wild creature struggling with difficulties 
 in which he was somehow himself concerned, and out 
 of which, in some way or other, he was becoming more 
 and more determined — absurdly determined — to help 
 her. 
 
 " Oh ! no doubt the world will do very well without 
 us some day," he said lightly, in answer to her tirade ; 
 " no one is indispensable. But are you so sure, ]\Iiss 
 Boyce, you believe in your own creed ? I thought I
 
 MARCELLA. 65 
 
 had observed — pardon me for saying it — on the two 
 or three occasions we have met, some degenerate signs 
 of individualism ? You take pleasure in the old place, 
 you say ; you were delighted to come and live Avhere 
 your ancestors lived before you ; you are full of desires 
 to pull these poor people out of the mire in your 
 own way. No ! I don't feel that you are thorough- 
 going ! " 
 
 Marcella paused a frowning moment, then broke 
 suddenly into a delightful laugh — a laugh of humorous 
 confession, which changed her whole look and mood. 
 
 '^ Is that all you have noticed ? If you wish to 
 know, ^Ir. Raeburn, I love the labourers for touching 
 their hats to me. I love the school children for bob- 
 bing to me. I love my very self — ridiculous as you 
 may think it — for being Miss Boyce of Mellor!" 
 
 " Don't say things like that, please ! " he inter- 
 rupted; "1 think I have not deserved them." 
 
 His tone made her repent her gibe. '' ^o, indeed, 
 you have been most kind to me," she cried. " I don't 
 know how it is. I am bitter and personal in a mo- 
 ment — when I don't mean to be. Yes ! you are quite 
 right. I am proud of it all. If nobody comes to see 
 us, and we are left all alone out in the cold, I shall 
 still have room enough to be proud in — proud of the 
 old house and our few bits of pictures, and the family 
 papers, and the beeches ! How absurd it would seem 
 to other people, Avho have so much more I But I have 
 had so little — so little ! " Her voice had a hungry 
 lingering note. " And as for the people, yes, I am 
 proud too that they like me, and that already I can 
 influence them. Oh, I will do my best for them, my 
 
 VOL. I. —5
 
 66 MAR CELL A. 
 
 very best ! But it will be hard, very hard, if there is 
 no one to help me ! " 
 
 She heaved a long sigh. In spite of the words, 
 what she had said did not seem to be an appeal for his 
 ]3ity. Eather there was in it a sweet self-dedicating 
 note as of one going sadly alone to a painful task, 
 a note which once more left Aldous Haeburn's self- 
 restraint tottering. She was walking gently beside 
 him, her pretty dress trailing lightly over the dr}^ 
 stubble, her hand in its white ruffles hanging so close 
 beside him — after all her prophetess airs a pensive 
 womanly thing, that must surely hear how his strong 
 man's heart was beginning to beat ! 
 
 He bent over to her. 
 
 " Don't talk of there being no one to help ! There 
 may be many ways out of present difficulties. Mean- 
 while, however things go, could you be large-minded 
 enough to count one person here your friend ? " 
 
 She looked up at him. Tall as she was, he was 
 taller — she liked that ; she liked too the quiet cautious 
 strength of his English expression and bearing. She 
 did not think him handsome, and she was conscious of 
 no thrill. But inwardly her quick dramatising imag- 
 ination was already constructing her own future and 
 his. The ambition to rule leapt in her, and the delight 
 in conquest. It was with a delicious sense of her own 
 power, and of the general fulness of her new life, that 
 she said, " I am large-minded enough ! You have been 
 very kind, and I have been very wild and indiscreet. 
 But I don't regret: I am sure, if you can help me, 
 you will." 
 
 There was a little pause. They were standing at
 
 MARCELLA. 67 
 
 the last gate before the miry village road began, and 
 almost in sight of the little vicarage. Aldous Eae- 
 burn, with his hand on the gate, suddenly gathered a 
 spra}^ of travellers'- joy out of the hedge beside him. 
 
 " That was a promise, I think, and I keep the 
 pledge of it," he said, and with a smile put the cluster 
 of white seed-tufts and green leaves into one of the 
 pockets of his shooting jacket. 
 
 " Oh, don't tie me down ! " said Marcella, laughing, 
 but flushing also. "And don't you think, Mr. Eae- 
 burn, that you might open that gate? At least, we 
 can't get the scissors and the wire unless you do."
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 The autumn evening was far advanced when Aldous 
 Eaeburn, after his day's shooting, passed again by the 
 gates of Mellor Park on his road home. He glanced 
 up the ill-kept drive, with its fine overhanging limes, 
 caught a glimpse to the left of the little church, and 
 to the right, of the long eastern front of the house ; 
 lingered" a moment to watch the sunset light stream- 
 ing through the level branches of two distant cedars, 
 standing black and sharp against the fiery west, and 
 then walked briskly forwards in the mood of a man 
 going as fast as may be to an appointment he both 
 desires and dreads. 
 
 He had given his giin to the keeper, who had 
 already sped far ahead of him, in the shooting-cart 
 which his master had declined. His dog, a black 
 retriever, was at his heels, and both dog and man 
 were somewhat weary and stiff with exercise. But 
 for the privilege of solitude, Aldous Eaeburn would 
 at that moment have faced a good deal more than the 
 two miles of extra walking Avhich now lay between 
 him and Maxwell Court. 
 
 About him, as he trudged on, lay a beautiful world 
 of English woodland. After he had passed through 
 the hamlet of Mellor, with its three-cornered piece of 
 open common, and its patches of arable — represent-
 
 MABCELLA. 69 
 
 ing the original forest-clearing raade centuries ago by 
 the primitive fathers of the village in this corner of 
 the Chiltern uplands — the beech woods closed thickly 
 round him. Beech woods of all kinds — from forest 
 slopes, where majestic trees, grey and soaring pillars 
 of the woodland roof, stood in stately isolation on the 
 dead-leaf carpet woven by the years about their carved 
 and polished bases, to the close plantations of young 
 trees, where the saplings crowded on each other, and 
 here and there amid the airless tangle of leaf and 
 branch some long pheasant-drive, cut straight through 
 the green heart of the wood, refreshed the seeking 
 eye with its arched and far-receding path. Two or 
 three times on his walk Aldous heard from far within 
 the trees the sounds of hatchet and turner's wheel, 
 which told him he was passing one of the wood- 
 cutter's huts that in the hilly parts of this district 
 supply the first simple steps of the chairmaking in- 
 dustry, carried on in the little factory towns of the 
 more populous valleys. And two or three times also 
 he passed a string of the great timber carts which 
 haunt the Chiltern lanes ; the patient team of brown 
 horses straining at the weight behind them, the vast 
 prostrate trunks rattling in their chains, and the 
 smoke from the carters' pipes rising slowly into the 
 damp sunset air. But for the most part the road 
 along which he walked was utterly forsaken of human 
 kind. Xor were there any signs of habitation — no 
 cottages, no farms. He was scarcely more than thirty 
 miles from London ; yet in this solemn evening glow 
 it would have been hardly possible to find a remoter, 
 lonelier nature than that through which he was 
 passing.
 
 70 MABCELLA. 
 
 And presently the solitude took a grander note. He 
 was nearing the edge of the high upland along Avhich 
 he had been walking. In front of him the long road 
 with its gleaming pools bent sharply to the left, show- 
 ing pale and distinct against a darkening heaven and 
 the wide grey fields which had now, on one side of his 
 path, replaced the serried growth of young plantations. 
 Night was fast advancing from south and east over the 
 upland. But straight in front of him and on his right, 
 the forest trees, still flooded with sunset, fell in sharp 
 steeps towards the plain. Through their straight 
 stems glowed the blues and purples of that lower 
 world ; and when the slopes broke and opened here 
 and there, above the rounded masses of their red and 
 golden leaf the level distances of the plain could be 
 seen stretching away, illimitable in the evening dusk, 
 to a west of glory, just vacant of the sun. The golden 
 ball had sunk into the mists awaiting it, but the splen- 
 dour of its last rays was still on all the western front 
 of the hills, bathing the beech woods as they rose and 
 fell with the large undulations of the ground. 
 
 Insensibly Raeburn, filled as he was with a new and 
 siu-ging emotion, drew the solemnity of the forest 
 glades and of the rolling distances into his heart. 
 When he reached the point where the road diverged 
 to the left, he mounted a little grassy ridge, whence 
 he commanded the whole sweep of the hill rampart 
 from north to west, and the whole expanse of the low 
 country beneath, and there stood gazing for some min- 
 utes, lost in many thoughts, while the night fell. 
 
 He looked over the central plain of England — the 
 plain which stretches westward to the Thames and the
 
 MAR CELL A. 71 
 
 Berkshire hills, and northward through the Bucking- 
 hamshire and Bedfordshire lowlands to the basin of 
 the Trent. An historic plain — symbolic, all of it, to 
 an English eye. There in the western distance, amid 
 the light-filled mists, lay Oxford ; in front of him was 
 the site of Chalgrove Field, where Hampden got his 
 clumsy death wound, and Thame, where he died ; and 
 far away, to his right, where the hills swept to the 
 north, he could just discern, gleaming against the face 
 of the down, the vast scoured cross, whereby a Saxon 
 king had blazoned his victory over his Danish foes to 
 all the plain beneath. 
 
 Aldous Eaeburn Avas a man to feel these things. 
 He had seldom stood on this high point, in such an 
 evening calm, without the expansion in him of all that 
 was most manly, most English, most strenuous. If it 
 had not been so, indeed, he must have been singularly 
 dull of soul. For the great view had an interest for 
 him personally it could hardly have possessed to the 
 same degree for any other man. On his left hand 
 Maxwell Court rose among its woods on the brow of 
 the hill — a splendid pile which some day would be 
 his. Behind him ; through all the upland he had just 
 traversed ; beneath the point where he stood ; along 
 the sides of the hills, and far into the plain, stretched 
 the land which also would be his — which, indeed, 
 practically was already his — for his grandfather was 
 an old man with a boundless trust in the heir on 
 whom his affections and hopes were centred. The 
 dim churches scattered over the immediate plain 
 below; the villages clustered round them, where 
 dwelt the toilers in these endless fields : the farms
 
 72 MARCELLA. 
 
 amid their trees ; the cottages showing here and there 
 on the fringes of the wood — all the equipment and 
 organisation of popular life over an appreciable part 
 of the English midland at his feet, depended to an 
 extent hardly to be exaggerated, under the conditions 
 of the England of to-day, upon him — upon his one 
 man's brain and conscience, the degree of his mental 
 and moral capacity. 
 
 In his first youth, of course, the thought had often 
 roused a boy's tremulous elation and sense of romance. 
 Since his Cambridge days, and of late years, any more 
 acute or dramatic perception than usual of his lot in 
 life had been wont to bring with it rather a conscious- 
 ness of weight than of inspiration. Sensitive, fastidi- 
 ous, reflective, he was disturbed by remorses and scru- 
 ples which had never plagued his forefathers. During 
 his college days, the special circumstances of a great 
 friendship had drawn him into the full tide of a social 
 speculation which, as it happened, was destined to go 
 deeper with him than with most men. The responsi- 
 bilities of the rich, the disadvantages of the poor, the 
 relation of the State to the individual — of the old 
 Eadical dogma of free contract to the thwarting facts 
 of social inequality ; the Tory ideal of paternal gov- 
 ernment by the few as compared with the Liberal 
 ideal of self-government by the many : these common- 
 places of economical and political discussion had very 
 early become living and often sore realities in Aldous 
 Eaeburn's mind, because of the long conflict in him, 
 dating from his Cambridge life, between the influences 
 of birth and early education and the influences of an 
 admiring and profound affection which had opened to 
 him the gates of a new moral world.
 
 MAR CELL A. 73 
 
 Towards the close of his first year at Trinity, a 
 young man joined the college who rapidly became, in 
 spite of various practical disadvantages, a leader among 
 the best and keenest of his fellows. He was poor and 
 held a small scholarship ; but it was soon plain that 
 his health was not equal to the Tripos routine, and 
 that the prizes of the place, brilliant as was his intel- 
 lectual endowment, were not for him. After an inward 
 struggle, of which none perhaps but Aldous Kaeburn 
 had any exact knowledge, he laid aside his first ambi- 
 tions and turned himself to another career. A couple 
 of hours' serious brainwork in the day was all that 
 was ever possible to him henceforward. He spent it, 
 as well as the thoughts and conversation of his less 
 strenuous moments, on the study of history and soci- 
 ology, with a view to joining the staff of lecturers 
 for the manufacturing and country towns which the 
 two great Universities, touched by new and popular 
 sympathies, were then beginning to organise. He came 
 of a stock which promised well for such a pioneer's 
 task. His father had been an able factory inspector, 
 well-known for his share in^the inauguration and re- 
 vision of certain important factory reforms ; the son 
 inherited a passionate humanity of soul; and added 
 to it a magnetic and personal charm which soon made 
 him a remarkable power, not only in his own college, 
 but among the finer spirits of the University generally. 
 He had the gift which enables a man, sitting perhaps 
 after dinner in a mixed society of his college contem- 
 poraries, to lead the way imperceptibly from the casual 
 subjects of the hour — the river, the dons, the schools 
 — to arguments '• of great pith and moment," discus-
 
 74 MARCELLA. 
 
 sions that search the moral and intellectual powers of 
 the men concerned to the utmost, without exciting dis- 
 trust or any but an argumentative opposition. Edward 
 Hallin could do this without a pose, without a false 
 note, nay, rather by the natural force of a boyish in- 
 tensity and simplicity. To many a Trinity man in 
 after life the memory of his slight figure and fair 
 head, of the eager slightly parted mouth, of the eyes 
 glowing with some inward vision, and of the gesture 
 with which he would spring up at some critical point 
 to deliver himself, standing amid his seated and often 
 dissentient auditors, came back vivid and ineffaceable 
 as only youth can make the image of its prophets. 
 
 Upon Aldous Eaeburn, Edward Hallin produced 
 from the first a deep impression. The interests to 
 which Hallin's mind soon became exclusively devoted 
 — such as the systematic study of English poverty, 
 or of the relation of religion to social life, reforms of 
 the land and of the Church — overflowed upon E,ae- 
 burn with a kindling and disturbing force. Edward 
 Hallin was his gad-fly ; and he had no resource, 
 because he loved his tormentor. 
 
 Fundamentally, the two men were widely different. 
 Eaeburn was a true son of his fathers, possessed by 
 natural inheritance of the finer instincts of aristocratic 
 rule, including a deep contempt for mob-reason and 
 all the vulgarities of popular rhetoric; steeped, too, 
 in a number of subtle prejudices, and in a silent but 
 intense pride of family of the nobler sort. He fol- 
 lowed with disquiet and distrust the quick motions 
 and conclusions of Hallin's intellect. Temperament 
 and the Cambridge discix^line made him a fastidious
 
 MAR CELL A. 15 
 
 thinker and a fine scholar ; his mind worked slowly, 
 yet with a delicate precision ; and his generally cold 
 manner was the natural protection of feelings which 
 had never yet, except in the case of his friendship 
 with Edward Hallin, led him to much personal happi- 
 ness. 
 
 Hallin left Cambridge after a pass degree to become 
 lecturer on industrial and economical questions in the 
 northern English towns. Eaeburn stayed on a year 
 longer, found himself third classic and the winner of 
 a Greek verse prize, and then, sacrificing the idea of 
 a fellowship, returned to Maxwell Court to be his 
 grandfather's companion and helper in the work of 
 the estate, his family proposing that, after a few 
 years' practical experience of the life and occupations 
 of a country gentleman, he should enter Parliament 
 and make a career in politics. Since then five or six 
 years had passed, during which he had learned to 
 know the estate thoroughly, and to take his normal 
 share in the business and pleasures of the neighbour- 
 hood. For the last two years he had been his grand- 
 father's sole agent, a poor-law guardian and magistrate 
 besides, and a member of most of the various commit- 
 tees for social and educational purposes in the county. 
 He was a sufficiently keen sportsman to save appear- 
 ances with his class; enjoyed a walk after the par- 
 tridges indeed, with a friend or two, as much as most 
 men ; and played the host at the two or three great 
 battues of the year with a propriety which his grand- 
 father however no longer mistook for enthusiasm. 
 There was nothing much to distinguish him from any 
 other able man of his rank. His nei<?hbours felt him
 
 76 MARCELLA. 
 
 to be a personality, but thought him reserved and 
 difficult; he was respected, but he was not popular 
 like his grandfather; people speculated as to how 
 he would get on in Parliament, or whom he was to 
 marry ; but, except to the dwellers in Maxwell Court 
 itself, or of late to the farmers and labourers on 
 the estate, it would not have mattered much to any- 
 body if he had not been there. Nobody ever con- 
 nected any romantic thought with him. There was 
 something in his strong build, pale but healthy 
 aquiline face, his inconspicuous brown eyes and 
 hair, which seemed from the beginning to mark him 
 out as the ordinary earthy dweller in an earthy 
 world. 
 
 Nevertheless, these years had been to Aldous Kae- 
 burn years marked by an expansion and deepening of 
 the whole man, such as few are capable of. Edward 
 Hallin's visits to the Court, the walking tours which 
 brought the two friends together almost every year in 
 Switzerland or the Highlands, the course of a full 
 and intimate correspondence, and the various calls 
 made for public purposes by the enthusiast and pioneer 
 upon the pocket and social power of the rich man — 
 these things and influences, together, of course, with 
 the pressure of an environing w^orld, ever more real, 
 and, on the whole, ever more oppressive, as it was 
 better understood, had confronted Aldous E-aeburn 
 before now with a good many teasing problems of 
 conduct and experience. His tastes, his sympathies, 
 his affinities were all with the old order ; but the old 
 faiths — economical, social, religious — were ferment- 
 ing within him in different stages of disintegration
 
 MARCELLA. 77 
 
 and reconstruction ; and his reserved habit and often 
 solitary life tended to scrupulosity and over-refine- 
 ment. His future career as a landowner and politi- 
 cian was by no means clear to him. One thing only 
 was clear to him — that to dogmatise about any sub- 
 ject under heaven, at the present day, more than 
 the immediate practical occasion absolutely demanded, 
 was the act of an idiot. 
 
 So that Aldous Eaeburn's moments of reflection 
 had been constantly mixed with struggle of different 
 kinds. And the particular point of view where he 
 stood on this September evening had been often asso- 
 ciated in his memory with flashes of self-realisation 
 which were, on the whole, more of a torment to him 
 than a joy. If he had not been Aldous Raeburn, or 
 any other person, tied to a particular individuality, 
 with a particular place and label in the world, the 
 task of the analytic mind, in face of the spectacle of 
 what is, would have been a more possible one ! — so it 
 had often seemed to him. 
 
 But to-night all this cumbering consciousness, all 
 these self-made doubts and worries, had for the moment 
 dropped clean away ! A transfigured man it was that 
 lingered at the old spot — a man once more young, 
 divining with enchantment the approach of passion, 
 feeling at last through all his being the ecstasy of a 
 self-surrender, long missed, long hungered for. 
 
 Six weeks was it since he had first seen her — this 
 tall, straight, Marcella Boyce ? He shut his eyes 
 impatiently against the disturbing golds and purples 
 of the sunset, and tried to see her again as she had 
 walked beside him across the church fields, in that
 
 78 MARC ELL A. 
 
 thin black dress, with the shadow of the hat across 
 her brow and eyes — the small Avhite teeth flashing as 
 she talked and smiled, the hand so ready with its 
 gesture, so restless, so alive ! What a presence — how 
 absorbing, troubling, preoccupying ! i^o one in her 
 company could forget her — nay, could fail to observe 
 her. What ease and daring, and yet no hardness with 
 it — rather deep on deep of womanly weakness, soft- 
 ness, passion, beneath it all ! 
 
 How straight she had flung her questions at him ! 
 — her most awkward embarrassing questions. What 
 other woman would have dared such candour — unless 
 perhaps as a stroke of fine art — he had known women 
 indeed who could have done it so. But where could 
 be the art, the policy, he asked himself indignantly, in 
 the sudden outburst of a young girl pleading with her 
 companion's sense of truth and good feeling in behalf 
 of those nearest to her ? 
 
 As to her dilemma itself, in his excitement he 
 thought of it with nothing but the purest pleasure ! 
 She had let him see that she did not expect him to be 
 able to do much for her, though she was readj^ to 
 believe him her friend. Ah well — he drew a long 
 breath. For once, Eaeburn, strange compound that 
 he was of the man of rank and the philosopher, remem- 
 bered his own social power and position with an 
 exultant satisfaction. Xo doubt Dick Boyce had mis- 
 behaved himself badly — the strength of Lord Max- 
 well's feeling was sufiicient proof thereof. No doubt 
 the "county," as Eaeburn himself knew, in some 
 detail, were disposed to leave Mellor Park severely 
 alone. What of that ? AYas it for nothing that the
 
 MARCELLA. 79 
 
 Maxwells had been for generations at the head of 
 the " count}^/' i.e. of that circle of neighbouring fam- 
 ilies connected by the ties of ancestral friendship, or 
 of intermarriage, on whom in this purely agricultural 
 and rural district the social pleasure and comfort of 
 Miss Boyce and her mother must depend ? 
 
 He, like Marcella, did not believe that Eichard 
 Boyce's olfences were of the quite unpardonable 
 order; although, owing to a certain absent and pre- 
 occupied temper, he had never yet taken the trouble 
 to enquire into them in detail. As to any real resto- 
 ration of cordiality between the owner of Mellor and 
 his father's old friends and connections, that of course 
 was not to be looked for ; but there should be decent 
 social recognition, and — in the case of Mrs. Boyce and 
 her daughter — there should be homage and warm wel- 
 come, simply because she wished it, and it was absurd 
 she should not have it ! Raeburn, whose mind was or- 
 dinarily destitute of the most elementary capacity for 
 social intrigue, began to plot in detail how it should 
 be done. He relied first upon winning his grand- 
 father — his popular distinguished grandfather, whose 
 lightest word had weight in Brookshire. And then, 
 he himself had two or three women friends in the 
 county — not more, for women had not occupied 
 much place in his thoughts till now. But they were 
 good friends, and, from the social point, of view, im- 
 portant. He would set them if) work at once. These 
 things should be chiefly managed by women. 
 
 But no patronage ! She would never bear that, the 
 glancing proud creature. She must guess, indeed, let 
 him tread as delicately as he might, that he and others
 
 80 MAR CELL A. 
 
 were at work for her. But oh ! she should be softly 
 handled; as far as he could achieve it, she should, in 
 a very little while, live and breathe compassed with 
 warm airs of good-will and consideration. 
 
 He felt himself happy, amazingh^ happy, that at 
 the very beginning of his love, it should thus be open 
 to him, in these trivial, foolish ways, to please and 
 befriend her. Her social dilemma and discomfort one 
 moment, indeed, made him sore for her; the next, 
 they were a kind of joy, since it was they gave him 
 this opportunity to put out a strong right arm. 
 
 Everything about her at this moment was divine 
 and lovely to him; all the qualities of her rich uneven 
 youth which she had shown in their short intercourse 
 
 — her rashness, her impulsiveness, her generosity. 
 Let her but trust herself to him, and she should try 
 her social experiments as she pleased — she should 
 plan Utopias, and he would be her hodman to build 
 them. The man perplexed with too much thinking 
 remembered the girl's innocent, ignorant readiness to 
 stamp the world's stuff anew after the forms of her 
 own pitying thought, with a positive thirst of sympa- 
 thy. The deep poetry and ideality at the root of him 
 under all the weight of intellectual and critical debate 
 leapt towards her. He thought of the rapid talk she 
 had poured out upon him, after their compact of 
 friendship, in their walk back to the church, of her 
 enthusiasm for her SoJialist friends and their ideals, 
 
 — with a momentary madness of self-suppression and 
 tender humility. In reality, a man like Aldous Kae- 
 burn is born to be the judge and touchstone of natures 
 like Marcella Boyce. But the illusion of passion
 
 MABCELLA. 81 
 
 may deal as disturbingly with moral rank as with 
 social. 
 
 It was his first love. Years before, in the vacation 
 before he went to college, his boyish mind had been 
 crossed by a fancy for a pretty cousin a little older 
 than himself, who had been very kind indeed to Lord 
 Maxwell's heir. But then came Cambridge, the flow 
 of a new mental life, his friendship for Edward Hallin, 
 and the beginnings of a moral storm and stress. When 
 he and the cousin next met, he was quite cold to her. 
 She seemed to him a pretty piece of millinery, en- 
 dowed with a trick of parrot phrases. She, on her 
 part, thought him detestable ; she married shortly 
 afterwards, and often spoke to her husband in pri- 
 vate of her '^ escape " from that queer fellow Aldous 
 Eaeburn. 
 
 Since then he had known plenty of pretty and 
 charming women, both in London and in the country, 
 and had made friends with some of them in his quiet 
 serious way. But none of them had roused in him 
 even a passing thrill of passion. He had despised 
 himself for it ; had told himself again and again that 
 he was but half a man — 
 
 Ah! he had done himself injustice — he had done 
 himself injustice ! 
 
 Hie heart was light as air. When at last the sound 
 of a clock striking in the plain roused him with a 
 start, and he sprang up from the heap of stones where 
 he had been sitting in the dusk, he bent down a mo- 
 ment to give a gay caress to his dog, and then trudged 
 off briskly home, whistling under the emerging stars. 
 
 VOL. I. — 6
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 By the time, however, that Alclous Raeburn came 
 within sight of the windows of Maxwell Court his first 
 exaltation had sobered down. The lover had fallen, 
 for the time, into the background, and the capable, 
 serious man of thirty, with a considerable experience 
 of the world behind him, was perfectly conscious that 
 there were many difficulties in his path. He could not 
 induce his grandfather to move in the matter of Eichard 
 Boyce without a statement of his own feelings and 
 aims. Nor would he have avoided frankness if he 
 could. On every ground it was his grandfather's due. 
 The Eaeburns were reserved toAvards the rest of the 
 world, but amongst themselves there had always been 
 a fine tradition of mutual trust ; and Lord Maxwell 
 amply deserved that at this particular moment his 
 grandson should maintain it. 
 
 But Eaeburn could not and did not flatter himself 
 that his grandfather would, to begin with, receive his 
 news even with toleration. The grim satisfaction with 
 which that note about the shooting had been de- 
 spatched, was very clear in the grandson's memory. 
 At the same time it said much for the history of those 
 long years during which the old man and his heir had 
 been left to console each other for the terrible bereave- 
 ments which had thrown them together, that Aldous 
 
 82
 
 MARCELLA. 83 
 
 Eaebiirn never for an instant feared the kind of vio- 
 lent outburst and opposition that other men in similar 
 circumstances might have looked forward to. The 
 just living of a life-time makes a man incapable of any 
 mere selfish handling of another's interests — a fact 
 on which the bystander may reckon. 
 
 It was quite dark by the time he entered the large 
 open-roofed hall of the Court. 
 
 " Is his lordship in ? " he asked of a passing foot- 
 man. 
 
 " Yes, sir — in the library. He has been asking for 
 you, sir." 
 
 Aldous turned to the right along the fine corridor 
 lighted with Tudor windows to an inner quadrangle, 
 and filled with Graeco-Eoman statuary and sarcophagi, 
 which made one of the principal features of the Court. 
 The great house was warm and scented, and the various 
 open doors which he passed on his way to the library 
 disclosed large fire-lit rooms, with panelling, tapestry, 
 pictures, books everywhere. The colour of the whole 
 w^as dim and rich ; antiquity, refinement reigned, to- 
 gether with an exquisite quiet and order. No one was 
 to be seen, and not a voice was to be heard; but there 
 was no impression of solitude. These warm, darkly- 
 glowing rooms seemed to be waiting for the return of 
 guests just gone out of them; not one of them but 
 had an air of cheerful company. For once, as he w^alked 
 through it, Aldous Eaeburn spared the old house an 
 affectionate possessive thought. Its size and wealth, 
 with all that both implied, had often weighed upon him. 
 To-night his breath quickened as he passed the range 
 of family portraits leading to the library door. There
 
 84 MABCELLA. 
 
 was a vacant space here and there — "room for your 
 missus, too, my boy, when you get her ! " as his grand- 
 father had once put it. 
 
 " Why, you've had a long day, Aldous, all by your- 
 self," said Lord Maxwell, turning sharply round at 
 the sound of the opening door. ^'What's kept you so 
 late?" 
 
 His spectacles fell forward as he spoke, and the old 
 man shut them in his hand, peering at his grandson 
 through the shadows of the room. He was sitting by 
 a huge fire, an "Edinburgh E-eview " open on his knee. 
 Lamp and fire-light showed a finely-carried head, with 
 a high wave of snowy hair thrown back, a long face 
 delicately sharp in the lines, and an attitude instinct 
 with the alertness of an unimpaired bodily vigour. 
 
 "The birds were scarce, and we followed them a 
 good way," said Aldous, as he came up to the fire. 
 "Eickman kept me on the farm, too, a good while, 
 with interminable screeds about the things he wants 
 done for him." 
 
 " Oh, there is no end to Rickman," said Lord Max- 
 well, good-humouredly. "He pays his rent for the 
 amusement of getting it back again. Landowning 
 will soon be the most disinterested form of philan- 
 thropy known to mankind. But I have some news 
 for you ! Here is a letter from Barton by the second 
 post" — he named an old friend of his own, and a 
 Cabinet Minister of the day. " Look at it. You will 
 see he says they can't possibly carry on beyond Janu- 
 ary. Half their men are becoming unmanageable, and 
 S 's bill, to which they are committed, will cer- 
 tainly dish them. Parliament will meet in January,
 
 MABCELLA. 85 
 
 and he thinks an amendment to the Address will 
 finish it. All this confidential, of course ; but he saw- 
 no harm in letting me know. So now, my boy, you 
 will have your work cut out for you this winter ! 
 Two or three evenings a week — you'll not get off 
 with less. ^STobody's plum drops into his mouth now- 
 adays. Barton tells me, too, that he hears young 
 Wharton will certainly stand for the Durnford divi- 
 sion, and will be down upon us directly. He will 
 make himself as disagreeable to us and the Levens as 
 he can — that we may be sure of. We may be thank- 
 ful for one small mercy, that his mother has departed 
 this life ! otherwise you and I would have known 
 furens quid feniina i^sset ! " 
 
 The old man looked up at his grandson with a 
 humorous eye. Aldous was standing absently before 
 the fire, and did not reply immediately. 
 
 " Come, come, Aldous ! " said Lord Maxwell with 
 a touch of impatience, " don't overdo the philosopher. 
 Though I am getting old, the next Government can't 
 deny me a finger in the pie. You and I between us 
 will be able to pull through two or three of the things 
 we care about in the next House, with ordinary luck. 
 It is my firm belief that the next election will give 
 our side the best chance we have had for half a gen- 
 eration. Throw up your cap, sir ! The world may be 
 made of green cheese, but we have got to live in 
 it!" 
 
 Aldous smiled suddenly — uncontrollably — with a 
 look which left his grandfather staring. He had been 
 appealing to the man of maturity standing on the 
 threshold of a possibly considerable career, and, as he
 
 86 MARCELLA. 
 
 did so, it was as thougii lie saw the boy of eighteen 
 reappear ! 
 
 " Je ne demande pas mieux!'' said Aldous with a 
 quick lift of the voice above its ordinary key. " The 
 fact is, grandfather, I have come home with something 
 in my mind very different from politics — and you 
 must give me time to change the focus. I did not 
 come home as straight as I might — for I wanted to be 
 sure of myself before I spoke to you. During the last 
 few weeks — " 
 
 " Go on ! '^ cried Lord Maxwell. 
 
 But Aldous did not find it easy to go on. It sud- 
 denly struck him that it was after all absurd that he 
 should be confiding in any one at such a stage, and his 
 tongue stumbled. 
 
 But he had gone too far for retreat. Lord Maxwell 
 sprang up and seized him by the arms. 
 
 " You are in love, sir ! Out with it ! " 
 
 " I have seen the only woman in the world I have 
 ever wished to marry," said Aldous, flushing, but with 
 deliberation. " Whether she will ever have me, I have 
 no idea. But I can conceive no greater happiness than 
 to win her. And as I want you, grandfather, to do 
 something for her and for me, it seemed to me I had 
 no right to keep my feelings to myself. Besides, I 
 am not accustomed to — to — " His voice wavered a 
 little. " You have treated me as more than a son ! " 
 
 Lord Maxwell pressed his arm affectionately. 
 
 " My dear boy ! But don't keep me on tenterhooks 
 like this — tell me the name ! — the name ! " 
 
 And two or three long meditated possibilities flashed 
 through the old man's mind. 
 
 Aldous replied with a certain slow stiffness —
 
 MARCELLA. 87 
 
 "Marcella Boyce ! — Eicliard Boyce's daughter. I 
 saw her first six weeks ago." 
 
 "God bless my soul!" exclaimed Lord Maxwell, 
 falling back a step or two, and staring at his companion. 
 Aldoiis watched him with anxiety. 
 
 " You know that fellow's history, Aldous ? " 
 
 " Eichard Boyce ? ISTot in detail. If you will tell 
 me now all you know, it will be a help. Of course, I 
 see that you and the neighbourhood mean to cut him, 
 — and — for the sake of — of Miss Boyce and her 
 mother, I should be glad to find a way out." 
 
 " Good heavens ! " said Lord Maxwell, beginning to 
 pace the room, hands pressed behind him, head bent. 
 " Good heavens ! what a business ! what an extraordi- 
 nary business ! " 
 
 He stopped short in front of Aldous. " Where have 
 you been meeting her — this young lady ? " 
 
 "At the Hardens' — sometimes in Mellor village. 
 She goes about among the cottages a great deal." 
 
 " You have not proposed to her ? " 
 
 " I was not certain of myself till to-day. Besides 
 it would have been presumption so far. She has 
 shown me nothing but the merest friendliness." 
 
 " What, you can suppose she would refuse you ! " 
 cried Lord Maxwell, and could not for the life of him 
 keep the sarcastic intonation out of his voice. 
 
 Aldous's look showed distress. "You have not seen 
 her, grandfather," he said quietly. 
 
 Lord Maxwell began to pace again, trying to restrain 
 the painful emotion that filled him. Of course, Aldous 
 had been entrapped ; the girl had played upon his pity, 
 his chivalry — for obvious reasons.
 
 88 MARCELLA. 
 
 Aldous tried to soothe him, to explain, but Lord 
 Maxwell hardly listened. At last he threw himself 
 into his chair again with a long breath. 
 
 "Give me time, Aldous — give me time. The 
 thought of marrying my heir to that man's daughter 
 knocks me over a little." 
 
 There was silence again. Then Lord Maxwell looked 
 at his watch with old-fashioned precision. 
 
 "There is half an hour before dinner. Sit down, 
 and let us talk this thing out." 
 
 The conversation thus started, however, was only 
 begun by dinner-time ; was resumed after Miss Kae- 
 burn — the small, shrewd, bright-eyed person who gov- 
 erned Lord Maxwell's household — had withdrawn; 
 and was continued in the library some time beyond 
 his lordship's usual retiring hour. It was for the most 
 part a monologue on the part of the grandfather, 
 broken by occasional words from his companion ; and 
 for some time Marcella Boyce herself — the woman 
 whom Aldous desired to marry — was hardly men- 
 tioned in it. Oppressed and tormented by a surprise 
 which struck, or seemed to strike, at some of his most 
 cherished ideals and just resentments. Lord Maxwell 
 was bent upon letting his grandson know, in all their 
 fulness, the reasons why no daughter of Richard Boyce 
 could ever be, in the true sense, fit wife for a Eae- 
 burn. 
 
 Aldous was, of course, perfectly familiar with the 
 creed implied in it all. A Maxwell should give him- 
 self no airs whatever, should indeed feel no pride 
 whatever, towards "men of goodwill," whether peas-
 
 MABCELLA. 89 
 
 ant, professional, or noble. Such airs or such feeling 
 would be both vulgar and unchristian. But when it 
 came to marriage, then it behoved him to see that 
 " the family " — that carefully grafted and selected 
 stock to which he owed so much — should suffer no 
 loss or deterioration through him. Marriage with the 
 fit woman meant for a Eaeburn the preservation of a 
 pure blood, of a dignified and honourable family habit, 
 and moreover the securing to his children such an 
 atmosphere of self-respect within, and of consideration 
 from without, as he had himself grown up in. And 
 a woman could not be fit, in this sense, who came 
 either of an insignificant stock, untrained to large 
 uses and opportunities, or of a stock which .had 
 degenerated, and lost its right of equal mating with 
 the vigorous owners of unblemished names. Money 
 was of course important and not to be despised, but 
 the present Lord Maxwell, at any rate, large-minded 
 and conscious of wealth he could never spend, laid 
 comparatively little stress upon it; whereas, in his 
 old age, the other instinct had but grown the stronger 
 with him, as the world waxed more democratic, and 
 the influence of the great families waned. 
 
 Nor could Aldous pretend to be insensible to such 
 feelings and beliefs. Supposing the daughter could 
 be won, there was no doubt whatever that Kichard 
 Boyce would be a cross and burden to a Eaeburn son- 
 in-law. But then ! After all ! Love for once made 
 philosophy easy — made class tradition sit light. Im- 
 patience grew ; a readiness to believe Richard Boyce 
 as black as Erebus and be done with it, — so that 
 one might get to the point — the real point.
 
 90 MARCELLA. 
 
 As to the story, it came to this. In his youth, 
 Eichard Boyce had been the younger and favourite 
 son of his father. He possessed some ability, some 
 good looks, some manners, all of which were wanting 
 in his loutish elder brother. Sacrifices were accord- 
 ingly made for him. He was sent to the bar. When 
 he stood for Parliament his election expenses were 
 jubilantly paid, and his father afterwards maintained 
 him with as generous a hand as the estate could pos- 
 sibly bear, often in the teeth of the grudging resent- 
 ment of Robert his fi.rstborn. Eichard showed signs 
 of making a rapid success, at any rate on the political 
 platform. He spoke with facility, and grappled with 
 the drudgery of committees during his first two years 
 at Westminster in a way to win him the favourable 
 attention of the Tory whips. He had a gift for 
 modern languages, and spoke chiefly on foreign 
 affairs, so that when an important Eastern Commis- 
 sion had to be appointed, in connection with some 
 troubles in the Balkan States, his merits and his 
 fathers exertions with certain old family friends 
 sufficed to place him upon it. 
 
 The Commission was headed by a remarkable man, 
 and was able to do valuable w^ork at a moment of 
 great public interest, under the eyes of Europe. Its 
 members came back covered with distinction, and 
 were much feted through the London season. Old 
 Mr. Boyce came up from Mellor to see Dick's success 
 for himself, and his rubicund country gentleman's face 
 and Avhite head might have been observed at many a 
 London party beside the small Italianate physique of 
 his son.
 
 MAR CELL A. 91 
 
 And love, as lie is wont, came in the wake of fort- 
 une. A certain fresh west-country girl, Miss Evelyn 
 Merritt, who had shown her stately beauty at one of 
 the earliest drawing-rooms of the season, fell across 
 Mr. Kichard Boyce at this moment when he was most 
 at ease with the world, and the world was giving him 
 every opportunity. She was very young, as unspoilt 
 as the daffodils of her Somersetshire valleys, and her 
 character — a character of much complexity and stoical 
 strength — was little more known to herself than it 
 was to others. She saw Dick Boj^ce through a mist of 
 romance ; forgot herself absolutely in idealising him, 
 and could have thanked him on her knees when he 
 asked her to marry him. 
 
 Five years of Parliament and marriage followed, 
 and then — a crash. It was a common and sordid story, 
 made tragic by the quality of the wife, and the dis- 
 appointment of the father, if not by the ruined possi- 
 bilities of Dick Boyce himself. First, the desire to 
 maintain a " position," to make play in society with a 
 pretty wife, and, in the City, with a marketable repu- 
 tation ; then company-promoting of a more and more 
 doubtful kind ; and, finally, a swindle more energetic 
 and less skilful than the rest, which bouib-like went to 
 pieces in the face of the public, filling the air with 
 noise, lamentations, and unsavoury odours. Xor was 
 this all. A man has many warnings of ruin, and when 
 things were going badly in the stock market, Richard 
 Boyce, who on his return from the East had been 
 elected by acclamation a member of several fashionable 
 clubs, tried to retrieve himself at the gaming-table. 
 Lastly, when money matters at home and abroad, when
 
 92 MABCELLA. 
 
 the anxieties of his wife and the altered manners of his 
 acquaintance in and out of the House of Commons 
 grew more than usually disagreeable, a certain little 
 chorus girl came upon the scene and served to make 
 both money and repentance scarcer even than they 
 were before. No story could be more commonplace 
 or more detestable. 
 
 " Ah, how well I remember that poor old fellow — 
 old John Boyce," said Lord Maxwell, slowly, shaking 
 his stately white head over it, as he leant talking and 
 musing against the mantelpiece. " I saw him the day 
 he came back from the attempt to hush up the company 
 business. I met him in the road, and could not help 
 pulling up to speak to him. I was so sorry for him. 
 We had been friends for many years, he and I. ' Oh, 
 good God ! ' he said, when he saw me. ' Don't stop 
 me — don't speak to me!' And he lashed his horse 
 up — as white as a sheet — fat, fresh-coloured man that 
 he was in general — and was off. I never saw him 
 again till after his death. First came the trial, and 
 Dick Boyce got three months' imprisonment, on a minor 
 count, while several others of the precious lot he was 
 mixed up with came in for penal servitude. There 
 was some technical flaw in the evidence with regard to 
 him, and the clever lawyers they put on made the most 
 of it; but we all thought, and society thought, that 
 Dick was morally as bad as any of them. Then the 
 papers got hold of the gambling debts and the woman. 
 She made a disturbance at his club, I believe, during 
 the trial, while he was out on bail — anyway it all 
 came out. Two or three other people were implicated 
 in the gambling business — men of good family. Alto-
 
 MARCELLA. 93 
 
 gether it was one of the biggest scandals I remember 
 in my time." 
 
 The old man paused, the long frowning face sternly 
 set. Aldous gazed at him in silence. It was certainly 
 pretty bad — worse than he had thought. 
 
 " And the wife and child ? " he said presently. 
 
 " Oh, poor things I " — said Lord Maxwell, forget- 
 ting everything for the moment but his story — 
 "when Boyce's imprisonment was up they disap- 
 peared with him. His constituents held indignation 
 meetings, of course. He gave up his seat, and his 
 father allowed him a small fixed income — she had 
 besides some little money of her own — which was 
 secured him afterwards, I believe, on the estate dur- 
 ing his brother's lifetime. Some of her people would 
 have gladly persuaded her to leave him, for his be- 
 haviour towards her had been particularly odious, — 
 and they were afraid, too, I think, that he might come 
 to worse grief yet and make her life unbearable. But 
 she wouldn't. And she would have no sympathy and 
 no talk. I never saw her after the first year of their 
 marriage, when she was a most radiant and beautiful 
 creature. But, by all accounts of her behaviour at 
 the time, she must be a remarkable woman. One of 
 her family told me that she broke with all of them. 
 She would know nobody who would not know him. 
 Xor would she take money, though they were wretch- 
 edly poor ; and Dick Boyce was not squeamish. She 
 went off to little lodgings in the country or abroad 
 with him without a word. At the same time, it was 
 plain that her life was withered. She could make one 
 great effort ; but, according to my informant, she had
 
 94 M ABC ELL A. 
 
 no energy left for anything else — not even to take 
 interest in her little girl — " 
 
 Aldous made a movement. 
 
 "Suppose we talk about her?" he said rather 
 shortly. 
 
 Lord Maxwell started and recollected himself. 
 After a pause he said, looking down under his spec- 
 tacles at his grandson^ with an expression in which 
 discomfort strove with humour — 
 
 " I see. You think we are beating about the bush. 
 Perhaps we are. It is the difference between being 
 old and being young, Aldous, my boy. Well — noAv 
 then — for Miss Boyce. How much have you seen of 
 her? — how deep has it gone? You can't wonder 
 that I am knocked over. To bring that man amongst 
 us ! Why, the hound ! " cried the old man, suddenly, 
 '^we could not even get him to come and see his 
 father when he was dying. John had lost his mem- 
 ory mostly — had forgotten, anyway, to be angry 
 — and just craved for Dick, for the only creature 
 he had ever loved. With great difficulty I traced 
 the man, and tried my utmost. ISTo good ! He came 
 when his father no longer knew him, an hour before 
 the end. His nerves, I understood, were delicate — 
 not so delicate, however, as to prevent his being 
 present at the reading of the will ! I have never 
 forgiven him that cruelty to the old man, and never 
 will ! " 
 
 And Lord Maxwell began to pace the library again, 
 by way of working off memory and indignation. 
 
 Aldous watched him rather gloomily. They had 
 now been discussing Boyce's criminalities in great
 
 MAECELLA. 95 
 
 detail for a considerable time, and nothing else seemed 
 to have any power to touch — or, at any rate, to hold 
 — Lord Maxwell's attentrs^n. A certain deep pride in 
 Aldous — the pride of intimate affection — felt itself 
 wounded. 
 ^ "I see that you have grave cause to think badly of 
 her father," he said at last, rising as he spoke. " I 
 '- must think how it concerns me. And to-morrow you 
 must let me tell you something about her. After all, 
 she has done none of these things. But I ought not 
 to keep you up like this. You will remember Clarke 
 was very emphatic about your not exhausting yourself 
 at night, last time he was here." 
 
 Lord Maxwell turned and stared. 
 
 "Why — why, what is the matter with you, Aldous ? 
 Offended? Well— well— There— I cm an old fool ! " 
 
 And, walking up to his grandson, he laid an affec- 
 tionate and rather shaking hand on the younger's 
 shoulder. 
 
 " You have a great charge upon you, Aldous — a 
 charge for the future. It has upset me — I shall be 
 calmer to-morrow. But as to any quarrel between us ! 
 Are you a youth, or am I a three-tailed bashaw ? As 
 to money, you know, I care nothing. But it goes 
 against me, my boy, it goes against me, that your wife 
 should bring such a story as that with her into this 
 house !" 
 
 " I understand," said Aldous, wincing. " But you 
 must see her, grandfather. Only, let me say it again 
 — don't for one moment take it for granted that 
 she will marry me. I never saw any one so free, so 
 unspoilt, so unconventional."
 
 96 MABCELLA, 
 
 His eyes glowed with, the pleasure of remembering 
 her looks, her tones. 
 
 Lord Maxwell withdrew his hand and shook his 
 head slowly. 
 
 " You have a great deal to offer. No woman, unless 
 she were either foolish or totally unexperienced, could 
 overlook that. Is she about twenty ? " 
 
 "About twenty." 
 
 Lord Maxwell waited a moment, then, bending over 
 the fire, shrugged his shoulders in mock despair. 
 
 " It is evident you are out of love with me, Aldous. 
 Why, I don't know yet whether she is dark or fair ! '' 
 
 The conversation jarred on both sides. Aldous 
 made an effort. 
 
 "She is very dark," he said; ''like her mother in 
 many ways, only quite different in colour. To me she 
 seems the most beautiful — the only beautiful woman 
 I have ever seen. I should think she was very clever 
 in some ways — and very unformed — childish almost 
 — in others. The Hardens say she has done every- 
 thing she could — of course it isn't much — for that 
 miserable village in the time she has been there. 
 Oh ! by the way, she is a Socialist. She thinks that 
 all we landowners should be done away with." 
 
 Aldous looked round at his grandfather, so soon 
 probably to be one of the lights of a Tory Cabinet, and 
 laughed. So, to his relief, did Lord Maxwell. 
 
 " Well, don't let her fall into young Wharton's 
 clutches, Aldous, or he will be setting her to canvas. 
 So, she is beautiful and she is clever — and good, my 
 boy ? If she comes here, she will have to fill your 
 mother's and your grandmother's place."
 
 MARCELLA. 97 
 
 Aldous tried to reply once or twice, but failed. 
 
 " If I did not feel that she were everything in her- 
 self to be loved and respected " — he said at last with 
 some formality — "I should not long, as I do, to bring 
 you and her together." 
 
 Silence fell again. But instinctively Aldous felt 
 that his grandfather's mood had grown gentler — his 
 own task easier. He seized on the moment at once. 
 
 "In the whole business/"' he said, half smiling, 
 " there is only one thing clear, grandfather, and that 
 is, that, if you will, you can do me a great service with 
 Miss Boyce." 
 
 Lord Maxwell turned quickly and was all sharp 
 attention, the keen commanding eyes under their fine 
 brows absorbing, as it were, expression and life from 
 the rest of the blanched and wrinkled face. 
 
 "You could, if you would, make matters easy for 
 her and her mother in the county," said Aldous, 
 anxious to carry it off lightly. " You could, if you 
 would, without committing yourself to any personal 
 contact with Boyce himself, make it possible for me 
 to bring her here, so that you and my aunt might see 
 her and judge." 
 
 The old man's expression darkened. 
 
 " What, take back that note, Aldous ! I never wrote 
 anything with greater satisfaction in my life ! " 
 
 " Well, — more or less," said Aldous, quietly. " A 
 very little would do it. A man in Richard Boyce's 
 position will naturally not claim very much — will 
 take what he can get." 
 
 " And you mean besides," said his grandfather, inter- 
 rupting him, " that I must send your aunt to call ? " 
 voj.. J. — 7
 
 98 MAR CELL A. 
 
 " It will hardly be possible to ask Miss Boyce here 
 unless she does ! " said Aldous. 
 
 "And you reckon that I am not likely to go to 
 Mellor, even to see her ? And you want me to say a 
 word to other people — to the Winterbournes and the 
 Levens, for instance ? " 
 
 " Precisely," said Aldous. 
 
 Lord Maxwell meditated ; then rose. 
 
 " Let me now appease the memory of Clarke by 
 going to bed ! " (Clarke was his lordship's medical 
 attendant and autocrat.) "I must sleep upon this, 
 Aldous." 
 
 " I only hope I shall not have tired you out." 
 
 Aldous moved to extinguish a lamp standing on a 
 table near. 
 
 Suddenly his grandfather called him. 
 
 " Aldous ! " 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 But, as no words followed, Aldous turned. He saw 
 his grandfather standing erect before the fire, and was 
 startled by the emotion he instantly perceived in eye 
 and mouth. 
 
 " You understand, Aldous, that for twenty years — 
 it is twenty years last month since your father died — 
 you have been the blessing of my life ? Oh ! don't say 
 anything, my boy ; I don't want any more agitation. 
 I have spoken strongly ; it was hardly possible but 
 that on such a matter I should feel strongly. But 
 don't go away misunderstanding me — don't imagine 
 for one instant that there is anything in the world 
 that really matters to me in comparison with your 
 happiness and your future!"
 
 MAECELLA. 99 
 
 The venerable old man wrung the hand he held, 
 walked quickly to the door, and shut it behind him. 
 
 An hour later, Aldous was writing in his own 
 sitting-room, a room on the first floor, at the western 
 corner of the house, and commanding by daylight the 
 falling slopes of wood below the Court, and all the 
 wide expanses of the plain. To-night, too, the blinds 
 were up, and the great view drawn in black and pearl, 
 streaked with white mists in the ground hollows and 
 overarched by a wide sky holding a haloed moon, lay 
 spread before the windows. On a clear night Aldous 
 felt himself stifled by blinds and curtains, and would 
 often sit late, reading and writing, with a lamp so 
 screened that it threw light upon his book or paper, 
 while not interfering with the full range of his eye 
 over the night-world without. He secretly believed 
 that human beings see far too little of the night, and 
 so lose a host of august or beautiful impressions, 
 which might be honestly theirs if they pleased, with- 
 out borrowing or stealing from anybody, poet or 
 painter. 
 
 The room was lined with books, partly temporary 
 visitors from the great library downstairs, partly his 
 old college books and prizes, and partly representing 
 small collections for special studies. Here were a 
 large number of volumes, blue books, and pamphlets, 
 bearing on the condition of agriculture and the rural 
 poor in England and abroad ; there were some shelves 
 devoted to general economics, and on a little table by 
 the tire lay the recent numbers of various economic 
 journals, English and foreign. Between the windows
 
 100 MARCELLA. 
 
 stood a small philosophical bookcase, the volumes of 
 it full of small reference slips, and marked from end 
 to end ; and on the other side of the room was a 
 revolving book-table crowded with miscellaneous vol- 
 umes of poets, critics, and novelists — mainly, how- 
 ever, with the first two. Aldous Raeburn read few 
 novels, and those with a certain impatience. His 
 mind was mostly engaged in a slow wrestle with 
 difficult and unmanageable fact ; and for that trans- 
 formation and illumination of fact in which the man 
 of idealist temper must sometimes take refuge and 
 comfort, he went easily and eagerly to the poets and 
 to natural beauty. Hardly any novel writing, or read- 
 ing, seemed to him worth while. A man, he thought, 
 might be much better employed than in doing either. 
 
 Above the mantelpiece was his mother's picture — 
 the picture of a young woman in a low dress and mus- 
 lin scarf, trivial and empty in point of art, yet linked 
 in Aldous's mind with a hundred touching recollections, 
 buried all of them in the silence of an unbroken re- 
 serve. She had died in childbirth when he was nine ; 
 her baby had died with her, and her husband. Lord 
 Maxwell's only son and surviving child, fell a victim 
 two years later to a deadly form of throat disease, one 
 of those ills which come upon strong men by surprise, 
 and excite in the dying a sense of helpless wrong which 
 even religious faith can only partially soothe. 
 
 Aldous remembered his mother's death; still more 
 his father's, that father who could speak no last mes- 
 sage to his son, could only lie dumb upon his pillows, 
 with those eyes full of incommunicable pain, and the 
 hand now restlessly seeking, now restlessly putting
 
 MAECELLA. 101 
 
 aside the small and trembling hand of the son. His 
 boyhood had been spent under the shadow of these 
 events, which had aged his grandfather, and made him 
 too early realise himself as standing alone in the gap 
 of loss, the only hope left to affection and to ambition. 
 This premature development, amid the most melan- 
 choly surroundings, of the sense of personal import- 
 ance — not in any egotistical sense, but as a sheer 
 matter of fact — had robbed a nervous and sensitive 
 temperament of natural stores of gaiety and elasticity 
 which it could ill do without. Aldous Raeburn had 
 been too much thought for and too painfully loved. 
 But for Edward Hallin he might well have acquiesced 
 at manhood in a certain impaired vitality, in the 
 scholar's range of pleasures, and the landowner's cus- 
 tomary round of duties. 
 
 It was to Edward Hallin he was writing to-night, 
 for the stress and stir of feeling caused by the events 
 of the day, and not least by his grandfather's outburst, 
 seenled to put sleep far off. On the table before him 
 stood a photograph of Hallin, besides a miniature of 
 his mother as a girl. He had drawn the miniature 
 closer to him, finding sympathy and joy in its youth, in 
 the bright expectancy of the eyes, and so wrote, as it 
 were, having both her and his friend in mind and sight. 
 
 To Hallin he had already spoken of Miss Boyce, 
 drawing her in light, casual, and yet sympathetic 
 strokes as the pretty girl in a difficult position whom 
 one would watch with curiosity and some pity. To- 
 night his letter, which should have discussed a home 
 colonisation scheme of Hallin's, had but one topic, 
 and his pen flew.
 
 102 MARCELLA. 
 
 " Would you call her beautiful ? I ask myself again 
 and again, trying to put myself behind your eyes. 
 She has nothing, at any rate, in common with the 
 beauties we have down here, or with those my aunt 
 bade me admire in London last May. The face has a 
 strong Italian look, but not Italian of to-day. Do you 
 remember the Ghirlandajo frescoes in Santa Maria 
 Novella, or the side groups in Andrea's frescoes at the 
 Annunziata? Among them, among the beautiful tall 
 women of them, there are, I am sure, noble, freely-poised, 
 suggestive heads like hers — hair, black wavy hair, folded 
 like hers in large simple lines, and faces with the same 
 long, subtle curves. It is a face of the Renaissance, 
 extraordinarily beautiful, as it seems to me, in colour 
 and expression ; imperfect in line, as the beauty which 
 marks the meeting point between antique perfection 
 and modern character must always be. It has 7nor- 
 bklezza — unquiet melancholy charm, then passionate 
 gaiety — everything that is most modern grafted on 
 things G-reek and old. I am told that Burne Jones 
 drew her several times while she was in London, with 
 delight. It is the most artistic beauty, having both 
 the harmonies and the dissonances that a full-grown 
 art loves. 
 
 " She may be twenty or rather more. The mind 
 has all sorts of ability ; comes to the right conclusion 
 by a divine instinct, ignoring the how and why. 
 What does such a being want with the drudgery of 
 learning ? to such keenness life will be master enough. 
 Yet she has evidently read a good deal — much poetry, 
 some scattered political economy, some modern social- 
 istic books, Matthew xlrnold, Ruskin, Carlyle. She 
 takes everything dramatically, imaginatively, goes
 
 M Alt CELL A, 103 
 
 straight from it to life, and back again. Among 
 the young people with whom she made acquaintance 
 while she was boarding in London and working at 
 South Kensington, there seem to have been two 
 brothers, both artists, and both Socialists ; ardent 
 young fellows, giving all their spare time to good 
 works, who must have influenced her a great deal. 
 She is full of angers and revolts, which you would 
 delight in. And first of all, she is applying herself 
 to her father's wretched village, which will keep her 
 hands full. A large and passionate humanity plays 
 about her. What she says often seems to me foolish 
 — in the ear; but the inner sense, the heart of it, 
 command me. 
 
 " Stare as you please, ISTed ! Only write to me, and 
 come down here as soon as you can. I can and will 
 hide nothing from you, so you will believe me when 
 I say that all is uncertain, that I know nothing, and, 
 though I hope everything, may just as well fear 
 everything too. But somehow I am another man, 
 and the world shines and glows for me by day and 
 night." 
 
 Aldous Raeburn rose from his chair and, going to 
 the window, stood looking out at the splendour of the 
 autumn moon. Marcella moved across the whiteness 
 of the grass ; her voice was still speaking to his 
 inward ear. His lips smiled ; his heart was in a wild 
 whirl of happiness. 
 
 Then he walked to the table, took up his letter, 
 read it, tore it across, and locked the fragments in a 
 drawer. 
 
 " Xot yet, jSTed — not yet, dear old fellow, even to 
 you," he said to himself, as he put out his lamp.
 
 CHAPTEE VIL 
 
 Three days passed. On the fourtli Marcella re- 
 turned late in the afternoon from a round of parish 
 visits with Mary Harden. As she opened the oak 
 doors which shut off the central hall of Mellor from 
 the outer vestibule, she saw something white lying 
 on the old cut and disused billiard table, which still 
 occupied the middle of the floor till Kichard Boyce, 
 in the course of his economies and improvements, 
 could replace it by a new one. 
 
 She ran forward and took up a sheaf of cards, turn- 
 ing them over in a smiling excitement. "Viscount 
 Maxwell," "Mr. Raeburn," "Miss Eaeburn," "Lady 
 Winterbourne and the Misses Winterbourne," two 
 cards of Lord Winterbourne's — all perfectly in form. 
 
 Then a thought flashed upon her. " Of course it is 
 his doing — and I asked him ! " 
 
 The cards dropped from her hand on the billiard 
 table, and she stood looking at them, her pride fighting 
 with her pleasure. There was something else in her 
 feeling too — the exultation of proved power over a 
 person not, as she guessed, easily influenced, especially 
 by women. 
 
 " Marcella, is that you ? " 
 
 It was her mother's voice. Mrs. Boyce had come 
 in from the garden through the drawing-room, and 
 
 104
 
 MAR CELL A. 105 
 
 was standing at the inner door of the hall, trying with 
 shortsighted eyes to distinguish her daughter among 
 the shadows of the great bare place. A dark day was 
 drawing to its close, and there was little light left in 
 the hall, except in one corner where a rainy sunset 
 gleam struck a grim contemporary portrait of Mary 
 Tudor, bringing out the obstinate mouth and the 
 white hand holding a jewelled glove. 
 
 Marcella turned, and by the same gleam her mother 
 saw her flushed and animated look. 
 
 " Any letters ? " she asked. 
 
 "No; but there are some cards. Oh yes, there is 
 a note," and she pounced upon an envelope she had 
 overlooked. " It is for you, mother — from the Court." 
 
 Mrs. Boyce came up and took note and cards from 
 her daughter's hand. Marcella watched her with 
 quick breath. 
 
 Her mother looked through the cards, slowly put- 
 ting them down one by one without remark. 
 
 " Oh, mother ! do read the note ! " Marcella could 
 not help entreating. 
 
 Mrs. Boyce drew herself together with a quick 
 movement as though her daughter jarred upon her, 
 and opened the note. Marcella dared not look over 
 her. There was a dignity about her mother's lightest 
 action, about every movement of her slender fingers 
 and fine fair head, which had always held the daughter 
 in check, even while she rebelled. 
 
 Mrs. Boyce read it, and then handed it to Marcella. 
 
 " I must go and make the tea," she said, in a light, 
 cold tone, and turning, she went back to the drawing- 
 room, whither afternoon tea had just been carried.
 
 106 MARCELLA. 
 
 Marcella followed, reading. The note was from 
 Miss Raeburn, and it contained an invitation to Mrs. 
 Boyce and her daughter to take luncheon at the Court 
 on the following Friday. The note was courteously 
 and kindly worded. " We should be so glad," said 
 the writer, " to show you and Miss Boyce our beauti- 
 ful woods while they are still at their best, in the way 
 of autumn colour." 
 
 " How will mamma take it ? " thought Marcella 
 anxiously. " There is not a word of papa ! " 
 
 When she entered the drawing-room, she caught her 
 mother standing absently at the tea-table. The little 
 silver caddy was still in her hand as though she had 
 forgotten to put it down ; and her eyes, which evi- 
 dently saw nothing, were turned to the window, the 
 brows frowning. The look of suffering for an instant 
 was unmistakable; then she started at the sound of 
 Marcella's step, and put down the caddy amid the deli- 
 cate china crowded on the tray, with all the quiet pre- 
 cision of her ordinary manner. 
 
 "You will have to wait for your tea," she said, 
 " the water doesn't nearly boil." 
 
 Marcella went up to the fire and, kneeling before it, 
 put the logs with which it was piled together. But 
 she could not contain herself for long. 
 
 "Will you go to the Court, mamma?" she asked 
 quickly, without turning round. 
 
 There was a pause. Then Mrs. Boyce said drily — 
 
 " Miss Raeburn's proceedings are a little unexpected. 
 We have been here four months, within two miles of 
 her, and it has never occurred to her to call. Now 
 she calls and asks us to luncheon in the same after-
 
 MAECELLA. 107 
 
 noon. Either she took too little notice of us before, 
 or she takes too much now — don't you think so ? " 
 
 Marcella was silent a moment. Should she confess ? 
 It began to occur to her for the first time that in her 
 wild independence she had been taking liberties with 
 her mother. 
 
 *' Mamma ! " 
 
 " Yes.'' 
 
 " I asked Mr. Aldous Eaeburn the other day whether 
 everybody here was going to cut us I Papa told me 
 that Lord Maxwell had written him an uncivil letter 
 and — " 
 
 " You — asked — Mr. Kaeburn — " said Mrs. Boyce, 
 quickly. " What do you mean ? " 
 
 Marcella turned round and met the flash of her 
 mother's eyes. 
 
 " I couldn't help it," she said in a low hurried voice. 
 " It seemed so horrid to feel everybody standing aloof 
 — we were walking together — he was very kind and 
 friendly — and I asked him to explain." 
 
 " I see ! " said Mrs. Boyce. " And he went to his 
 aunt — and she went to Lady Winterbourne — they 
 were compassionate — and there are the cards. You 
 have certainly taken us all in hand, Marcella ! " 
 
 ^larcella felt an instant's fear — fear of the ironic 
 power in the sparkling look so keenly fixed on her 
 offending self; she shrank before the proud reserve 
 expressed in every line of her mother's fragile imperi- 
 ous beauty. Then a cry of nature broke from the 
 girl. 
 
 '• You have got used to it, mamma ! I feel as if it 
 would kill me to live here, shut off from everybody —
 
 108 MABCELLA. 
 
 joining witli nobody — with no friendly feelings or 
 society. It was bad enough in the old lodging-house 
 days ; but here — why should we ? " 
 
 Mrs. Boyce had certainly grown pale. 
 
 "I supposed you would ask sooner or later," she 
 said in a low determined voice, with what to Marcella 
 was a quite new note of reality in it. " Probably Mr. 
 Eaeburn told you — but you must of course have 
 guessed it long ago — that society does not look 
 kindly on us — and has its reasons. I do not den}^ 
 in the least that it has its reasons. I do not accuse 
 anybody, and resent nothing. But the question with 
 me has always been. Shall I accept pity ? I have 
 always been able to meet it with a No ! You are very 
 different from me — but for you also I believe it would 
 be the happiest answer." 
 
 The eyes of both met — the mother's full of an 
 indomitable fire which had for once wholly swept 
 away her satiric calm of every day; the daughter's 
 troubled and miserable. 
 
 " I want friends ! " said Marcella, slowly. " There 
 are so many things I Avant to do here, and one can do 
 nothing if every one is against you. People would be 
 friends with you and me — and with papa too, — 
 through us. Some of them wish to be kind " — she 
 added insistentl}^ thinking of Aldous Raeburn's 
 words and expression as he bent to her at the gate 
 — "I know they do. And if we can't hold our heads 
 high because — because of things in the past — ought 
 we to be so proud that we Avon't take their hands 
 when they stretch them out — when they write so 
 kindly and nicely as this ? "
 
 MARCELLA. 109 
 
 And she laid her fingers almost piteously on the 
 note upon her knee. 
 
 Mrs. Boyce tilted the silver urn and replenished 
 the tea-pot. Then with a delicate handkerchief she 
 rubbed away a spot from the handle of a spoon near 
 her. 
 
 " You shall go," she said presently — " you wish it — 
 then go — go by all means. I will write to Miss Kae- 
 burn and send you over in the carriage. One can put 
 a great deal on health — mine is quite serviceable in 
 the way of excuses. I will try and do you no harm, 
 Marcella. If you have chosen your line and wish to 
 make friends here — very well — I will do what I can 
 for you so long as you do not expect me to change my 
 life — for which, my dear, I am grown too crotchety 
 and too old." 
 
 Marcella looked at her Avith dismay and a yearning 
 she had never felt before. 
 
 " And 3'ou will never go out with me, mamma ? " 
 
 There was something childlike and touching in the 
 voice, something which for once suggested the normal 
 filial relation. But Mrs. Boyce did not waver. She 
 had long learnt perhaps to regard Marcella as a girl 
 singularly well able to take care of herself ; and had 
 recognised the fact with relief. 
 
 " I will not go to the Court Avith you anyway," she 
 said, daintily sipping her tea — " in your interests as 
 well as mine. You will make all the greater impression, 
 my dear, for I have really forgotten how to behave. 
 Those cards shall be properly returned, of course. 
 For the rest — let no one disturb themselves till they 
 must. And if I were you, Marcella, I would hardly
 
 110 MARCELLA. 
 
 discuss the family affairs any more — with Mr. Raeburn 
 or anybody else." 
 
 And again her keen glance disconcerted the tall 
 handsome girl, whose power over the world about her 
 had never extended to her mother. Marcella flushed 
 and played with the fire. 
 
 " You see, mamma," she said after a moment, still 
 looking at the logs and the shower of sparks they 
 made as she moved them about, " you never let me 
 discuss them with you." 
 
 " Heaven forbid ! " said Mrs. Boyce, quickly ; then, 
 after a pause : " You will find your own line in a little 
 while, Marcella, and you will see, if you so choose it, 
 that there will be nothing un surmountable in your way. 
 One piece of advice let me give you. Don't be too 
 grateful to Miss Eaeburn, or anybody else ! You take 
 great interest in your Boyce belongings, I perceive. 
 You may remember too, perhaps, that there is other 
 blood in you — and that no Merritt has ever submitted 
 quietly to either patronage or pity." 
 
 Marcella started. Her mother had never named her 
 own kindred to her before that she could remember. 
 She had known for many years that there was a breach 
 between the Merritts and themselves. The newspapers 
 had told her something at intervals of her Merritt re- 
 lations, for they were fashionable and important folk, 
 but no one of them had crossed the Boyces' threshold 
 since the old London days, wherein Marcella could 
 still dimly remember the tall forms of certain Merritt 
 uncles, and even a stately lady in a white cap whom 
 she knew to have been her mother's mother. The 
 stately lady had died while she was still a child at
 
 MARCEL LA. Ill 
 
 her first school ; she could recollect her own mourning 
 frock; but that was almost the last personal remem- 
 brance she had, connected with the Merritts. 
 
 And now this note of intense personal and family 
 pride, under which Mrs. Boyce's voice had for the first 
 time quivered a little ! Marcella had never heard it 
 before, and it thrilled her. She sat on by the fire, 
 drinking her tea and every now and then watching her 
 companion with a new and painful curiosity. The tacit 
 assumption of many years with her had been that her 
 mother was a dry limited person, clever and determined 
 in small ways, that affected her own family, but on the 
 whole characterless as compared with other people of 
 strong feelings and responsive susceptibilities. But 
 her own character had been rapidly maturing of late, 
 and her insight sharpening. During these recent 
 weeks of close contact, her mother's singularity had 
 risen in her mind to the dignity at least of a problem, 
 an enigma. 
 
 Presently Mrs. Boyce rose and put the scones down 
 by the fire. 
 
 " Your father will be in, I suppose. Yes, I hear the 
 front door." 
 
 As she spoke she took off her velvet cloak, put it 
 carefully aside on a sofa, and sat down again, still in 
 her bonnet, at the tea-table. Her dress was very dif- 
 ferent from Marcella' s, which, when they were not in 
 mourning, was in general of the ample " aesthetic " 
 type, and gave her a good deal of trouble out of doors. 
 Marcella wore '• art serges " and velveteens ; Mrs. 
 Boyce attired herself in soft and costly silks, generally 
 black, closely and fashionably made, and completed by
 
 112 MARCELLA. 
 
 various fanciful and distinguished trifles — rings, an 
 old chatelaine, a diamond brooch — which Marcella 
 remembered, the same, and worn in the same way, 
 since her childhood. Mrs. Boyce, however, wore her 
 clothes so daintily, and took such scrupulous and 
 ingenious care of them, that her dress cost, in truth, 
 extremely little — certainly less than Marcella's. 
 
 There were sounds first of footsteps in the hall, then 
 of some scolding of William, and finally Mr. Boyce 
 entered, tired and splashed from shooting, and evi- 
 dently in a bad temper. 
 
 "Well, what are you going to do about those 
 cards ? " he asked his wife abruptly when she had 
 supplied him with tea, and he was beginning to dry 
 by the fire. He was feeling ill and reckless ; too tired 
 anyway to trouble himself to keep up appearances with 
 Marcella. 
 
 "Eeturn them," said Mrs. Boyce, calmly, blowing 
 out the flame of her 'silver kettle. 
 
 " I don't want any of their precious society," he said 
 irritably. " They should have done their calling long 
 ago. There's no grace in it now ; I don't know that 
 one isn't inclined to think it an intrusion." 
 
 But the women were silent. Marcella's attention 
 was diverted from her mother to the father's small 
 dark head and thin face. There was a great repulsion 
 and impatience in her heart, an angry straining against 
 circumstance and fate ; yet at the same time a mount- 
 ing voice of natural affection, an understanding at 
 once sad and new, which paralysed and silenced her. 
 He stood in her way — terribly in her way — and yet 
 it strangely seemed to her, that never before till these 
 last few weeks had she felt herself a daughter.
 
 MARCELLA. 113 
 
 '' You are very wet, papa," she said to him as she 
 took his cup ; " don't you think you had better go at 
 once and change ? " 
 
 " I'm all right," he said shortly — ''as right as I'm 
 likely to be, anyway. As for the shooting, it's nothing 
 but waste of time and shoe leather. I shan't go out 
 any more. The place has been clean swept by some of 
 those brutes in the village — your friends, Marcella. 
 By the way, Evelyn, I came across young Wharton in 
 the road just now." 
 
 -'• Wharton ? " said his wife, interrogatively. " I 
 don't remember — ought I ? " 
 
 "Why, the Liberal candidate for the division, of 
 course," he said testily. "I wish you would inform 
 yourself of what goes on. He is working like a 
 horse, he tells me. Dodgson, the Eaeburns' candi- 
 date, has got a great start ; this young man will want 
 all his time to catch him up. I like him. I won't 
 vote for him ; but I'll see fair play. I've asked him 
 to come to tea here on Saturday, Evelyn. He'll be 
 back again by the end of the week. He stays at 
 Dell's farm when he comes — pretty bad accommo- 
 dation, I should think. We must show him some 
 civility." 
 
 He rose and stood with his back to the fire, his 
 spare frame stiffening under his nervous determina- 
 tion to assert himself — to holdup his head physically 
 and morally against those who would repress him. 
 
 Richard Boyce took his social punishment badly. 
 He had passed his first weeks at Mellor in a tremble 
 of desire that his father's old family and country 
 friends should recognise him again and condone his 
 
 VOL. I. — 8
 
 114 MABCELLA, 
 
 "irregularities." All sorts of conciliatory ideas had 
 passed through his head. He meant to let people see 
 that he would be a good neighbour if they would give 
 him the chance — not like that miserly fool, his 
 brother Eobert. The past was so much past; who 
 now was more respectable or more well intentioned 
 than he ? He was an impressionable imaginative 
 man in delicate health ; and the tears sometimes 
 came into his eyes as he pictured himself restored to 
 society — partly by his own efforts, partly, no doubt, 
 by the charms and good looks of his wife and daugh- 
 ter — forgiven for their sake, and for the sake also of 
 that store of virtue he had so laboriously accumulated 
 since that long-past catastrophe. Would not most 
 men have gone to the bad altogether, after such a 
 lapse ? He, on the contrary, had recovered himself, 
 had neither drunk nor squandered, nor deserted his 
 wife and child. These things, if the truth were 
 known, were indeed due rather to a certain lack of 
 physical energy and vitality, which age had developed 
 in him, than to self-conquest; but he was no doubt 
 entitled to make the most of them. There were signs 
 indeed that his forecast had been not at all unreason- 
 able. His womenkind ivere making their way. At 
 the very moment when Lord Maxwell had written 
 him a quelling letter, he had become aware that Mar- 
 cella was on good terms with Lord Maxwell's heir. 
 Had he not also been stopped that morning in a re- 
 mote lane by Lord Winterbourne and Lord Maxwell 
 on their way back from the meet, and had not both 
 recognised and shaken hands with him? And now 
 there were these cards.
 
 MAECELLA. 115 
 
 Unfortunately, in spite of Eaebiirn's opinion to the 
 contrary, no man in such a position and with such 
 a temperament ever gets something without claiming 
 more — and more than he can conceivably or possibly 
 get. Startled and pleased at first by the salutation 
 which Lord Maxwell and his companion had bestowed 
 upon him, Richard Boyce had passed his afternoon in 
 resenting and brooding over the cold civility of it. So 
 these were the terms he was to be on with them — 
 the deuce take them and their pharisaical airs ! If 
 all the truth were kno^vn, most men would look 
 foolish; and the men who thanked God that they 
 were not as other men, soonest of all. He wished he 
 had not been taken by surprise ; he wished he had not 
 answered them ; he would show them in the future 
 that he would eat no dirt for them or anybody else. 
 
 So on the way home there had been a particular 
 zest in his chance encounter with the young man who 
 was likely to give the Eaeburns and their candidate 
 — so all the world said — a very great deal of trouble. 
 The seat had been held to be an entirely safe one for 
 the Maxwell nominee. Young Wharton, on the con- 
 trary, was making way every ' day, and, what with 
 securing Aldous's own seat in the next division, and 
 helping old Dodgson in this, Lord Maxwell and his 
 grandson had their hands full. Dick Boyce was glad 
 of it. He was a Tory ; but all the same he wished 
 every success to this handsome, agreeable young man, 
 whose deferential manners to him at the end of the 
 day had come like ointment to a wound. 
 
 The three sat on together for a little while in silence. 
 Marcella kept her seat by the fire on the old gilt fender-
 
 116 MARCELLA. 
 
 stool, conscious in a dreamlike way of the room in 
 front of her — the stately room with its stucco ceiling, 
 its tall windows, its Prussian-blue wall-paper behind 
 the old cabinets and faded pictures, and the chair 
 covers in Turkey-red twill against the blue, which still 
 remained to bear witness at once to the domestic econ- 
 omies and the decorative ideas of old Eobert Boyce — 
 conscious also of the figures on either side of her, and 
 of her own quick-beating youth betwixt them. She 
 was sore and unhappy ; yet, on the whole, what she 
 was thinking most about was Aldous Eaeburn. What 
 had he said to Lord Maxwell ? — and to the Winter- 
 bournes ? She wished she could know. She wished 
 with leaping pulse that she could see him again 
 quickly. Yet it would be awkward too. 
 
 Presently she got up and went away to take off her 
 things. As the door closed behind her, Mrs. Boyce 
 held out Miss Eaeburn' s note, which Marcella had 
 returned to her, to her husband. 
 
 " They have asked Marcella and me to lunch," she 
 said. " I am not going, but I shall send her." 
 
 He read the note by the firelight, and it produced 
 the most contradictory effects upon him. 
 
 '^ Why don't you go ? " he asked her aggressively, 
 rousing himself for a moment to attack her, and so 
 vent some of his ill-humour. 
 
 "I have lost the habit of going out," she said 
 quietly, " and am too old to begin again." 
 
 " What ! you mean to say," he asked her angrily, 
 raising his voice, " that you have never meaiit to do 
 your duties here — the duties of your position ? "
 
 MARCELLA. 117 
 
 "I did not foresee many, outside this house and 
 land. Why should we change our ways ? TVe have 
 done very well of late. I have no mind to risk w^hat 
 I have got." 
 
 He glanced round at her in a quick nervous way, 
 and then looked back again at the fire. The sight of 
 her delicate blanched face had in some respects a more 
 and more poignant power with him as the years went 
 on. His anger sank into moroseness. 
 
 " Then why do you let Marcella go ? What good 
 will it do her to go about without her parents ? People 
 will only despise her for a girl of no spirit — as they 
 ought." 
 
 " It depends upon how^ it is done. I can arrange it, 
 I think," said Mrs. Boyce. " A woman has always 
 convenient limitations to plead in the way of health. 
 She need never give offence if she has decent wits. 
 It will be understood that I do not go out, and then 
 someone — Miss Eaeburn or Lady Winterbourne — 
 will take up Marcella and mother her." 
 
 She spoke with her usual light gentleness, but he 
 was not appeased. 
 
 "If you were to talk of my health, it would be 
 more to the purpose," he said, with grim inconse- 
 quence. And raising his heavy lids he looked at her 
 full. 
 
 She got up and went over to him. 
 
 "Do you feel worse again? Why will jovl not 
 change your things directly you come in ? Would you 
 like Dr. Clarke sent for ? " 
 
 She was standing close beside him ; her beautiful 
 hand, for which in their young days it had pleased his
 
 118 MARCELLA. 
 
 pride to give her rings, almost touched him. A pas- 
 sionate hunger leapt within him. She would stoop 
 and kiss him if he asked her ; he knew that. But he 
 would not ask her; he did not want it; he wanted 
 something that never on this earth would she give 
 him again. 
 
 Then moral discomfort lost itself in physical. 
 
 " Clarke does me no good — not an atom," he said, 
 rising. " There — don't you come. I can look after 
 myself." 
 
 He went, and Mrs. Boyce remained alone in the 
 great fire-lit room. She put her hands on the mantel- 
 piece, and dropped her head upon them, and so stood 
 silent for long. There was no sound audible in the 
 room, or from the house outside. And in the silence a 
 proud and broken heart once more nerved itself to an 
 endurance that brought it peace with neither man nor 
 God. 
 
 ^'I shall go, for all our sakes," thought Marcella, 
 as she stood late that night brushing her hair before 
 her dimly-lighted and rickety dressing-table. "We 
 have, it seems, no right to be proud." 
 
 A rush of pain and bitterness filled her heart — 
 pain, new-born and insistent, for her mother, her 
 father, and herself. Ever since Aldous Eaeburn's 
 hesitating revelations, she had been liable to this sud- 
 den invasion of a hot and shamed misery. And to- 
 night, after her talk with her mother, it could not but 
 overtake her afresh. 
 
 But her strong personality, her passionate sense of 
 a moral independence not to be undone by the acts of
 
 MARCELLA. 119 
 
 another, even a father, made her soon impatient of her 
 own distress, and she flimg it from her with decision. 
 
 "No, we have no right to be proud," she repeated 
 to herself. "It must be all true what Mr. Kaeburn 
 said — probably a great deal more. Poor, poor mamma ! 
 But, all the same, there is nothing to be got out of 
 empty quarrelling and standing alone. And it was so 
 long ago." 
 
 Her hand fell, and she stood absently looking at 
 her own black and white reflection in the old flawed 
 glass. 
 
 She was thinking, of course, of Mr. Raeburn. He 
 had been very prompt in her service. There could 
 be no question but that he was specially interested 
 in her. 
 
 And he was not a man to be lightly played upon — 
 nay, rather a singularly reserved and scrupulous per- 
 son. So, at least, it had been always held concerning 
 him. Marcel la was triumphantly conscious that he 
 had not from the beginning given her much trouble. 
 But the common report of him made his recent man- 
 ner towards her, this last action of his, the more 
 significant. Even the Hardens — so Marcella gathered 
 from her friend and admirer Mary — unworldly 
 dreamy folk, wrapt up in good works, and in the 
 hastening of Christ's kingdom, were on the alert and 
 beginning to take note. 
 
 It was not as though he were in the dark as to her 
 antecedents. He knew all — at any rate, more than 
 she did — and yet it might end in his asking her to 
 marry him. What then ? 
 
 Scarcely a quiver in the young form before the
 
 120 MARCELLA. 
 
 glass ! Love, at such a thought, must have sunk upon 
 its knees and hid its face for tender humbleness and 
 requital. Marcella only looked quietly at the beauty 
 which might easily prove to be so important an arrow- 
 in her quiver. 
 
 What was stirring in her was really a passionate 
 ambition — ambition to be the queen and arbitress of 
 human lives — to be believed in by her friends, to 
 make a mark for herself among women, and to make 
 it in the most romantic and yet natural way, without 
 what had always seemed to her the sordid and un- 
 pleasant drudgeries of the platform, of a tiresome 
 co-operation with, or subordination to others who 
 could not understand your ideas. 
 
 Of course, if it happened, people would say that 
 she had tried to capture Aldous Raeburn for his money 
 and position's sake. Let them say it. People with 
 base minds must think basely; there was no help for 
 it. Those whom she would make her friends would 
 know very well for what purpose she wanted money, 
 power, and the support of such a man, and such a 
 marriage. Her modern realism played with the 
 thought quite freely ; her maidenliness, proud and 
 pure as it was, being nowise ashamed. Oh ! for some- 
 thing to carry her deep into life ; into the heart of its 
 widest and most splendid opportunities ! 
 
 She threw up her hands, clasping them above her 
 head amid her clouds of curly hair — a girlish excited 
 gesture. 
 
 " I could revive the straw-plaiting ; give them better 
 teaching and better models. The cottages should be 
 rebuilt. Papa would willingly hand the village over
 
 MARCEL LA. 121 
 
 to me if I found the money ! We would have a parish 
 committee to deal with the charities — oh! the Hardens 
 would come in. The old people should have their 
 pensions as of right. No hopeless old age, no cringing 
 dependence ! We would try co-operation on the land, 
 and pull it through. And not in Mellor only. One 
 might be the ruler, the regenerator of half a county! " 
 
 Memory brought to mind in vivid sequence the 
 figures and incidents of the afternoon, of her village 
 round with Mary Harden. 
 
 '^ As the eyes of servants towards the hand of their 
 mistress" — the old words occurred to her as she 
 thought of herself stepping in and out of the cottages. 
 Then she was ashamed of herself and rejected the 
 image with vehemence. Dependence was the curse 
 of the poor. Her whole aim, of course, should be to 
 teach them to stand on their own feet, to know them- 
 selves as men. But naturally they would be grateful, 
 they would let themselves be led. Intelligence and 
 enthusiasm give power, and ought to give it — power 
 for good. Xo doubt, under Socialism, there will be 
 less scope for either, because there will be less need. 
 But Socialism, as a system, will not come in our gen- 
 eration. What we have to think for is the transition 
 period. The Cravens had never seen that, but Mar- 
 cella saw it. She began to feel herself a person of 
 larger experience than they. 
 
 As she undressed, it seemed to her as though she 
 still felt the clinging hands of the Hurd children 
 round her knees, and through them, symbolised by 
 them, the suppliant touch of hundreds of other heli> 
 less creatures.
 
 122 MARCELLA. 
 
 She was just dropping to sleep when her own words 
 to Aldous Raeburn flashed across her, — 
 
 "Everybody is so ready to take charge of other 
 people's lives, and look at the result!" 
 
 She must needs laugh at herself, but it made little 
 matter. She fell asleep cradled in dreams. Aldous 
 Eaeburn's final part in them was not great !
 
 CHAPTEK VIII. 
 
 Mrs. Boyce wrote her note to IMiss Eaeburn, a note 
 containing cold though civil excuses as to herself, 
 while accepting the invitation for ]\[arcella, who should 
 be sent to the Court, either in the carriage or under 
 the escort of a maid who could bring her back. Mar- 
 cella found her mother inclined to insist punctiliously 
 on conventions of this kind. It amused her, in sub- 
 mitting to them, to remember the free and easy ways 
 of her London life. But she submitted — and not 
 unwillingly. 
 
 On the afternoon of the day which intervened be- 
 tween the Maxwells' call and her introduction to the 
 Court, ^larcella walked as usual down to the village. 
 She was teeming with plans for her new kingdom, and 
 could not keep herself out of it. And an entry in one 
 of the local papers had suggested to her that Hurd 
 might possibly find work in a parish some miles from 
 Mellor. She must go and send him off there. 
 
 When Mrs. Hurd opened the door to her, Marcella 
 was astonished to perceive behind her the forms of 
 several other persons filling up the narrow space of 
 the usually solitary cottage — in fact, a tea-party. 
 
 "Oh, come in, miss," said Mrs. Hurd, with some 
 embarrassment, as though it occurred to her that her 
 visitor might legitimately wonder to find a person of 
 
 123
 
 124 MABCELLA. 
 
 lier penury entertaining company. Then, lowering her 
 voice, she hurrieclly explained : " There's Mrs. Brunt 
 come in this afternoon to help me wi' the washin' while 
 I finished my score of plait for the woman who takes 
 'em into town to-morrow. And there's old Patton an' 
 his wife — you know 'em, miss ? — them as lives in the 
 parish houses top o' the common. He's walked out a 
 few steps to-day. It's not often he's able, and when I 
 see him through the door I said to 'em, ^ if you'll come 
 in an' take a cheer, I dessay them tea-leaves 'ull stan' 
 another Avettin'. I haven't got nothink else.' And 
 there's Mrs. Jellison, she came in along o' the Pattons. 
 You can't say her no, she's a queer one. Do you know 
 her, miss ? " 
 
 " Oh, bless yer, yes, yes. She knows me ! " said a 
 high, jocular voice, making Mrs. Hurd start ; " she 
 couldn't be long hereabouts without makkin' eeaste to 
 know me. You coom in, miss. We're not afraid o' 
 you — Lor' bless you ! " 
 
 Mrs. Hurd stood aside for her visitor to pass in, 
 looking round her the while, in some perplexity, to see 
 whether there was a spare chair and room to place it. 
 She was a delicate, willowy woman, still young in 
 figure, with a fresh colour, belied by the grey circles 
 under the eyes and the pinched sharpness of the feat- 
 ures. The upper lip, which was pretty and childish, 
 was raised a little over the teeth ; the whole expres- 
 sion of the slightly open mouth was unusually soft 
 and sensitive. On the Avhole, Minta Hurd was liked 
 in the village, though she was thought a trifle " fine." 
 The whole family, indeed, " kept theirsels to their- 
 sels," and to find Mrs. Hurd with company was
 
 MABCELLA. 125 
 
 unusual. Her name, of course, was short for Ara- 
 minta. 
 
 Marcella laughed as she caught Mrs. Jellison's 
 remarks, and made her way in, delighted. For the 
 present, these village people affected her like figures 
 in poetry or drama. She saw them with the eye of 
 the imagination through a medium provided by Social- 
 ist discussion, or by certain phases of modern art; and 
 the little scene of Mrs. Hurd's tea-party took for her 
 in an instant the dramatic zest and glamour. 
 
 " Look here, Mrs. Jellison," she said, going up to her; 
 " I was just going to leave these apples for your grand- 
 son. Perhaps you'll take them, now you're here. 
 They're quite sweet, though they look green. They're 
 the best we've got, the gardener says." 
 
 ''Oh, they are, are they?" said Mrs. Jellison, com- 
 posedly, looking up at her. "Well, put 'em down, 
 miss. I dare say he'll eat 'em. He eats most things, 
 and don't want no doctor's stuff nayther, though 
 his mother do keep on at me for spoilin' his stum- 
 muck." 
 
 "You are just fond of that boy, aren't you, Mrs. 
 Jellison?" said Marcella, taking a wooden stool, the 
 only piece of furniture left in the tiny cottage on which 
 it was possible to sit, and squeezing herself into a 
 corner by the fire, whence she commanded the whole 
 group. "Xo^ don't you turn Mr. Patton out of that 
 chair, Mrs. Hurd, or I shall have to go away." 
 
 For Mrs. Hurd, in her anxiety, was whispering in 
 old Patton's ear that it might be well for him to give 
 up her one wooden arm-chair, in which he was estab- 
 lished, to Miss Boyce. But he, being old, deaf, and
 
 126 MARCELLA. 
 
 rheumatic, was slow to move, and Marcella's peremp- 
 tory gesture bade her leave him in peace. 
 
 "Well, it's you that's the young 'un, ain't it, miss? " 
 said Mrs. Jellison, cheerfully. " Poor old Patton,he do 
 get slow on his legs, don't you, Patton? But there, 
 there's no helping it when you're turned of eighty." 
 
 And she turned upon him a bright, philosophic eye, 
 being herself a young thing not much over seventy, 
 and energetic accordingly. Mrs. Jellison passed for 
 the village wit, and was at least talkative and excit- 
 able beyond her fellows. 
 
 "Well, you don't seem to mind getting old, Mrs. 
 Jellison," said Marcella, smiling at her. 
 
 The eyes of all the old people round their tea-table 
 were by now drawn irresistibly to Miss Boyce in the 
 chimney corner, to her slim grace, and the splendour 
 of her large black hat and feathers. The new squire's 
 daughter had so far taken them by surprise. Some of 
 them, however, were by now in the second stage of 
 critical observation — none the less critical because 
 furtive and inarticulate. 
 
 "Ah?" said Mrs. Jellison, interrogatively, with a 
 high, long-drawn note peculiar to her. "Well, I've 
 never found you get forrarder wi' snarlin' over what 
 you can't help. And there's mercies. When you've 
 had a husband in his bed for fower year, miss, and he's 
 took at last, you'll knoiv.^' 
 
 She nodded emphatically. Marcella laughed. 
 
 "I know you were very fond of him, Mrs. Jellison, 
 and looked after him very well, too." 
 
 "Oh, I don't say nothin' about that," said Mrs. 
 Jellison, hastily. " But all the same you kin reckon it
 
 MARCELLA. 127 
 
 up, and see for yoursen. Power year — an' fire up- 
 stairs, an' fire downstairs, an' fire all night, an' soom- 
 thin' alius wanted. An' he such an objeck afore he 
 died ! It do seem like a holiday now to sit a bit." 
 
 And she crossed her hands on her lap with a long 
 breath of content. A lock of grey hair had escaped 
 from her bonnet, across her wrinkled forehead, and 
 gave her a half-careless rakish air. Her youth of 
 long ago — a youth of mad spirits, and of an extraor- 
 dinary capacity for physical enjoyment, seemed at 
 times to pierce to the surface again, even through her 
 load of years. But in general she had a dreamy, 
 sunny look, as of one fed with humorous fancies, but 
 disinclioed often to the trouble of communicating 
 them. 
 
 "Well, I missed my daughter, I kin tell you," said 
 Mrs. Brunt, with a sigh, " though she took a deal 
 more lookin' after nor your good man, Mrs. Jellison." 
 
 Mrs. Brunt was a gentle, pretty old woman, Avho 
 lived in another of the village almshouses, next door 
 to the Pattons, and Avas always ready to help her 
 neighbours in their domestic toils. Her last remain- 
 ing daughter, the victim of a horrible spinal disease, 
 had died some nine or ten months before the Boyces 
 arrived at Mellor. Marcella had already heard the 
 story several times, but it was part of her social 
 gift that she was a good listener to such things even 
 at the twentieth hearing. 
 
 "You wouldn't have her back though," she said 
 gently, turning towards the speaker. 
 
 "No, I wouldn't have her back, miss," said Mrs. 
 Brunt, raising her hand to brush away a tear, partly
 
 128 MARCELLA. 
 
 the result of feeling, partly of a long-established habit. 
 "But I do miss her nights terrible ! 'Mother, ain't it 
 ten o'clock ? — mother, look at the clock, do, mother 
 — ain't it time for my stuff, mother — oh, I do hope 
 it is.' That was her stuff, miss, to make her sleep. 
 And when she'd got it, she'd groan — you'd think she 
 couldn't be asleep, and yet she was, dead-like — for 
 two hours. I didn't get no rest Avith her, and now I 
 don't seem to get no rest without her." 
 
 And again Mrs. Brunt put her hand up to her eyes. 
 
 *'Ah, you were alius one for toilin' an' frettin'," 
 said Mrs. Jellison, calmly. " A body must get through 
 wi' it when it's there, but I don't hold wi' thinkin' 
 about it when it's done." 
 
 " I know one," said old Patton, slily, " that fretted 
 about her darter when it didn't do her no good." 
 
 He had not spoken so far, but had sat with his 
 hands on his stick, a spectator of the women's 
 humours. He was a little hunched man, twisted and 
 bent double with rheumatic gout, the fruit of seventy 
 years of field work. His small face was almost lost, 
 dog-like, under shaggy hair and overgrown eyebrows, 
 both snow-white. He had a look of irritable eager- 
 ness, seldom, however, expressed in words. A sudden 
 passion in the faded blue eyes ; a quick spot of red in 
 his old cheeks ; these Marcella had often noticed in 
 him, as though the flame of some inner furnace leapt. 
 He had been a Radical and a rebel once in old rick- 
 burning days, long before he lost the power in his 
 limbs and came down to be thankful for one of the 
 parish almshouses. To his social betters he was now 
 a quiet and peaceable old man, well aAvare of the
 
 MARCELLA. 129 
 
 cakes and ale to be got by good manners ; but in the 
 depths of him there were reminiscences and the ghosts 
 of passions, which were still stirred sometimes by 
 causes not always intelligible to the bystander. 
 
 He had rarely, however, physical energy enough to 
 bring any emotion — even of mere worry at his physi- 
 cal ills — to the birth. The pathetic silence of age 
 enwrapped him more and more. Still he could gibe 
 the women sometimes, especially Mrs. Jellison, who 
 was in general too clever for her company. 
 
 " Oh, you may talk, Patton ! " said Mrs. Jellison, 
 with a little flash of excitement. "You do like to 
 have your talk, don't you ! AVell, I dare say I teas 
 orkard with Isabella. I won't go for to say I ivasn't 
 orkard, for I ii:as. She should ha' used me to 't before, 
 if she wor took that way. She and I had just settled 
 down comfortable after my old man went, and I didn't 
 see no sense in it, an' I don't now. She might ha' let 
 the men alone. She'd seen enough o' the worrit ov 'em." 
 
 " Well, she did well for hersen," said Mrs. Brunt, 
 with the same gentle melancholy. "She married a 
 stiddy man as 'ull keep her well all her time, and never 
 let her want for nothink." 
 
 " A sour, wooden-faced chap as iver I knew," said 
 Mrs. Jellison, grudgingly. " I don't have nothink to 
 say to him, nor he to me. He thinks hissen the 
 G-rand Turk, he do, since they gi'en him his uniform, 
 and made him full keeper. A nassty, domineerin' 
 sort, I calls him. He's alius makin' bad blood wi' the 
 yoong fellers when he don't need. It's the way he's 
 got wi' 'im. But / don't make no account of 'im, an' I 
 let 'im see 't." 
 
 VOL. I. — 9
 
 130 MARCELLA.. 
 
 All the tea-party grinned except Mrs. Hiird. The 
 village was well acquainted with the ieud between 
 Mrs. Jellison and her son-in-law, George Westall, who 
 had persuaded Isabella Jellison at the mature age of 
 thirty-five to leave her mother and marry him, and 
 was now one of Lord Maxwell's keepers, with good 
 pay, and an excellent cottage some little way out of 
 the village. Mrs. Jellison had never forgiven her 
 daughter for deserting her, and was on lively terms 
 of hostility with her son-in-law ; but their only child, 
 little Johnnie, had found the soft spot in his grand- 
 mother, and her favourite excitement in life, now that 
 he was four years old, was to steal him from his 
 parents and feed him on the things of Avhich Isabella 
 most vigorously disapproved. 
 
 Mrs. Hurd, as has been said, did not smile. At the 
 mention of Westall, she got up hastily, and began to 
 put away the tea things. 
 
 Marcella meanwhile had been sitting thoughtful. 
 
 " You say Westall makes bad blood with the young 
 men, Mrs. Jellison? " she said, looking up. " Is there 
 much poaching in this village now, do you think? " 
 
 There was a dead silence. Mrs. Hurd was at the 
 other end of the cottage with her back to Marcella; 
 at the question, her hands paused an instant in their 
 work. The eyes of all the old people — of Patton and 
 his wife, of Mrs. Jellison, and pretty Mrs. Brunt — 
 were fixed on the speaker, but nobody said a word, 
 not even Mrs. Jellison. Marcella coloured. 
 
 " Oh, you needn't suppose — " she said, throwing 
 her beautiful head back, "you needn't suppose that I 
 care about the game, or that I would ever be mean
 
 MARCELLA. 131 
 
 enough to tell anything that was told me. I know it 
 does cause a great deal of quarrelling and bad blood. 
 I believe it does here — and I should like to know 
 raore about it. I want to make up my mind what to 
 think. Of course, my father has got his land and his 
 own opinions. And Lord Maxwell has too. But I 
 am not bound to think like either of them — I should 
 like you to understand that. It seems to me right 
 about all such things that people should enquire and 
 find out for themselves." 
 
 Still silence. Mrs. Jellison's mouth twitched, and 
 she thfrew a sly provocative glance at old Patton, as 
 though she would have liked to poke him in the ribs. 
 But she was not going to help him out ; and at last 
 the one male in the company found himself obliged to 
 clear his throat for reply. 
 
 "We're old folks, most on us, miss, 'cept Mrs. 
 Hurd. We don't hear talk o' things now like as we 
 did when we were younger. If you ast Mr. Harden 
 he'll tell you, I dessay." 
 
 Patton allowed himself an inward chuckle. Even 
 Mrs. J ellison, he thought, must admit that he knew a 
 thing or two as to the best way of dealing with the 
 gentry. 
 
 But Marcella fixed him with her bright frank eyes. 
 
 "I had rather ask in the village,-' she said. "If 
 you don't know how it is now, Mr. Patton, tell me 
 how it used to be when you were young. Was the 
 preserving very strict about here ? Were there often 
 fights with the keepers — long ago? — in my grand- 
 father's days ? — and do you think men poached be- 
 cause they were hungry, or because they wanted 
 sport?''
 
 132 MARCELLA. 
 
 Patton looked at her fixedly a moment undecided, 
 then her strong nervous youth seemed to exercise a 
 kind of compulsion on him ; perhaps, too, the pretty 
 courtesy of her manner. He cleared his throat again, 
 and tried to forget Mrs. Jellison, who would be sure to 
 let him hear of it again, whatever he said. 
 
 "Well, I can't answer for 'em, miss, I'm sure, but if 
 you ast me, I b'lieve ther's a bit o' boath in it. Yer 
 see it's not in human natur, when a man's young and 
 's got his blood up, as he shouldn't want ter have 'is 
 sport with the wild creeturs. Perhaps he see 'em 
 when ee's going to the wood with a wood cart; — or 
 he cooms across 'em in the turnips — wounded birds, 
 you understan', miss, perhaps the day after the gentry 
 'as been bangin' at 'em all day. An' ee don't see, not 
 for the life of 'im, why ee shouldn't have 'em. Ther's 
 bin lots an' lots for the rich folks, an' he don't see 
 why ee shouldn't have a few arter they've enjoyed 
 theirselves. And mebbe he's eleven shillin' a week — 
 an' two-threy little chillen — you understan', miss ? " 
 
 " Of course I understand ! " said Marcella, eagerly, 
 her dark cheek flashing. " Of course I do ! But 
 there's a good deal of game given away in these 
 parts, isn't there ? I know Lord Maxwell does, and 
 they say Lord Winterbourne gives all his labourers 
 rabbits, almost as many as they want." 
 
 Her questions wound old Patton up as though he 
 had been a disused clock. He began to feel a whirr 
 among his creaking wheels, a shaking of all his rusty 
 mind. 
 
 " Perhaps they do, miss," he said, and his wife saw 
 that he was beginning to tremble. "I dessay they
 
 MARCELLA. 133 
 
 do — I don't sa}^ notliink agen it — though theer's 
 none of it cooms my way. But that isn't all the 
 rights on it nayther — no, that it ain't. The labourin' 
 man ee's glad enough to get a hare or a rabbit for 'is 
 eatin' — but there's more in it nor that, miss. Ee's 
 alius in the fields, that's where it is — ee can't help 
 seein' the hares and the rabbits a-comin' in and out 
 o' the woods, if it Avere iver so. Ee knows ivery run 
 ov ivery one on 'em ; if a hare's started furthest cor- 
 ner o' t' field, he can tell yer whar she'll git in by, 
 because he's alius there, you see, miss, an' it's the 
 only thing he's got to take his mind off like. And 
 then he sets a snare or two — an' ee gits very sharp 
 at settin' on 'em — an' ee'll go out nights for the sport 
 of it. Ther isn't many things ee's got to liven him 
 up; an' ee takes 'is chances o' goin' to jail — it's 
 wuth it, ee thinks." 
 
 The old man's hands on his stick shook more and 
 more visibly. Bygones of his youth had come back to 
 him. 
 
 " Oh, I know ! I know ! " cried Marcella, with an 
 accent half of indignation, half of despair. " It's the 
 whole wretched system. It spoils those who've got, 
 and those who haven't got. And there'll be no mend- 
 ing it till the people get the land back again, and till 
 the rights on it are common to all." 
 
 " My ! she do speak up, don't she ? " said Mrs. 
 Jellison, grinning again at her companions. Then, 
 stooping forward with one of her wild movements, 
 she caught Marcella's arm — " I'd like to hear yer 
 tell that to Lord Maxwell, miss. I likes a roompus, 
 I do."
 
 134 MAECELLA. 
 
 Marcella flushed and laughed. 
 
 " I wouldn't mhid saying that or anything else to 
 Lord Maxwell," she said proudly. " I'm not ashamed 
 of anything I think." 
 
 "Xo, I'll bet you ain't," said Mrs. Jellison, withdraw- 
 ing her hand. " Now then, Patton, you say what you 
 thinks. You ain't got no vote now ^^ou're in the 
 parish houses — I minds that. The quality don't 
 trouble you at 'lection times. This yoong man, Muster 
 Wharton, as is goin' round so free, promisin' yer the 
 sun out o' the sky, iv yer'll only vote for 'im, so th' 
 men say — ee don't coom an' set down along o' you an' 
 me, an' cocker of us up as ee do Joe Simmons or Jim 
 Hurd here. But that don't matter. Yur thinkin's yur 
 own, anyway." 
 
 But she nudged him in vain. Patton had suddenly 
 run down, and there was no more to be got out of 
 him. 
 
 Not only had nerves and speech failed him as they 
 were wont, but in his cloudy soul there had risen, 
 even while Marcella was speaking, the inevitable sus- 
 picion which dogs the relations of the poor towards 
 the richer class. This young lady, with her strange 
 talk, was the new squire's daughter. And the village 
 had already made up its mind that Richard Boyce was 
 " a poor sort," and " a hard sort " too, in his landlord 
 capacity. He wasn't going to be any improvement on 
 his brother — not a haporth ! What was the good of 
 this young woman talking, as she did, when there 
 were three summonses as he, Patton, heard tell, just 
 taken out by the sanitary inspector against Mr. Boyce 
 for bad cottages? And not a farthing given away
 
 MARCELLA. 135 
 
 in the village neither, except perhaps the bits of food 
 that the young lacty herself brought down to the 
 village now and then, for which no one, in truth, felt 
 any cause to be particularly grateful. Besides, what 
 did she mean by asking questions about the poaching ? 
 Old Patton knew as well as anybody else in the vil- 
 lage, that during Robert Boyce's last days, and after 
 the death of his sportsman son, the Mellor estate had 
 become the haunt of poachers from far and near, and 
 that the trouble had long since spread into the neigh- 
 bouring properties, so that the Winterbourne and 
 Maxwell keepers regarded it their most arduous busi- 
 ness to keep watch on the men of Mellor. Of course 
 the young woman kneAv it all, and she and her father 
 wanted to know more. That was why she talked. 
 Patton hardened himself against the creeping ways of 
 the quality. 
 
 '• I don't think nought," he said roughly in answer 
 to Mrs. Jellison. " Thinkin' won't come atwixt me and 
 the parish coffin when I'm took. I've no call to think, 
 I tell yer." 
 
 ^larcella's chest heaved with indignant feeling. 
 
 " Oh, but, Mr. Patton ! " she cried, leaning forward 
 to him, " won't it comfort you a bit, even if you can't 
 live to see it, to think there's a better time coming? 
 There must be. People can't go on like this always 
 — hating each other and trampling on each other. 
 They're beginning to see it now, they are ! When I 
 was living in London, the persons I was with talked 
 and thought of it all day. Some day, whenever the 
 people choose — for they've got the power now they've 
 got the vote — there'll be land for everybody, and in
 
 136 MARCELLA. 
 
 every village there'll be a council to manage things, and 
 the labourer will count for just as much as the squire 
 and the parson, and he'll be better educated and better 
 fed, and care for many things he doesn't care for now. 
 But all the same, if he wants sport and shooting, it 
 will be there for him to get. For everybody will have 
 a chance and a turn, and there'll be no bitterness be- 
 tween classes, and no hopeless pining and misery as 
 there is now ! " 
 
 The girl broke off, catching her breath. It excited 
 her to say these things to these people, to these poor 
 tottering old things who had lived out their lives to 
 the end under the pressure of an iron system, and 
 had no lien on the future, whatever Paradise it might 
 bring. Again the situation had something foreseen 
 and dramatic in it. She saw herself, as the preacher, 
 sitting on her stool beside the poor grate — she real- 
 ised as a spectator the figures of the women and the 
 old man played on by the firelight — the white, bare, 
 damp-stained walls of the cottage, and in the back- 
 ground the fragile though still comely form of Minta 
 Hurd, who was standing with her back to the dresser, 
 and her head bent forward, listening to the talk 
 while her fingers twisted the straw she plaited eter- 
 nally from morning till night, for a wage of about Is. 
 3d. a week. 
 
 Her mind was all aflame with excitement and defi- 
 ance — defiance of her father, Lord Maxwell, Aldous 
 Eaeburn. Let him come, her friend, and see for him- 
 self what she thought it right to do and say in this 
 miserable village. Her soul challenged him, longed 
 to provoke him ! "Well, she was soon to meet him,
 
 M ABC ELLA. 137 
 
 and in a new and more significant relation and envi- 
 ronment. Tlie fact made her perception of the whole 
 situation the more rich and vibrant. 
 
 Patton, while these broken thoughts and sensations 
 were coursing through ]Marcella's head, was slowly 
 revolving what she had been saying, and the others 
 were waiting for him. 
 
 At last he rolled his tongue round his dry lips and 
 delivered himself by a final effort. 
 
 '* Them as likes, miss, may believe as how things 
 are going to happen that way, but yer won't ketch 
 me ! Them as have got 'ull keep " — he let his stick 
 sharply down on the floor — ''■ an' them as 'aven't got 
 'ull 'ave to go without and lump it — as long as you're 
 alive, miss, you mark my words ! " 
 
 " Oh, Lor', you wor alius one for makin' a poor 
 mouth, Patton ! " said Mrs. Jellison. She had been sit- 
 ting with her arms folded across her chest, part ab- 
 sent, part amused, part malicious. '• The young lady 
 speaks beautiful, just like a book she do. An' she's 
 likely to know a deal better nor poor persons like you 
 and me. All I kin say is, — if there's goin' to be di- 
 vidin' up of other folks' property, when Vn\ gone, I 
 hope George Westall won't get nothink ov it I He's 
 bad enough as 'tis. Isabella 'ud have a fine time if ee 
 took to drivin' ov his carriage." 
 
 The others laughed out, Marcella at their head, and 
 Mrs. Jellison subsided, the corners of her mouth still 
 twitching, and her eyes shining as though a host of 
 entertaining notions were trooping through her — 
 which, however, she preferred to amuse herself with 
 rather than the public. Marcella looked at Patton 
 thoughtfully.
 
 138 3IARCELLA. 
 
 " You've been all your life in this village, haven't 
 you, Mr. Patton ? " she asked him. 
 
 "Born top o' Witchett's Hill, miss. An' iny wife 
 here, she wor born just a house or two further along, 
 an' we two bin married sixty-one year come next 
 March." 
 
 He had resumed his usual almshouse tone, civil and 
 a little plaintive. His wife behind him smiled gently 
 at being spoken of. She had a long fair face, and 
 white hair surmounted by a battered black bonnet, a 
 mouth set rather on one side, and a more observant 
 and refined air than most of her neighbours. She 
 sighed while she talked, and spoke in a delicate 
 quaver. 
 
 "D'ye know, miss," said Mrs. Jellison, pointing to 
 Mrs. Patton, "as she kep' school when she was 
 young ? " 
 
 " Did you, Mrs. Patton ? " asked Marcella in her 
 tone of sympathetic interest. "The school wasn't 
 very big then, I suppose ? " 
 
 " About forty, miss," said Mrs. Patton, with a sigh. 
 " There was eighteen the Kector paid for, and eighteen 
 Mr. Boyce paid for, and the rest paid for themselves." 
 
 Her voice dropped gently, and she sighed again like 
 one weighted with an eternal fatigue. 
 
 " And what did you teach them ? " 
 
 "Well, I taught them the plaitin', miss, and as 
 much readin' and writin' as I knew myself. It wasn't 
 as high as it is now, you see, miss," and a delicate flush 
 dawned on the old cheek as Mrs. Patton threw a glance 
 round her companions as though appealing to them 
 not to tell stories of her.
 
 M ABC ELL A. 139 
 
 But Mrs. Jellison was implacable. ^'It wor she 
 taught me,-' she said, nodding at jNIarcella and point- 
 ing sideways to Mrs. Patton. '• She had a queer way 
 wi' the hard words, I can tell yer, miss. When she 
 couldn't tell 'em herself she'd never own up to it. 
 ^ Say Jerusalem, my dear, and pass on.' That's what 
 she'd say, she would, sure's as you're alive I I've heard 
 her do it times. An' when Isabella an' me used to 
 read the Bible, nights, I'd alius rayther do 't than be 
 beholden to me own darter. It gets 3^er through, any- 
 way." 
 
 "•'Well, it wor a good word," said Mrs. Patton, 
 blushing and mildly defending herself. '-It didn't 
 do none of yer any harm." 
 
 '• Oh, an' before her, miss, I went to a school to 
 another Avoman, as lived up Shepherd's Row. You 
 remember her, Betsy Brunt ? " 
 
 Mrs. Brunt's worn eyes began already to gleam and 
 sparkle. 
 
 ^'' Yis, I recolleck very well, Mrs. Jellison. She wor 
 Mercy Moss, an' a goodish deal of trouble you'd use 
 to get me into wi' Mercy Moss, all along o' your 
 tricks." 
 
 Mrs. Jellison, still with folded arms, began to rock 
 herself gently up and down as though to stimulate 
 memory. 
 
 " My word, but Muster Maurice — he wor the clergy- 
 man herp then, miss — wor set on Mercy Moss. He 
 and his wife tliey flattered and cockered her up. Ther 
 wor nobody like her for keepin' school, not in their 
 eyes — till one midsummer — she — well she — I don't 
 want to say nothink onpleasant — hut she transgressed,''
 
 140 MARCELLA. 
 
 said Mrs. Jellison, nodding mysteriously, triumphant 
 however in the unimpeachable delicacy of her language, 
 and looking round the circle for approval. 
 
 " What do you say ? " asked Marcella, innocently. 
 •' AVhat did Mercy Moss do ? " 
 
 Mrs. Jellison's eyes danced with malice and mischief, 
 but her mouth shut like a vice. Patton leaned forward 
 on his stick, shaken wdth a sort of inward explosion ; 
 his plaintive wife laughed under her breath till she 
 must needs sigh because laughter tired her old bones. 
 Mrs. Brunt gurgled gently. And finally Mrs. Jellison 
 was carried away. 
 
 " Oh, my goodness me, don't you make me tell tales 
 o' Mercy Moss ! " she said at last, dashing the water 
 out of her eyes with an excited tremulous hand. 
 " She's bin dead and gone these forty year — married 
 and buried mos' respeckable — it 'ud be a burning 
 shame to bring up tales agen her now. Them as tittle- 
 tattles about dead folks needn t look to lie quiet their- 
 selves in their graves. I've said it times, and I'll say 
 it again. What are you lookin' at me for, Betsy 
 Brunt ? " 
 
 And Mrs. Jellison drew up suddenly with a fierce 
 .glance at Mrs. Brunt. 
 
 " Why, Mrs. Jellison, I niver meant no offence," said 
 Mrs. Brunt, hastily. 
 
 " I won't stand no insinooating," said Mrs. Jellison, 
 with energy. "If you've got soomthink agen me, you 
 may out Avi' 't an' niver mind the young lady." 
 
 But Mrs. Brunt, much flurried, retreated amid a 
 shower of excuses, pursued by her enemy, who was 
 soon worrying the whole little company, as a dog
 
 MABCELLA. 141 
 
 worries a flock of sheep, snapping here and teasing 
 there, chattering at the top of her voice in broad dia- 
 lect, as she got more and more excited, and quite as 
 ready to break her wit on Marcella as on anybody else. 
 As for the others, most of them had known little else 
 for weeks than alternations of toil and sickness ; they 
 were as much amused and excited to-night by Mrs. 
 Jellison's audacities as a Londoner is by his favourite 
 low comedian at his favourite music-hall. They played 
 chorus to her, laughed, baited her; even old Patton 
 was drawTi against his will into a caustic sociability. 
 
 Marcella meanwhile sat on her stool, her chin upon 
 her hand, and her full glowing eyes turned upon the 
 little spectacle, absorbing it all with a covetous 
 curiosity. 
 
 The light-heartedness, the power of enjoyment left 
 in these old folk struck her dumb. Mrs. Brunt had 
 an income of two-and-sixpence a week, plus two loaves 
 from the parish, and one of the parish or '' charity " 
 houses, a hovel, that is to sa}^, of one room, scarcely 
 fit for human habitation at all. She had lost five 
 children, was allowed two shillings a w^eek by two 
 labourer sons, and earned sixpence a week — about — 
 by continuous work at " the plait." Her husband had 
 been run over by a farm cart and killed ; up to the 
 time of his death his earnings averaged about twenty- 
 eight pounds a year. Much the same with the Pat- 
 tons. They had lost eight children out of ten, and 
 were now mainly supported by the wages of a daugh- 
 ter in service. Mrs. Patton had of late years suffered 
 agonies and humiliations indescribable, from a terrible 
 illness which the parish doctor was quite incompetent
 
 142 MARCELLA. 
 
 to treat, being all through a singularly sensitive 
 woman, with a natural instinct for the decorous and 
 the beautiful. 
 
 Amazing ! Starvation wages ; hardships of sick- 
 ness and pain ; horrors of birth and horrors of death ; 
 w^holesale losses of kindred and friends ; the meanest 
 surroundings ; the most sordid cares — of this mingled 
 cup of village fate every person in the room had 
 drunk, and drunk deep. Yet here in this autumn twi- 
 light, they laughed and chattered, and joked — weird, 
 wrinkled children, enjoying an hour's rough play in 
 a clearing of the storm ! Dependent from birth to 
 death on squire, parson, parish, crushed often, and ill- 
 treated, according to their own ideas, but bearing so 
 little ill-will; amusing themselves with their own 
 tragedies even, if they could but sit by a fire and 
 drink a neighbour's cup of tea. 
 
 Her heart swelled and burned within her. Yes, the 
 old x^eople were past hoping for; mere wreck and 
 driftwood on the shore, the spring-tide of death would 
 soon have swept them all into unremembered graves. 
 But the young men and women, the children, were 
 they too to grow up, and grow old like these — the 
 same smiling, stunted, ignobly submissive creatures ? 
 One woman at least would do her best with her one 
 ])Oor life to rouse some of them to discontent and 
 revolt !
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 The lire sank, and Mrs. Hurd made no haste to light 
 lier lamp. Soon the old people were dim chattering 
 shapes in a red darkness. Mrs. Hurd still plaited, 
 silent and upright, lifting her head every now and 
 then at each sound upon the road. 
 
 At last there was a knock at the door. Mrs. Hurd 
 ran to open it. 
 
 " Mother, I'm going your way," said a strident voice. 
 " I'll help you home if you've a mind." 
 
 On the threshold stood Mrs. Jellison's daughter, 
 Mrs. Westall, with her little boy beside her, the 
 woman's broad shoulders and harsh striking head 
 standing out against the pale sky behind. Marcella 
 noticed that she greeted none of the old people, nor 
 they her. And as for Mrs. Hurd, as soon as she saw 
 the keeper's wife, she turned her back abruptly on her 
 visitor, and walked to the other end of the kitchen. 
 
 ^' Are you comin', mother ? " repeated Isabella. 
 
 Mrs. Jellison grumbled, gibed at her, and made long 
 leave-takings, while the daughter stood silent, waiting, 
 and every now and then peering at Marcella, who had 
 never seen lier before. 
 
 "I don' know where yur manners is," said Mrs. 
 Jellison sharply to lier, as though she had been a child 
 of ten, "that you don't say good evenin' to the young 
 lady."' 
 
 143
 
 144 MAECELLA. 
 
 Mrs. Westall curtsied low, and hoped she might be 
 excused, as it had grown so dark. Her tone was 
 smooth and servile, and Marcella disliked her as she 
 shook hands with her. 
 
 The other old people, including Mrs. Brunt, departed 
 a minute or two after the mother and daughter, and 
 Marcella was left an instant with Mrs. Hurd. 
 
 " Oh, thank you, thank you kindly, miss," said Mrs. 
 Hurd, raising her apron to her eyes to staunch some 
 irrepressible tears, as Marcella showed her the adver- 
 tisement which it might possibly be worth Hurd's 
 while to answer. " He'll try, you may be sure. But 
 I can't think as how anythink 'ull come ov it." 
 
 And then suddenly, as though something unex- 
 plained had upset her self-control, the poor patient 
 creature utterly broke down. Leaning against the 
 bare shelves which held their few pots and pans, she 
 threw her apron over her head and burst into the for- 
 lornest weeping. " I wish I was dead ; I wish I was 
 dead, an' the chillen too ! " 
 
 Marcella hung over her, one flame of passionate 
 pity, comforting, soothing, promising help. Mrs. Hurd 
 presently recovered enough to tell her that Hurd had 
 gone off that morning before it was light to a farm 
 near Thame, where it had been told him he might 
 possibly find a job. 
 
 " But he'll not find it, miss, he'll not find it," she 
 said, twisting her hands in a sort of restless misery ; 
 'Hhere's nothing good happens to such as us. An' he 
 wor alius a one to work if he could get it." 
 
 There was a sound outside. Mrs. Hurd flew to the 
 door, and a short, deformed man, with a large head
 
 31 AR CELL A. 145 
 
 and red hair, stumbled in blindly, splashed with mud 
 up to his waist, and evidently spent with long walking. 
 
 He stopped on the threshold, straining his eyes to 
 §ee through the fire-lit gloom. 
 
 " It's Miss Boyce, Jim," said his wife. '' Did you 
 hear of anythink ? '' 
 
 " They're turnin' off hands instead of takin' ov 'em 
 on," he said briefly, and fell into a chair by the grate. 
 
 He had hardly greeted Marcella, who had certainly 
 looked to be greeted. Ever since her arrival in August, 
 as she had told Aldous Raeburn, she had taken a warm 
 interest in this man and his family. There was some- 
 thing about them which marked them out a bit from 
 their fellows — whether it was the husband's strange 
 but not repulsive deformity, contrasted with the touch 
 of plaintive grace in the wife, or the charm of the 
 elfish children, with their tiny stick-like arms and legs, 
 and the glancing wildness of their blue eyes, under 
 the frizzle of red hair, which shone round their little 
 sickly faces. Very soon she had begun to haunt them 
 in her eager way, to try and penetrate their peasant 
 lives, which were so full of enigma and attraction to 
 her, mainly because of their very defectiveness, their 
 closeness to an animal simplicity, never to be reached 
 by any one of her sort. She soon discovered or im- 
 agined that Hurd had more education than his neigh- 
 bours. At any rate, he would sit listening to her — 
 and smoking, as she made him do — while she talked 
 politics and socialism to him; and though he said 
 little in return, she made the most of it, and was sure 
 anyway that he was glad to see her come in, and must 
 some time read the labour newspapers and Yenturist 
 
 VOL. I. — 10
 
 146 MARC ELL A. 
 
 leaflets she brought him, for they were always well 
 thumbed before they came back to her. 
 
 But to-niglit his sullen weariness would make no 
 effort, and the hunted restless glances he threw from 
 side to side as he sat crouchiug over the fire — the 
 large mouth tight shut, the nostrils working — showed 
 her that he would be glad when she went away. 
 
 Her young exacting temper was piqued. She had 
 been for some time trying to arrange their lives for 
 them. So, in spite of his dumb resistance, she lingered 
 on, questioning and suggesting. As to the advertise- 
 ment she had brought down, he put it aside almost 
 without looking at it. " There ud be a hun'erd men 
 after it before ever he could get there," was all he 
 would say to it. Then she inquired if he had been to 
 ask the steward of the Maxwell Court estate for work. 
 He did not answer, but Mrs. Hurd said timidly that 
 she heard tell a new drive was to be made that win- 
 ter for the sake of giving employment. But their own 
 men on the estate would come first, and there were 
 plenty of them out of work. 
 
 " Well, but there is the game," persisted Marcella. 
 "Isn't it possible they might want some extra men 
 now the pheasant shooting has begun. I might go 
 and inquire of Westall — I knoAv him a little." 
 
 The wife made a startled movement, and Hurd raised 
 his misshapen form with a jerk. 
 
 " Thank yer, miss, but 1*11 not trouble yer. I don't 
 want nothing to do with Westall." 
 
 And taking up a bit of half-burnt wood which lay 
 on the hearth, he threw it violently back into the 
 grate. Marcella looked from one to the other with
 
 MARCELLA. 147 
 
 surprise. Mrs. Hiird's expression was one of miser- 
 able discomfort, and she kept twisting her apron in 
 her gnarled hands. 
 
 "Yes, I shall tell, Jim!" she broke out. "I shall. 
 I know Miss Boyce is one as ull understand — '' 
 
 Hurd turned round and looked at his wife full. 
 But she persisted. 
 
 "You see, miss, they don't speak, don't Jijn and 
 George Westall. When Jim was quite a lad he was 
 employed at Mellor, under old Westall, George's father 
 as was. Jim was ^watcher,' and young George he 
 was assistant. That was in Mr. Robert's days, you 
 understand, miss — when Master Harold was alive; 
 and they took a deal o' trouble about the game. An' 
 George Westall, he was allays leading the others a 
 life — tale-bearing an' spyin', an' settin' his father 
 against any of 'em as didn't give in to him. An', oh, 
 he behaved' fearful to Jim ! Jim ull tell you. Now, 
 Jim, what's wrong with you — why shouldn't I tell ? " 
 
 For Hurd had risen, and as he and his wife looked 
 at each other a sort of mute conversation seemed to 
 pass between them. Then he turned angrily, and went 
 out of the cottage by the back door into the garden. 
 
 The wife sat in some agitation a moment, then she 
 resumed. '• He can't bear no talk about Westall — it 
 seems to drive him silly. But T say as how people 
 should know." 
 
 Her wavering eye seemed to interrogate her com- 
 panion. Marcella was puzzled by her manner — it 
 was so far from simple. 
 
 "But that was long ago, surely," she said. 
 
 "Yes, it wor long ago, but you don't forget them
 
 148 MARCELLA. 
 
 things, miss ! An' Westall, he's just the same sort as 
 he was then, so folks say," she added hurriedly. "You 
 see Jim, miss, how he's made ? His back was twisted 
 that way when he was a little un. His father was a 
 good old man — everybody spoke well of 'im — but his 
 mother, she was a queer mad body, with red hair, just 
 like Jim and the children, and a temper! my word. 
 They do say she was an Irish girl, out of a gang as 
 used to work near here — an' she let him drop one day 
 when she was in liquor, an' never took no trouble 
 about him afterwards. He was a poor sickly lad, he 
 was ! you'd wonder how he grew up at all. And oh ! 
 George Westall he treated him cruel. He'd kick and 
 swear at him ; then he'd dare him to fight, an' thrash 
 him till the others came in, an' got him away. Then 
 he'd carry tales to his father, and one day old Westall 
 beat Jim within an inch of 'is life, with a strap end, 
 because of a lie George told 'im. The poor cha}) lay 
 in a ditch under Disley Wood all day, because he was 
 that knocked about he couldn't walk, and at night he 
 crawled home on his hands and knees. He's shown 
 me the place many a time ! Then he told his father, 
 and next morning he told me, as he couldn't stand it 
 no longer, an' he never went back no more." 
 
 "And he told no one else ? — he never complained ? " 
 asked Marcella, indignantly. 
 
 "What ud ha been the good o' that, miss?" Mrs. 
 Hurd said, wondering. "Nobody ud ha taken his 
 word agen old Westall's. But he come and told me. 
 I was housemaid at Lady Leven's then, an' he and his 
 father were old friends of ourn. And I knew George 
 Westall too. He used to walk out with me of a
 
 MABCELLA. 149 
 
 Sunday, just as civil as could be, and give my mother 
 rabbits now and again, and do anything I'd ask him. 
 An' I up and told liiui he was a brute to go ill-treatin' 
 a sickly fellow as couldn't pay him back. That made 
 him as cross as vinegar, an' when Jim began to be 
 about with me ov a Sunday sometimes, instead of him, 
 he got madder and madder. An' Jim asked me to 
 marry him — he begged of me — an' I didn't know 
 what to say. For Westall had asked me tAvice ; an' 
 I was afeard of Jim's health, an' the low wages he'd 
 get, an' of not bein' strong myself. But one day I was 
 going up a lane into Tudley End woods, an' I heard 
 George Westall on tother side of the hedge with a 
 young dog he was training. Somethin' crossed him, 
 an' he flew into a passion with it. It turned me sick. 
 I ran away and I took against him there and then. 
 I was frightened of him. I duresn't trust myself, 
 and I said to Jim I'd take him. So you can under- 
 stan', miss, can't you, as Jim don't want to have noth- 
 ing to do with Westall ? Thank you kindly, all the 
 same," she added, breaking off her narrative with the 
 same uncertainty of manner, the same timid scrutiny 
 of her visitor that Marcella had noticed before. 
 
 Marcella replied that she could certainly understand. 
 
 " But I suppose they've not got in each other's way 
 of late years," she said as she rose to go. 
 
 " Oh ! no, miss, no," said Mrs. Hurd as she went 
 hurriedly to fetch a fur tippet which her visitor had 
 laid down on the dresser. 
 
 " There is one person I can speak to," said Marcella, 
 as she put on the wrap. "And I will." Against her 
 will she reddened a little ; but she had not been able
 
 150 MARCELLA. 
 
 to help throwing out the promise. '' And now, you 
 won't despair, will you ? You'll trust me ? T could 
 always do something." 
 
 She took Mrs. Kurd's hand with a sweet look and 
 gesture. Standing there in her tall vigorous youth, 
 her furs wrapped about her, she had the air of pro- 
 tecting and guiding this poverty that could not help 
 itself. The mother and wife felt herself shy, intimi- 
 dated. The tears came back to her brown eyes. 
 
 When Miss Boyce had gone, Minta Hurd Avent to 
 the fire and put it together, sighing all the time, her 
 face still red and miserable. 
 
 The door opened and her husband came in. He 
 carried some potatoes in his great earth-stained hands. 
 
 " You're goin' to put that bit of hare on ? Well, 
 mak' eeaste, do, for I'm starvin'. What did she want 
 to stay all that time for ? You go and get it. I'll 
 blow the fire up — damn these sticks ! — they're as 
 wet as Dugnall pond." 
 
 Nevertheless, as she sadly came and went, preparing 
 the supper, she saw that he was appeased, in a better 
 temper than before. 
 
 " What did you tell 'er ? " he asked abruptly. 
 
 " What do you spose I'd tell her ? I acted for the 
 best. I'm always thinkin' for you ! " she said as though 
 with a little cry, " or Ave'd soon be in trouble — worse 
 trouble than we are ! " she added miserably. 
 
 He stopped working the old bellows for a moment, 
 and, holding his long chin, stared into the flames. 
 With his deformity, his earth-stains, his blue eyes, 
 his brown wrinkled skin^ and his shock of red hair,
 
 MARCELLA. 151 
 
 he had the look of some strange gnome crouching 
 there. 
 
 ••I don't know what you're at, I'll swear/' he said 
 after a pause. '• I ain't in any pertickler trouble just 
 now — if yer wouldn't send a fellow stumpin' the 
 country for nothink. If you'll just let me alone I'll 
 get a livin' for you and the chillen right enough. Don't 
 you trouble yourself — an' hold your tongue I '' 
 
 She threw down her apron w^ith a gesture of despair 
 as she stood beside him, in front of the fire, watching 
 the pan. 
 
 •• What am I to do, Jim, an' them chillen — when 
 you're took to prison ? " she asked him vehemently. 
 
 "I shan't get took to prison, I tell yer. All the 
 same, Westall got holt o' me this mornin'. I thought 
 praps you'd better know^" 
 
 Her exclamation of terror, her wild look at him. 
 were exactly what he had expected : nevertheless, he 
 flinched before them. His brutality w^as mostly as- 
 sumed. He had adopted it as a mask for more than a 
 year past, because he must go his way, and she worried 
 him. 
 
 " Now look here," he said resolutely, " it don't mat- 
 ter. I'm not goin' to be took by AVestall. I'd kill him 
 or myself first. But he caught me lookin' at a snare 
 this mornin' — it wor misty, and I didn't see no one 
 comin'. It wor close to the footpath, and it worn't my 
 snare." 
 
 " * Jim, my chap,' says he, mockin', ' I'm sorry for 
 it, but I'm going to search yer, so take it quietly,' 
 says he. He had young Dynes with him — so I didn't 
 say nought — I kep' as still as a mouse, an' sure enough
 
 152 MAttCELLA. 
 
 he put iiis ugly lian's into all my pockets. An' what 
 do yer think he foun' ? " 
 
 " What ? " she said breathlessly. 
 
 " Nothink ! " he laughed out. " Nary an end o' 
 string, nor a kink o' wire — nothink. I'd hidden the 
 two rabbits I got las' night, and all niy bits o' things 
 in a ditch far enough out o' his way. I just laughed 
 at the look ov 'im. ' I'll have the law on yer for assault 
 an' battery, yer damned miscalculatin' brute ! ' says I 
 to him — ' why don't yer get that boy there to teach 
 yer your business ? ' An' off I walked. Don't you 
 be afeared -^ 'ee'll never lay hands on me ! " 
 
 But Minta was sore afraid, and went on talking and 
 lamenting while she made the tea. He took little heed 
 of her. He sat by the fire quivering and thinking. 
 In a public-house two nights before this one, overtures 
 had been made to him on behalf of a well-known gang 
 of poachers with head-quarters in a neighbouring 
 county town, who had their eyes on the pheasant pre- 
 serves in Westall's particular beat — the Tudley End 
 beat — and wanted a local watcher and accomplice. 
 He had thought the matter at first too dangerous to 
 touch. Moreover, he was at that moment in a period 
 of transition, pestered by Minta to give up ''the 
 poachin'," and yet drawn back to it after his spring 
 and summer of field work by instincts only recently 
 revived, after long dormancy, but now hard to resist. 
 
 Presently he turned with anger upon one of Minta's 
 wails which happened to reach him. 
 
 " Look 'ere ! " said he to her, " where ud you an' the 
 chillen be this night if I 'adn't done it ? 'Adn't we 
 got rid of every stick o' stuff we iver 'ad ? 'Ere's a
 
 MAPiCELLA. 153 
 
 well-furiiisliecl place for a chap to sit in I " — he glanced 
 bitterly round the bare kitchen, which had none of the 
 little properties of the country poor, no chest, no set 
 of mahogany drawers, no comfortable chair, nothing, 
 but the dresser and the few rush chairs and the table, 
 and a few odds and ends of crockery and household 
 stuff — ^-wouldn't we all a bin on the parish, if we 
 'adn't starved fust — icoulduH ^ye ? — jes' answer me 
 that ! Didiit we sit here an' starve, till the bones was 
 comin' through the chillen's skin ? — didn't Ave ? " 
 
 That he could still argue the point with her showed 
 the inner vulnerableness, the inner need of her affec- 
 tion and of peace with her, which he still felt, far as 
 certain new habits were beginning to sweep him from 
 her. 
 
 '' It's "Westall or Jenkins (Jenkins was the village 
 policeman) havin' the law on yer, Jim," she said with 
 emphasis, putting down a cup and looking at him — 
 '• it's the thought of that makes me cold in my back. 
 None o' my people was ever in prison — an' if it 
 'appened to you I should just die of shame ! " 
 
 '• Then yer'd better take and read them papers there 
 as she brought," he said impatiently, first jerking his 
 finger over his shoulder in the direction of jNIellor to 
 indicate Miss Boyce, and then pointing to a heap of 
 newspapers which lay on the floor in a corner, '• they'd 
 tell yer summat about the shame o' makbi' them game- 
 laws — not o' breakin' ov 'em. But I'm sick o' this ! 
 Where's them chillen ? Why do yer let that boy out 
 so late ? " 
 
 And opening the door he stood on the threshold 
 looking up and down the village street, while Minta
 
 154 MARCELLA. 
 
 once more gave up the struggle, dried her eyes, and 
 told herself to be cheerful. But it was hard. She 
 was far l)etter born and better educated than her hus- 
 band. Her father had been a small master chair- 
 maker in Wycombe, and her mother, a lackadaisical 
 silly woman, had given her her '• fine " name by way 
 of additional proof that she and her children were 
 something out of the common. Moreover, she had 
 the conforming law-abiding instincts of the well- 
 treated domestic servant, who has lived on kindly 
 terms with the gentry and shared their standards. 
 And for years after their marriage Hurd had allowed 
 her to govern him. He had been so patient, so hard- 
 working, such a kind husband and father, so full of 
 a dumb wish to show her he Avas grateful to her for 
 marrying such a fellow as he. The quarrel with 
 Westall seemed to have sunk out of his mind. He 
 never spoke to or of him. Low wages, the burden of 
 quick-coming children, the bad sanitary conditions of 
 their wretched cottage, and poor health, had made 
 their lives one long and sordid struggle. But for 
 years he had borne his load with extraordinary pa- 
 tience. He and his could just exist, and the man who 
 had been in youth the lonely victim of his neighbours' 
 scorn had found a woman to give him all herself and 
 children to love. Hence years of submission, a hidden 
 flowering time for both of them. 
 
 Till that last awful winter ! — the Avinter before 
 Richard Boyce's succession to Mellor — when the 
 farmers had been mostly ruined, and half the able- 
 bodied men of Mellor had tramped " up into the 
 smoke," as the village put it, in search of London work
 
 MARCELLA. 155 
 
 — then, out of actual sheer starvation — that very rare 
 excuse of the poacher ! — Hurt! had gone one night 
 and snared a hare on the Mellor land. Would the 
 wife and mother ever forget the pure animal satisfac- 
 tion of that meal, or the fearful joy of the next night, 
 when he got three shillings from a local publican for 
 a hare and two rabbits ? 
 
 But after the first relief Minta had gone in fear and 
 trembling. For the old Avoodcraft revived in Hurd. 
 and the old passion for the fields and their chances 
 which he had felt as a lad before his "watcher's" 
 place had been made intolerable to him by George 
 Westall's bullying. He became excited, unmanage- 
 able. Very soon he was no longer content with 
 Mellor, where, since the death of young Harold, the 
 heir, the keepers had been dismissed, and what re- 
 mained of a once numerous head of game lay open to 
 the wiles of all the bold spirits of the neighbourhood. 
 He must needs go on to those woods of Lord Max- 
 well's, which girdled the Mellor estate on three sides. 
 And here he came once more across his enemy. For 
 George Westall was now in the far better-paid service 
 of the Court — and a very clever keeper, with de- 
 signs on the head keeper's post whenever it might be 
 vacant. In the case of a poacher he had the scent of 
 one of his own hares. It was known to him in an 
 incredibly short time that that "low caselty fellow 
 Hurd" was attacking "his" game. 
 
 Hurd, notwithstanding, was cunning itself, and 
 Westall lay in wait for him in vain. jMeanwhile, all 
 the old hatred between the two men revived. Hurd 
 drank this winter more than he had ever drunk yet.
 
 156 MARCELLA. 
 
 It was necessary to keep on good terms witli one or 
 two publicans who acted as " receivers " of the poached 
 game of the neighbourhood. And it seemed to him 
 that Westall pursued him into these low dens. The 
 keeper — big, burly, prosperous — would speak to him 
 with insolent patronage, watching him all the time, 
 or with the old brutality, which Hurd dared not 
 resent. Only in his excitable dwarf's sense hate 
 grew and throve, very soon to monstrous proportions. 
 Westall's menacing figure darkened all his sky for 
 him. His poaching, besides a means of livelihood, 
 became more and more a silent duel between him and 
 his boyhood's tyrant. 
 
 And now, after seven months of regular field-work 
 and respectable living, it was all to begin again with 
 the new winter ! The same shudders and terrors, the 
 same shames before the gentr}' and Mr. Harden ! — 
 the soft, timid woman with her conscience could not 
 endure the prospect. For some weeks after the har- 
 vest was over she struggled. He had begun to go out 
 again at nights. But she drove him to look for em- 
 ployment, and lived in tears when he failed. 
 
 As for him, she knew that he was glad to fail; 
 there was a certain ease and jauntiness in his air to- 
 night as he stood calling the children : 
 
 " Will ! — you come in at once ! Daisy ! — Nellie ! " 
 
 Two little figures came pattering up the street in 
 the moist October dusk, a third panted behind. The 
 girls ran in to their mother chattering and laughing. 
 Hurd lifted the boy in his arm. 
 
 "Where you bin, Will ? What were yo out for in 
 this nasty damp ? I've brought yo a whole pocket 
 full o' chestnuts, and sum mat else too."
 
 JMARCELLA. 157 
 
 He carried him in to the fire and sat him on his 
 knees. The little emaciated creature, flushed with 
 the pleasure of his father's company, played content- 
 edly in the intervals of coughing with the shining 
 chestnuts, or ate his slice of the fine pear — the gift 
 of a friend in Thame — which proved to be the " sum- 
 mat else" of promise. The curtains were close-drawn; 
 the paraffin lamp flared on the table, and as the sa- 
 voury smell of the hare and onions on the fire filled 
 the kitchen, the whole family gathered round watch- 
 ing for the moment of eating. The fire played on the 
 thin legs and pinched faces of the children ; on the 
 baby's cradle in the further corner ; on the mother, 
 red-eyed still, but able to smile and talk again ; on 
 the strange Celtic face and matted hair of the dwarf. 
 Family affection — and the satisfaction of the simpler 
 physical needs — these things make the happiness of 
 the poor. For this hour, to-night, the Hurds were 
 happy. 
 
 Meanwhile, in the lane outside, Marcella, as she 
 walked home, passed a tall broad-shouldered man in a 
 velveteen suit and gaiters, his gun over his shoulder 
 and two dogs behind him, his pockets bulging on 
 either side. He walked with a kind of military air, 
 and touched his cap to her as he passed. 
 
 Marcella barely nodded. 
 
 " Tyrant and bully ! " she thought to herself with 
 Mrs. Hnrd's story in her mind. " Yet no doubt he 
 is a valuable keeper ; Lord Maxwell would be sorry 
 to lose him! It is the system makes such men — and 
 must have them." 
 
 The clatter of a pony carriage disturbed her thoughts.
 
 158 MARCELLA. 
 
 A small, elderly lady, in a very large musliroom hat, 
 drove past her in the dusk and bowed stiffly. Mar- 
 cella was so taken by surprise that she barely returned 
 the bow. Then she looked after the carriage. That 
 was Miss Kaeburn. 
 To-morrow !
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 "Won't you sit nearer to the window? We are 
 rather proud of our view at this time of year," said 
 ISIiss Raeburn to Marcella, taking lier visitor's jacket 
 from her as she spoke, and laying it aside. "Lad}- 
 AVinterbourne is late, but she will come, I am sure. 
 She is very precise about engagements." 
 
 Marcella moved lier chair nearer to the great bow- 
 window, and looked out over the sloping gardens of 
 the Court, and the autumn splendour of the woods 
 girdling them in on all sides. She held her head 
 nervously erect, was not apparently much inclined to 
 talk, and Miss Raeburn, who had resumed her knit- 
 ting within a few paces of her guest, said to herself 
 presently after a few minutes' conversation on the 
 weather and the walk from Mellor: "Difficult — 
 decidedly difficult — and too much manner for a young 
 girl. But the most picturesque creature I ever set 
 eyes on ! " 
 
 Lord Maxwell's sister was an excellent woman, the 
 inquisitive, benevolent despot of all the Maxwell vil- 
 lages; and one of the soundest Tories still left to a 
 degenerate party and a changing time. Her brother 
 and her great-nephew represented to her the flower of 
 liuman kind; slie liad never been capable, and prol)- 
 ably never Avould be capable, of quarrelling with 
 either of them on any subject wliatever. At the same 
 159
 
 160 MARCELLA. 
 
 time she had her rights with them. She was at any 
 rate their natural guardian in those matters, relating 
 to womankind, where men are confessedly given to 
 folly. She had accordingly kept a shrewd eye in 
 Aldous's interest on all the young ladies of the neigh- 
 bourhood, for many 3^ears past; knew perfectly well 
 all that he might have done, and sighed over all that 
 he had so far left undone. 
 
 At the present moment, in spite of the even good- 
 breeding with which she knitted and chattered beside 
 Marcella, she was in truth consumed with curiosity, 
 conjecture, and alarm on the subject of this Miss 
 Boyce. Profoundly as they trusted each other, the 
 E,aeburns were not on the surface a communicative 
 family. Neither her brother nor Aldous had so far 
 bestowed any direct confidence upon her; but the 
 course of affairs had, notwithstanding, aroused her 
 very keenest attention. In the first place, as we 
 know, the mistress of Maxwell Court had left Mellor 
 and its new occupants unvisited; she had plainly 
 understood it to be her brother's wish that she should 
 do so. How, indeed, could you know the women 
 without knowing Richard Boyce? which, according to 
 Lord Maxwell, was impossible. And now it was Lord 
 Maxwell who had suggested not only that after all it 
 would be kind to call upon the poor things, who were 
 heavily weighted enough already with Dick Boyce for 
 husband and father, but that it would be a graceful 
 act on his sister's part to ask the girl and her mother 
 to luncheon. Dick Boyce of course must be made to 
 keep his distance, but tlie resources of civilisation 
 were perhaps not unequal to the task of discriminat-
 
 MARCELLA. 161 
 
 ing, if it were prudently set about. At any rate Miss 
 Raeburn gathered that she was expected to try, and 
 instead of pressing her brother for explanations she 
 held her tongue, paid her call forthwith, and wrote 
 her note. 
 
 But although Aldous, thinking no doubt that he 
 had been already sufficiently premature, had said 
 nothing at all as to his own feelings to his great-aunt, 
 she knew perfectly well that he had said a great deal 
 on the subject of Miss Boyce and her mother to Lady 
 Winterbourne, the only woman in the neighbourhood 
 with whom he was ever really confidential. No 
 woman, of course, in Miss Kaeburn's position, and 
 with Miss Kaeburn's general interest in her kind, 
 could have been ignorant for any appreciable number 
 of days after the Boyces' arrival at Mellor that they 
 possessed a handsome daughter, of whom the Hardens 
 in particular gave striking but, as Miss Eaeburn 
 privately thought, by no means wholly attractive 
 accounts. And now, after all these somewhat agitat- 
 ing preliminaries, here was the girl established in the 
 Court drawing-room, Aldous more nervous and pre- 
 occupied than she had ever seen him, and Lord Max- 
 well expressing a particular anxiety to return from 
 his Board meeting in good time for luncheon, to which 
 he had especially desired that Lady Winterbourne 
 should be bidden, and no one else ! It may well be 
 supposed that Miss Eaeburn was on the alert. 
 
 As for Marcella, she was on her side keenly con- 
 scious of being observed, of having her way to make. 
 Here she was alone among these formidable people, 
 whose acquaintance she had in a manner compelled. 
 
 VOL. I. — 11
 
 162 MARCELLA. 
 
 Well — what blame? What was to prevent her from 
 doing the same thing again to-morrow? Her con- 
 science was absolutely clear. If they were not ready 
 to meet her in the same spirit in which through Mr. 
 Raeburn she had approached them, she would know 
 perfectly well how to protect herself — above all, how 
 to live out her life in the future without troubling 
 them. 
 
 Meanwhile, in spite of her dignity and those inward 
 propitiations it from time to time demanded, she was, 
 in her human vivid way, full of an excitement and 
 curiosity she could hardly conceal as perfectly as she 
 desired — curiosity as to the great house and the life 
 in it, especially as to Aldous E/aeburn's part therein. 
 She knew very little indeed of the class to which by 
 birth she belonged; great houses and great people 
 were strange to her. She brought her artist's and 
 student's eyes to look at them with; she was deter- 
 mined not to be dazzled or taken in by them. At the 
 same time, as she glanced every now and then round 
 the splendid room in which they sat, with its Tudor 
 ceiling, its fine pictures, its combination of every 
 luxury with every refinement, she was distinctly con- 
 scious of a certain thrill, a romantic drawing towards 
 the stateliness and power which it all implied, to- 
 gether with a proud and careless sense of equality, of 
 kinship so to speak, which she made light of, but 
 would not in reality have been without for the world. 
 
 In birth and blood she had nothing to yield to the 
 Haeburns — so her mother assured her. If things 
 were to be vulgarly measured, this fact too must come 
 in. But they should not be vulgarly measured. She
 
 MABCELLA. 163 
 
 did not believe in class or wealth — not at all. Only 
 
 — as her mother had told her — she must hold her 
 head up. An inward temper, which no doubt led to 
 that excess of manner of which Miss Kaeburn was 
 meanwhile conscious. 
 
 Where were the gentlemen? Marcella was begin- 
 ning to resent and tire of the innumerable questions 
 as to her likes and dislikes, her accomplishments, her 
 friends, her opinions of Mellor and the neighbourhood, 
 which this knitting lady beside her poured out upon 
 her so briskly, wdien to her great relief the door opened 
 and a footman announced "Lady Winterbourne." 
 
 A very tall thin lady in black entered the room at 
 the words. "My dear!" she said to Miss Eaeburn, 
 "I am very late, but the roads are abominable, and 
 those horses Edward has just given me have to be 
 taken such tiresome care of. I told the coachman 
 uext time he might wrap them in shawls and put 
 them to bed, and /should walk.'" 
 
 "You are quite capable of it, my dear," said Miss 
 Raeburn, kissing her. "We know you! Miss Boyce 
 
 — Lady Winterbourne." 
 
 Lady Winterbourne shook hands with a shy awk- 
 wardness which belied her height and stateliness. As 
 she sat down beside Miss Raeburn the contrast be- 
 tween her and Lord ^laxwell's sister was sufficiently 
 striking. Miss Raeburn was short, inclined to be 
 stout, and to a certain gay profusion in her attire. 
 Her cap was made of a bright silk handkerchief edged 
 with lace; round her neck were hung a number of 
 small trinkets on various gold chains; slie abounded 
 too in bracelets, most of which were clearly old-
 
 164 MARCELLA. 
 
 fashioned mementos of departed relatives or friends. 
 Her dress was a cheerful red verging on crimson; and 
 her general air suggested energy, bustle, and a good- 
 humoured common sense. 
 
 Lady Winter bourne, on the other hand, was not only 
 dressed from head to foot in severe black without an 
 ornament; her head and face belonged also to the same 
 impression, as of some strong and forcible study in 
 black and white. The attitude was rigidly erect; the 
 very dark eyes, under the snowy and abundant hair, 
 had a trick of absent staring; in certain aspects the 
 whole figure had a tragic, nay, formidable dignity, 
 from which one expected, and sometimes got, the tone 
 and gesture of tragic acting. Yet at the same time, 
 mixed in therewith, a curious strain of womanish, 
 nay childish, weakness, appealingness. Altogether, a 
 great lady, and a personality — yet something else too 
 — something ill-assured, timid, incongruous — hard to 
 be defined. 
 
 "I believe you have not been at Mellor long?" the 
 new-comer asked, in a deep contralto voice which she 
 dragged a little. 
 
 "About seven weeks. My father and mother have 
 been there since May." 
 
 " You must of course think it a very interesting old 
 place ? " 
 
 "Of course I do; I love it," said Marcella, discon- 
 certed by the odd habit Lady Winterbourne had of 
 fixing her eyes upon a person, and then, as it were, 
 forgetting what she had done with them. 
 
 "Oh, I haven't been there, Agneta," said the new- 
 comer, turning after a pause to Miss Eaeburn, "since
 
 MARCELLA. 165 
 
 that summer — yoic remember that party when the 
 Pahnerstons came over — so long ago — twenty years ! " 
 
 Marcella sat stiffly ui^right. Lady Winterbourne 
 grew a little nervous and flurried. 
 
 '' I don't think I ever saw your mother, Miss Boyce 
 — I was much away from home about then. Oh, yes, 
 I did once — " 
 
 The sx^eaker stopped, a sudden red suffusing her 
 pale cheeks. She had felt certain somehow, at sight 
 of Marcella, that she should say or do something 
 untoward, and she had promptly justified her own 
 prevision. The only time she had ever seen Mrs. 
 Boyce had been in court, on the last day of the 
 famous trial in which Richard Boyce was concerned, 
 when she had made out the wife sitting closely veiled 
 as near to her husband as possible, waiting for the 
 verdict. As she had already confided this reminiscence 
 to Miss Raeburn, and had forgotten she had done so, 
 both ladies had a moment of embarrassment. 
 
 "Mrs. Boyce, I am sorry to say, does not seem to 
 be strong," said Miss Raeburn, bending over the heel 
 of her stocking. "I wish we could have had the 
 pleasure of seeing her to-day." 
 
 There was a pause. Lady Winterbourne 's tragic 
 eyes were once more considering Marcella. 
 
 "I hope you will come and see me," she said at last 
 abruptly — ''and Mrs. Boyce too." 
 
 The voice was very soft and refined though so deep, 
 and Marcella looking up was suddenly magnetised. 
 
 "Yes, I will," she said, all her face melting into 
 sensitive life. "]Mamma won't go anywhere, but I 
 will come, if you will ask me."
 
 1G6 MARCELLA. 
 
 " Will you come next Tuesday? " said Lady Winter- 
 bourne quickly — " come to tea, and I will drive you 
 back. Mr. Kaeburn told me about you. He says — 
 you read a great deal." 
 
 The solemnity of the last words, the fixedness of 
 the tragic look, were not to be resisted. Marcella 
 laughed out, and both ladies simultaneously thought 
 her extraordinarily radiant and handsome. 
 
 "How can he know? Why, I have hardly talked 
 about books to him at all." 
 
 "Well! here he comes," said Lady Winterbourne, 
 smiling suddenly; "so I can ask him. But I am sure 
 he did say so." 
 
 It was now Marcella' s turn to colour. Aldous Kae- 
 burn crossed the room, greeted Lady Winterbourne, 
 and next moment she felt her hand in his. 
 
 "You did tell me, Aldous, didn't you," said Lady 
 Winterbourne, "that Miss Boyce was a great 
 reader?" 
 
 The speaker had known Aldous Kaeburn as a boy, 
 and Avas, moreover, a sort of cousin, which explained 
 the Christian name. 
 
 Aldous smiled. 
 
 " I said I thought Miss Boyce was like you and me, 
 and had a weakness that way. Lady Winterbourne. 
 But I won't be cross-examined! " 
 
 '•I don't think I am a great reader," said Marcella, 
 bluntly — " at least I read a great deal, but I hardly 
 ever read a book through. I haven't patience." 
 
 "You want to get at everything so quickly?" said 
 Miss Kaeburn, looking up sharply. 
 
 "I suppose so!" said Marcella. "There seems to
 
 MA B CELL A. 1G7 
 
 be always a hundred things tearing one different waj^s, 
 and no time for any of them." 
 
 "Yes, when one is young one feels like that," said 
 Lady Winterbourne, sighing. ''When one is old one 
 accepts one's limitations. When I was twenty I never 
 thought that I should still be an ignorant and discon- 
 tented woman at nearly seventy." 
 
 '' It is because you are so young still, Lady Winter- 
 bourne, that you feel so," said Aldous, laughing at 
 her, as one does at an old friend. "Why, you are 
 younger than any of us I I feel all brushed and stirred 
 up — a boy at school again — after I have been to see 
 you!" 
 
 "Well, I don't know what you mean, I'm sure," 
 said Lady Winterbourne, sighing again. Then she 
 looked at the pair beside her — at the alert brightness 
 in the man's strong and quiet face as he sat stooping 
 forward, with his hands upon his knees, hardly able 
 to keep his eyes for an instant from the dark appari- 
 tion beside him — at the girl's evident shyness and 
 pride. 
 
 " My dear ! " she said, turning suddenly to Miss 
 Raeburn, "have you heard what a monstrosity Alice 
 has |)roduced this last time in the way of a baby? It 
 was born with four teeth ! " 
 
 Miss Eaeburn's astonishment fitted the provocation, 
 and the two old friends fell into a gossip on the sub- 
 ject of Lady Winterbourne's numerous family, which 
 was clearly meant for a t^te-cl-tete. 
 
 "Will you come and look at our tapestry?" said 
 Aldous to his neighbour, after a few nothings had 
 passed between them as to the weather and her walk
 
 168 MARCELLA. 
 
 from Mellor. "I think you would admire it, and I 
 am afraid my grandfather will be a few minutes yet. 
 He hoped to get home earlier than this, but his Board 
 meeting was very long and important, and has kept 
 him an unconscionable time." 
 
 Marcella rose, and they moved together towards the 
 south end of the room where a famous piece of Italian 
 Renaissance tapestry entirely filled the wall from side 
 to side. 
 
 " How beautiful ! " cried the girl, her eyes filling 
 with delight. "What a delicious thing to live with." 
 
 And, indeed, it was the most adorable medley of 
 forms, tints, suggestions, of gods and goddesses, 
 nymphs and shepherds, standing in flowery grass 
 under fruit-laden trees and wreathed about with roses. 
 Both colour and subject were of fairyland. The golds 
 and browns and pinks of it, the greens and ivory 
 whites had been mellowed and pearled and warmed by 
 age into a most glowing, delicate, and fanciful beauty. 
 It was Italy at the great moment — subtle, rich, 
 exuberant. 
 
 Aldous enjoyed her pleasure. 
 
 " I thought you would like it ; I hoped you would. 
 It has been my special delight since I was a child, 
 when my mother first routed it out of a garret. I 
 am not sure that I don't in my heart prefer it to any 
 of the pictures." 
 
 '■ The flowers ! " said Marcella, absorbed in it — 
 "look at them — the irises, the cyclamens, the lilies! 
 It reminds one of the dreams one used to have when 
 one was small of what it would be like to have^0M;e?*s 
 enough. I was at school, you know, in a part of Eng-
 
 MABCELLA. 169 
 
 land where one seemed always cheated out of them! 
 We walked two and two along the straight roads, and 
 I found one here and one there — but such a beggarly, 
 wretched few, for all one's trouble. I used to hate 
 the hard dry soil, and console myself by imagining 
 countries where the flowers grew like this — yes, just 
 like this, in a gold and pink and blue mass, so that one 
 might thrust one's hands in and gather and gather till 
 one was really satisfied! That is the worst of being 
 at school when you are poor! You never get enough 
 of anything. One day it's flowers — but the next day 
 it is pudding — and the next frocks." 
 
 Her eye was sparkling, her tongue loosened. Xot 
 only was it pleasant to feel herself beside him, en- 
 wrapped in such an atmosphere of admiration and 
 deference, but the artistic sensitive chord in her had 
 been struck, and vibrated happil}^ 
 
 " Well, only wait till May, and the cowslips in your 
 own fields will make up to you ! " he said, smiling at 
 her. " But now, I have been wondering to myself in 
 my room upstairs what jow would like to see. There 
 are a good many treasures in this house, and you will 
 care for them, because you are an artist. But you 
 shall not be bored with them! You shall see what 
 and as much as you like. You had about a quarter of 
 an hour's talk with my aunt, did you not?" he asked, 
 in a quite different tone. 
 
 So all the time while she and Miss Eaeburn had 
 been making acquaintance, he had known that she was 
 in the house, and he had kept away for his own pur- 
 poses ! Marcella felt a colour she could not restrain 
 leap into her cheek.
 
 170 MARC ELLA. 
 
 "Miss Raeburn was very kind," she said, with a 
 return of shyness, which passed however the next 
 moment by reaction, into her usual daring. " Yes, she 
 was very kind! — but all the same she doesn't like me 
 — I don't think she is going to like me — I am not 
 her sort." 
 
 "Have you been talking Socialism to her?" he 
 asked her, smiling. 
 
 "No, not yet — not yet," she said emphatically. 
 " But I am dreadfully uncertain — I can't always hold 
 my tongue — I am afraid you will be sorry you took 
 me up." 
 
 '•'Are you so aggressive? But Aunt Xeta is so 
 mild! — she wouldn't hurt a fly. She mothers every 
 one in the house and out of it. The only people she 
 is hard upon are the little servant girls, who will wear 
 feathers in their hats ! " 
 
 " There ! " cried Marcella, indignantly. " Why 
 shouldn't they wear feathers in their hats? It is 
 their form of beauty — their tapestry ! " 
 
 "But if one can't have both feathers and boots?" 
 he asked her humbly, a twinkle in his grey eye. " If 
 one hasn't boots, one may catch a cold and die of it — 
 which is, after all, worse than going featherless." 
 
 ''But why can^t they have feathers and boots? It 
 is because you — we — have got too much. You have 
 the tapestry — and — and the pictures " — she turned 
 and looked round the room — ''and this wonderful 
 house — and the park. Oh, no — I think it is Miss 
 Raeburn has too many feathers ! " 
 
 "Perhaps it is," he admitted, in a different tone, his 
 look changiug and saddening as though some habitual
 
 MARCELLA. 171 
 
 struggle of thought were recalled to him. "You see 
 I am in a difficulty. I want to show you our feathers. 
 I think they would please you — and you make me 
 ashamed of them.-' 
 
 "How absurd I" cried Marcella, "when I told you 
 how I liked the school children bobbing to me ! '' 
 
 They laughed, and then Aldous looked round with 
 a start — "Ah, here is my grandfather! '' 
 
 Then he stood back, watching the look with which 
 Lord Maxwell, after greeting Lady Winterbourne, 
 approached Miss Boyce. He saw the old man's some- 
 what formal approach, the sudden kindle in the blue 
 eyes which marked the first effect of Marcella' s form 
 and presence, the bow, the stately shake of the hand. 
 The lover hearing his own heart beat, realised that his 
 beautiful lady had so far done well. 
 
 " You must let me say that I see a decided likeness 
 in you to 3'our grandfather, " said Lord Maxwell, when 
 they were all seated at lunch, Marcella on his left 
 hand, opposite to Lady Winterbourne. ''He was one 
 of my dearest friends." 
 
 "I'm afraid I don't know much about him," said 
 Marcella, rather bluntly, " except what I have got out 
 of old letters. I never saw him that I remember." 
 
 Lord Maxwell left the subject, of course, at once, 
 but showed a great wish to talk to her, and make her 
 talk. He had pleasant things to say about Mellor 
 and its past, which could be said without offence ; and 
 some conversation about the Boyce monuments in 
 Mellor church led to a discussion of the part played 
 by the different local families in the Civil Wars, in 
 which it seemed to Aldous that his grandfatlier tried
 
 172 MABCELLA. 
 
 in various shrewd and coiirteons ways to make Mar.- 
 cella feel at ease with herself and her race, accepted, 
 as it were, of right into the local brotherhood, and so 
 to soothe and heal those bruised feelings he could not 
 but divine. 
 
 The girl carried herself a little loftily, answering 
 with an independence and freedom beyond her age and 
 born of her London life. She was not in the least 
 abashed or shy. Yet it was clear that Lord Max- 
 well's first impressions were favourable. Aldous 
 caught every now and then his quick, judging look 
 sweeping over her and instantly withdrawn — com- 
 paring, as the grandson very well knew, every point, 
 and tone, and gesture with some inner ideal of what a 
 Raeburn's wife should be. How dream-like the whole 
 scene was to Aldous, yet how exquisitely real ! The 
 room, with its carved and gilt cedar-wood panels, its 
 Vandykes, its tall windows opening on the park, the 
 autumn sun flooding the gold and purple fruit on the 
 table, and sparkling on the glass and silver, the figures 
 of his aunt and Lady Winterbourne, the moving ser- 
 vants, and dominant of it all, interpreting it all for 
 him anew, the dark, lithe creature beside his grand- 
 father, so quick, sensitive, extravagant, so much a 
 woman, yet, to his lover's sense, so utterly unlike au}^ 
 other woman he had ever seen — every detail of it was 
 charged to him with a thousand new meanings, now 
 oppressive, now delightful. 
 
 For he was x^assing out of the first stage of passion, 
 in which it is, almost, its own satisfaction, so new 
 and enriching is it to the whole nature, into the second 
 stage — the stage of anxiety, incredulity. Marcella,
 
 MARCELLA. 173 
 
 sitting there on his own ground, after all his planning, 
 seemed to him not nearer, but further from him. She 
 was terribly on her dignity! Where was all that 
 girlish abandonment gone which she had shown him 
 on that walk, beside the gate? There had been a 
 touch of it, a divine touch, before luncheon. How 
 could he get her to himself again? 
 
 Meanwhile the conversation passed to the prevailing 
 local topic — the badness of the harvest, the low 
 prices of everything, the consequent depression among 
 the farmers, and stagnation in the villages. 
 
 " I don't know what is to be done for the people 
 this winter," said Lord Maxwell, "without pauj)eris- 
 ing them, I mean. To give money is easy enough. 
 Our grandfathers would have doled out coal and 
 blankets, and thought no more of it. We don't get 
 through so easily." 
 
 "No," said Lady Winterbourne, sighing. "It 
 weighs one down. Last winter was a nightmare. 
 The tales one heard, and the faces one saw ! — though 
 we seemed to be always giving. And in the middle 
 of it Edward would buy me a new set of sables. I 
 begged him not, but he laughed at me." 
 
 "Well, my dear," said Miss Eaeburn, cheerfully, 
 "if nobody bought sables, there'd be other poor 
 people up in Russia, isn't it? — or Hudson's Bay? 
 — badly off. One has to think of that. Oh, you 
 needn't talk, Aldous! I know you say it's a fallacy. 
 /call it common sense." 
 
 She got, however, only a slight smile from Aldous, 
 who had long ago left his great-aunt to work out 
 her own economics. And, anyway, she saw that he
 
 174 MARCELLA. 
 
 was wholly absorbed from his seat beside Lady 
 Winterbourne in watching Miss Boyce. 
 
 "It's precisely as Lord Maxwell says," replied 
 Lady Winterbourne; "that kind of thing used to 
 satisfy everybody. And our grandmothers were very 
 good women. I don't know why we, who give our- 
 selves so much more trouble than they did, should 
 carry these thorns about with us, while they went 
 free." 
 
 She drew herself up, a cloud over her fine eyes. 
 Miss Eaeburn, looking round, was glad to see the 
 servants had left the room. 
 
 " Miss Boyce thinks we are all in a very bad way, 
 I'm sure. I have heard tales of Miss Boyce's opin- 
 ions ! " said Lord Maxwell, smiling at her, with an 
 old man's indulgence, as though provoking her to 
 talk. 
 
 Her slim fingers were nervously crumbling some 
 bread beside her; her head was drooped a little. At 
 his challenge she looked up Avith a start. She was 
 perfectly conscious of him, as both the great magnate 
 on his native heath, and as the trained man of affairs 
 condescending to a girl's fancies. But she had made 
 up her mind not to be afraid. 
 
 "What tales have you heard?" she asked him. 
 
 "You alarm us, you know," he said gallantly, waiv- 
 ing her question. "We can't afford a prophetess to 
 the other side, just now." 
 
 Miss Raeburn drew^ herself up, wdth a sharp dry 
 look at Miss Boyce, which escaped every one but 
 Lady Winterbourne. 
 
 "Oil! 1 am not a Radical!" said Marcella, half
 
 MAECELLA. 175 
 
 scornfully. "We Socialists don't fight for either 
 political party as such. We take what we can get out 
 of both." 
 
 "So you call yourself a Socialist? A real full- 
 blown one?" 
 
 Lord Maxwell's pleasant tone masked the mood of 
 a man who after a morning of hard work thinks him- 
 self entitled to some amusement at luncheon. 
 
 "Yes, I am a Socialist," she said slowly, looking 
 at him. " At least I ought to be — I am in my con- 
 science." 
 
 "But not in your judgment?" he said laughing. 
 "Isn't that the condition of most of us?" 
 
 "USTo, not at all!" she exclaimed, both her vanity 
 and her enthusiasm roused by his manner. "Both 
 my judgment and ni}* conscience make me a Socialist. 
 It's only one's wretched love for one's own little 
 luxuries and precedences — the worst part of one — 
 that makes me waver, makes me a traitor! The peo- 
 ple I worked with in London would think me a traitor 
 often, I know." 
 
 " And you really think that the world ought to be 
 'hatched over again and hatched different'? That it 
 ought to be, if it could be? " 
 
 "I think that things are intolerable as they are," 
 she broke out, after a pause. " The London poor \vere 
 bad enough; the country poor seem to me worse! 
 How can any one believe that such serfdom and pov- 
 erty — such mutilation of mind and body — were 
 meant to go on for ever! " 
 
 Lord Maxwell's brows lifted, l^ut it certainly was 
 no wonder that Aldous should find those eyes of hers 
 superb?
 
 176 MARC ELL A. 
 
 "Can you really imagine, my dear young lady," he 
 asked her mildly, " that if all property were divided 
 to-morrow the force of natural inequality would not 
 have undone all the work the day after, and given us 
 back our poor?" 
 
 The " newspaper cant " of this remark, as the Cra- 
 vens would have put it, brought a contemptuous look 
 for an instant into the girl's face. She began to talk 
 eagerly and cleverly, showing a very fair training in 
 the catch words of the school, and a good memory — • 
 as one uncomfortable person at the table soon per- 
 ceived — for some of the leading arguments and illus- 
 trations of a book of Venturist Essays which had 
 lately been much read and talked of in London. 
 
 Then, irritated more and more by Lord Maxwell's 
 gentle attention, and the interjections he threw in 
 from time to time, she plunged into history, attacked 
 the landowning class, spoke of the Statute of La- 
 bourers, the Law of Settlement, the New Poor Law, 
 and other great matters, all in the same quick flow of 
 glancing, picturesque speech, and all with the same 
 utter oblivion — so it seemed to her stiff indignant 
 hostess at the other end of the table — of the manners 
 and modesty proper to a young girl in a strange 
 house, and that young girl Eichard Boyce's daughter! 
 
 Aldous struck in uoav and then, trying to soothe her 
 by supporting her to a certain extent, and so divert 
 the conversation. But Marcella was soon too excited 
 to be managed ; and she had her say ; a very strong 
 say often as far as language went : there could be no 
 doubt of that. 
 
 "Ah, well," said Lord Maxwell, wincing at last
 
 MAKCELLA. 177 
 
 under some of her phrases, in spite of his courteous 
 savoir-faire, " I see you are of the same opinion as a 
 good man whose book I took up yesterday: 'The 
 landlords of England have always shown a mean and 
 malignant passion for profiting by the miseries of 
 others?' Well, Aldous, my boy, we are judged, you 
 and I — no help for it ! " 
 
 The man whose temper and rule had made the 
 prosperity of a whole country side for nearly forty 
 years, looked at his grandson with twinkling eyes. 
 Miss Eaeburn was speechless. Lady Winterbourne 
 was absently staring at Marcella, a spot of red on 
 each pale cheek. 
 
 Then Marcella suddenly wavered, looked across at 
 Aldous, and broke down. 
 
 "Of course, you think me very ridiculous," she 
 said, with a tremulous change of tone. " I suppose I 
 am. And I am as inconsistent as anybody — I hate 
 myself for it. Very often when anybody talks to me 
 on the other side, I am almost as much persuaded as 
 I am by the Socialists : they always told me in Lon- 
 don I was the prey of the last speaker. But it can't 
 make any difference to one's feeling : nothing touches 
 that." 
 
 She turned to Lord ^laxwell, half appealing — 
 
 " It is when I go down from our house to the vil- 
 lage; when I see the places the people live in; when 
 one is comfortable in the carriage, and one passes 
 some woman in the rain, ragged and dirty and tired, 
 trudging back from her work; when one realises that 
 they have no rights when they come to be old, nothing 
 to look to but charity, for which ice, who have every- 
 
 VOL. I. — 12
 
 178 MARCELLA. 
 
 tiling, expect them to be grateful ; and when I know 
 that every one of them has done more useful work in 
 a year of their life than I shall ever do in the whole 
 of mine, then I feel that the whole state of things is 
 someJioiv wrong and topsy-turvy and wicked." Her 
 voice rose a little, every emphasis grew more passion- 
 ate. "And if I don't do something — the little such 
 a person as I can — to alter it before I die, I might 
 as w^ell never have lived." 
 
 Everybody at table started. Lord Maxwell looked 
 at Miss Raeburn, his mouth twitching over the 
 humour of his sister's dismay. Well! this was a 
 forcible young woman : was Aldous the kind of man 
 to be able to deal conveniently with such eyes, such 
 emotions, such a personality? 
 
 Suddenly Lady Winterbourne's deep voice broke in: 
 
 "I never could say it half so well as that, Miss 
 Boyce ; but I agree with you. I may say that I have 
 agreed with you all my life." 
 
 The girl turned to her, grateful and quivering. 
 
 "At the same time," said Lady Winterbourne, 
 relapsing with a long breath from tragic emphasis 
 into a fluttering indecision equally characteristic, " as 
 you say, one is inconsistent. I was poor once, before 
 Edward came to the title, and I did not at all like 
 it — not at all. And I don't wish my daughters to 
 marry poor men ; and what I should do without a maid 
 or a carriage when I wanted it, I cannot imagine. 
 Edward makes the most of these things. He tells me 
 I have to choose between things as they are, and a 
 graduated income tax which would leave nobody — 
 not even the richest — more than four hundred a 
 year."
 
 MARCELLA. 179 
 
 " Just enough for one of those little houses on your 
 station road," said Lord Maxwell, laughing at her. 
 "I think you might still have a maid." 
 
 "There, you laugh," said Lady Winterbourne, 
 vehemently: ''the men do. But I tell you it is no 
 laughing matter to feel that your Jieart and conscience 
 have gone over to the enemy. You want to feel with 
 your class, and you can't. Think of what used to 
 happen in the old days. My grandmother, who was 
 as good and kind a woman as ever lived, was driving 
 home through our village one evening, and a man 
 passed her, a labourer who was a little drunk, and 
 who did not take off his hat to her. She stopped, 
 made her men get down and had him put in the stocks 
 there and then — the old stocks Avere still standing on 
 the village green. Then she drove home to her din- 
 ner, and said her prayers no doubt that night with 
 more consciousness than usual of having done her 
 duty. But if the power of the stocks still remained 
 to us, my dear friend" — and she laid her thin old 
 woman's hand, flashing with diamonds, on Lord Max- 
 well's arm — ''we could no longer do it, you or, I. 
 "We have lost the sense of right in our place and posi- 
 tion — at least I find I have. In the old days if there 
 was social disturbance the upper class could put it 
 down with a strong hand." 
 
 " So they would still, " said Lord Maxwell, drily, " if 
 there were violence. Once let it come to any real 
 attack on property, and you will see where all these 
 Socialist theories will bo. x\.nd of course it will not 
 be we — not the landowners or the capitalists — who 
 will put it down. It will be the hundreds and tliou-
 
 180 MABCELLA, 
 
 sands of people with something to lose — a few 
 pounds in a joint-stock mill, a house of their own 
 built through a co-operative store, an acre or two of 
 land stocked by their own savings — it is they, I am 
 afraid, Avho will put ^liss Eoyce's friends down so far 
 as they represent any real attack on property — and 
 brutally, too, I fear, if need be." 
 
 " I dare say, " exclaimed Marcella, her colour rising 
 again. " I never can see how we Socialists are to 
 succeed. But how can any one rejoice in it? How 
 can any one loish that the present state of things 
 should go on? Oh! the horrors one sees in London. 
 And down here, the cottages, and the starvation 
 wages, and the ridiculous worship of game, and then, 
 of course, the poaching — " 
 
 Miss Raeburn pushed back her chair with a sharp 
 noise. But her brother was still peeling his pear, and 
 no one else moved. Why did he let such talk go on? 
 It was too unseemly. 
 
 Lord Maxwell only laughed. ^ ' My dear young lady, " 
 he said, much amused, "are you even in the frame of 
 mind to make a hero of a poacher? Disillusion lies 
 that way ! — it does indeed. Why — Aldous ! — I 
 have been hearing such tales from Westall this morn- 
 ing. I stopped at Corbett's farm a minute or two on 
 the way home, and met Westall at the gate coming 
 out. He says he and his men are being harried to 
 death round about Tudley End by a gang of men that 
 come, he thinks, from Oxford, a driving gang with a 
 gig, who come at night or in the early morning — the 
 smartest rascals out, impossible to catch. But he 
 says he thinks he will soon have his hand on the local
 
 MARCELLA, 181 
 
 accomplice — a Mellor man — a man named Hurd : 
 not one of our labourers, I tliink." 
 
 ^^Hurd!" cried Marcella, in dismay. '^ Oil no, it 
 caii't be — im^^jossible ! " 
 
 Lord Maxwell looked at lier in astonishment. 
 
 ^^Do you know any Hurds? I am afraid your 
 father will find that Mellor is a bad place for poach- 
 ing." 
 
 "If it is, it is because they are so starved and 
 miserable," said Marcella, trying hard to speak 
 coolly, but excited almost beyond bounds by the con- 
 versation and all that it implied. " And the Hurds 
 — I don't believe it a bit ! But if it were true — oh ! 
 they have been in such straits — they were out of 
 work most of last winter; they are out of work now. 
 No one could grudge them. I told you about them, 
 didn't I? " she said, suddenly glancing at Aldous. ^'l 
 was going to ask you to-day, if you could help them? " 
 Her prophetess air had altogether left her. She felt 
 ready to cry; and nothing could have been more 
 womanish than her tone. 
 
 He bent across to her. Miss Kaeburn, invaded by 
 a new and intolerable sense of calamity, could have 
 beaten him for what she read in his shining eyes, and 
 in the flush on his usually pale cheek. 
 
 " Is he still out of work? " he said. " And you are 
 unhappy about it? But I am sure we can find him 
 work : I am just now planning improvements at the 
 north end of the park. We can take him on; I am 
 certain of it. You must give me his full name and 
 address." 
 
 "And let him beware of Westall," said Lord Max-
 
 182 MA Pi CELL A. 
 
 well, kindly. "Give him a hint, Miss Boyce, and 
 nobody will rake up bygones. There is nothing 1 
 dislike so much as rows about the shooting. All 
 the keepers know that." 
 
 "And of course," said Miss Eaeburn, coldly, "if 
 the family are in real distress there are plenty of 
 people at hand to assist them. The man need not 
 steal." 
 
 "Oh, charity!" cried Marcella, her lip curling. 
 
 "A worse crime than poaching, you think," said 
 Lord Maxwell, laughing. "Well, these are big sub- 
 jects. I confess, after my morning with the lunatics, 
 1 am half inclined, like Horace Walpole, to think 
 everything serious ridiculous. At any rate shall we 
 see what liglit a cup of coffee throws upon if/ Agneta, 
 shall we adjourn? "
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 Lord Maxwell closed the drawing-room door be- 
 hind Aldous and Marcella. Aldous had proposed to 
 take their guest to see the picture gallery, which was 
 on the first floor, and had found her willing. 
 
 The old man came back to the two other women, 
 running his hand nervously through his shock of white 
 hair — a gesture which Miss Eaeburn well knew to 
 show some disturbance of mind. 
 
 " I should like to have your opinion of that young 
 lady," he said deliberately, taking a chair immediately 
 in front of them. 
 
 "I like her," said Lady Winterbourne, instantly. 
 " Of course she is crude and extravagant, and does not 
 know quite what she may say. But all that will 
 improve. I like her, and shall make friends with 
 her." 
 
 ]Miss Eaeburn threw up her hands in angry amaze- 
 ment. 
 
 "Most forward, conceited, and ill-mannered," she 
 said with energy. '• I am certain she has no proper 
 principles, and as to what her religious views may be, 
 I dread to think of them ! If that is a specimen of 
 the girls of the present day — " 
 
 "My dear," interrupted Lord Maxwell, laying a 
 hand on her knee, "Lady Winterbourne is an old 
 
 183
 
 184 MARCELLA. 
 
 friend, a very old friend. I think we may be frank 
 before her, and I don't wish you to say things you may 
 regret. Aldous has made up his mind to get that girl 
 to marry him, if he can." 
 
 Lady Winterbourne was silent, having in fact been 
 forewarned by that odd little interview with Aldous in 
 her own drawing-room, when he had suddenly asked 
 her to call on Mrs. Bojce. But she looked at Miss 
 Eaeburn. That lady took up her knitting, laid it 
 down again, resumed it, then broke out — 
 
 " How did it come about ? Where have they been 
 meeting?" 
 
 "At the Hardens mostly. He seems to have 
 been struck from the beginning, and now there is 
 no question as to his determination. But she may 
 not have him ; he professes to be still entirely in the 
 dark." 
 
 " Oh ! " cried Miss Eaeburn, with a scornful shrug, 
 meant to express all possible incredulity. Then she 
 began to knit fast and furiously, and presently said in 
 great agitation, — 
 
 " What can he be thinking of ? She is very hand- 
 some, of course, but — " then her words failed her. 
 "When Aldous remembers his mother, how can he ? — 
 undisciplined ! self-willed ! Why, she laid down the 
 law to you, Henry, as though you had nothing to do 
 but to take your opinions from a chit of a girl like her. 
 Oh ! no, no ; I really can't ; you must give me time. 
 And her father — the disgrace and trouble of it ! I tell 
 you, Henry, it will bring misfortune ! "' 
 
 Lord Maxwell was much troubled. Certainly he 
 should have talked to Agneta beforehand. But the
 
 MARCELLA. 185 
 
 fact was he had his co^Ya^dice, like other men, and he 
 had been trusting to the girl herself, to this beauty he 
 heard so much of, to soften the first shock of the 
 matter to the present mistress of the Court. 
 
 '•We will hope not, Agneta," he said gravely. 
 "We will hope not. But* you must remember Aldous 
 is no boy. I cannot coerce him. I see the difficulties, 
 and I have put them before him. But I am more 
 favourably struck with the girl than 3'ou are. And any- 
 way, if it comes about, we must make the best of it." 
 
 Miss E,aeburn made no answer, but pretended to set 
 her heel, her needles shaking. Lady Winterbourne 
 was very sorry for her two old friends. 
 
 " Wait a little," she said, laying her hand lightly on 
 Miss Eaeburn's. "jSTo doubt with her opinions she 
 felt specially drawn to assert herself to-day. One can 
 imagine it very well of a girl, and a generous girl in 
 her position. You will see other sides of her, I am 
 sure you will. And you would never — you could 
 never — make a breach with Aldous." 
 
 " We must all remember," said Lord Maxwell, get- 
 ting up and beginning to walk up and down beside 
 them, '•' that Aldous is in no way dependent upon me. 
 He has his own resources. He could leave us to- 
 morrow. Dependent on me ! It is the other way, I 
 think, Agneta — don't you ? " 
 
 He stopped and looked at her, and she returned his 
 look in spite of herself. A tear dropped on her stock- 
 ing which she hastily brushed away. 
 
 " Come, now," said Lord Maxwell, seating himself ; 
 " let us talk it over rationally. Don't go, Lady Win- 
 terbourne."
 
 186 MAR CELL A. 
 
 "Why, the}' may be settling it at this moment," 
 cried Miss Raeburn, half-choked, and feeling as though 
 "the skies were impious not to fall." 
 
 "No, no!" he said smiling. "Not yet, I think. 
 But let us prepare ourselves." 
 
 Meanwhile the cause of all this agitation was sitting 
 languidly in a great Louis Quinze chair in the picture 
 gallery upstairs, with Aldous beside her. She had 
 taken off her big hat as though it oppressed her, and 
 her black head lay against a corner of the chair in line 
 contrast to its mellowed golds and crimsons. Opposite 
 to her were two famous Holbein portraits, at which she 
 looked from time to time as though attracted to them 
 in spite of herself, by some trained sense which could 
 not be silenced. But she was not communicative, and 
 Aldous Avas anxious. 
 
 " Do you think I was rude to your grandfather ? " 
 she asked him at last abruptly, cutting dead short some 
 information she had stiffly asked him for just before, 
 as to the date of the gallery and its collection. 
 
 "Eude!" he said startled. "Not at alL Not in 
 the least. Bo you suppose we are made of such brittle 
 stuff, we poor landowners, that we can't stand an 
 argument now and then ? " 
 
 " Your aunt thought I was rude," she said unheed- 
 in"-. "I think I was. But a house like this excites 
 
 o 
 
 me." And with a little reckless gesture she turned her 
 head over her shoulder and looked down the gallery. 
 A Velasquez was beside her ; a great Titian over the 
 vray ; a priceless Rembrandt beside it. On her right 
 hand stood a chair of carved steel, presented by a
 
 MARCELLA. 187 
 
 German town to a German emperor, which had not its 
 equal in Europe ; the brocade draping the deep win- 
 dows in front of her had been specially made to grace 
 a state visit to the house of Charles II. 
 
 " At Mellor/' she went on, " we are old and tumble- 
 down. The rain comes in ; there are no shutters to 
 the big hall, and we can't afford to put them — we 
 can't afford even to have the pictures cleaned. I can 
 pity the house and nurse it, as I do the village. But 
 here — " 
 
 And looking about her, she gave a significant 
 shrug. 
 
 '•What — our feathers again!" he said laughing. 
 '' But consider. Even you allow that Socialism cannot 
 begin to-morrow. There must be a transition time, and 
 clearly till the State is ready to take over the historical 
 houses and their contents, the present nominal owners 
 of them are bound, if they can, to take care of them. 
 Otherwise the State will be some day defrauded." 
 
 She could not be insensible to the charm of his 
 manner towards her. There was in it, no doubt, the 
 natural force and weight of the man older and better 
 informed than his companion, and amused every now 
 and then by her extravagance. But even her irritable 
 pride could not take offence. For the intellectual dis- 
 sent she felt at bottom was tempered by a moral sym- 
 pathy of which the gentleness and warmth touched 
 and moved her in spite of herself. And now that they 
 were alone he could express himself. So long as they 
 had been in company he had seemed to her, as often 
 before, shy, hesitating, and ineffective. But with the 
 disappearance of spectators, who represented to him.
 
 188 MARCELLA. 
 
 no doubt, the harassing claim of the critical judgment, 
 all was freer, more assured, more natural. 
 
 She leant her chin on her hand, considering his 
 plea. 
 
 " Supposing you live long enough to see the State 
 take it, shall you be able to reconcile yourself to it ? 
 Or shall you feel it a wrong, and go out a rebel ? '' 
 
 A delightful smile was beginning to dance in the 
 dark eyes. She was recovering the tension of her talk 
 with Lord Maxwell. 
 
 " All must depend, you see, on the conditions — on 
 how you and your friends are going to manage the 
 transition. You may persuade me — conceivably — 
 or you may eject me with violence." 
 
 " Oh, no I " she interposed quickly. " There will be 
 no violence. Only w^e shall gradually reduce your 
 wages. Of course, we can't do without leaders — we 
 don't want to do away with the captains of any indus- 
 try, agricultural or manufacturing. Only we think 
 you overpaid. You must be content with less." 
 
 " Don't linger out the process," he said laughing, 
 " otherwise it will be painful. The people who are 
 condemned to live in these houses before the Com- 
 mune takes to them, while your graduated land and 
 income-taxes are slowly starving them out, will have 
 a bad time of it." 
 
 " Well, it Avill be your first bad time ! Think of the 
 labourer now, with five children, of school age, on 
 twelve shillings a week — think of the sweated women 
 in London." 
 
 " Ah, think of them," he said in a different tone. 
 
 There was a pause of silence.
 
 MABCELLA. 189 
 
 " No ! " said Marcella, springing up. '' Don't let's 
 think of them. I get to believe the whole thing ^pose 
 in myself and other people. Let's go back to the pic- 
 tures. Do you think Titian ^sweated' his drapery 
 men — paid them starvation rates, and grew rich on 
 their labour ? Very likely. All the same, that blue 
 woman " — she pointed to a bending Magdalen — 
 " will be a joy to all time." 
 
 They wandered through the gallery, and she was 
 now all curiosity, pleasure, and intelligent interest, as 
 though she had thrown off an oppression. Then they 
 emerged into the upper corridor answering to the cor- 
 ridor of the antiques below. This also was hung with 
 pictures, principally family portraits of the second 
 order, dating back to the Tudors — a fine series of be- 
 robed and bejewelled personages, wherein clothes pre- 
 dominated and character was unimportant. 
 
 Marcella's eye was glancing along the brilliant 
 colour of the wall, taking rapid note of jewelled necks 
 surmounting stiff embroidered dresses, of the white- 
 ness of lace ruffs, or the love-locks and gleaming satin 
 of the Caroline beauties, when it suddenly occurred 
 to her, — 
 
 " I shall be their successor. This is already poten- 
 tially mine. In a few months, if I please, I shall be 
 walking this house as mistress — its future mistress, 
 at any rate ! " 
 
 She was conscious of a quickening in the blood, a 
 momentary blurring of the vision. A whirlwind of 
 fancies swept across her. She thought of herself as 
 the young peeress — Lord Maxwell after all was over 
 seventy — her own white neck blazing with diamonds.
 
 190 MARCELLA. 
 
 the historic jewels of a great family — her will mak- 
 ing law ill this splendid house — in the great domain 
 surrounding it. What power — what a position — 
 what a romance ! She, the out-at-elbows Marcella, the 
 Socialist, the friend of the people. What new lines 
 of social action and endeavour she might strike out I 
 Miss Kaeburn should not stop her. She caressed the 
 thought of the scandals in store for that lady. Only 
 it annoyed her that her dream of large things should 
 be constantly crossed by this foolish delight, making 
 her feet dance —in this mere prospect of satin gowns 
 and line jewels — of young and feted beauty holding 
 its brilliant court. If she made such a marriage, it 
 should be, it must be, on public grounds. Her friends 
 must have no right to blame her. 
 
 Then she stole a glance at the tall, quiet gentleman 
 beside her. A man to be proud of from the beginning, 
 and surely to be very fond of in time. " He would 
 always be my friend," she thought. " I could lead 
 him. He is very clever, one can see, and knows a 
 great deal. But he admires what I like. His posi- 
 tion hampers him — but I could help him to get 
 beyond it. We might show the way to many ! '- 
 
 " Will you come and see this room here ? " he said, 
 stopping suddenly, yet with a certain hesitation in 
 the voice. "It is my own sitting-room. There are 
 one or two portraits I should like to show you if you 
 would let me.". 
 
 She followed him with a rosy cheek, and they were 
 presently standing in front of the portrait of his 
 mother. He spoke of his recollections of his parents, 
 quietly and simply, yet she felt through every nerve
 
 MAR CELL A. 191 
 
 that he was not the man to speak of such things to 
 anybody in whom he did not feel a very strong and 
 peculiar interest. As he was talking a rush of liking 
 towards him came across her. How good he was — 
 how affectionate beneath his reserve — a woman 
 might securely trust him with her future. 
 
 So with every minute she grew softer, her eye 
 gentler, and with each step and word he seemed to 
 himself to be carried deeper into the current of joy. 
 Intoxication was mounting within him, as her slim, 
 warm youth moved and breathed beside him ; and it 
 was natural that he should read her changing behaviour 
 for something other than it was. A man of his type 
 asks for no advance from the woman ; the woman he 
 loves does not make them ; but at the same time he 
 has a natural self-esteem, and believes readily in his 
 power to win the return he is certain he will deserve. 
 
 " And this ? *' she said, moving restlessly towards 
 his table, and taking up the photograph of Edward 
 Hallin. 
 
 '- Ah ! that is the greatest friend I have in the 
 world. But I am sure you know the name. Mr. 
 Hallin — Edward Hallin." 
 
 She paused bewildered. 
 
 " What ! tJie Mr. Hallin — that was Edward Hallin 
 — who settled the Nottingham strike last month — 
 who lectures so much in the East End, and in tlie 
 north ? "' 
 
 '' The same. We are old college friends. I owe 
 him much, and in all his excitements he does not forget 
 old friends. There, 3'ou see — '" and he opened a blot- 
 ting book and pointed smiling to some closely written
 
 192 MARCELLA. 
 
 sheets lying within it — '^ is my last letter to him. I 
 often write two of those in the Aveek, and he to me. 
 We don't agree on a number of things, but that 
 doesn't matter." 
 
 "What can you find to write about?" she said 
 wondering. "I thought nobody wrote letters nowa- 
 days, only notes. Is it books, or people ? " 
 
 " Both, when it pleases us ! " How soon, oh ! ye 
 favouring gods, might he reveal to her the part she 
 herself played in those closely covered sheets ? " But 
 he writes to me on social matters chiefly. His whole 
 heart, as you probably know, is in certain experiments 
 and reforms in which he sometimes asks me to help 
 him." 
 
 Marcella opened her eyes. These were new lights. 
 She began to recall all that she had heard of young 
 Hallin's position in the Labour movement; his per- 
 sonal magnetism and prestige ; his power as a speaker. 
 Her Socialist friends, she remembered, thought him 
 in the way — a force, but a dangerous one. He was 
 for the follies of compromise — could not be got to 
 disavow the principle of private property, while ready 
 to go great lengths in certain directions towards col- 
 lective action and corporate control. The "stalwarts" 
 of hei' sect would have none of him as a leader, while 
 admitting his charm as a human being — a charm she 
 remembered to have heard discussed with some anxiety 
 among her Yenturist friends. But for ordinary people 
 he went far enough. Her father, she remembered, had 
 dubbed him an "Anarchist" in connection with the 
 terms he had been able to secure for the Nottingham 
 strikers, as reported in the newspapers. It astonished
 
 MARCELLA. 193 
 
 her to come across the man again as Mr. Eaeburn's 
 friend. 
 
 They talked about Hallin a little, and about Aldous's 
 Cambridge acquaintance with him. Then Marcella, 
 still nervous, went to look at the bookshelves, and 
 found herself in front of that working collection of 
 books on economics which Aldous kept in his own 
 room under his hand, by way of guide to the very fine 
 special collection he was gradually making in the 
 library downstairs. 
 
 Here again were surprises for her. Aldous had 
 never made the smallest claim to special knowledge on 
 all those subjects she had so often insisted on making 
 him discuss. He had been always tentative and diffi- 
 dent, deferential even so far as her own opinions were 
 concerned. And here already was the library of a 
 student. All the books she had ever read or heard 
 discussed were here — and as few among many. The 
 condition of them, moreover, the signs of close and 
 careful reading she noticed in them, as she took them 
 out, abashed her: she had never learnt to read in this 
 way. It was her first contact with an exact and 
 arduous culture. She thought of how she had in- 
 structed Lord Maxwell at luncheon. No doubt he 
 shared his grandson's interests. Her cheek burned 
 anew ; this time because it seemed to her that she 
 had been ridiculous. 
 
 " I don't know why you never told me you took a 
 particular interest in these subjects," she said sud- 
 denly, turning round upon him resentfully — she had 
 just laid down, of all things, a volume of Venturist 
 essays. " You must have thought I talked a great deal 
 of nonsense at luncheon."
 
 194 MARC ELLA. 
 
 " Why ! — I have always been dehghted to find you 
 cared for such things and took an interest in them. 
 How few women do ! " he said quite simply, opening 
 his eyes. " Do you know these three pamphlets ? 
 They were privately printed, and are very rare." 
 
 He took out a book and showed it to her as one 
 does to a comrade and equal — as he might have done 
 to Edward Hallin. But something was jarred in her 
 — conscience or self-esteem — and she could not re- 
 cover her sense of heroineship. She answered al> 
 sently, and when he returned the book to the shelf 
 she said that it was time for her to go, and would he 
 kindly ask for her maid, who was to walk with her ? 
 
 ^' I will ring for her directly," he said. '' But you 
 will let me take you home ? " Then he added hur- 
 riedly, '' I have some business this afternoon with 
 a man who lives in your direction." 
 
 She assented a little stiffly — but with an inward 
 thrill. His w^ords and manner seemed suddenly to 
 make the situation unmistakable. Among the books 
 it had been for the moment obscured. 
 
 He rang for his own servant, and gave directions 
 about the maid. Then they went downstairs that 
 Marcella might say good-bye. 
 
 Miss Eaeburn bade her guest farewell, with a dig- 
 nity which her small person could sometimes assume, 
 not unbecomingly. Lady Winterbourne held the girl's 
 hand a little, looked her out of countenance, and in- 
 sisted on her promising again to come to Winter- 
 bourne Park the following Tuesday. Then Lord 
 Maxwell, with old-fashioned politeness, made Marcella 
 take his arm through the hall.
 
 MARCELLA. 195 
 
 "You must come and see us agaiu," he said smil- 
 ing ; '' though we are such belated old Tories, we are 
 not so bad as we sound." 
 
 And under cover of his mild banter he fixed a pene- 
 trating attentive look upon her. Flushed and em- 
 barrassed ! Had it indeed been done already? or 
 would Aldous settle it on this walk? To judge from 
 his manner and hers, the thing was going with rapid- 
 ity. Well, well, there was nothing for it but to hope 
 for the best. 
 
 On their way through the hall she stopped him, her 
 hand still in his arm. Aldous was in front, at the 
 door, looking for a light shawl she had brought with 
 her. 
 
 "1 should like to thank you," she said shyly, 
 "about the Hurds. It will be very kind of you and 
 Mr. Kaeburn to find them work." 
 
 Lord Maxwell was pleased; and with the usual 
 unfair advantage of beauty her eyes and curving lips 
 gave her little advance a charm infinite!}' beyond what 
 any plainer woman could have commanded. 
 
 " Oh, don't thank me ! " he said cheerily. " Thank 
 Aldous. He does all that kind of thing. And if in 
 your good works you want any help we can give, ask 
 it, my dear young lady. My old comrade's grand- 
 daughter will always find friends in this house." 
 
 Lord Maxwell would have been very much aston- 
 ished to hear himself making this speech six weeks 
 before. As it was, he handed her over gallantly to 
 Aldous, and stood on the steps looking after them in 
 a stir of mind not unnoted by the confidential butler' 
 who held the door open behind him. Would Aldous
 
 196 MARCELLA. 
 
 insist on carrying his wife off to the dower house on 
 the other side of the estate ? or would they be con- 
 tent to stay in the okl place with the old people? 
 And if so, how were that girl and his sister to get on ? 
 As for himself, he was of a naturally optimist tem- 
 per, and ever since the night of his first interview 
 with Aldous on the subject, he had been more and 
 more inclining to take a cheerful view. He liked to 
 see a young creature of such evident character and 
 cleverness holding opinions and lines of her own. It 
 was infinitely better than mere nonentity. Of course, 
 she was now extravagant and foolish, perhaps vain 
 too. But that would mend with time — mend, above 
 all, with her position as Aldous's wife. Aldous was 
 a strong man — how strong, Lord Maxwell suspected 
 that this impetuous young lady hardly knew. No, he 
 thought the family might be trusted to cope with her 
 when once they got her among them. And she would 
 certainly be an ornament to the old house. 
 
 Her father of course was, and would be, the real 
 difiiculty, and the blight which had descended on the 
 once honoured name. But a man so conscious of 
 many kinds of power as Lord Maxwell could not feel 
 much doubt as to his own and his grandson's compe- 
 tence to keep so poor a specimen of humanity as 
 Eichard Boyce in his place. How wretchedly ill, 
 how feeble, both in body and soul, the fellow had 
 looked when he and Winterbourne met him ! 
 
 The white-haired owner of the Court walked back 
 slowly to his library, his hands in his pockets, his 
 head bent in cogitation. Impossible to settle to the 
 various important political letters lying on his table,
 
 MABCELLA. 197 
 
 and bearing all of them on that approaching crisis in 
 the spring which must put Lord Maxwell and his 
 friends in power. He was over seventy, but his old 
 blood quickened within him as he thought of those 
 two on this golden afternoon, among the beech woods. 
 How late Aldous had left all these experiences ! His 
 grandfather, by twenty, could have shown him the 
 way. 
 
 Meanwhile the two in question were walking along 
 the edge of the hill rampart overlooking the plain, 
 with the road on one side of them, and the falling 
 beech woods on the other. They were on a woodland 
 path, just within the trees, sheltered, and to all in- 
 tents and purposes alone. The maid, with leisurely 
 discretion, was following far behind them on the high 
 road. 
 
 Marcella, who felt at moments as though she could 
 hardly breathe, by reason of a certain tumult of nerve, 
 was yet apparently bent on maintaining a conversation 
 without breaks. As they diverged from the road into 
 the wood-path, she plunged into the subject of her 
 companion's election prospects. How many meetings 
 did he find that he must hold in the month ? What 
 places did he regard as his principal strongholds ? She 
 "was told that certain villages, which she named, were 
 certain to go Radical, whatever might be the Tory 
 promises. As to a well-known Conservative League, 
 which was very strong in the country, and to which 
 all the great ladies, including Lady Winterbourne, be- 
 longed, was he actually going to demean himself by 
 accepting its support ? How was it possible to defend
 
 198 MARCELLA. 
 
 the bribery, buns, and beer by which it won its cor- 
 rupting way ? 
 
 Altogether, a quick fire of questions, remarks, and 
 sallies, which Aldous met and parried as best he might, 
 comforting himself all the time by thought of those 
 deeper and lonelier parts of the wood which lay before 
 them. At last she dropped out, half laughing, half 
 defiant, words which arrested him, — 
 
 " Well, I shall know what the other side think of 
 their prospects very soon. Mr. Wharton is coming to 
 lunch with us to-morrow." 
 
 " Harry Wharton ! " he said astonished. " But Mr. 
 Boyce is not supporting him. Your father, I think, is 
 Conservative ? " 
 
 One of Dick Boyce's first acts as owner of Mellor, 
 when social rehabilitation had still looked probable to 
 him, had been to send a contribution to the funds of 
 the League aforesaid, so that Aldous had public and 
 conspicuous grounds for his remark. 
 
 " Need one measure everything by politics ? " she 
 asked him a little disdainfully. ''Ma^ai't one even 
 feed a Radical ? " 
 
 He winced visibly a moment, touched in his philos- 
 opher's pride. 
 
 " You remind me," he said, laughing and reddening 
 — "and justly — that an election perverts all one's 
 standards and besmirches all one's morals. Then I 
 suppose Mr. Wharton is an old friend ? " 
 
 " Papa never saw him before last week," she said 
 carelessly. " Now he talks of asking him to stay some 
 time, and says that, although he Avon't vote for him, 
 he hopes that he will make a good fight."
 
 MARCELLA. 199 
 
 Raeburn's brow contracted in a puzzled frown. 
 
 ''He will make an excellent light/' he said rather 
 shortly. ''Dodgson hardly hopes to get in. Harry 
 Wharton is a most taking speaker, a very clever 
 fellow, and sticks at nothing in the way of promises. 
 Ah, you will find him interesting. Miss Boyce ! He 
 has a co-operative farm on his Lincolnshire property. 
 Last year he started a Labour paper — which I believe 
 you read. I have heard you quote it. He believes in 
 all that you hope for — great increase in local govern- 
 ment and communal control — the land for the people 
 — graduated income-tax — the extinction of landlord 
 and capitalist as soon as may be — e tutti quanti. He 
 talks with great eloquence and ability. In our villages 
 I find he is making way every week. The p6ople 
 think his manners perfect. "Ee 'as a way wi' un,' 
 said an old labourer to me last week. ' If 'ee wor to 
 coe the wild birds, I do believe. Muster Raeburn, 
 they'd coom to un ! ' " 
 
 " Yet you dislike him ! " said Marcella, a daring 
 smile dancing on the dark face she turned to him. 
 " One can hear it in every word you say." 
 
 He hesitated, trying, even at the moment that an 
 impulse of jealous alarm which astonished himself had 
 taken possession of him, to find the moderate and 
 measured phrase. 
 
 "I have known him from a boy," he said. "He is 
 a connection of the Levens, and used to be always 
 there in old days. He is very brilliant and very 
 gifted — " 
 
 "Your 'but' must be very bad," she threw in, "it 
 is so long in coming."
 
 200 MARCELLA. 
 
 " Then I will say, whatever opening it gives you," 
 he replied with spirit, " that I admire him without re- 
 specting him." 
 
 " Who ever thought otherwise of a clever oppo- 
 nent ? " she cried. " It is the stock formula." 
 
 The remark stung, all the more because Aldous was 
 perfectly conscious that there Avas much truth in her 
 implied charge of prejudice. He had never been very 
 capable of seeing this particular jnan in the dry light 
 of reason, and was certainly less so than before, since 
 it had been revealed to him that Wharton and Mr. 
 Boyce's daughter were to be brought, before long, into 
 close neighbourhood. 
 
 "I am sorry that I seem to you such a Pharisee," 
 he said, turning upon her a look which had both pain 
 and excitement in it. 
 
 She was silent, and they walked on a few yards 
 without speaking. The wood had thickened around 
 them. The high road was no longer visible. No 
 sound of wheels or footsteps reached them. The sun 
 struck freely through the beech-trees, already half 
 bared, whitening the grey trunks at intervals to an 
 arrowy distinctness and majesty, or kindling the 
 slopes of red and freshly fallen leaves below into 
 great patches of light and flame. Through the stems, 
 as always, the girdling blues of the plain, and in their 
 faces a gay and buoyant breeze, speaking rather of 
 spring than autumn. Robins, "yellow autumn's night- 
 ingales," sang in the hedge to their right. In the 
 pause between them, sun, wind, birds made their 
 charm felt. Xature, perpetual chorus as she is to 
 man, stole in, urging, wooing, defining. Aldous's heart 
 leapt to the spur of a sudden resolve.
 
 MABCELLA. 201 
 
 Instinctively she turned to him at the same moment 
 as he to her, and seeing his look she paled a little. 
 
 "Do you guess at all why it hurts me to jar with 
 you ? " he said — finding his words in a rush, he did 
 not know how — " Why every syllable of yours matters 
 to me ? It is because I have hopes — dreams — which 
 have become my life ! If you could accept this — this 
 
 — feeling — this devotion — which has grown up in 
 me — if you could trust yourself to me — you should 
 have no cause, I think — ever — to think me hard or 
 narrow towards any person, any enthusiasm for which 
 you had sympathy. May I say to you all that is in 
 my mind — or — or — am I presuming ? " 
 
 She looked away from him, crimson again. A great 
 wave of exultation — boundless, intoxicating — swept 
 through her. Then it was checked by a nobler feeling 
 
 — a quick, penitent sense of his nobleness. 
 
 " You don't know me," she said hurriedly : " you 
 think you do. But I am all odds and ends. I should 
 annoy — wound — disappoint you." 
 
 His quiet grey eyes flamed. 
 
 *' Come and sit down here, on these dry roots," he 
 said, taking already joyous command of her. "We 
 shall be undisturbed. I have so much to say ! " 
 
 She obeyed trembling. She felt no passion, but the 
 strong thrill of something momentous and irreparable, 
 together with a swelling pride — pride in such homage 
 from such a man. 
 
 He led her a few steps down the slope, found a 
 place for her against a sheltering trunk, and threw 
 himself down beside her. As he looked up at the 
 picture she made amid the autumn branches, at her
 
 202 M ARC ELLA. 
 
 bent head, her shy moved look, her white hand lying 
 ungloved on her black dress, happiness overcame him. 
 He took her hand, found she did not resist, drew it to 
 him, and clasping it in both his, bent his brow, his 
 lips upon it. It shook in his hold, but she was passive. 
 The mixture of emotion and self-control she showed 
 touched him deeply. In his chivalrous modesty he 
 asked for nothing else, dreamt of nothing more. 
 
 Half an hour later they were still in the same spot. 
 There had been much talk between them, most of it 
 earnest, but some of it quite gay, broken especially by 
 her smiles. Her teasing mood, however, had passed 
 away. She was instead composed and dignified, like 
 one conscious that life had opened before her to great 
 issues. 
 
 Yet she had flinched often before that quiet tone of 
 eager joy in which he had described his first impres- 
 sions of her, his surprise at finding in her ideals, 
 revolts, passions, quite unknown to him, so far, in the 
 women of his own class. Naturally he suppressed, 
 perhaps he had even forgotten, the critical amuse- 
 ment and irritation she had often excited in him. He 
 remembered, he spoke only of sympathy, delight, 
 pleasure — of his sense, as it were, of slaking some 
 long-felt moral thirst at the well of her fresh feeling. 
 So she had attracted him first, — by a certain strange- 
 ness and daring — by what she said — 
 
 " Now — and above all by what you are I " he broke 
 out suddenly, moved out of his even speech. "Oh! 
 it is too much to believe — to dream of! Put your 
 hand in mine, and say again that it is really true that
 
 MARCELLA. 203 
 
 we two are to go forward together — that you will be 
 always there to inspire — to help — " 
 
 And as she gave him the hand, she must also let 
 him — in this first tremor of a pure passion — take the 
 kiss which was now Lis by right. That she should 
 flush and draw away from him as she did, seemed to 
 him the most natural thing in the world, and the most 
 maidenly. 
 
 Then, as their talk wandered on, bit by bit, he gave 
 her all his confidence, and she had felt herself hon- 
 oured in receiving it. She understood now at least 
 something — a first fraction — of that inner life, masked 
 so well beneath his quiet English capacity and unas- 
 suming manner. He had spoken of his Cambridge 
 years, of his friend, of the desire of his heart to make 
 his landowner's power and position contribute some- 
 thing towards that new and better social order, which 
 he too, like Hallin — though more faintly and inter- 
 mittently — believed to be approaching. The diffi- 
 culties of any really new departure were tremendous ; 
 he saw them more plainly and more anxiously than 
 Hallin. Yet he believed that he had thought his way 
 to some effective reform on his grandfather's large 
 estate, and to some useful work as one of a group of 
 like-minded men in Parliament. She must have often 
 thought him careless and apathetic towards his great 
 trust. But he was not so — not careless — but par- 
 alysed often by intellectual difficulty, by the claims 
 of conflicting truths. 
 
 She, too, explained herself most freely, most frankly. 
 She would have nothing on her conscience. 
 
 '^ They will say, of course," she said with sudden
 
 204 MARCELLA. 
 
 nervous abruptness, " that I am marrying you for 
 wealth and position. And in a sense I shall be. No ! 
 don't stop me! I should not marry you if — if — I 
 did not like you. But you can give me — you have — 
 great opportunities, I tell you frankly, I shall enjoy 
 them and use them. Oh ! do think well before you 
 do it. I shall never be a meek, dependent wife. A 
 woman, to my mind, is bound to cherish her own 
 individuality sacredly, married or not married. Have 
 you thought that I may often think it right to do 
 things you disagree with, that may scandalise your 
 relations ? " 
 
 "You shall be free," he said steadily. "I have 
 thought of it all." 
 
 "Then there is my father," she said, turning her 
 head away. " He is ill — he wants pity, affection. I 
 will accept no bond that forces me to disown him." 
 
 "Pity and affection are to me the most sacred things 
 in the world," he said, kissing her hand gently. " Be 
 content — be at rest — my beautiful lady ! " 
 
 There was again silence, full of thought on her 
 side, of heavenly happiness on his. The sun had 
 sunk almost to the verge of the plain, the wind had 
 freshened. 
 
 "We must go home," she said, springing up. 
 "Taylor must have got there an hour ago. Mother 
 will be anxious, and I must — I must tell them." 
 
 " I will leave you at the gate," he suggested as they 
 walked briskly ; " and you will ask your father, will 
 you not, if I may see him to-night after dinner ? " 
 
 The trees thiuned again in front of them, and the 
 path curved inward to the front. Suddenly a man,
 
 MARCELLA. 205 
 
 walking on the road, diverged into the path and came 
 towards them. He was swinging a stick and hum- 
 ming. His head was uncovered, and his light chestnut 
 curls were blown about his forehead by the wind. 
 Marcella, looking up at the sound of the steps, had a 
 sudden impression of something young and radiant, 
 and Aldous stopped with an exclamation. 
 
 The new-comer perceived them, and at sight of 
 Aldous smiled, and approached, holding out his hand. 
 
 '^ Whj", Eaeburn, I seem to have missed you twenty 
 times a day this last fortnight. We have been always 
 on each other's tracks without meeting. Yet I think, 
 if we had met, we could have kept our tempers." 
 
 '•Miss Boyce, I think you do not know Mr. Whar- 
 ton," said Aldous, stiffly. " May I introduce jovl ? " 
 
 The young man's blue eyes, all alert and curious 
 at the mention of Marcella's name, ran over the girl's 
 face and form. Then he bowed with a certain charm- 
 ing exaggeration — like an eighteenth-century beau 
 with his hand upon his heart — and turned back with 
 them a step or two towards the road.
 
 BOOK II. 
 
 ' A woman has enough to govern wisely 
 Her own demeanours, passions and divisions."
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 On a certain night in the December following the 
 engagement of Marcella Boyce to Aldous Raebnrn, 
 the woods and fields of Mellor, and all the bare ram- 
 part of chalk doAvn which divides the Buckingham- 
 shire plain from the forest upland of the Chilterns lay 
 steeped in moonlight, and in the silence which be- 
 longs to intense frost. 
 
 Winter had set in before the leaf had fallen from 
 the last oaks; already there had been a fortnight or 
 more of severe cold, with hardly any snow. The pas- 
 tures were delicately white; the ditches and the wet 
 furrows in the ploughed land, the ponds on Mellor 
 common, and the stagnant pool in the midst of the 
 village, whence it drew its main water supply, were 
 frozen hard. But the ploughed chalk land itself lay 
 a dull grey beside the glitter of the pastures, and the 
 woods under the bright sun of the days dropped their 
 rime only to pass once more with the deadly cold of 
 the night under the fantastic empire of the frost. 
 Every day the veil of morning mist rose lightly from 
 the woods, uncurtaining the wintry spectacle, and 
 melting into the brilliant azure of an unflecked sky; 
 every night the moon rose without a breath of Avind, 
 without a cloud ; and all the branch-work of the trees, 
 where they stood in the open fields, lay reflected clean 
 
 VOL. 1. — 14 209
 
 210 MABCELLA. 
 
 and sharp on the whitened ground. The bitter cohl 
 stole into the cottages, marking the okl and feeble 
 with the touch of Azrael ; while without, in the field 
 solitudes, bird and beast cowered benumbed and starv- 
 ing in hole and roosting place. 
 
 How still it was — this midnight — on the fringe of 
 the woods ! Two men sitting concealed among some 
 bushes at the edge of Mr. Boyce's largest cover, and 
 bent upon a common errand, hardly spoke to each 
 other, so strange and oppressive was the silence. One 
 was Jim Hurd; the other was a labourer, a son of old 
 Patton of the almshouses, himself a man of nearly 
 sixty, with a small wizened face showing sharp and 
 white to-night under his slouched hat. 
 
 They looked out over a shallow cup of treeless 
 land to a further bound of wooded hill, ending 
 towards the north in a bare bluff of down shining 
 steep under the moon. They were in shadow, and 
 so was most of the wide dip of land before them ; but 
 through a gap to their right, beyond the wood, the 
 moonbeams poured, and the farms nestling under the 
 opposite ridge, the plantations ranging along it, and 
 the bald beacon hill in which it broke to the plain, 
 were all in radiant light. 
 
 Not a stir of life anywhere. Hurd put up his hand 
 to his ear, and leaning forward listened intently. 
 Suddenly — a vibration, a dull thumping sound in 
 the soil of the bank immediately beside him. He 
 started, dropped his hand, and, stooping, laid his ear 
 to the ground. 
 
 "Gi' us the bag," he said to his companion, draw- 
 ing himself upright. " You can hear 'em turnin' and
 
 MARCELLA. ' 211 
 
 creepin' as plain as anything. Now then, you take 
 these and go t' other side." 
 
 He handed over a bundle of rabbit nets. Patton, 
 crawling on hands and knees, climbed over the low 
 overgrown bank on which the hedge stood into the 
 precincts of the wood itself. The state of the hedge, 
 leaving the cover practically open and defenceless 
 along its whole boundary, showed plainly enough that 
 it belonged to the Mellor estate. But the field be- 
 yond was Lord Maxwell's. 
 
 Hurd applied himself to netting the holes on his 
 own side, pushing the brambles and undergrowth aside 
 with the sure hand of one who had already recon- 
 noitred the ground. Then he crept over to Patton to 
 see that all was right on the other side, came back, 
 and went for the ferrets, of whom he had four in a 
 closely tied bag. 
 
 A quarter of an hour of intense excitement fol- 
 lowed. In all, five rabbits bolted — three on Kurd's 
 side, two on Patton' s. It was all the two men could 
 do to secure their prey, manage the ferrets, and keep 
 a watch on the holes. Hurd's great hands — now fix- 
 ing the pegs that held the nets, now dealing death to 
 the entangled rabbit, whose neck he broke in an instant 
 by a turn of the thumb, now winding up the line that 
 held the ferret — seemed to be everywhere. 
 
 At last a ferret "laid up," the string attached to 
 him having either slipped or broken, greatly to the 
 disgust of the men, who did not want to be driven 
 either to dig, which made a noise and took time, or 
 to lose their animal. The rabbits made no more 
 sign^ and it was tolerably evident that they had got
 
 212 MARCELLA. 
 
 as much as they were likely to get out of that partic- 
 ular "bury." 
 
 Hurd thrust his arm deep into the hole where he 
 had put the ferret. ''Ther's summat in the way," he 
 declared at last. "Mos' likely a dead un. Gi' me 
 the spade." 
 
 He dug away the mouth of the hole, making as 
 little noise as possible, and tried again. 
 
 "'Ere ee be/' he cried, clutching at something, 
 drew it out, exclaimed in disgust, flung it away, and 
 pounced upon a rabbit which on the removal of the 
 obstacle followed like a flash, pursued by the lost 
 ferret. Hurd caught the rabbit by the neck, held it 
 by main force, and killed it ; then put the ferret into 
 his pocket. "Lord!" he said, wiping his brow, 
 "they do come suddent." 
 
 What he had pulled out was a dead cat ; a wretched 
 puss, who on some happy hunt had got itself wedged 
 in the hole, and so perished there miserably. He and 
 Patton stooped over it wondering; then Hurd walked 
 some paces along the bank, looking warily out to the 
 right of him across the open countr}^ all the time. 
 He threw the poor malodorous thing far into the 
 wood and returned. 
 
 The two men lit their pipes under the shelter of the 
 bushes, and rested a bit, well hidden, but able to see 
 out through a break in the bit of thicket. 
 
 "Six on 'em," said Hurd, looking at the stark 
 creatures beside him. " I be too done to try another 
 bury. I'll set a snare or two, an' be off home." 
 
 Patton puffed silently. He was wondering whether 
 Hurd would give him one rabbit or two. Hurd had
 
 MARCELLA. 213 
 
 both " plant " and skill, and Patton would have been 
 glad enough to come for one. Still he was a plaintive 
 man with a perpetual grievance, and had already 
 made up his mind that Hurd would treat him shab- 
 bily to-night, in spite of many past demonstrations 
 that his companion was on the whole of a liberal dis- 
 position. 
 
 "You bin out workin' a day's work already, han't 
 yer?" he said presently. He himself was out of 
 work, like half the village, and had been presented 
 by his wife with boiled swede for supper. But he 
 knew that Hurd had been taken on at the works at 
 the Court, Avhere the new drive was being made, and 
 a piece of ornamental water enlarged and improved — 
 mainly for the sake of giving employment in bad 
 times. He, Patton, and some of his mates, had tried 
 to get a job there. But the steward had turned them 
 back. The men off the estate had first claim, and 
 there was not room for all of them. Yet Hurd had 
 been taken on, which had set people talking. 
 
 Hurd nodded, and said nothing. He was not dis- 
 posed to be communicative on the subject of his em- 
 ployment at the Court. 
 
 "An' it be true as she be go in' to marry Muster 
 Raeburn?" 
 
 Patton jerked his head towards the right, where 
 above a sloping hedge the chimneys of Mellor and 
 the tops of the Mellor cedars, some two or three fields 
 away, showed distinct against the deep night blue. 
 
 Hurd nodded again, and smoked diligently. Pat- 
 ton, nettled by this parsimony of speech, made the 
 inward comment that his companion was ''a deepun."
 
 214 MARCELLA. 
 
 The village was perfectly aware of the particular 
 friendship shown by Miss Boyce to the Hurds. He 
 was goaded into trying a more stinging topic. 
 
 "Westall wor braggin' last night at Bradsell's " — 
 (Bradsell was the landlord of " The Green Man " at 
 Mellor) — "ee said as how they'd taken yoii on at the 
 Court — but that didn't prevent 'em knowin' as you 
 was a bad lot. Ee said ee 'ad 'is eye on yer — ee 'ad 
 warned yer twoice last year — " 
 
 "That's a lie!" said Hurd, removing his pipe an 
 instant and putting it back again. 
 
 Patton looked more cheerful. 
 
 "Well, ee spoke cru'l. Ee was certain, ee said, as 
 you could tell a thing or two about them coverts at 
 Tudley End, if the treuth were known. You wor 
 alius a loafer, an' a loafer you'd be. Yer might go 
 snivellin' to Miss Boyce, ee said, but yer wouldn't do 
 no honest work — ee said — not if yer could help it 
 — that's what ee said." 
 
 " Devil ! " said Hurd between his teeth, with a 
 quick lift of all his great misshapen chest. He took 
 his pipe out of his mouth, rammed it down fiercely 
 with his thumb, and put it in his pocket. 
 
 " Look out ! " exclaimed Patton with a start. 
 
 A whistle ! — clear and distinct — from the opposite 
 side of the hollow. Then a man's figure, black and 
 motionless an instant on the whitened down, with a 
 black speck beside it ; lastly, another figure higher up 
 along the hill, in quick motion towards the first, with 
 other specks behind it. The poachers instantly 
 understood that it was Westall — whose particular 
 beat lay in this part of the estate — signalling to his
 
 MARCELLA. 215 
 
 night watcher, Charlie DyneSj and that the two men 
 would be on them in no time. It was the work of a 
 few seconds to efface as far as possible the traces of 
 their raid, to drag some thick and trailing brambles 
 which hung near over the mouth of the hole where 
 there had been digging, to catch up the ferrets and 
 game, and to bid Kurd's lurcher to come to heel. The 
 two men crawled up the ditch with their burdens as 
 far away to leeward as they could get from the track 
 by which the keepers would cross the field. The ditch 
 was deeply overgrown, and when the approaching 
 voices warned them to lie close, they crouched under 
 a dense thicket of brambles and overhanging bushes, 
 afraid of nothing but the noses of the keepers' dogs. 
 
 Dogs and men, however, passed unsuspecting. 
 
 "Hold still!" said Hurd, checking Patton's first 
 attempt to move. "Ee'll be back again mos' like. 
 It's 'is dodge." 
 
 And sure enough in twenty minutes or so the men 
 reappeared. They retraced their steps from the fur- 
 ther corner of the field, where some preserves of Lord 
 Maxwell's approached very closely to the big Mellor 
 wood, and came back again along the diagonal path 
 within fifty yards or so of the men in the ditch. 
 
 In the stillness the poachers could hear Westall's 
 harsh and peremptory voice giving some orders to his 
 underling, or calling to the dogs, who had scattered a 
 little in the stubble. Kurd's own dog quivered beside 
 him once or twice. 
 
 Then steps and voices faded into the distance and 
 all was safe. 
 
 The poachers crept out grinning, and watched the
 
 216 MAECELLA. 
 
 keepers' progress along the hill-face, till they disap- 
 peared into the Maxwell woods. 
 
 " Ee be sold again — blast 'im! " said Hurd, with a 
 note of quite disproportionate exultation in his queer, 
 cracked voice. "Xow I'll set them snares. But 
 you'd better git home." 
 
 Patton took the hint, gave a grunt of thanks as his 
 companion handed him two rabbits, which he stowed 
 away in the capacious pockets of his poacher's coat, 
 and slouched off home by as sheltered and roundabout 
 a way as possible. 
 
 Hurd, left to himself, stowed his nets and other 
 apparatus in a hidden crevice of the bank, and strolled 
 along to set his snares in three hare-runs, Avell known 
 to him, round the further side of the wood. 
 
 Then he waited impatiently for the striking of the 
 clock in Mellor church. The cold was bitter, but his 
 night's w^ork was not over yet, and he had had very 
 good reasons for getting rid of Patton. 
 
 Almost immediately the bell rang out, the echo 
 rolling round the bend of the hills in the frosty 
 silence. Half-past twelve Hurd scrambled over the 
 ditch, pushed his way through the dilapidated hedge, 
 and began to climb the ascent of the wood. The out- 
 skirts of it were filled with a thin mixed growth of 
 sapling and underwood, but the high centre of it was 
 crowned by a grove of full-grown beeches, through 
 which the moon, now at its height, was playing 
 freely, as Hurd clambered upwards amid the dead 
 leaves just freshly strewn, as though in yearly festi- 
 val, about their polished trunks. Such infinite grace 
 and strength in the line work of the branches! —
 
 MABCELLA. 217 
 
 branches not bent into gnarled and unexpected fanta- 
 sies, like those of the oak, but gathered into every 
 conceivable harmony of upward curve and sweep, ris- 
 ing all together, black against the silvery light, each 
 tree related to and completing its neighbour, as 
 though the whole wood, so finely rounded on itself 
 and to the hill, were but one majestic conception of a 
 master artist. 
 
 But Hurd saw nothing of this as he plunged 
 through the leaves. He was thinking that it was 
 extremeh^ likely a man would be on the look-out for 
 him to-night under the big beeches — a man with 
 some business to propose to him. A few words 
 dropped in his ear at a certain public-house the night 
 before had seemed to him to mean this, and he had 
 accordingly sent Patton out of the way. 
 
 But when he got to the top of the hill no one was 
 to be seen or heard, and he sat him down on a fallen 
 log to smoke and wait awhile. 
 
 He had no sooner, however, taken his seat than he 
 shifted it uneasily, turning himself round so as to 
 look in the other direction. For in front of him, as 
 he was first placed, there was a gap in the trees, and 
 over the lower wood, plainly visible and challenging 
 attention, rose the dark mass of Mellor House. And 
 the sight of Mellor suggested reflections just now that 
 were not particularly agreeable to Jim Hurd. 
 
 He had just been poaching Mr. Boyce's rabbits with- 
 out any sort of scruple. But the thought of Miss 
 Boyce was not pleasant to him when he was out on 
 these nightly raids. 
 
 Why had she meddled? He bore lier a queer sort
 
 218 MAECELLA. 
 
 of grudge for it. He had just settled down to the 
 bit of cobbling which, together with his wife's plait, 
 served him for a blind, and was full of a secret ex- 
 citement as to various plans he had in hand for "do- 
 ing " Westall, combining a maximum of gain for the 
 winter with a maximum of safety, when Miss Boyce 
 walked in, radiant with the news that there was 
 employment for him at the Court, on the new works, 
 whenever he liked to go and ask for it. 
 
 And then she had given him an odd look. 
 
 "And I was to pass you on a message from Lord 
 Maxwell, Hurd, " she had said : " ^ You tell him to keep 
 out of Westall's way for the future, and bygones shall 
 be bygones.' Now, I'm not going to ask what that 
 means. If you've been breaking some of our landlords' 
 law, I'm not going to say I'm shocked. I'd alter the 
 law to-morrow, if I could! — you know I would. But 
 I do say you're a fool if you go on with it, now you've 
 got good work for the winter ; you must please remem- 
 ber your wife and children." 
 
 And there he had sat like a log, staring at her — 
 both he and Minta not knowing where to look, or how 
 to speak. Then at last liis wife had broken out, cry- 
 ing: 
 
 " Oh, miss ! we should ha starved — " 
 
 And Miss Boyce had stopped her in a moment, 
 catching her by the hand. Didn't she know it? Was 
 she there to preach to them? Only Hurd must 
 promise not to do it any more, for his wife's sake. 
 
 And he — stammering — left without excuse or re- 
 source, either against her charge, or the work she 
 offered him — had promised her, and promised her,
 
 MABCELLA. 219 
 
 moreover — in his trepidation — with more fervency 
 than he at all liked to remember. 
 
 For abont a fortnight, perhaps, he had gone to the 
 Court by day, and had kept indoors by night. Then, 
 just as the vagabond passions, the Celtic instincts, so 
 long repressed, so lately roused, were goading at him 
 again, he met Westall in the road — Westall, who 
 looked him over from top to toe with an insolent 
 smile, as much as to say, "Well, my man, Ave've got 
 the whip hand of you now!" That same night he 
 crept out again in the dark and the early morning, in 
 spite of all Minta's tears and scolding. 
 
 Well, what matter? As towards the rich and the 
 law, he had the morals of the slave, who does not feel 
 that he has had any part in making the rules he is 
 expected to keep, and breaks them when he can with 
 glee. It made him uncomfortable, certainly, that 
 Miss Boyce should come in and out of their place as 
 she did, should be teaching Willie to read, and bring- 
 ing her old dresses to make up for Daisy and Xellie, 
 while he was making a fool of her in this way. Still 
 he took it all as it came. One sensation wiped out 
 another. 
 
 Besides, Miss Boyce had, after all, much part in 
 this double life of his. Whenever he was at home, 
 sitting over the fire with a pipe, he read those papers 
 and things she had brought him in the summer. He 
 had not taken much notice of them at first. Xow he 
 spelled them out again and again. He had always 
 thought "them rich people took advantage of yer." 
 But he had never supposed, somehow, they were such 
 thieves, such mean thieves, as it appeared they were.
 
 220 MARCELLA. 
 
 A curious ferment filled his restless, inconsequent 
 brain. The poor were downtrodden, but they were 
 coining to their rights. The land and its creatures 
 were for the people! not for the idle rich. Above 
 all, Westall was a devil, and must be put down. For 
 the rest, if he could have given words to experience, 
 he would have said that since he began to go out 
 poaching he had burst his prison and found himself. 
 A life which was not merely endurance pulsed in him. 
 The scent of the night woods, the keenness of the 
 night air, the tracks and ways of the wild creatures, 
 the wiles by which he slew them, the talents and 
 charms of his dog Bruno — these things had developed 
 in him new aptitudes both of mind and body, which 
 were in themselves exhilaration. He carried his 
 dwarf's frame more erect, breathed from an ampler 
 chest. As for his work at the Court, he thought of it 
 often with impatience and disgust. It was a more 
 useful blind than his cobbling, or he would have 
 shammed illness and got quit of it. 
 
 " Them were sharp uns that managed that business 
 at Tudley End ! " He fell thinking about it and 
 chuckling over it as he smoked. Two of Westall' s 
 best coverts swept almost clear just before the big 
 shoot in I^ovember ! — and all done so quick and quiet, 
 before you could say "Jack Eobinson." Well, there 
 was plenty more yet, more woods, and more birds. 
 There were those coverts down there, on the Mellor 
 side of the hollow — they had been kept for the last 
 shoot in January. Hang him! why wasn't that fel- 
 low up to time? 
 
 But no one came, and he must sit on, shivering and
 
 V 
 
 MARCELLA. 221 
 
 smoking, a sack across his shoulders. As the stir of 
 nerve and blood caused by the ferreting subsided, his 
 spirits began to sink. Mists of Celtic melancholy, 
 perhaps of Celtic superstition, gained upon him. He 
 found himself glancing from side to side, troubled by 
 the noises in the wood. A sad light wind crept about 
 the trunks like a whisper; the owls called overhead; 
 sometimes there was a sudden sharp rustle or fall of a 
 branch that startled him. Yet he knew every track, 
 every tree in that wood. Up and down that field out- 
 side he had followed his father at the plough, a little 
 sickly object of a lad, yet seldom unhappy, so long as 
 childhood lasted, and his mother's temper could be 
 fled from, either at school or in the fields. Under 
 that boundary hedge to the right he had lain stunned 
 and bleeding all a summer afternoon, after old Westall 
 had thrashed him, his heart scorched within him by 
 the sense of wrong and the craving for revenge. On 
 that dim path leading down the slope of the wood, 
 George Westall had once knocked him down for dis- 
 turbing a sitting pheasant. He could see himself 
 falling — the tall, powerful lad standing over him with 
 a grin. 
 
 Then, inconsequently, he began to think of his 
 father's death. He made a good end did the old man. 
 "Jim, my lad, the Lord's verra merciful," or "Jim, 
 you'll look after Ann." Ann was the only daughter. 
 Then a sigh or two, and a bit of sleep, and it was 
 done. 
 
 And everybody must go the same way, must come 
 to the same stopping of the breath, the same awful- 
 ness — in a life of blind habit — of a moment that
 
 222 MABCELLA. 
 
 never had been before and never could be again? He 
 did not put it to these words, but the shudder that is 
 in the thought for all of us, seized him. He was very 
 apt to think of dying, to ponder in his secret heart 
 liow it would be, and when. And always it made him 
 very soft towards Minta and the children. Not only 
 did the life instinct cling to them, to the warm human 
 hands and faces hemming him in and protecting him 
 from that darkness beyond with its shapes of terror. 
 But to think of himself as sick, and gasping to his 
 end, like his father, was to put himself back in his old 
 relation to his wife, when they were first married. 
 He might cross Minta now, but if he came to lie sick, 
 he could see himself there, in the future, following 
 her about with his eyes, and thanking her, and doing 
 all she told him, just as he'd used to do. He couldn't 
 die without her to help him through. The very idea 
 of her being taken first, roused in him a kind of 
 spasm — a fierceness, a clenching of the hands. But 
 all the same, in this poaching matter, he must have 
 his wa}^, and she must just get used to it. 
 
 Ah! a low whistle from the further side of the 
 wood. He replied, and was almost instantly joined 
 by a tall slouching youth, by day a blacksmith's 
 apprentice at Gairsley, the Maxwells' village, who had 
 often brought him information before. 
 
 The two sat talking for ten minutes or so on the 
 log. Then they parted ; Hurd went back to the ditch 
 where he had left the game, put two rabbits into his 
 pockets, left the other two to be removed in the morn- 
 ing when he came to look at his snares, and went off 
 home, keeping as much as possible in the shelter of
 
 MABCELLA. 223 
 
 the hedges. On one occasion he braved the moonlight 
 and the open field, rather than pass throngh a woody 
 corner where an old farmer had been fonnd dead some 
 six years before. Then he reached a deep lane leading 
 to the village, and was soon at his own door. 
 
 As he climbed the wooden ladder leading to the one 
 bedroom where he, his wife, and his four children 
 slept, his wife sprang up in bed. 
 
 " Jim, you must be perished — such a night as 't is. 
 Oh, Jim — where ha' you bin?" 
 
 She was a miserable figure in her coarse nightgown, 
 with her grizzling hair wild about her, and her thin 
 arms nervously outstretched along the bed. The room 
 was freezing cold, and the moonlight stealing through 
 the scanty bits of curtains brought into dismal clear- 
 ness the squalid bed, the stained walls, and bare 
 uneven floor. On an iron bedstead, at the foot of the 
 large bed, lay Willie, restless and coughing, with the 
 elder girl beside him fast asleep; the other girl lay 
 beside her mother, and the wooden box with rockers, 
 which held the baby, stood within reach of jNIrs. 
 Kurd's arm. 
 
 He made her no answer, but went to look at the 
 coughing boy, who had been in bed for a week with 
 bronchitis. 
 
 "You've never been and got in Westall's way 
 again?" she said anxiously. "It's no good my tryin' 
 to get a wink o' sleep when you're out like this." 
 
 "Don't you worrit yourself," he said to her, not 
 roughly, but decidedly. " I'm all right. This boy 's 
 bad, Minta." 
 
 " Yes, an' I kep' up the fire an' put the spout on the
 
 224 MAECELLA. 
 
 kettle, too." She pointed to the grate and to the thin 
 line of steam, which was doing its powerless best 
 against the arctic cold of the room. 
 
 Hurd bent over the boy and tried to put him com- 
 fortable. The child, weak and feverish, only began to 
 cry — a hoarse bronchial crying, which threatened to 
 wake the baby. He could not be stopped, so Hurd 
 made haste to take off his own coat and boots, and 
 then lifted the poor soul in his arms. 
 
 "You'll be quiet. Will, and go sleep, won't yer, if 
 daddy takes keer on you? " 
 
 He wrapped his own coat round the little fellow, 
 and lying down beside his wife, took him on his arm 
 and drew the thin brown blankets over himself and 
 his charge. He himself was warm with exercise, and 
 in a little while the huddling creatures on either side 
 of him were warm too. The quick, panting breath of 
 the boy soon showed that he was asleep. His father, 
 too, sank almost instantly into deep gulfs of sleep. 
 Only the wife — nervous, overdone, and possessed by 
 a thousand fears — lay tossing and wakeful hour after 
 hour, while the still glory of the winter night 
 passed by.
 
 CHAPTER 11. 
 
 " Well, Marcella, have you and Lady Winterbourne 
 arranged your classes ? " 
 
 Mrs. Boyce was stooping over a piece of needlework 
 beside a window in the Mellor drawing-room, trying to 
 catch the rapidly failing light. It was one of the last 
 days of December. Marcella had just come in from 
 the village rather early, for they were expecting a 
 visitor to arrive about tea time, and had thrown her- 
 self, tired, into a chair near her mother. 
 
 " We have got about ten or eleven of the younger 
 women to join; none of the old ones will come," said 
 Marcella. " Lady Winterbourne has heard of a capital 
 teacher from Dunstable, and we hope to get started 
 next week. There is money enough to pay wages for 
 three months." 
 
 In spite of her fatigue, her eye was bright and rest- 
 less. The energy of thought and action from which 
 she had just emerged still breathed from every limb 
 and feature. 
 
 " Where have you got the money ? " 
 
 *'Mr. Eaeburn has managed it," said Marcella, 
 briefly. 
 
 Mrs. Boyce gave a slight shrug of the shoulders. 
 
 ''And afterwards — what is to become of your 
 product ? " 
 
 vol.. I. — 15 225
 
 226 MARCELLA. 
 
 '' There is a London shop Lady Winterbourne knows 
 will take what we make if it turns out welL Of 
 course, we don't expect to pay our way." 
 
 Marcella gave her explanations with a certain stiff- 
 ness of self-defence. She and Lady Winterbourne had 
 evolved a scheme for reviving and improving the local 
 industry of straw-plaiting, w^hich after years of decay 
 seemed now on the brink of final disappearance. The 
 village w^omen w^ho could at present earn a few pence 
 a Aveek by the coarser kinds of w^ork were to be in- 
 structed, not onl}^ in the finer a.nd better paid sorts, 
 but also in the making up of the plait when done, 
 and the " blocking " of hats and bonnets — processes 
 hitherto carried on exclusively at one or two large 
 local centres. 
 
 "You don't expect to pay your way?" repeated 
 Mrs. Boyce. " What, never ? " 
 
 '^Well, we shall give twelve to fourteen shillings a 
 week wages. We shall find the materials, and the 
 room — and prices are very low, the whole trade 
 depressed." 
 
 Mrs. Boyce laughed. 
 
 "I see. How many workers do you expect to get 
 together ? " 
 
 "Oh! eventually, about two hundred in the three 
 villages. It will regenerate the whole life ! " said 
 Marcella, a sudden ray from the inner ^varmth escap- 
 ing her, against her will. 
 
 Mrs. Boyce smiled again, and turned her work so as 
 to see it better. 
 
 "Does Aldous understand what you are letting 
 him in for ? "
 
 MARCELLA. 227 
 
 Marcella flushed. 
 
 "Perfectly. It is 'ransom' — that's all." 
 
 " And he is ready to take your view of it ? " 
 
 " Oh, he thinks us economically unsound, of course," 
 said Marcella, impatiently. "So we are. All care 
 for the human being under the present state of things 
 is economically unsound. But he likes it no more 
 than I do." 
 
 " Well, lucky for you he has a long purse," said 
 Mrs. Boyce, lightly. "But I gather, Marcella, you 
 don't insist upon his spending it all on straw-plaiting. 
 He told me yesterday he had taken the Hertford 
 Street house." 
 
 " We shall live quite simply," said Marcella, quickly. 
 
 " What, no carriage ? " 
 
 Marcella hesitated. 
 
 "A carriage saves time. And if one goes about 
 much, it does not cost so much more than cabs." 
 
 " So you mean to go about much ? Lady Winter- 
 bourne talks to me of presenting you in May." 
 
 " That's Miss Raeburn," cried Marcella. " She says 
 I must, and all the family would be scandalised if I 
 didn't go. But you can't imagine — " 
 
 She stopped and took off her hat, pushing the hair 
 back from her forehead. A look of worry and excite- 
 ment had replaced the radiant glow of her first rest- 
 ing moments. 
 
 "That you like it?" said Mrs. Boyce, bluntly. 
 " Well, I don't know. Most young Avomen like pretty 
 gowns, and great functions, and prominent positions. 
 I don't call you an ascetic, Marcella." 
 
 Marcella winced.
 
 228 MABCELLA. 
 
 " One has to fit oneself to circumstances/' she said 
 proudly. " One may hate the circumstances, but one 
 can't escape them." 
 
 " Oh, I don't think you will hate your circum- 
 stances, my dear ! You would be very foolish if you 
 did. Have you heard finally how much the settle- 
 ment is to be ? " 
 
 '' No," said Marcella, shortly. " I have not asked 
 papa, nor anybody." 
 
 "It was only settled this morning. Your father 
 told me hurriedly as he went out. You are to have 
 two thousand a year of your own." 
 
 The tone was dry, and the speaker's look as she 
 turned towards her daughter had in it a curious 
 hostility; but Marcella did not notice her mother's 
 manner. 
 
 " It is too much," she said in a low voice. 
 
 She had thrown back her head against the chair in 
 which she sat, and her half -troubled eyes were wander- 
 ing over the darkening expanse of lawn and avenue. 
 
 " He said he wished you to feel perfectly free to 
 live your own life, and to follow out your own pro- 
 jects. Oh, for a person of projects, my dear, it is not 
 so much. You will do well to husband it. Keep it 
 for yourself. Get what you want out of it : not what 
 other people want." 
 
 Again Marcella' s attention missed the note of agita- 
 tion in her mother's sharp manner. A soft look — a 
 look of compunction — passed across her face. Mrs. 
 Boyce began to put her Avorking things away, finding 
 it too dark to do any more. 
 
 ••By the way," said the mother, suddenly, "I sup-
 
 MARCELLA. 229 
 
 pose you will be going over to help him in his can- 
 vassing this next few weeks ? Your father says the 
 election will be certainly in February." 
 
 Marcella moved uneasily. 
 
 " He knows,'' she said at last, '' that I don't agTee 
 with him in so many things. He is so full of this 
 Peasant Proprietors Bill. And I hate peasant proper- 
 ties. They are nothing but a step backwards." 
 
 Mrs. Boyce lifted her eyebrows. 
 
 " That's unlucky. He tells me it is likely to be his 
 chief work in the new Parliament. Isn't it, on the 
 whole, probable that he knows more about the country 
 than you do, Marcella ? " 
 
 Marcella sat up with sudden energy and gathered 
 her walking things together. 
 
 "It isn't knowledge that's the question, mamma; 
 it's the principle of the thing. I mayn't know any- 
 thing, but the people whom I follow know. There are 
 the two sides of thought — the two ways of looking 
 at things. I warned Aldous when he asked me to 
 marry him which I belonged to. And he accepted it." 
 
 Mrs. Boyce's thin fine mouth curled a little. 
 
 " So you suppose that Aldous had his wits about 
 him on that great occasion as much as you had ? " 
 
 Marcella first started, then quivered with nervous 
 indignation. 
 
 " Mother," she said, " I can't bear it. It's not the 
 first time that you have talked as though I had taken 
 some unfair advantage — made an unworthy bargain. 
 It is too hard too. Other people may think what they 
 like, but that you — " 
 
 Her voice failed her, and the tears came into her
 
 230 MARCELLA. 
 
 eyes. She was tired and over-excited, and the con- 
 trast between the atmosphere of flattery and consider- 
 ation which surrounded her in Aldous's company, in 
 the village, or at the Winterbournes, and this tone 
 which her mother so often took with her when they 
 were alone, was at the moment hardly to be endured. 
 
 Mrs. Boyce looked up more gravely. 
 
 " You. misunderstand me, my dear," she said quietly. 
 '' I allow myself to wonder at you a little, but I 
 think no hard things of you ever. I believe you like 
 Aldous." 
 
 " Eeally, mamma ! " cried Marcella, half hysteri- 
 cally. 
 
 Mrs. Boyce had by now rolled up her work and shut 
 her workbasket. 
 
 " If you are going to take off your things," she said, 
 " please tell William that there will be six or seven 
 at tea. You said, I think, that Mr. Raeburn was 
 going to bring Mr. Hallin ? " 
 
 " Yes, and Frank Leven is coming. When will Mr. 
 Wharton be here ? " 
 
 " Oh, in ten minutes or so, if his train is punctual. 
 I hear your father just coming in." 
 
 Marcella went away, and Mrs. Boyce was left a few 
 minutes alone. Her thin hands lay idle a moment on 
 her lap, and leaning towards the window beside her, 
 she looked out an instant into the snowy twilight. 
 Her mind was full of its usual calm scorn for those — 
 her daughter included — who supposed that the human 
 lot was to be mended by a rise in weekly wages, or 
 that suffering has any necessary dependence on the 
 amount of commodities of which a man disposes.
 
 MARCELLA. 231 
 
 What hardship is there in starving and scrubbing and 
 toiling ? Had she ever seen a labourer's wife scrub- 
 bing her cottage floor without envy, without moral 
 thirst? Is it these things that kill, or any of the 
 great simple griefs and burdens ? Doth man live by 
 bread alone ? The whole language of social and 
 charitable enthusiasm often raised in her a kind of 
 exasperation. 
 
 So Marcella would be rich, excessively rich, even 
 now. Outside 'the amount settled upon her, the figures 
 of Aldous Kaeburn's present income, irrespective of the 
 inheritance which would come to him on his grand- 
 father's death, were a good deal beyond what even 
 Mr. Boyce — upon whom the daily spectacle of the 
 Maxwell wealth exercised a certain angering effect — 
 had supposed. 
 
 Mrs. Boyce had received the news of the engage- 
 ment with astonishment, but her after-acceptance of 
 the situation had been marked by all her usual phi- 
 losophy. Probably behind the philosophy there was 
 much secret relief. Marcella was provided for. Not 
 the fondest or most contriving mother could have done 
 more for her than she had at one stroke done for her- 
 self. During the early autumn Mrs. Boyce had ex- 
 perienced some moments of sharp prevision as to 
 what her future relations might be towards this 
 strong and restless daughter, so determined to con- 
 quer a world her mother had renounced. Now all 
 was clear, and a very shrewd observer could allow 
 her mind to play freely with the ironies of the situ- 
 ation. 
 
 As to Aldous Raeburn, she had barely sj^oken to
 
 232 M ABC ELL A. 
 
 him before the day when Marcella announced the 
 engagement, and the lover a few hours later had 
 claimed her daughter at the mother's hands with an 
 emotion to which Mrs. Boyce found her usual diffi- 
 culty in responding. She had done her best, how- 
 ever, to be gracious and to mask her surprise that he 
 should have proposed, that Lord Maxwell should have 
 consented, and that Marcella should have so lightly 
 fallen a victim. One surprise, however, had to be 
 confessed, at least to herself. After her interview 
 with her future son-in-law, Mrs. Boyce realised that 
 for the first time for fifteen years she was likely to 
 admit a new friend. The impression made upon him 
 by her own singular personality had translated itself 
 in feelings and language Avhich, against her will as it 
 were, established an understanding, an affinity. That 
 she had involuntarily aroused in him the profoundest 
 and most chivalrous pity was plain to her. Yet for 
 the first time in her life she did not resent it ; and 
 Marcella watched her mother's attitude with a mix- 
 ture of curiosity and relief. 
 
 Then followed talk of an early wedding, communi- 
 cations from Lord Maxwell to Mr. Boyce of a civil 
 and formal kind, a good deal more notice from the 
 "county," and finally this definite statement from 
 Aldous Raeburn as to the settlement he proposed to 
 make upon his wife, and the joint income which he 
 and she would have immediately at their disposal. 
 
 Under all these grooving and palpable evidences of 
 Marcella's future wealth and position, Mrs. Boyce had 
 shown her usual restless and ironic spirit. But of 
 late, and especially to-day, restlessness had become
 
 MARCELLA. 233 
 
 oppression. While Marcella was so speedily to be- 
 come the rich and independent woman, they them- 
 selves, Marcella's mother and father, were very poor, 
 in difficulties even, and likely to remain so. She 
 gathered from her husband's grumbling that the pro- 
 vision of a suitable trousseau for Marcella would tax 
 his resources to their utmost. How long would it be 
 before they were dipping in Marcella's purse ? Mrs. 
 Boyce's self-tormenting soul was possessed by one of 
 those nightmares her pride had brought upon her in 
 grim succession during these fifteen years. And this 
 pride, strong towards all the world, was nowhere so 
 strong or so indomitable, at this moment, as towards 
 her own daughter. They were practically strangers 
 to each other; and they jarred. To inquire where 
 the fault lay would have seemed to Mrs. Boyce futile. 
 
 Darkness had come on fast, and Mrs. Boyce was in 
 the act of ringing for lights when her husband en- 
 tered. 
 
 '' Where's Marcella ? " he asked as he threw him- 
 self into a chair with the air of irritable fatigue which, 
 was now habitual to him. 
 
 "Only gone to take olf her things and tell William 
 about tea. She will be down directly." 
 
 '' Does she know about that settlement ? " 
 
 " Yes, I told her. She thought it generous, but not 
 — 1 think — unsuitable. The world cannot be re- 
 formed on nothing." 
 
 " Keformed I — fiddlesticks ! " said Mr. Boyce, an- 
 grily. "I never saw a girl with a head so full of 
 nonsense in my life. Where does she get it from ?
 
 234 MARCELLA. 
 
 Why did you let her go about in London with those 
 people ? She may be spoilt for good. Ten to one 
 she'll make a laughing stock of herself and everybody 
 belonging to her, before she's done." 
 
 "Well, that is Mr. Raeburn's affair. I think I 
 should take him into account more than Marcella 
 does, if I were she. But probably she knows best." 
 
 " Of course she does. He has lost his head; any one 
 can see that. While she is in the room, he is like a 
 man possessed. It doesn't sit well on that kind of 
 fellow. It makes him ridiculous. I told him half 
 the settlement would be ample. She would only spend 
 the rest on nonsense." 
 
 "You told him that ? " 
 
 " Yes, I did. Oh ! " — with an angry look at her — 
 " I suppose you thought I should want to sponge upon 
 her ? I am as much obliged to you as usual ! " 
 
 A red spot rose in his wife's thin cheek. But she 
 turned and answered him gently, so gently that he 
 had the rare sensation of having triumphed over her. 
 He allowed himself to be mollified, and she stood 
 there over the fire, chatting with him for some time, 
 a friendly natural note in her voice which was rare 
 and, insensibly, soothed him like an opiate. She 
 chatted about Marcella's trousseau gowns, detailing 
 her own contrivances for economy ; about the probable 
 day of the wedding, the latest gossip of the election, 
 and so on. He sat shading his eyes from the fire- 
 light, and now and then throwing in a word or two. 
 The inmost soul of him was very piteous, harrowed 
 often by a new dread — the dread of dying. The 
 woman beside him held him in the hollow of her
 
 MABCELLA. 235 
 
 hand. In the long wrestle between her nature and 
 his, she had conquered. His fear of her and his need 
 of her had even come to supply the place of a dozen 
 ethical instincts he was naturally without. 
 
 Some discomfort, probably physical, seemed at last 
 to break up his moment of rest. 
 
 " Well, I tell you, I often wish it were the other 
 man," he said, with some impatience. " Raeburn 's so 
 
 d d superior. I suppose I offended him by what 
 
 I said of Marcella's whims, and the risk of letting her 
 control so much money at her age, and with her ideas. 
 You never saw such an air ! — all very quiet, of course. 
 He buttoned his coat and got up to go, as though I 
 were no more worth considering than the table. 
 Xeither he nor his precious grandfather need alarm 
 themselves : I shan't trouble them as a visitor. If 
 I shock them, they bore me — so we're quits. Mar- 
 cella '11 have to come here if she wants to see her father. 
 But owing to your charming system of keeping her 
 away from us all her childhood, she's not likely to 
 want." 
 
 ^' You mean Mr. Wharton by the other man ? " said 
 ^Irs. Boyce, not defending herself or Aldous. 
 
 "Yes, of course. But he came on the scene just 
 too late, worse luck ! AVhy wouldn't he have done 
 just as well? He's as mad as she — madder. He 
 believes all the rubbish she does — talks such rot, the 
 people tell me, in his meetings. But then he's good 
 company — he amuses you — you don't need to be on 
 your p's and q's with him. Why wouldn't she have 
 taken up with him ? As far as money goes they could 
 have rubbed along. He's not the man to starve when 
 there are game-pies going. It's just bad luck."
 
 236 MARCELLA. 
 
 Mrs. Boyce smiled a little. 
 
 "What there is to make you suppose that she would 
 have inclined to him, I don't exactly see. She has been 
 taken up with Mr. Eaeburn, really, from the first week 
 of her arrival here." 
 
 " Well, I dare say — there was no one else," said her 
 husband, testily. " That's natural enough. It's just 
 what I say. All I know^ is, Wharton shall be free to 
 use this house just as he pleases during his canvass- 
 ing, whatever the Raeburns may say." 
 
 He bent forward and poked the somewhat sluggish 
 fire with a violence which hindered rather than helped 
 it. Mrs. Boyce's smile had quite vanished. She per- 
 fectly understood all that was implied, whether in his 
 instinctive dislike of Aldous Raeburn, or in his cor- 
 diality towards young Wharton. 
 
 After a minute's silence, he got up again and left 
 the room, walking, as she observed, with difificulty. 
 She stopped a minute or so in the same place after 
 he had gone, turning her rings absently on her thin 
 fingers. She was thinking of some remarks which Dr. 
 Clarke, the excellent and experienced local doctor, had 
 made to her on the occasion of his last visit. With 
 all the force of her strong will she had set herself to 
 disbelieve them. But they had had subtle effects 
 already. Finally she too went upstairs, bidding Mar- 
 cella, whom she met coming down, hurry William with 
 the tea, as Mr. Wharton might arrive any moment. 
 
 Marcella saw the room shut up — the large, shabby, 
 beautiful room — the lamps brought in, fresh wood 
 thrown on the fire to make it blaze, and the tea-table
 
 MARC ELL A. 237 
 
 set out. Then she sat herself down on a low chair by 
 the fire, leaning forward with her elbows on her knees 
 and her hands clasped in front of her. Her black dress 
 revealed her fine full throat and her white wrists, for 
 she had an impatience of restraint anywhere, and wore 
 frills and falls of black lace where other people would 
 have followed the fashion in high collars and close 
 wristbands. What must have struck any one with an 
 observant eye, as she sat thus, thrown into beautiful 
 light and shade by the blaze of the wood fire, was the 
 massiveness of the head compared with the nervous 
 delicacy of much of the face, the thinness of the 
 wrist, and of the long and slender foot raised on the 
 fender. It was perhaps the great thickness and full 
 wave of the hair which gave the head its breadth ; but 
 the effect was singular, and would have been heavy 
 but for the glow of the eyes, which balanced it. 
 
 She was thinking, as a fiancee should, of Aldous 
 and their marriage, which had been fixed for the end 
 of February. Yet not apparently with any rapturous 
 absorption. There was a great deal to plan, and her 
 mind was full of business. AVho was to look after her 
 various village schemes while she and Lady Winter- 
 bourne were away in London? Mary Harden had 
 hardly brains enough, dear little thing as she was. 
 They must find some capable woman and pay her. 
 The Cravens would tell her, of course, that she was 
 on the high road to the most degrading of rdles — the 
 rdle of Lad}^ Bountiful. But there were Lady Bounti- 
 fuls and Lady Bountifuls. And the rdle itself was in- 
 evitable. It all depended upon how it was managed — 
 in the interest of what ideas.
 
 238 MARCELLA. 
 
 She must somehow renew her relations with the 
 Cravens in town. It would certainly be in her power 
 now to help them and their projects forward a little. 
 Of course they would distrust her, but that she would 
 get over. 
 
 All the time she was listening mechanically for the 
 hall door bell, which, however, across the distances 
 of the great rambling house it Avas not easy to hear. 
 Their coming guest was not much in her mind. She 
 tacitly assumed that her father would look after him. 
 On the two or three occasions when they had met 
 during the last three months, including his luncheon at 
 Mellor on the day after her engagement, her thoughts 
 had been too full to allow her to take much notice of 
 him — picturesque and amusing as he seemed to be. 
 Of late he had not been much in the neighbourhood. 
 There had been a slack time for both candidates, 
 which was now to give way to a fresh period of hard 
 canvassing in view of the election which everybody 
 expected at the end of February. 
 
 But Aldous was to bring Edward Hallin ! That 
 interested her. She felt an intense curiosity to see 
 and know Hallin, coupled with a certain nervousness. 
 The impression she might be able to make on him 
 would be in some sense an earnest of her future. 
 
 Suddenly, something undefinable — a slight sound, 
 a current of air — made her turn her head. To her 
 amazement she saw a young man in the doorway look- 
 ing at her with smiling eyes, and quietly drawing off 
 his gloves. 
 
 She sprang up with a feeling of annoyance. 
 
 -Mr. Wharton!''
 
 MAR CELL A, 239 
 
 " Oh ! — must you ? " — he said, with a movement of 
 one hand, as though to stop her. '- Couldn't you stay 
 like that ? At first I thought there was nobody in 
 the room. Your servant is grappling with my bags, 
 which are as the sand of the sea for multitude, so I 
 wandered in by myself. Then I saw you — and the 
 fire — and the room. It was like a bit of music. It 
 was mere wanton waste to interrupt it." 
 
 Marcella flushed, as she very stiffly shook hands 
 with him. 
 
 "I did not hear the front door," she said coldly. 
 " My mother will be here directly. May I give you 
 some tea ? " 
 
 "Thanks. No, I knew you did not hear me. That 
 delighted me. It showed what charming things there 
 are in the world that have ho spectators ! What a 
 delicious place this is ! — what a heavenly old place — 
 especially in these half lights ! There was a raw sun 
 when I was here before, but now — " 
 
 He stood in front of the fire, looking round the 
 great room, and at the few small lamps making their 
 scanty light amid the flame-lit darkness. His hands 
 were loosely crossed behind his back, and his boyish 
 face, in its setting of curls, shone with content and 
 self-possession. 
 
 " Well," said Marcella, bluntly, " I should prefer a 
 little more light to live by. Perhaps, when you have 
 fallen downstairs here in the dark as often as I have, 
 you may too." 
 
 He laughed. 
 
 " But how much better, after all — don't you think 
 so ? — to have too little of anything than too much I "
 
 240 MARCELLA. 
 
 He flung himself into a chair beside the tea-table, 
 looking up with gay interrogation as Marcella handed 
 him his cup. She was a good deal surprised by him. 
 On the few occasions of their previous meetings, these 
 bright eyes, and this pronounced manner, had been — 
 at any rate as towards herself — much less free and 
 evident. She began to recover the start he had given 
 her, and to study him with a half-unwilling curiosity. 
 
 " Then Mellor will please you," she said drily, in 
 answer to his remaA:, carrying her own tea meanwhile 
 to a chair on the other side of the fire. " My father 
 never bought anything — my father can't. I believe 
 we have chairs enough to sit down upon — but we 
 have no curtains to half the windows. Can I give 
 you anything ? " 
 
 For he had risen, and was looking over the tea-tray. 
 
 " Oh ! but I miist,^^ he said discontentedly. " I 
 must have enough sugar in my tea ! " 
 
 " I gave you more than the average," she said, with 
 a sudden little leap of laughter, as she came to his aid. 
 " Do all your principles break down like this ? I was 
 going to suggest that jou might like some of that fire 
 taken away ? " And she pointed to the pile of blazing 
 logs which now filled up the great chimney. 
 
 " That fire ! " he said, shivering, and moving up to 
 it. " Have you any idea what sort of a wind you keep 
 up here on these hills on a night like this ? And to 
 think that in this weather, with a barometer that 
 laughs in your face when you try to move it, I have 
 three meetings to-morrow night ! " 
 
 " When one loves the ' People,' with a large P," said 
 Marcella, " one mustn't mind winds."
 
 MABCELLA. 241 
 
 He flashed a smile at her, answering to the sparkle 
 of her look, then applied himself to his tea and toasted 
 bun again, with the dainty deliberation of one enjoy- 
 ing every sip and bite. 
 
 " No ; but if only the People didn't live so far apart. 
 Some murderous person wanted them to have only 
 one neck. I want them to have only one ear. Only 
 then unfortunately everybody would speak well — 
 which would bring things round to dulness again. 
 Does Mr. Kaeburn make you think very bad things of 
 me. Miss Boyce ? " 
 
 He bent forward to her as he spoke, his blue eyes 
 all candour and mirth. 
 
 Marcella started. 
 
 " How can he ? " she said abruptly. " I am not a 
 Conservative." 
 
 "Not a Conservative?" he said joyously. "Oh! 
 but impossible ! Does that mean that you ever read 
 my poor little speeches ? " 
 
 He pointed to the local newspaper, freshly cut, 
 which lay on a table at Marcella's elbow. 
 
 " Sometimes — " said Marcella, embarrassed. " There 
 is so little time." 
 
 In truth she had hardly given his candidature a 
 thought since the day Aldous proposed to her. She 
 had been far too much taken up with her own pros- 
 pects, with Lady Winterbourne's friendship, and her 
 village schemes. 
 
 He laughed. 
 
 " Of course there is. When is the great event to be ? " 
 
 "I didn't mean that," said Marcella, stiffly. "Lady 
 Winterbourne and I have been trying to start some 
 
 VOL. I. — 16
 
 242 M ABC ELL A, 
 
 village workshops. We have been working and talking, 
 and writing, morning, noon, and night." 
 
 " Oh ! I know — yes, I heard of it. And yon really 
 think anything is going to come ont of finicking little 
 schemes of that sort ? " 
 
 His dry change of tone drew a quick look from her. 
 The fresh-coloured face was transformed. In place of 
 easy mirth and mischief, she read an acute and half 
 contemptuous attention. 
 
 "I don't know what you mean," she said slowly, 
 after a pause. " Or rather — I do know quite well. 
 You told papa — didn't you ? — and Mr. Eaeburn saj^s 
 that you are a Socialist — not half-and-half, as all the 
 world is, but the real thing ? And of course you want 
 great changes : you don't like anything that might 
 strengthen the upper class with the people. But that 
 is nonsense. You can't get the changes for a long 
 long time. And, meanwhile, people must be clothed 
 and fed and kept alive." 
 
 She lay back in her high-backed chair and looked at 
 him defiantly. His lip twitched, but he kept his gravity. 
 
 " You would be much better employed in forming a 
 branch of the Agricultural Union," he said decidedly. 
 "What is the good of playing Lady Bountiful to a 
 decayed industry ? All that is childish ; we want the 
 means of revolution. The people who are for reform 
 shouldn't waste money and time on fads." 
 
 "I understand all that," she said scornfully, her 
 quick breath rising and falling. " Perhaps you don't 
 know that I was a member of the Venturist Society 
 in London ? What you say doesn't sound very new 
 to me ! "
 
 M ABC ELL A. 243 
 
 His seriousness disappeared in laughter. He hastily- 
 put down his cup and, stepping over to her, held out 
 his hand. 
 
 " You a Venturist ? So am I. J03' ! Won't you 
 shake hands with me, as comrades should ? We are a 
 very mixed set of people, you know, and between our- 
 selves I don't know that we are coming to much. But 
 we can make an alderman dream of the guillotine — 
 that is always something. Oh ! but now we can talk 
 on quite a new footing ! " 
 
 She had given him her hand for an instant, with- 
 drawing it with shy rapidity, and he had thrown him- 
 self into a chair again, wdth his arms behind his head, 
 and the air of one reflecting happily on a changed 
 situation. " Quite a new footing," he repeated thought- 
 fully. " But it is — a little surprising. What does 
 — what does Mr. Eaeburn say to it ? " 
 
 "iS'othing! He cares just as much about the poor 
 as you or I, please understand ! He doesn't choose 
 my way — but he won't interfere with it." 
 
 " Ah ! that is like him — like Aldous." 
 
 Marcella started. 
 
 " You don't mind my calling him by his Christian 
 name sometimes ? It drops out. We used to meet 
 as boys together at the Levens. The Levens are my 
 cousins. He was a big boy, and I was a little one. 
 But he didn't like me. You see — I was a little 
 beast ! " 
 
 His air of appealing candour could not have been 
 more engaging. 
 
 " Yes, I fear I was a little beast. And he was, even 
 then, and always, ^the good and beautiful.' You
 
 244 MAECELLA. 
 
 don't understand Greek, do you, Miss Boyce ? But 
 he was very good to me. I got into an awful scrape 
 once. I let out a pair of eagle owls that used to be 
 kept in the courtyard — Sir Charles loved them a 
 great deal more than his babies — I let them out at 
 night for pure wickedness, and they came to fearful 
 ends in the park. I was to have been sent home next 
 day, in the most unnecessary and penal hurry. But 
 Aldous interposed — said he would look after me for 
 the rest of the holidays." 
 
 " And then you tormented him ? " 
 
 " Oh no ! " he said with gentle complacency. " Oh 
 no ! I never torment anybody. But one must enjoy 
 oneself you know ; what else can one do ? Then 
 afterwards, when we were older — somehow I don't 
 know — but we didn't get on. It is very sad — I wish 
 he thought better of me." 
 
 The last words were said with a certain change of 
 tone, and sitting up he laid the tips of his fingers to- 
 gether on his knees with a little plaintive air. Mar- 
 cella's eyes danced with amusement, but she looked 
 away from him to the fire, and would not answer. 
 
 " You don't help me out. You don't console me. 
 It's unkind of you. Don't you think it a melancholy 
 fate to be always admiring the people who detest you ? " 
 
 " Don't admire them ! " she said merrily. 
 
 His eyebrows lifted. " That/' he said drily, "is 
 disloyal. I call — I call your ancestor over the man- 
 telpiece " — he waved his hand towards a blackened 
 portrait in front of him — " to witness, that I am all 
 for admiring Mr. Baeburn, and you discourage it. 
 Well, but now — now " — he drew his chair eagerly
 
 MARCELLA. 245 
 
 towards hers, tlie pose of a minute before thrown to 
 the winds — " do let us understand each other a little 
 more before people come. You know I have a labour 
 newspaper ? " 
 
 She nodded. 
 
 " You read it ? " 
 
 "Is it the Labour Clarion? I take it in." 
 
 " CajDital ! "' he cried. '' Then I know now why I 
 found a copy in the village here. You lent it to a man 
 called Hurd ? " 
 
 "I did." 
 
 "Whose wife worships you? — whose good angel 
 you have been ? Do I know something about you, or 
 do I not ? Well, now, are you satisfied with that 
 paper ? Can you suggest to me means of improving 
 it ? It wants some fresh blood, I think — I must find 
 it ? I bought the thing last year, in a moribund con- 
 dition, with the old staff. Oh ! we will certainly take 
 counsel together about it — most certainly ! But first 
 — I have been boasting of knowing something about 
 you — but I should like to ask — do you know anything 
 about me ? " 
 
 Both laughed. Then Marcella tried to be serious. 
 
 " Well — I — I believe — you have some land ? " 
 
 "Kight!" he nodded — "I am a Lincolnshire land- 
 owner. I have about five thousand acres — enough to 
 be tolerably poor on — and enough to play tricks with. 
 I have a co-operative farm, for instance. At present I 
 have lent them a goodish sum of money — and remitted 
 them their first half-year's rent, ^ot so far a paying 
 speculation. But it will do — some day. Meanwhile 
 the estate wants money — and my plans and I want
 
 246 3IARCELLA. 
 
 money — badly. I propose to make the Labour Clarion 
 pay — if I can. That will give me more time for 
 speaking and organising, for what concerns us — as 
 Venturists — than the Bar." 
 
 " The Bar ? " she said, a little mystified, but follow- 
 ing every word with a fascinated attention. 
 
 " I made myself a barrister three years ago, to please 
 my mother. She thought I should do better in Parlia- 
 ment — if ever I got in. Did 3'ou ever hear of my 
 mother ? " 
 
 There was no escaping these frank, smiling ques- 
 tions. 
 
 " No," said Marcella, honestly. 
 
 " Well, ask Lord Maxwell," he said, laughing. " He 
 and she came across each other once or twice, when he 
 was Home Secretary years ago, and she Avas wild about 
 some woman's grievance or other. She always main- 
 tains that she got the better of him — no doubt he was 
 left with a different impression. Well — my mother — 
 most people thought her mad — perhaps she was — but 
 then somehow — I loved her ! " 
 
 He was still smiling, but at the last words a charm- 
 ing vibration crept into the words, and his eyes sought 
 her with a young open demand for sympathy. 
 
 " Is that so rare ? " she asked him, half laughing — 
 instinctively defending her o^vn feeling lest it should 
 be snatched from her by any make-believe. 
 
 " Yes — as we loved each other — it is rare. My 
 father died when I was ten. She would not send 
 me to school, and I was always in her pocket — I 
 shared all her interests. She was a wild woman — 
 but she lived, as not one person in twenty lives."
 
 MABCELLA. 247 
 
 Then lie sighed. Marcella was too shy to imitate 
 his readiness to ask questions. But she supposed 
 that his mother must be dead — indeed, now vaguely 
 remembered to have heard as much. 
 
 There was a little silence. 
 
 "Please tell me/' she said suddenly, "why do you 
 attack my straw-plaiting ? Is a co-operative farm any 
 less of a stopgap ? " 
 
 Instantly his face changed. He drew up his chair 
 again beside her, as gay and keen-eyed as before. 
 
 "I can't argue it out now. There is so much to 
 say. But do listen ! I have a meeting in the village 
 here next week to preach land nationalisation. We 
 mean to try and form a branch of the Labourers' 
 Union. Will you come ? " 
 
 Marcella hesitated. 
 
 "I think so," she said slowly. 
 
 There was a pause. Then she raised her eyes and 
 found his fixed upon her. A sudden sympathy — of 
 youth, excitement, pleasure — seemed to rise between 
 them. She had a quick impression of lightness, 
 grace ; of an open brow set in curls ; of a look more 
 intimate, inquisitive, commanding, than any she had 
 yet met. 
 
 " May I speak to you, miss ? " said a voice at the 
 door. 
 
 Marcella rose hastily. Her mother's maid was 
 standing there. 
 
 She hurried across the room. 
 
 " What is the matter. Deacon ? " 
 
 "Your mother says, miss," said the maid, retreating 
 into the hall, ''I am to tell you she can't come down.
 
 248 MABCELLA. 
 
 Your father is ill, and she has sent for Dr. Clarke. 
 But you are please not to go up. Will you give the 
 gentlemen their tea, and she will come down before 
 they go, if she can." 
 
 Marcella had turned pale. 
 
 " Mayn't I go, Deacon ? What is it ? " 
 
 "It's a bad lit of pain, your mother says, miss. 
 Nothing can be done till the doctor comes. She 
 h^ggQdi particular that you wouldn't go up, miss. She 
 doesn't want any one put out." 
 
 At the same moment there was a ring at the outer 
 door. 
 
 "Oh, there is Aldous," cried Marcella, with relief, 
 and she ran out into the hall to meet him.
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 Aldous advanced into the inner hall at sight of 
 Marcella, leaving his companions behind in the vesti- 
 bule taking off their coats. Marcella ran to him. 
 
 " Papa is ill ! " she said to him hastily. " Mamma 
 has sent for Dr. Clarke. She won't let me go up, and 
 ■wants us to take no notice and have tea without her." 
 
 "I am so sorry! Can we do anything? The dog- 
 cart is here with a fast horse. If your messenger 
 went on foot — " 
 
 " Oh, no ! they are sure to have sent the boy on the 
 pony. I don't know why, but I have had a presenti- 
 ment for a long time past that papa was going to 
 be ill." 
 
 She looked white and excited. She had turned back 
 to the drawing-room, forgetting the other guests, he 
 walking beside her. As they passed along the dim 
 hall, Aldous had her hand close in his, and when they 
 passed under an archway at the further end he stooped 
 suddenly in the shadows and kissed the hand. Touch 
 — kiss — had the clinging, the intensity of passion. 
 They were the expression of all that had lain vibrat- 
 ing at the man's inmost heart during the dark drive, 
 while he had been chatting with his two companions. 
 
 "My darling! I hope not. Would you rather not 
 see strangers? Shall I send Hallin and young Leven 
 away? They would understand at once." 
 
 249
 
 250 MARCELLA. 
 
 "Oh, no! Mr. Wharton is here anyway — staying. 
 Where is Mr. Hallin? I had forgotten him." 
 
 Aldous turned and called. Mr. Hallin and young 
 Frank Leven, divining something unusual, were look- 
 ing at the pictures in the hall. 
 
 Edward Hallin came up and took Marcella's offered 
 hand. Each looked at the other with a special atten- 
 tion and interest. "She holds my friend's life in 
 her hands — is she worthy of it? " was naturally the 
 question hanging suspended in the man's judgment. 
 The girl's manner was proud and shy, the manner of 
 one anxious to please, yet already, perhaps, on the 
 defensive. 
 
 Aldous explained the position of affairs, and Hallin 
 expressed his sympathy. He had a singularly attrac- 
 tive voice, the voice indeed of the orator, which can 
 adapt itself with equal charm and strength to the most 
 various needs and to any pitch. As he spoke, Mar- 
 cella was conscious of a sudden impression that she 
 already knew him and could be herself with him at 
 once. 
 
 " Oh, I say, " broke in young Leven, who was stand- 
 ing behind; "don't you be bothered with us, Miss 
 Boyce. Just send us back at once. I'm awfully 
 sorry ! " 
 
 " No ; you are to come in ! " she said, smiling 
 through her pallor, which was beginning to pass away, 
 and putting out her hand to him — the young Eton and 
 Oxford athlete, just home for his Christmas vacation, 
 was a great favourite with her — " You must come and 
 have tea and cheer me up by telling me all the things 
 you have killed this week. Is there anything left
 
 MARCELLA. 251 
 
 alive? You had come down to the fieldfares, you 
 know, last Tuesday." 
 
 He followed her, laughing and protesting, and she 
 led the way to the drawing-room. But as her fingers 
 were on the handle she once more caught sight of the 
 maid, Deacon, standing on the stairs, and ran to speak 
 to her. 
 
 "He is better," she said, coming back with a face 
 of glad relief. " The attack seems to be passing off. 
 Mamma can't come down, but she begs that we will 
 all enjoy ourselves." 
 
 "We'll endeavour," said young Leven, rubbing his 
 hands, "by the help of tea. Miss Boyce, will you 
 please tell Aldous and Mr. Hallin not to talk politics 
 when they're taking me out to a party. They should 
 fight a man of their own size. I'm all limp and 
 trampled on, and want you to protect me." 
 
 The group moved, laughing and talking, into the 
 drawing-room. 
 
 " Jiminy ! " said Leven, stopping short behind 
 Aldous, who was alone conscious of the lad's indig- 
 nant astonishment; "'what the deuce is he doing 
 here?" 
 
 For there on the rug, with his back to the fire, 
 stood Wharton, surveying the party with his usual 
 smiling aplomb. 
 
 "Mr. Hallin, do you know Mr. Wharton?" said 
 Marcella. 
 
 "Mr. Wharton and I have met several times on 
 public platforms," said Hallin, holding out his hand, 
 which Wharton took with effusion. Aldous greeted 
 him with the impassive manner, the "three finger"
 
 252 MARCELLA. 
 
 manner, whicli was with him an inheritance — though 
 not from his grandfather — and did not contribute to 
 his popularity in the neighbourhood. As for young 
 LeveUj he barely nodded to the Radical candidate, and 
 threw himself into a chair as far from the fire as 
 possible. 
 
 " Frank and I have met before to-day ! " said Whar- 
 ton, laughing. 
 
 ''Yes, I've been trying to undo some of your mis- 
 chief," said the boy, bluntly. ''I found him. Miss 
 Boyce, haranguing a lot of men at the dinner-hour at 
 Tudley End — one of our villages, you know — cram- 
 ming them like anything — all about the game laws, 
 and our misdeeds — my father's, of course." 
 
 Wharton raised a protesting hand. 
 
 "Oh — all very well! Of course it was us you 
 meant! Well, when he'd driven oif, I got up on a 
 cart and had my say. I asked them whether they 
 didn't all come out at our big shoots, and whether 
 they didn't have almost as much fun as we did — why ! 
 the schoolmaster and the postman come to ask to 
 carry cartridges, and everybody turns out, down to the 
 cripples! — whether they didn't have rabbits given 
 them all the year round; whether half of them hadn't 
 brothers and sons employed somehow about the game, 
 well-paid, and well -treated ; whether any man -jack of 
 them would be a ha'porth better off if there were no 
 game; whether many of them wouldn't be worse off; 
 and whether England wouldn't be a beastly dull place 
 to live in, if people like him " — he pointed to Whar- 
 ton — "had the governing of it! And I brought 'em 
 all round too. I got them cheering and laughing.
 
 MARC ELL A. 253 
 
 Oh! I can tell you old Dodgson '11 have to take me 
 on. He says he'll ask me to speak for him at several 
 places. I'm not half bad, I declare I'm not." 
 
 "I thought they gave you a holiday task at Eton," 
 observed Wharton, blandly. 
 
 The lad coloured hotly, then bethought himself — 
 radiant : — 
 
 " I left Eton last half, as of course you know quite 
 well. But if it had only been last Christmas instead 
 of this, wouldn't I have scored — by Jove! They 
 gave us a beastly essay instead of a book. 'Dem- 
 agogues ! ' I sat up all night, and screwed out a 
 page and a half. I'd have known something about 
 it now." 
 
 And as he stood beside the tea-table, waiting for 
 Marcella to entrust some tea to him for distribution, 
 he turned and made a profound bow to his candidate 
 cousin. 
 
 Everybody joined in th-e laugh, led by Wharton. 
 Then there was a general drawing up of chairs, and 
 Marcella applied herself to making tea, helped by 
 Aldous. Wharton alone remained standing before 
 the fire, observant and apart. 
 
 Hallin, whose health at this moment made all exer- 
 tion, even a drive, something of a burden, sat a little 
 away from the tea-table, resting, and glad to be 
 silent. Yet all the time he was observing the girl 
 presiding and the man beside her — his friend, her 
 lover. The moment had a peculiar, perhaps a mel- 
 ancholy interest for him. So close had been the bond 
 between himself and Aldous, that the lover's com- 
 munication of his engagement had evoked in the
 
 254 MARCELLA. 
 
 friend that sense — poignant, inevitable — which in 
 the realm of the affections always waits on something 
 done and finished, — a leaf turned, a chapter closed. 
 " That sad word, Joy ! " Hallin was alone and ill when 
 Raeburn's letter reached him, and through the follow- 
 ing day and night he was haunted by Landor's phrase, 
 long familiar and significant to him. His letter to 
 his friend, and the letter to Miss Boyce for which 
 Raeburn had asked him, had cost him an invalid's 
 contribution of sleep and ease. The girl's answer 
 had seemed to him constrained and young, though 
 touched here and there with a certain fineness and 
 largeness of phrase, which, if it was to be taken as 
 an index of character, no doubt threw light upon the 
 matter so far as Aldous was concerned. 
 
 Her beauty, of which he had heard much, now that 
 he was face to face with it, was certainly striking 
 enough — all the more because of its immaturity, the 
 subtlety and uncertainty of its promise. Immaturity 
 — uncertainty — these words returned upon him as he 
 observed her manner with its occasional awkwardness, 
 the awkwardness which goes with power not yet fully 
 explored or mastered by its possessor. How Aldous 
 hung upon her, following every movement, antici- 
 pating every want! After a while Hallin found him- 
 self half-inclined to Mr. Boyce's view, that men of 
 Raeburn's type are never seen to advantage in this 
 stage — this queer topsy-turvy stage — of first passion. 
 He felt a certain impatience, a certain jealousy for 
 his friend's dignity. It seemed to him too, every 
 now and then, that she — the girl — was teased by all 
 this absorption, this deference. He was conscious of
 
 MARCELLA. 255 
 
 watching for something in her that did not appear; 
 and a first prescience of things anxious or untoward 
 stirred in his quick sense. 
 
 "You may all say what you like," said Marcella, 
 suddenly, putting down her cup, and letting her hand 
 drop for emphasis on her knee ; " but you will never 
 persuade me that game-preserving doesn't make life 
 in the country much more difficult, and the difference 
 between classes much wider and bitterer, than they 
 need be." 
 
 The remark cut across some rattling talk of Erank 
 Leven's, who was in the first flush of the sportsman's 
 ardour, and, though by no means without parts, could 
 at the present moment apply his mind to little else 
 than killing of one kind or another, unless it were 
 to the chances of keeping his odious cousin out of 
 Parliament. 
 
 Leven stared. Miss Boyce's speech seemed to him 
 to have no sort of d propos. Aldous looked down 
 upon her as he stood beside her, smiling. 
 
 "I wish you didn't trouble yourself so much about 
 it," he said. 
 
 "How can I help it?" she answered quickly; and 
 then flushed, like one who has drawn attention indis- 
 creetly to their own personal situation. 
 
 "Trouble herself!" echoed young Leven. "iSTow, 
 look here Miss Boyce, will you come for a walk with 
 me? I'll convince you, as I convinced those fellows 
 over there. I know I could, and you won't give me 
 the chance; it's too bad." 
 
 "Oh, you! " she said, with a little shrug; "what do 
 you know about it? One might as well consult a
 
 256 MARCELLA. 
 
 gambler about gambling when he is in the middle of 
 his first rush of luck. I have ten times more right to 
 an opinion than you have. I can keep my head cool, 
 and notice a hundred things that you would never see. 
 I come fresh into your country life, and the first thing 
 that strikes me is that the whole machinery of law 
 and order seems to exist for nothing in the world but 
 to protect your pheasants ! There are policemen — 
 to catch poachers; there are magistrates — to try 
 them. To judge from the newspapers, at least, they 
 have nothing else to do. And if you follow your 
 sporting instincts, you are a very fine fellow, and 
 everybody admires you. But if a shoemaker's son in 
 Mellor follows his, he is a villain and a thief, and the 
 policeman and the magistrate make for him at once." 
 
 "But I don't steal his chickens!" cried the lad, 
 choking with arguments and exasperation ; " and why 
 should he steal my pheasants? I paid for the eggs, I 
 paid for the hens to sit on 'em, I paid for the coops to 
 rear them in, I paid the men to watch them, I paid for 
 the barley to feed them with : why is he to be allowed 
 to take my property, and I am to be sent to jail if I 
 take his?" 
 
 " Property ! " said Marcella, scornfully. '' You can't 
 settle everything nowadays by that big word. We 
 are coming to put the public good before property. 
 If the nation should decide to curtail your 'right,' as 
 you call it, in the general interest, it will do it, and 
 you will be left to scream." 
 
 She had flung her arm round the back of her chair, 
 and all her lithe young frame was tense with an 
 eagerness, nay, an excitement, which drew Hallin's
 
 MARCELLA. 257 
 
 attention. It was more than was warranted by the 
 conversation, he thought. 
 
 ^' Well, if you think the abolition of game preserv- 
 ing would be popular in the country. Miss Boyce, I'm 
 certain you make a precious mistake," cried Leven. 
 " Why, even you don't think it would be, do you, Mr. 
 Hallin? " he said, appealing at random in his disgust. 
 
 "I don't know," said Hallin, with his quiet smile. 
 "I rather think, on the whole, it would be. The 
 farmers put up with it, but a great many of them 
 don't like it. Things are mended since the Ground 
 Game Act, but there are a good many grievances still 
 left." 
 
 " I should think there are ! " said Marcella, eagerly, 
 bending forward to him. "I was talking to one of 
 our farmers the other day whose land goes up to the 
 edge of Lord Winterbourne's woods. ' They don't 
 keep their pheasants, miss,' he said. '7 do. I and 
 my corn. If I didn't send a man up half -past five in 
 the morning, when the ears begin to fill, there 'd be 
 nothing left for us. ' 'Why don't you complain to the 
 agent?' I said. 'Complain! Lor' bless you, miss, 
 you may complain till you're black in the face. I've 
 alius found — an' I've been here, man and boy, thirty- 
 two year — as how Winterbournes generally best it.'' 
 There you have the whole thing in a nutshell. It's 
 a tyranny — a tyranny of the rich." 
 
 Flushed and sarcastic, she looked at Frank Leven; 
 but Hallin had an uncomfortable feeling that the 
 sarcasm was not all meant for him. Aldous was sit- 
 ting with his hands on his knees, and his head bent 
 forward a little. Once, as the talk ran on, Hallin saw 
 
 VOL. I. — 17
 
 258 MAECELLA. 
 
 him raise his grey eyes to the girl beside him, who 
 certainly did not notice it, and was not thinking of 
 him. There was a curious pain and perplexity in the 
 expression, but something else too — a hunger, a 
 dependence, a yearning, that for an instant gripped 
 the friend's heart. 
 
 " Well, I know Aldous doesn't agree with you, ^liss 
 Boyce," cried Leven, looking about him in his indig- 
 nation for some argument that should be final. " You 
 don't, do you, Aldous? You don't think the country 
 would be the better, if we could do away with game 
 to-morrow? " 
 
 " No more than I think it would be the better, " said 
 Aldous, quietly, " if we could do away with gold plate 
 and false hair to-morrow. There would be too many 
 hungry goldsmiths and wig-makers on the streets." 
 
 Marcella turned to him, half defiant, half softened. 
 
 "Of course, your point lies in to-inorrow," she said. 
 " I accept that. We can't carry reform by starving 
 innocent people. But the question is, what are we to 
 work towards? Mayn't we regard the game laws as 
 one of the obvious crying abuses to be attacked first — 
 in the great campaign ! — the campaign which is to 
 bring liberty and self-respect back to the country 
 districts, and make the labourer feel himself as much 
 of a man as the squire? " 
 
 ''What a head! What an attitude!" thought 
 Hallin, half repelled, half fascinated. "But a girl 
 that can talk politics — hostile politics — to her lover, 
 and mean them too — or am I inexperienced? — and is 
 it merely that she is so much interested in him that 
 she wants to be quarrelling with him?"
 
 MARCELLA. 259 
 
 Aldous looked up. ''I am not sure," he said, 
 answering her. "That is always my difficulty, you 
 know," and he smiled at her. "Game preserving is 
 not to me personally an attractive form of private 
 property, but it seems to me bound up with other 
 forms, and I want to see where the attack is going to 
 lead me. But I would protect your farmer — mind! 
 — as zealously as you." 
 
 Hallin caught the impatient quiver of the girl's lip. 
 The tea had just been taken away, and Marcella had 
 gone to sit upon an old sofa near the fire, whither 
 Aldous had followed her. Wharton, who had so far 
 said nothing, had left his post of observation on the 
 hearth-rug, and was sitting under the lamp balancing 
 a paper-knife with great attention on two fingers. In 
 the half light Hallin by chance saw a movement of 
 Raeburn's hand towards Marcella's, which lay hidden 
 among the folds of her dress — quick resistance on her 
 part, then acquiescence. He felt a sudden pleasure 
 in his friend's small triumph. 
 
 "Aldous and I have worn these things threadbare 
 many a time," he said, addressing his hostess. "You 
 don't know how kind he is to my dreams. I am no 
 sportsman and have no landowning relations, so he 
 ought to bid me hold my tongue. But he lets me rave. 
 To me the simple fact is that game preserving creates 
 crime. Agricultural life is naturally simpler — might 
 be, it always seems to me, so much more easily 
 moralised and fraternised than the industrial form. 
 And you split it up and poison it all by the emphasis 
 laid on this class pleasure. It is a natural pleasure, 
 you say. Perhaps it is — the survival, perhaps, of
 
 260 MARCELLA. 
 
 some primitive instinct in our northern blood — but, 
 if so, why should it be impossible for the rich to share 
 it with the poor? I have little plans — dreams. I 
 throw them out sometimes to catch Aldous, but he 
 hardly rises to them ! " 
 
 "Oh! I sa?/," broke in Frank Leven, who could 
 really bear it no longer. "Xow look here. Miss 
 Boyce, — what do you think Mr. Hallin wants? It 
 is just sheer lunacy — it really is — though I know 
 I'm impertinent, and he's a great man. But I do 
 declare he wants Aldous to give up a big common 
 there is — oh ! over beyond Girtstone, down in the 
 plain — on Lord Maxwell's estate, and make a labour- 
 ers^ shoot of it! Now, I ask you! And he vows he 
 doesn't see why they shouldn't rear pheasants if they 
 choose to club and i)ay for it. Well, I will say that 
 much for him, Aldous didn't see his way to that, 
 though he isn't tlie kind of Conservative /want to see 
 in Parliament by along way. Besides, it's such stuff! 
 They say sport brutalises us, and then they want to 
 go and contaminate the labourer. But we won't take 
 the responsibility. We've got our own vices, and 
 we'll stick to them ; we're used to them ; but we won't 
 hand them on: we'd scorn the action." 
 
 The flushed young barbarian, driven to bay, was 
 not to be resisted. Marcella laughed heartily, and 
 Hallin laid an affectionate hand on the boy's shoulder, 
 patting him as though he were a restive horse. 
 
 " Yes, I remember I was puzzled as to the details of 
 Hallin's scheme," said Aldous, his mouth twitching. 
 " I wanted to know who was to pay for the licences ; 
 how game enough for the number of applicants was
 
 MAR CELL A. 261 
 
 to be got without preserving; and how men earning 
 twelve or fourteen shillings a week were to pay a 
 keeper. Then I asked a clergyman who has a living 
 near this common what he thought would be the end 
 of it. 'Well/ he said, 'the first day they'd shoot 
 every animal on the place; the second day they'd 
 shoot each other. Universal carnage — I should say 
 that would be about the end of it.' These were 
 trifles, of course — details." 
 
 Hallin shook his head serenely. 
 
 "I still maintain," he said, ''that a little practical 
 ingenuity might have found a way." 
 
 "And I will support you," said Wharton, laying 
 down the paper-knife and bending over to Hallin, 
 "with good reason. For three years and a few 
 months just such an idea as you describe has been 
 carried out on my own estate, and it has not worked 
 badly at all." 
 
 " There ! " cried Marcella. " There ! I knew some- 
 thing could be done, if there was a will. I have 
 always felt it." 
 
 She half turned to Aldous, then bent forward in- 
 stead as though listening eagerly for what more 
 Wharton might say, her face all alive, and eloquent. 
 
 " Of course, there was nothing to shoot ! " exclaimed 
 Frank Leven. 
 
 "On the contrary," said Wharton, smiling, "we 
 are in the middle of a famous partridge country." 
 
 " How your neighbours must dote on you ! " cried 
 the boy. But Wharton took no notice. 
 
 "And my father preserved strictly," he went on. 
 " It is quite a simple story. When I inherited, three
 
 262 MABCELLA. 
 
 years ago, I thought the whole thing detestable, and 
 determined I wouldn't be responsible for keeping it 
 up. So I called the estate together — farmers and 
 labourers — and we worked out a plan. There are 
 keepers, but they are the estate servants, not mine. 
 Everybody has his turn according to the rules — I and 
 my friends along with the rest. Not everybody can 
 shoot every year, but everybody gets his chance, and, 
 moreover, a certain percentage of all the game killed 
 is public propertj^, and is distributed every year 
 according to a regular order." 
 
 "Who pays the keepers?" interrupted Leven. 
 
 "I do," said Wharton, smiling again. ''Mayn't I 
 — for the present — do what I will with mine own? 
 I return in their wages some of my ill-gotten gains as 
 a landowner. It is all makeshift, of course." 
 
 " I understand ! " exclaimed Marcella, nodding to 
 him — " you could not be a Venturist and keep up 
 game-preserving? " 
 
 Wharton met her bright eye with a half deprecat- 
 ing, reserved air. 
 
 "You are right, of course," he said drily. "For a 
 Socialist to be letting his keepers run in a man earn- 
 ing twelve shillings a week for knocking over a rab- 
 bit would have been a little strong. No one can be 
 consistent in my position — in any landowner's posi- 
 tion — it is impossible; still, thank Heaven, one can 
 deal with the most glaring matters. As Mr. Eaeburn 
 said, however, all this game business is, of course, a 
 mere incident of the general land and property sys- 
 tem, as you will hear me expound when you come to 
 that meeting you promised me to honour."
 
 MABCELLA. 263 
 
 He stooped forward, scanuing her with smiling 
 deference. Marcella felt the man's hand that held 
 her own suddenly tighten an instant. Then Aldous 
 released her, and rising walked towards the fire. 
 
 "You're not going to one of his meetings, Miss 
 Boyce ! " cried Frank, in angry incredulity. 
 
 Marcella hesitated an instant, half angry with 
 Wharton. Then she reddened and threw back her 
 dark head with the passionate gesture Hallin had 
 already noticed as characteristic. 
 
 " Mayn't I go where I belong? " she said — " where 
 my convictions lead me?" 
 
 There was a moment's awkward silence. Then 
 Hallin got up. 
 
 "Miss Boyce, may we see the house? Aldous has 
 told me much of it." 
 
 Presently, in the midst of their straggling prog- 
 ress through the half-furnished rooms of the garden 
 front, preceded by the shy footman carrying a lamp, 
 which served for little more than to make darkness 
 visible, Marcella found herself left behind with 
 Aldous. As soon as she felt that they were alone, 
 she realised a jar between herself and him. His 
 manner was much as usual, but there was an under- 
 l3'ing effort and difficulty which her sensitiveness 
 caught at once. A sudden wave of girlish trouble 
 — remorse — swept over her. In her impulsiveness 
 she moved close to him as they were passing through 
 her mother's little sitting-room, and put lier hand on 
 his arm. 
 
 " I don't think I was nice just now," she said, staiii-
 
 264 MARCELLA. 
 
 mering. "I didn't mean it. I seem to be always 
 driven into opposition — into a feeling of war — when 
 you are so good to me — so much too good to me ! " 
 
 Aldous had turned at her first word. With a long 
 breath, as it were of unspeakable relief, he caught her 
 in his arms vehemently, passionately. So far she 
 had been very shrinking and maidenly with him in 
 their solitary moments, and he had been all delicate 
 chivalry and respect, tasting to the full the exqui- 
 siteness of each fresh advance towards intimacy, 
 towards lover's privilege, adoring her, perhaps, all 
 the more for her reserve, her sudden flights, and 
 stiffenings. But to-night he asked no leave, and in 
 her astonishment she was almost passive. 
 
 " Oh, do let me go ! " she cried at last, trying to 
 disengage herself completely. 
 
 " No ! " he said with emphasis, still holding her 
 hand firmly. " Come and sit down here. They will 
 look after themselves." 
 
 He put her, whether she would or no, into an arm- 
 chair and knelt beside her. 
 
 " Did you think it was hardly kind, " he said with 
 a quiver of voice he could not repress, " to let me hear 
 for the first time, in public, that you had promised 
 to go to one of that man's meetings after refusing 
 again and again to come to any of mine?" 
 
 "Do you want to forbid me to go?" she said 
 quickly. There was a feeling in her which would 
 have been almost relieved, for the moment, if he had 
 said yes. 
 
 "By no means," he said steadily. "That was not 
 our compact. But — guess for yourself what I want!
 
 mahcella. 265 
 
 Do you think " — he paused a moment — " do you 
 think I put nothing of myself into my public life — 
 into these meetings among the people who have known 
 me from a boy? Do you think it is all a convention 
 — that my feeling, my conscience, remain outside? 
 You can't think that ! But if not, how can I bear to 
 live what is to be so large a part of my life out of 
 your ken and sight? I know — I know — you warned 
 me amply — you can't agree with me. But there is 
 much besides intellectual agreement possible — much 
 that would help and teach us both — if only we are 
 together — not separated — not holding aloof — " 
 
 He stopped, watching all the changes of her face. 
 She was gulfed in a deep wave of half -repentant feel- 
 ing, remembering all his generosity, his forbearance, 
 his devotion. 
 
 "When are you speaking next?" she half whis- 
 pered. In the dim light her softened pose, the 
 gentle sudden relaxation of every line, were an in- 
 toxication. 
 
 "Xext week — Friday — at Gairsly. Hallin and 
 Aunt Xeta are coming." 
 
 "Will Miss Eaeburn take me?" 
 
 His grey eyes shone upon her, and he kissed her 
 hand. 
 
 " Mr. Hallin won't speak for you ! " she said, after 
 the silence, with a return of mischief. 
 
 " Don't be so sure ! He has given me untold help 
 in the drafting of my Bill. If I didn't call myself 
 a Conservative, he would vote for me to-morrow. 
 That's the absurdity of it. Do you know, I hear 
 them comintj: back?"
 
 266 MARCELLA. 
 
 " One thing," she said hastily, drawing him towards 
 her, and then holding him back, as though shrinking 
 always from the feeling she could so readily evoke. 
 "I must say it; you oughtn't to give me so much 
 money, it is too much. Suppose I use it for things 
 you don't like?" 
 
 "You won't," he said gaily. 
 
 She tried to push the subject further, but he would 
 not have it. 
 
 ''I am all for free discussion," he said in the same 
 tone ; '' but sometimes debate must be stifled. I am 
 going to stifle it ! " 
 
 And stooping, he kissed her, lightly, tremulously. 
 His manner showed her once more what she was to 
 him — how sacred, how beloved. First it touched 
 and shook her; then she s]3rang up with a sudden 
 disagreeable sense of moral disadvantage — inferi- 
 ority — coming she knew not whence, and undoing 
 for the moment all that buoyant consciousness of 
 playing the magnanimous, disinterested part which 
 had possessed her throughout the talk in the drawing- 
 room. 
 
 The others reappeared, headed by their lamp: 
 Wharton first, scanning the two who had lingered 
 behind, with his curious eyes, so blue and brilliant 
 under the white forehead and the curls. 
 
 " We have been making the wildest shots at j^our 
 ancestors. Miss Boyce," he said. "Frank professed 
 to know everything about the pictures, and turned out 
 to know nothing. I shall ask for some special coach- 
 ing to-morrow morning. May I engage you — ten 
 o'clock?"
 
 MARCELLA. 267 
 
 Marcella made some evasive answer, and they all 
 sauntered back to the drawing-room. 
 
 "Shall you be at work to-morrow, Raeburn?" said 
 Wharton. 
 
 '•Probably," said Aldous drily. Marcella, struck 
 by the tone, looked back, and caught an expression 
 and bearing which were as yet new to her in the 
 speaker. She supposed they represented the haughti- 
 ness natural in the man of birth and power towards 
 the intruder, who is also the opponent. 
 
 Instantly the combative critical mood returned 
 upon her, and the impulse to assert herself by pro- 
 tecting Wharton. His manner throughout the talk 
 in the drawing-room had been, she declared to her- 
 self, excellent — modest, and self -restrained, compar- 
 ing curiously with the boj'ish egotism and self- 
 abandonment he had shown in their tete-cl-tete. 
 
 "Why, there is Mr. Boyce," exclaimed Wharton, 
 hurrying forward as they entered the drawing-room. 
 
 There, indeed, on the sofa was the master of the 
 house, more ghastly black and white than ever, and 
 prepared to claim to the utmost the tragic pre- 
 eminence of illness. He shook hands coldly Avith 
 Aldous, who asked after his health with the kindly 
 brevity natural to the man who wants no effusions for 
 himself in public or personal matters, and concludes 
 therefore that other people desire none. 
 
 " You are better, papa?" said Marcella, taking his 
 hand. 
 
 " Certainly, my dear — better for morphia. Don't 
 talk of me. I have got my death warrant, but I hope
 
 268 MABCELLA. 
 
 I can take it quietly. Evelyn, I specially asked to 
 have that thin cushion brought down from my dressing- 
 room. It is strange that no one pays any attention 
 to my wants." 
 
 Mrs. Boyce, almost as white, Marcella now saw, as 
 her husband, moved forward from the fire, where she 
 had been speaking to Hallin, took a cushion from a 
 chair near, exactly similar to the one he missed, and 
 changed his position a little. 
 
 "It is just the feather's weight of change that 
 makes the difference, isn't it?" said Wharton, softly, 
 sitting down beside the invalid. 
 
 Mr. Boyce turned a mollified countenance upon the 
 speaker, and being now free from pain, gave himself 
 up to the amusement of hearing his guest talk. 
 Wharton devoted himself, employing all his best arts. 
 
 "Dr. Clarke is not anxious about him," Mrs. Boyce 
 said in a low voice to Marcella as they moved away. 
 " He does not think the attack will return for a long 
 'while, and he has given me the means of stopping it 
 if it does come back." 
 
 " How tired you look ! " said Aldous, coming up to 
 them, and speaking in the same undertone. "Will 
 you not let Marcella take you to rest? " 
 
 He was always deeply, unreasonably touched by 
 any sign of stoicism, of defied suffering in women. 
 Mrs. Boyce had proved it many times already. On 
 the present occasion she put his sympathy by, but she 
 lingered to talk with him. Hallin from a distance 
 noticed first of all her tall thinness and fairness, and 
 her wonderful dignity of carriage ; then the cordiality 
 of her manner to her future son-in-law. Marcella
 
 MARCELLA. 269 
 
 stood by listening, her young shoulders somewhat 
 stiffly set. Her consciousness of her mother's respect 
 and admiration for the man she was to marry was, 
 oddly enough, never altogether pleasant to her. It 
 brought with it a certain discomfort, a certain wish 
 to argue things out. 
 
 Hallin and Aldous parted with Frank Leven at 
 Mellor gate, and turned homeward together under a 
 starry heaven already whitening to the coming moon. 
 
 "Do you know that man Wharton is getting an 
 extraordinary hold upon the London working men? " 
 said Hallin. '^ I have heard him tell that story of the 
 game-preserving before. He was speaking for one of 
 the Eadical candidates at Hackney, and I happened 
 to be there. It brought down the house. The rdle 
 of your Socialist aristocrat, of your land-nationalising 
 landlord, is a very telling one." 
 
 "And comparatively easy," said Aldous, "when 
 you know that neither Socialism nor land-nationalisa- 
 tion will come in your time ! " 
 
 "Oh! so you think him altogether a windbag?" 
 
 Aldous hesitated and laughed. 
 
 " I have certainly no reason to suspect him of prin- 
 ciples. His conscience as a boy was of pretty elastic 
 stuff." 
 
 "You may be unfair to him," said Hallin, quickly. 
 Then, after a pause: "How long is he staying at 
 Mellor? " 
 
 "About a week, I believe," said Aldous, shortly. 
 "Mr. Boyce has taken a fancy to him." 
 
 They walked on in silence, and then Aldous turned 
 to his friend in distress.
 
 270 MARCELLA. 
 
 "' You know, Hallin, this wind is much too cold for 
 you. You are the most wilful of men. Why would 
 you walk?" 
 
 " Hold your tongue, sir, and listen to me. I think 
 your Marcella is beautiful, and as interesting as she 
 is beautiful. There ! " 
 
 Aldous started, then turned a grateful face upon 
 him. 
 
 "You must get to know her well," he said, but 
 with some constraint. 
 
 "Of course. I wonder," said Hallin, musing, 
 "whom she has got hold of among the Venturists. 
 Shall you persuade her to come out of that, do you 
 think, Aldous?" 
 
 "No!" said Eaeburn, cheerfully. "Her sympa- 
 thies and convictions go with them." 
 
 Then, as they passed through the village, he began 
 to talk of quite other things — college friends, a re- 
 cent volume of philosophical essays, and so on. Hadlin, 
 accustomed and jealously accustomed as he was to be 
 the one person in the world with whom Eaeburn 
 talked freely, would not to-night have done or said 
 anything to force a strong man's reserve. But his 
 OAvn mind was full of anxiety.
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 " I LOVE this dilapidation ! *' said Wharton, pausing 
 for a moment with his back against the door he had 
 just shut. "Only it makes me long to take off my 
 coat and practise some honest trade or other — plas- 
 tering, or carpentering, or painting. What useless 
 drones we upper classes are ! Neither you nor I could 
 mend that ceiling or patch this floor — to save our 
 lives." 
 
 They were in the disused library. It was now the 
 last room westwards of the garden front, but in reality 
 it was part of the older house, and had been only 
 adapted and re-built by that eighteenth-century Mar- 
 cella whose money had been so gracefully and vainly 
 lavished on giving dignity to her English husband's 
 birthplace. The roof had been raised and domed to 
 match the "Chinese room," at the expense of some 
 small rooms on the upper floor ; and the windows and 
 doors had been suited to eighteenth-century taste. But 
 the old books in the old latticed shelves which the 
 Puritan founder of the family had bought in the days 
 of the Long Parliament were still there ; so were the 
 chairs in which that worthy had sat to read a tract of 
 Milton's or of Baxter's, or the table at which he had 
 penned his letters to Hampden or Fairfax, or to his 
 old friend — on the wrong side — Edmund Verney the 
 271
 
 272 MARC ELL A. 
 
 standard-bearer. Only the worm-eaten shelves were 
 dropping from their supports, and the books lay in 
 mouldy confusion ; the roofs had great holes and gaps, 
 whence the laths hung dismally down, and bats came 
 flitting in the dusk ; and there were rotten places in 
 the carpetless floor. 
 
 "I have tried my best," said Marcella, dolefully, 
 stooping to look at a hole in the floor. " I got a bit of 
 board and some nails, and tried to mend some of these 
 places myself. But I only broke the rotten wood 
 away ; and papa was angry, and said I did more harm 
 than good. I did get a carpenter to mend some of the 
 chairs ; but one doesn't know where to begin. I have 
 cleaned and mended some of the books, but — " 
 
 She looked sadly round the musty, forlorn place. 
 
 "But not so well, I am afraid, as any second-hand 
 bookseller's apprentice could have done it," said Whar- 
 ton, shaking his head. " It's maddening to think what 
 duffers we gentlefolks are ! " 
 
 " Why do you harp on that ? " said ]\rarcella, quickly. 
 She had been taking him over the house, and was in 
 twenty minds again as to whether and how much she 
 liked him. 
 
 " Because I have been reading some Board of Trade 
 reports before breakfast," said Wharton, " on one or 
 two of the Birmingham industries in particular. Good- 
 ness ! what an amount of knowledge and skill and re- 
 source these fellows have that I go about calling the 
 * lower orders.' I wonder how long they are going to 
 let me rule over them ! " 
 
 "I suppose brain-power and education count for 
 something still ? " said Marcella, half scornfully.
 
 MABCELLA. 21 o 
 
 "I am greatly obliged to the world for thinking 
 so," said Wharton with emphasis, '• and for thinking 
 so about the particular kind of brain-power I happen 
 to possess, which is the point. The processes by 
 which a Birmingham jeweller makes the wonderful 
 things which we attribute to 'French taste' when we 
 see them in the shops of the Kue de la Paix are, of 
 course, mere imbecility — compared to my perform- 
 ances in Responsions. Lucky for me, at any rate, 
 that the world has decided it so, I get a good time 
 of it — and the Birmingham jeweller calls me 'sir.'" 
 
 " Oh I the skilled labour ! that can take care of it- 
 self, and won't go on calling you ^sir' much longer. 
 But what about the unskilled — the people here for 
 instance — the villagers ? We talk of their govern- 
 ing themselves; we wish it, and work for it. But 
 which of us I'eally believes that they are fit for it, or 
 that they are ever going to get along without our 
 brain-power ? " 
 
 " Xo — poor souls I " said Wharton, with a peculiar 
 vibrating emphasis. " ' -B// their stripes ice are healed, 
 by their death ice have lived.'' Do you remember your 
 Carlyle ? " 
 
 They had entered one of the bays formed by the 
 bookcases which on either side of the room projected 
 from the wall at regular intervals, and were standing 
 by one of the windows which looked out on the great 
 avenue. Beside the window on either side hung a 
 small portrait — in the one case of an elderly man in 
 a wig, in the other of a young, dark-haired Avoman. 
 
 "Plenty in general, but nothing in particular," said 
 Marcella, laughing. " Quote." 
 VOL. I. — 18
 
 274 MABCELLA. 
 
 He was leaning against the angle formed by the 
 wall and the bookcase. The half-serious, half-provoca- 
 tive intensity of his blue eyes under the brow which 
 drooped forward contrasted Avith the careless, well- 
 appointed ease of his general attitude and dress. 
 
 " ' Two men I honour, and no third/ " he said, quot- 
 ing in a slightly dragging, vibrating voice : " ' First, 
 the toilworn craftsman that loith earth-made implement 
 laboriously conquers the earth and makes her marl's. — 
 Hardly-entreated Brother! For us ivas thy back so 
 bent, for us ivere thy straight limbs and fingers so de- 
 formed; thou ivert our conscript, on whom the lot fell, 
 and fighting our battles ivert so marred.'' Heavens ! 
 how the words swing ! But it is great nonsense, you 
 know, for you and me — Venturists — to be maunder- 
 ing like this. Charity — benevolence — that is all 
 Carlyle is leading up to. He merely wants the cash 
 nexus supplemented by a few good offices. But we 
 want something much more unpleasant ! ' Keep your 
 subscriptions — handover your dividends — turn out 
 of 5'^our land — and go to work!' Nowadays society 
 is trying to get out of doing what loe want, by doing 
 what Carlyle wanted." 
 
 " Do you want it ? " said Marcella. 
 
 "I don't know," he said, laughing. ''It won't 
 come in our time." 
 
 Her lip showed her scorn. 
 
 <' That's what we all think. Meanwhile you will 
 perhaps admit that a little charity greases the wheels." 
 
 " You must, because you are a woman ; and women 
 are made for charity — and aristocracy." 
 
 " Do you suppose you know so much about women ? "
 
 MARCELLA. 275 
 
 she asked him, rather hotly. " I notice it is always 
 the assumption of the people who make most mis- 
 takes." 
 
 " Oh ! I know enough to steer by ! " he said, smil- 
 ing, with a little inclination of his curly head, as 
 though to propitiate her. " How like you are to that 
 portrait ! " 
 
 Marcella started, and saw that he was pointing to 
 the woman's portrait beside the windoAv — looking 
 from it to his hostess with a close considering eye. 
 
 '^ That was an ancestress of mine," she said coldly, 
 <' an Italian lady. She was rich and musical. Her 
 money built these rooms along the garden, and these 
 are her music books." 
 
 She showed him that the shelves against which she 
 was leaning were full of old music. 
 
 "■ Italian ! " he said, lifting his eyebrows. " Ah, 
 that explains. Do you know — that you have all the 
 qualities of a leader !" — and he moved away a yard 
 from her, studying her — "mixed blood — one must 
 always have that to fire and fuse the English paste — 
 and then — but no ! that won't do — I should offend 
 you." 
 
 Her first instinct was one of annoyance — a wish to 
 send him about his business, or rather to return him 
 to her mother who would certainly keep him in order. 
 Instead, however, she found herself saying, as she 
 looked carelessly out of window — 
 
 '' Oh ! go on." 
 
 "Well, then" — he drew himself up suddenly and 
 wheeled round upon her — " you have the gift of 
 compromise. That is invaluable — that will take you 
 far."
 
 276 MAECELLA. 
 
 " Thank you ! " she said. " Thank you ! I know 
 what that means — from a Venturist. You think me 
 a mean insincere person I " 
 
 He started, then recovered himself and came to 
 lean against the bookshelves beside her. 
 
 " I mean nothing of the sort," he said, in quite a 
 different manner, with a sort of gentle and personal 
 emphasis. " But — may I explain myself, Miss Boyce, 
 in a room with a fire ? I can see you shivering under 
 your fur." 
 
 For the frost still reigned suj)reme outside, and the 
 white grass and trees threw chill reflected lights into 
 the forsaken library. Marcella controlled a pulse of 
 excitement that had begun to beat in her, admitted 
 that it was certainly cold, and led the way through a 
 side door to a little flagged parlour, belonging to the 
 oldest portion of the house, where, however, a great 
 log-fire was burning, and some chairs drawn up round 
 it. She took one and let the fur wrap she had thrown 
 about her for their promenade through the disused 
 rooms drop from her shoulders. It lay about her in 
 full brown folds, giving special dignity to her slim 
 height and proud head. Wharton glancing about in 
 his curious inquisitive Avay, now at the neglected 
 pictures, now on the walls, now at the old oak chairs 
 and chests, now at her, said to himself that she was a 
 splendid and inspiring creature. She seemed to be 
 on the verge of offence with him too, half the time, 
 which was stimulating. She would have liked, he 
 thought, to play the great lady with him already, 
 as Aldous Kaeburn's betrothed. But he had so far 
 managed to keep her off that plane — and intended to 
 go on doing so.
 
 MARC ELL A. 211 
 
 " Well, I meant this," lie said, leaning against the 
 old stone chimney and looking down upon her ; " only 
 donH be offended with me, please. You are a Socialist, 
 and you are going — some day — to be Lady Maxwell. 
 Those combinations are only possible to women. They 
 can sustain them, because they are imaginative — not 
 logical.'' 
 
 She flushed. 
 
 " And you," she said, breathing quickly, " are a 
 Socialist and a landlord. What is the difference ? " 
 
 He laughed. 
 
 "Ah! but I have no gift — I can't ride the two 
 horses, as you will be able to — quite honestly. 
 There's the difference. And the consequence is that 
 with my own class I am an outcast — they all hate 
 me. But you will have power as Lady Maxwell — 
 and power as a Socialist — because you will give and 
 take. Half your time you will act as Lady Maxwell 
 should, the other half like a Yenturist. And, as I said, 
 it will give you power — a modified power. But men 
 are less clever at that kind of thing." 
 
 "Do you mean to say," she asked him abruptly, 
 " that you have given up the luxuries and opportuni- 
 ties of your class ? " 
 
 He shifted his position a little. 
 
 "That is a different matter," he said after a mo- 
 ment. " We Socialists are all agreed, I think, that 
 no man can be a Socialist by himself. Luxuries, for 
 the present, are something personal, individual. It is 
 only a man's ' public form ' that matters. And there, 
 as I said before, I have no gift! — I have uot a rela- 
 tion or an old friend in the workl that has not turned
 
 278 MAECELLA. 
 
 his back upon me — as you might see for yourself 
 yesterday! My class has renounced me already — 
 which, after all, is a weakness." 
 
 " So you pity yourself ? " she said. 
 
 " By no means ! We all choose the part in life that 
 amuses us — that brings us most thrill. I get most 
 thrill out of throwing myself into the workmen's war 
 — much more than I could ever get, you will admit, 
 out of dancing attendance on my very respectable 
 cousins. My mother taught me to see everything 
 dramatically. AVe have no drama in England at the 
 present moment worth a cent ; so I amuse myself with 
 this great tragi-comedy of the working-class move- 
 ment. It stirs, pricks, interests me, from morning till 
 night. I feel the great rough elemental passions in 
 it, and it delights me to know that every day brings 
 us nearer to some great outburst, to scenes and strug- 
 gles at any rate that will make us all look alive. I 
 am like a child with the best of its cake to come, but 
 with plenty in hand already. Ah ! — stay still a 
 moment, Miss Boyce !" 
 
 To her amazement he stooped suddenly towards 
 her ; and she, looking down, saw that a corner of her 
 light, black dress, which had been overhanging the low 
 stone fender, was in flames, and that he was putting it 
 out with his hands. She made a movement to rise, 
 alarmed lest the flames should leap to her face — her 
 hair. But he, releasing one hand for an instant from 
 its task of twisting and rolling the skirt upon itself, 
 held her heavily down. 
 
 " Don't move ; I will have it out in a moment. You 
 won't be burnt."
 
 MARCELLA. 279 
 
 And in a second more she was looking at a ragged 
 brown hole in her dress ; and at him, standing, smil- 
 ing, before the fire, and wrapping a handkerchief 
 round some of the fingers of his left hand. 
 
 '•You have burnt yourself, Mr. Wharton?" 
 
 " A little." 
 
 "I will go and get something — what would you 
 like ? " 
 
 " A little olive oil if you have some, and a bit of 
 lint — but don't trouble yourself." 
 
 She flew to find her mother's maid, calling and 
 searching on her way for Mrs. Boyce herself, but in 
 vain. Mrs. Boyce had disappeared after breakfast, 
 and was probably helping her husband to dress. 
 
 In a minute or so Marcella ran downstairs again, 
 bearing various medicaments. She sped to the Stone 
 Parlour, her cheek and eye glowing. 
 
 "Let me do it for you." 
 
 "If you please," said Wharton, meekly. 
 
 She did her best, but she was not skilful with her 
 fingers, and this close contact with him somehow 
 excited her. 
 
 " There," she said, laughing and releasing him. " Of 
 course, if I were a work-girl I should have done it 
 better. They are not going to be ver}- bad, I think." 
 
 "What, the burns? Oh, no! They will have 
 recovered, I am afraid, long before your dress." 
 
 " Oh, my dress ! yes, it is deplorable. I will go and 
 change it." 
 
 She turned to go, but she lingered instead, and said 
 with an odd, introductory laugh : 
 
 " I believe you saved my life ! "
 
 280 MABCELLA. 
 
 " Well, I am glad I was here. You might have lost 
 self-possession — even you might, yon know! — and 
 then it would have been serious." 
 
 '*^ Anyway" — her voice was still uncertain — "I 
 might have been disfigured — disfigured for life ! " 
 
 " I don't know why you should dwell upon it now 
 it's done with," he declared, smiling. 
 
 "It would be strange, wouldn't it, if I took it 
 quite for granted — all in the day's work ? " She held 
 out her hand : " I am grateful — please." 
 
 He bowed over it, laughing, again with that eigh- 
 teenth-century air which might have become a Cheva- 
 lier des Grieux. 
 
 " May I exact a reward ? " 
 
 " Ask it." 
 
 " Will you take me down with you to your village ? 
 I know you are going. I must walk on afterwards 
 and catch a midday train to Widrington. I have an 
 appointment there at two o'clock. But perhaps you 
 will introduce me to one or two of your poor people 
 first ? " 
 
 Marcella assented, went upstairs, changed her dress, 
 and put on her walking things, more than half in- 
 clined all the time to press her mother to go with 
 them. She was a little unstrung and tremulous, pur- 
 sued by a feeling that she was somehow letting her- 
 self go, behaving disloyally and indecorously towards 
 whom? — towards Aldous ? But how, or why ? She 
 did not know. But there was a curious sense of lost 
 bloom, lost dignity, combined with an odd wish that 
 Mr. Wharton were not going away for the day. In 
 the end, however, she left her mother undisturbed.
 
 MARCELLA. 281 
 
 By the time they were half way to the village, 
 Marcella's uncomfortable feelings had all passed away. 
 Without knowing it, she was becoming too much 
 absorbed in her companion to be self-critical, so long 
 as they were together. It seemed to her, however, 
 before they had gone more than a few hundred yards 
 that he was taking advantage — presuming on what 
 had happened. He offended her taste, her pride, her 
 dignity, in a hundred ways, she discovered. At the 
 same time it was she who was always on the defensive 
 — protecting her dreams, her acts, her opinions, against 
 the constant fire of his half-ironical questions, which 
 seemed to leave her no time at all to carry the war 
 into the enemy's country. He put her through a 
 quick cross-examination about the village, its occupa- 
 tions, the incomes of the people, its local charities 
 and institutions, what she hoped to do for it, what 
 she would do if she could, what she thought it possible 
 to do. She answered first reluctantly, then eagerly, 
 her pride all alive to show that she was not merely 
 ignorant and amateurish. But it was no good. In 
 the end he made her feel as Antony Craven had con- 
 stantly done — that she knew nothing exacth^, that 
 she had not mastered the conditions of any one of the 
 social problems she was talking about ; that not only 
 was her reading of no account, but that she had not 
 even managed to see these people, to interpret their 
 lives under her very eyes, with any large degree of 
 insight. 
 
 Especially was he merciless to all the Lady Bounti- 
 ful pose, which meant so much to her imagination — 
 not in words so much as in manner. He let her see
 
 282 MARCELLA. 
 
 that all the doling and shepherding and advising that 
 still pleased her fancy looked to him the merest tem- 
 porary palliative, and irretrievably tainted, even at 
 that, with some vulgar feeling or other. All that the 
 well-to-do could do for the poor under the present state 
 of society was but a niggardly quit-rent ; as for any 
 relation of ^'superior" and "inferior" in the business, 
 or of any social desert attaching to these precious 
 efforts of the upper class to daub the gaps in the ruin- 
 ous social edifice for which they were themselves 
 responsible, he did not attempt to conceal his scorn. 
 If you did not do these things, so much the worse for 
 you when the working class came • to its own ; if you 
 did do them, the burden of debt was hardly dimin- 
 ished, and the rope was still left on your neck. 
 
 Now Marcella herself had on one or two occasions 
 taken a malicious pleasure in flaunting these doc- 
 trines, or some of them, under Miss Raeburn's eyes. 
 But somehow, as applied to herself, they were disa- 
 greeable. Each of us is to himself a "special case" ; 
 and she saw the other side. Hence a constant sore- 
 ness of feeling ; a constant recalling of the argument 
 to the personal point of view; and through it all 
 a curious growth of intimacy, a rubbing away of bar- 
 riers. She had felt herself of no account before, 
 intellectually, in Aldous's company, as we know. But 
 then how involuntary on his part, and how counter- 
 balanced by that passionate idealism of his love, which 
 glorified every pretty impulse in her to the noblest 
 proportions ! Under Wharton's Socratic method, she 
 was conscious at times of the most wild and womanish 
 desires, worthy of her childhood — to cry, to go into
 
 MABCELLA. 283 
 
 a passion ! — and when tliey came to the village, and 
 every human creature, old and young, dropped its 
 obsequious curtsey as they passed, she could first 
 have beaten them for so degrading her, and the next 
 moment felt a feverish pleasure in thus parading her 
 petty power before a man who in his doctrinaire 
 pedantry had no sense of poetry, or of the dear old 
 natural relations of country life. 
 
 They went first to Mrs. Jellison's, to whom Marcella 
 wished to unfold her workshop scheme. 
 
 "Don't let me keep you," she said to AVharton 
 coldly, as they neared the cottage ; " I know you have 
 to catch your train." 
 
 Wharton consulted his watch. He had to be at a 
 local station some two miles off within an hour. 
 
 " Oh ! I have time," he said. " Do take me in. Miss 
 Boyce. I have made acquaintance with these people 
 so far, as my constituents — now show them to me as 
 your subjects. Besides, I am an observer. I 'col- 
 lect' peasants. They are my study." 
 
 "They are not my subjects, but my friends," she 
 said with the same stiffness. 
 
 They found Mrs. Jellison having her dinner. The 
 lively old woman was sitting close against her bit of 
 fire, on her left a small deal table which held her cold 
 potatoes and cold bacon ; on her right a tiny window 
 and window-sill whereon lay her coil of " plait " and 
 the simple straw-splitting machine she had just been 
 working. When Marcella had taken the only other 
 chair the hovel contained, nothing else remained for 
 Wharton but to flatten himself as closely against the 
 door as he might.
 
 284 MARCELLA. 
 
 " I'm sorry I can't bid yer take a cheer," said Mrs. 
 Jellison to him," but what yer han't got yer can't give, 
 so I don't trouble my head about nothink." 
 
 Wharton applauded her with easy politeness, and 
 then gave himself, with folded arms, to examining 
 the cottage while Marcella talked. It might be ten 
 feet broad, he thought, by six feet in one part and 
 eight feet in another. The roof was within little 
 more than an inch of his head. The stairway in the 
 corner was falling to pieces ; he wondered how the 
 woman got up safely to her bed at night ; custom, he 
 supposed, can make even old bones agile. 
 
 Meanwhile Marcella was unfolding the project of 
 the straw-plaiting workshop that she and Lady Win- 
 terbourne were about to start. Mrs. Jellison put on 
 her spectacles apparently that she might hear the 
 better, pushed away her dinner in spite of her vis- 
 itors' civilities, and listened with a bright and beady 
 eye. 
 
 ^' An' yer agoin' to pay me one a sixpence a score, 
 where I now gets ninepence. And I'll not have to 
 tramjD it into town no more — you'll send a man round. 
 And who is agoin' to pay me, miss, if you'll excuse 
 me asking ? " 
 
 " Lady Winterbourne and I," said Marcella, smiling. 
 " We're going to employ this village and two others, 
 and make as good business of it as we can. But we're 
 going to begin by giving the workers better wages, 
 and in time we hope to teach them the higher kinds 
 of work." 
 
 " Lor' ! " said Mrs. Jellison. " But I'm not one o' 
 them as kin do with changes." She took up her plait
 
 MARCELLA. 285 
 
 and looked at it thoughtfull}'. " Eighteen-pence a 
 score. It wor that rate when I wor a girl. An' it ha' 
 been dibble — dibble — iver sense ; a penny off here, 
 an' a penny off there, an' a hard job to keep a bite ov 
 anythink in your mouth." 
 
 "Then I may put down your name among our 
 workers, Mrs. Jellison ? " said Marcella, rising and 
 smiling down upon her. 
 
 " Oh, lor', no ; I niver said that," said Mrs. Jellison, 
 hastily. "I don't hold wi' shilly-shallyin' wi' yer 
 means o' livin'. I've took my plait to Jimmy Gedge 
 
 — 'im an' 'is son, fust shop on yer right hand when 
 yer git into town — twenty -five 3'ear, summer and 
 winter — me an' three other women, as give me a 
 penny a journey for takin' theirs. If I wor to go 
 messin' about wi' Jimmy Gedge, Lor' bless yer, I 
 should 'ear ov it — oh ! I shoulden sleep o' nights for 
 thinkin' o' how Jimmy ud serve me out when I wor 
 least egspectin' ov it. He's a queer un. No, miss, 
 thank yer kindly ; but I think I'll bide." 
 
 Marcella, amazed, began to argue a little, to ex- 
 pound the many attractions of the new scheme. 
 Greatly to her annoyance, Wharton came forward to 
 her help, guaranteeing the solvency and permanence 
 of her new partnership in glib and pleasant phrase, 
 wherein her angry fancy suspected at once the note of 
 irony. But Mrs. Jellison held firm, embroidering her 
 negative, indeed, with her usual cheerful chatter, but 
 sticking to it all the same. At last there was no way 
 of saving dignity but to talk of something else and go 
 
 — above all, to talk of something else before going, 
 lest the would-be benefactor should be thought a petty 
 tyrant.
 
 286 MARCELLA. 
 
 " Oh, Johnnie ? — thank yer, miss — 'e's an owda- 
 cious 3'oung villain as iver I seed — but c/eve?* — lor', 
 you'd need 'ave eyes in yer back to look after Hm. 
 An' coaxin^ ! ' ' Aven't yer brought me no sweeties, 
 Gran'ma?' 'jSTo, my dear,' says I. 'But if you 
 was to look, Gran'ma — in both your pockets, Gran'ma 
 
 — iv you was to let ine look ? ' It's a sharp un Isa- 
 bella, she don't 'old wi' sweet-stuff, she says, sich a 
 pack o' nonsense. She'd stuff herself sick when she 
 wor 'is age. AVhy shouldn't ee be happy, same as 
 her ? There ain't much to make a child 'appy in 
 that 'ouse. Westall, ee's that mad about them 
 poachers over Tudley End; ee's like a wild bull at 
 'ome. I told Isabella eeVl come to knockin' ov her 
 about so7ne day, though ee did speak so oily when ee 
 wor a courtin'. Now she knows as I kin see a thing 
 or two," said Mrs. Jellison, significantly. Her manner, 
 Wharton noticed, kept always the same gay philosophy, 
 whatever subject turned up. 
 
 "Why, that's an old story — that Tudley End busi- 
 ness — " said Marcella, rising. '• I should have thought 
 Westall might have got over it by now." 
 
 "But bless yer, ee says it's goin' on as lively as 
 iver. Ee says ee knows they're set on grabbin' the 
 birds t'other side the estate, over beyond Mellor way 
 
 — ee's got wind of it — an' ee's watchin' night an day 
 to see they don't do him no bad turn this month, 
 bekaseo' the big shoot they alius has in January. An' 
 lor', ee do speak drefful bad o' soom folks," said Mrs. 
 Jellison, with an amused expression. " You know some 
 on 'em, miss, don't yer ? " And the old woman, who 
 had begun toying with her potatoes, slanted her fork
 
 MABCELLA. 287 
 
 over her shoulder so as to point towards the Hurds' 
 cottage, whereof the snow-laden roof could be seen con- 
 spicuously through the little lattice beside her, making 
 sly eyes the while at her visitor. 
 
 "I don't believe a word of it," said Marcella, im- 
 patiently. " Hurd has been in good work since Octo- 
 ber, and has no need to poach. Westall has a down 
 on him. You may tell him I think so, if you like." 
 
 '•That I will," said Mrs. Jellison, cheerfully, opening 
 the door for them. '' There's nobody makes 'im 'ear 
 the treuth, nobbut me. I loves naggin' ov 'im, ee's 
 that masterful. But ee don't master 7ne ! " 
 
 '' A gay old thing," said Wharton as they shut the 
 gate behind them. "How she does enjoy the human 
 spectacle. And obstinate too. But you will find the 
 younger ones more amenable." 
 
 " Of course," said Marcella, with dignity. " I have 
 a great many names already. The old people are 
 always difficult. But Mrs. Jellison will come round." 
 
 " Are you going in here ? " 
 
 "Please." 
 
 Wharton knocked at the Hurds' door, and Mrs. 
 Hurd opened. 
 
 The cottage was thick with smoke. The chimney 
 only drew when the door was left open. But the wind 
 to-day was so bitter that mother and children preferred 
 the smoke to the draught. Marcella soon made out 
 the poor little bronchitic boy, sitting coughing by the 
 fire, and Mrs. Hurd busied with some washing. She 
 introduced Wharton, who, as before, stood for some 
 time, hat in hand, studying the cottage." Marcella was 
 perfectly conscious of it, and a blush rose to her cheek
 
 288 MARCELLA. 
 
 while she talked to Mrs. Hurd. For both this and 
 Mrs. Jellison's hovel were her father's property and 
 somewhat highly rented. 
 
 Minta Hurd said eagerly that she would join the 
 new straw-plaiting, and went on to throw out a number 
 of hurried, half-coherent remarks about the state of 
 the trade past and present, leaning meanwhile against 
 the table and endlessly drying her hands on the towel 
 she had taken up when her visitors came in. 
 
 Her manner was often nervous and flighty in these 
 days. She never looked happy ; but Marcella put it 
 down to health or natural querulousness of character. 
 Yet both she and the children were clearly better 
 nourished, except Willie, in whom the tubercular ten- 
 dency was fast gaining on the child's strength. 
 
 Altogether Marcella was proud of her work, and her 
 eager interest in this little knot of people whose lives 
 she had shaped was more possessive than ever. Hurd, 
 indeed, was often silent and secretive ; but she put 
 down her difficulties with him to our odious system of 
 class differences, against which in her own way she 
 was struggling. One thing delighted her — that he 
 seemed to take more and more interest in the labour 
 questions she discussed with him, and in that fervid, 
 exuberant literature she provided him with. More- 
 over, he now went to all Mr. Wharton's meetings that 
 were held within reasonable distance of Mellor ; and, 
 as she said to Aldous with a little laugh, which, how- 
 ever, was not unsweet, he had found her man work — 
 she had robbed his candidate of a vote. 
 
 Wharton listened a w^hile to her talk with Minta, 
 smiled a little, unperceived of Marcella, at the young
 
 MARCELLA. 289 
 
 mother's docilities of manner and phrase ; then turned 
 his attention to the little hunched and coughing object 
 by the fire. 
 
 " Are you very bad, little man ? " 
 
 The white-faced child looked up, a dreary look, 
 revealing a patient, melancholy soul. He tried to 
 answer, but coughed instead. 
 
 Wharton, moving towards him, saw a bit of ragged 
 white paper lying on the ground, which had been torn 
 from a grocery parcel. 
 
 " Would you like something to amuse you a bit — 
 Ugh ! this smoke ! Come round here, it won't catch 
 us so much. Xow, then, what do you say to a doggie, 
 — two doggies ? " 
 
 The child stared, let himself be lifted on the 
 stranger's knee, and did his very utmost to stop 
 coughing. But when he had succeeded his quick pant- 
 ing breaths still shook his tiny frame and Wharton's 
 knee. 
 
 '' Hm — Give him two months or thereabouts ! '^ 
 thought Wharton. " W^hat a beastly hole ! — one 
 room up, and one down, like the other, only a shade 
 larger. Damp, insanitary, cold — bad water, bad 
 drainage, I'll be bound — bad everything. That girl 
 may well try her little best. And I go making up to 
 that man Boyce ! What for ? Old spites ? — new 
 spites ? — which ? — or both ! " 
 
 Meanwhile his rapid skilful fingers were tearing, 
 pinching, and shaping ; and in a very few minutes 
 there, upon his free knee, stood the most enticing 
 doggie of pinched paper, a hound in full course, with 
 long ears and stretching legs. 
 
 VOL. I. — 19
 
 290 MARCELLA. 
 
 The cliild gazed at it with ravishment, put out a 
 weird hand, touched it, stroked it, and then, as he 
 looked back at Wharton, the most exquisite smile 
 dawned in his saucer-blue eyes. 
 
 " What ? did you like it, grasshopper ? " cried Whar- 
 ton, enchanted by the beauty of the look, his own 
 colour mounting. '• Then yon shall have another." 
 
 And he twisted and turned his piece of fresh paper, 
 till there, beside the first, stood a second fairy animal 
 — a greyhound this time, w^ith arching neck and sharp 
 long nose. 
 
 " There's two on 'em at Westall's ! " cried the child, 
 hoarsely, clutching at his treasures in an ecstasy. 
 
 Mrs. Hurd, at the other end of the cottage, started 
 as she heard the name. Marcella noticed it ; and with 
 her eager sympathetic look began at once to talk of 
 Hurd and the works at the Court. She understood 
 they were doing grand things, and that the Avork 
 would last all the winter. Minta answered hurriedly 
 and with a curious choice of phrases. '' Oh ! he didn't 
 have nothing to say against it." Mr. Brown, the 
 steward, seemed satisfied. All that she said w^as some- 
 how^ irrelevant ; and, to Marcella's annoyance, plain- 
 tive as usual. Wharton, with the boy inside his arm, 
 turned his head an instant to listen. 
 
 Marcella, having thought of repeating, without 
 names, some of Mrs. Jellison's gossip, then shrank 
 from it. He had promised her, she thought to herself 
 with a proud delicacy ; and she was not going to treat 
 the word of a working man as different from anybody 
 else's. 
 
 So she fastened her cloak again, which she had
 
 MAECELLA. 291 
 
 thrown open in the stifling air of the cottage, and 
 turned both to call her companion and give a smile or 
 two to the sick bo}^ 
 
 But, as she did so, she stood amazed at the spec- 
 tacle of Wharton and the child. Then, moving up to 
 them, she perceived the menagerie — for it had grown 
 to one — on Wharton's knee. 
 
 " You didn't guess I had such tricks," he said, smil- 
 ing. 
 
 "But they are so good — so artistic!" She took 
 up a little galloping horse he had just fashioned and 
 wondered at it. 
 
 "A great-aunt taught me — she was a genius — I 
 follow her at a long distance. Will you let me go, 
 young man ? You may keep all of them." 
 
 But the ^hild, with a sudden contraction of the 
 brow, flung a tiny stick-like arm round his neck, 
 pressing hard, and looking at him. There was a red 
 spot in each wasted cheek, and his eyes were wide 
 and happy. Wharton returned the look with one of 
 quiet scrutiny — the scrutiny of the doctor or the 
 philosopher. On Marcella's quick sense the contrast 
 of the two heads impressed itself — the delicate youth 
 of Wharton's with its clustering curls — the sunken 
 contours and the helpless suffering of the other. 
 Then Wharton kissed the little fellow, put his ani- 
 mals carefully on to a chair beside him, and set him 
 down. 
 
 They walked along the snowy street again, in a 
 different relation to each other. Marcella had been 
 touched and charmed, and Wharton teased her no 
 more. As they reached the door of the almshouse
 
 292 MARC ELL A. 
 
 where the old Pattons lived, she said to him: ^'I 
 think I had rather go in here by myself, please. I 
 have some things to give them — old Patton has been 
 very ill this last week — but I know what you think 
 of doles — and I know too what you think, what you 
 must think, of my father's cottages. It makes me 
 feel a hypocrite ; yet I must do these things ; we are 
 different, you and I — I am sure you will miss your 
 train ! " 
 
 But there was no antagonism, only painful feeling 
 in her softened look. 
 
 Wharton put out his hand. 
 
 "Yes, it is time for me to go. You say I make you 
 feel a hypocrite ! I wonder whether you have any 
 idea what you make me feel ? Do you imagine I 
 should dare to say the things I have sajd except to 
 one of the elite? Would it be worth my while, as a 
 social reformer ? Are you not vowed to great desti- 
 nies ? When one comes across one of the tools of the 
 future, must one not try to sharpen it, out of one's 
 poor resources, in spite of mamiers ? " 
 
 Marcella, stirred — abashed — fascinated — let him 
 press her hand. Then he walked rapidly away towards 
 the station, a faint smile twitching at his lip. . 
 
 "An inexperienced girl," he said to himself, com- 
 posedly.
 
 CHAPTEK.V. 
 
 Before she went home, Marcella turned into the 
 little rectory garden to see if she could find Mary 
 Harden for a minute or two. The intimacy between 
 them Avas such that she generally found entrance to 
 the house by going round to a garden door and knock- 
 ing or calling. The house was very small, and Mary's 
 little sitting-room was close to this door. 
 
 Her knock brought Mary instantly. 
 
 " Oh! come in. You won't mind. We were just at 
 dinner. Charles is going away directly. Do stay and 
 talk to me a bit." 
 
 Marcella hesitated, but at last went in. The meals 
 at the rectory distressed her — the brother and sister 
 showed the marks of them. To-day she found their 
 usual fare carefully and prettily arranged on a spot- 
 less table; some bread, cheese, and boiled rice — noth- 
 ing else. Nor did they allow themselves any fire for 
 meals. Marcella, sitting beside them in her fur, did 
 not feel the cold, but Mary was clearly shivering 
 under her shawl. They eat meat twice a week, and in 
 the afternoon Mary lit the sitting-room fire. In the 
 morning she contented herself with the kitchen, where, 
 as she cooked for many sick folk, and had only a girl 
 of fourteen whom she was training to help her with 
 the housework, she had generally much to do. 
 
 293
 
 294 MARCELLA. 
 
 The Rector did not stay long after her arrival. He 
 had a distant visit to pay to a dying child, and hurried 
 off so as to be home, if possible, before dark. Mar- 
 cella admired him, but did not feel that she under- 
 stood him more as they were better acquainted. He 
 was slight and young, and not very clever ; but a cer- 
 tain inexpugnable dignity surrounded him, which, real 
 as it was, sometimes irritated Marcella. It sat oddly 
 on his round face — boyish still, in spite of its pinched 
 and anxious look — but there it was, not to be ignored. 
 Marcella thought him a Conservative, and very back- 
 ward and ignorant in his political and social opinions. 
 But she was perfectly conscious that she must also 
 think him a saint ; and that the deepest things in him 
 were probably not for her. 
 
 Mr. Harden said a few words to her now as to her 
 straw-plaiting scheme, which had his warmest sym- 
 pathy — Marcella contrasted his tone gratefully with 
 that of Wharton, and once more fell happily in love 
 with her own ideas — then he went off, leaving the 
 two girls together. 
 
 "Have you seen Mrs. Hurd this morning?" said 
 Mary. 
 
 "Yes, Willie seems very bad." 
 
 Mary assented. 
 
 "The doctor says he will hardly get through the 
 winter, especially if this weather goes on. But the 
 greatest excitement of the village just now — do you 
 know? — is the quarrel between Hurd and Westall. 
 Somebody told Charles yesterday that they never meet 
 without threatening each other. Since the covers at 
 Tudley End were raided, Westall seems to have quite
 
 MARCELLA. 295 
 
 lost his head. He declares Hurd knew all about that, 
 and that he is hand and glove with the same gang 
 still. He vows he will catch him out, and Hurd told 
 the man who told Charles that if We stall bullies him 
 any more he will put a knife into him. And Charles 
 says that Hurd is not a bit like he was. He used to 
 be such a patient, silent creature. Now — " 
 
 '• He has woke up to a few more ideas and a little 
 more life than he had, that's all," said Marcella, impa- 
 tiently. "He poached last winter, and small blame 
 to him. But since he got work at the Court in 
 November — is it likely? He knows that he was sus- 
 pected; and what could be his interest now, after a 
 hard day's work, to go out again at night, and run 
 the risk of falling into Westall's clutches, when he 
 doesn't want either the food or the money?" 
 
 "I don't know," said Mary, shaking her head. 
 "Charles says, if they once do it, they hardly ever 
 leave it off altogether. It's the excitement and amuse- 
 ment of it." 
 
 "He promised me," said Marcella, proudly. 
 
 "They promise Charles all sorts of things," said 
 Mary, slyly; "but they don't keep to them." 
 
 Warmly grateful as both she and the Kector had 
 been from the beginning to Marcella for the passionate 
 interest she took in the place and the people, the 
 sister was sometimes now a trifle jealous — divinely 
 jealous — for her brother. Marcella's unbounded con- 
 fidence in her own power and right over Mellor, her 
 growing tendency to ignore anybody else's right or 
 power, sometimes set Mary aflame, for Charles's sake, 
 heartily and humbly as she admired her beautiful 
 friend.
 
 296 MARCELLA. 
 
 "I shall speak to Mr. Raeburn about it," said Mar- 
 cella. 
 
 She never called him " Aldous " to anybody — a 
 stiffness which jarred a little upon the gentle, senti- 
 mental Mary. 
 
 "I saw you pass," she said, "from one of the top 
 windows. He was with you, wasn't he?" 
 
 A slight colour sprang to her sallow cheek, a light 
 to her eyes. Most wonderful, most interesting was 
 this engagement to Mary, who — strange to think ! 
 — had almost brought it about. Mr. Raeburn was to 
 her one of the best and noblest of men, and she felt 
 quite simply, and with a sort of Christian trembling 
 for him, the romance of his great position. Was 
 Marcella happy, was she proud of him, as she ought 
 to be? Mary was often puzzled by her. 
 
 " Oh no ! " said Marcella, with a little laugh. 
 "That wasn't Mr. Raeburn. I don't know where 
 your eyes were, Mary. That was Mr. Wharton, who 
 is staying with us. He has gone on to a meeting at 
 Widrington." 
 
 Mary's face fell. - 
 
 " Charles says Mr. Wharton's influence in the vil- 
 lage is very bad," she said quickly. "He makes 
 everybody discontented; sets everybody by the ears; 
 and, after all, what can he do for anybody? " 
 
 "But that's just what he Avants to do — to make 
 them discontented," cried Marcella. "Then, if they 
 vote for him, that's the first practical step towards 
 improving their life." 
 
 " But it won't give them more wages or keep them 
 out of the public house, " said Mary, bewildered. She
 
 MARCELLA, 297 
 
 came of a homety middle-class stock, accustomed to 
 a small range of thinking, and a high standard of 
 doing. Marcella's political opinions were an amaze- 
 ment, and on the Avhole a scandal to her. She pre- 
 ferred generally to give them a wide berth. 
 
 Marcella did not reph\ It was not worth while to 
 talk to Mary on these topics. But Mar}^ stuck to the 
 subject a moment longer. 
 
 "You can't want him to get in, though?" she said 
 in a puzzled voice, as she led the way to the little 
 sitting-room across the passage, and took her work- 
 basket out of the cupboard. " It was only the week 
 before last Mr. Eaeburn was speaking at the school- 
 room for Mr. Dodgson. You weren't there, Mar- 
 cella? " 
 
 "Xo," said Marcella, shortly. "I thought you 
 knew perfectly well, Mary, that Mr. Raeburn and I 
 don't agree politicall}'. Certainly, I hope Mr. 
 Wharton will get in ! " 
 
 Mary opened her eyes in wonderment. She stared 
 at Marcella, forgetting the sock she had just slipped 
 over her left hand, and the darning needle in her 
 right. 
 
 Marcella laughed. 
 
 " I know you think that two people who are going 
 to be married ought to say ditto to each other in 
 everything. Don't you — you dear old goose? " 
 
 She came and stood beside Mary, a stately and 
 beautiful creature in her loosened furs. She stroked 
 Mary's straight sandy hair back from her forehead. 
 Mary looked up at her with a thrill, nay, a passionate 
 throb of envy — soon suppressed.
 
 298 MAECELLA. 
 
 "I think," she said steadily, "it is very strange — 
 that love should oppose and disagree with what it 
 loves.'' 
 
 Marcella went restlessly towards the fire and began 
 to examine the things on the mantelpiece. 
 
 "Can't people agree to differ, you sentimentalist? 
 Can't they respect each other, without echoing each 
 other on every subject?" 
 
 " Respect ! " cried Mary, with a sudden scorn, which 
 was startling from a creature so soft. 
 
 " There, she could tear me in pieces ! " said Mar- 
 cella, laughing, though her lip was not steady. "I 
 wonder what you would be like, Mary, if you were 
 engaged." 
 
 Mary ran her needle in and out with lightning 
 s^Dced for a second or two, then she said almost under 
 her breath — 
 
 "I shouldn't be engaged unless I were in love. 
 And if I were in love, why, I would go anywhere — 
 do anything — believe anything — if he told me ! " 
 
 "Believe anything? — Mary — you wouldn't! " 
 
 "I don't mean as to religion," said Mary, hastily. 
 " But everything else — I would give it all up ! — gov- 
 erning one's self, thinking for one's self. He should 
 do it, and I would bless him ! " 
 
 She looked up crimson, drawing a very long breath, 
 as though from some deep centre of painful, passion- 
 ate feeling. It was Marcella' s turn to stare. Never 
 had Mary so revealed herself before. 
 
 "Did you ever love any one like that, Mary?" she 
 asked quickly. 
 
 Mary dropped her head again over her work and 
 did not answer immedia-tel}'.
 
 MABCELLA. 299 
 
 '^ Do you see — ■ ' she said at last, with a change of 
 tone, "do you see that we have got our invitation?" 
 
 Marcella, about to give the rein to an eager curi- 
 osity Mary's manner had excited in her, felt herself 
 pulled up sharply. When she chose, this little meek 
 creature could put on the same unapproachableness 
 as her brother. Marcella submitted. 
 
 "Yes, I see," she said, taking up a card on the 
 manteljpiece. " It will be a great crush. I suppose 
 you know. They have asked the whole count}", it 
 seems to me." 
 
 The card bore an invitation in Miss Raeburn's 
 name for the Rector and his sister to a dance at 
 Maxwell Court — the date given was the twenty-fifth 
 of January. 
 
 " What fun! " said Mary, her eye sparkling. " You 
 needn't suppose that I know enough of balls to be 
 particular. I have only been to one before in my 
 life — ever. That was at Cheltenham. An aunt took 
 me — I didn't dance. There were hardly any men, 
 but I enjoyed it." 
 
 "Well, you shall dance this time," said Marcella, 
 "for I will make Mr. Raeburn introduce you." 
 
 "Xonsense, you won't have any time to think 
 about me. You will be the queen — everybody will 
 want to speak to you. I shall sit in a corner and 
 look at you — that will be enougli for me." 
 
 Marcella went up to her quickly and kissed her, 
 then she said, still holding her — 
 
 "I know you think I ought to be very happy, 
 Mary!" 
 
 " I should think I do ! " said ]\rarv, with astonished
 
 300 MARC ELL A. 
 
 emphasis, when the voice paused — "I should think 
 Idol" 
 
 "I am happy — and 1 want to make him happy. 
 But there are so many things, so many different aims 
 and motives, that complicate life, that puzzle one. 
 One doesn't know how much to give of one's self, to 
 each — " 
 
 She stood with her hand on Mary's shoulder, look- 
 ing away towards the window and the snowy garden, 
 her brow frowning and distressed. 
 
 "Well, I don't understand," said Mary, after a 
 pause. " As I said before, it seems to me so plain 
 and easy — to be in love, and give one's self all — 
 to that. But you are so much cleverer than T, Mar- 
 cella, you know so much more. That makes the 
 difference. I can't be like you. Perhaps I don't 
 want to be ! " — and she laughed. " But I can admire 
 you and love you, and think about you. There, now, 
 tell me what you are going to wear? " 
 
 " White satin, and Mr. Raeburn wants me to wear 
 some pearls he is going to give me, some old pearls 
 of his mother's. I believe I shall find them at Mellor 
 when I get back." 
 
 There was little girlish pleasure in the tone. It 
 was as though Marcella thought her friend would be 
 more interested in her bit of news than she was her- 
 self, and was handing it on to her to please her. 
 
 "Isn't there a superstition against doing that — 
 before you're married? " said Mary, doubtfully. 
 
 " As if I should mind if there was ! But I don't 
 believe there is, or Miss Raeburn would have heard 
 of it. She's a mass of such things. Well! I hope I
 
 MABCELLA. 301 
 
 shall behave myself to please her at this function. 
 There are not man 3^ things I do to her satisfaction; 
 it's a mercy we're not going to live with her. Lord 
 Maxwell is a dear; but she and I w^ould never get on. 
 Every way of thinking she has, rubs me up the w^'ong 
 way; and as for her view of me, I am just a tare 
 sown among her wheat. Perhaps she is right 
 enough ! " 
 
 Marcella leant her cheek pensively on one hand, 
 and with the other played with the things on the 
 mantelpiece. 
 
 Mary looked at her, and then half smiled, half 
 sighed. 
 
 "I think it is a very good thing you are to be mar- 
 ried soon," she said, with her little air of wisdom, 
 which offended nobody. "Then you'll know your 
 own mind. When is it to be? " 
 
 "The end of February — after the election.-* 
 
 "Two months," mused Mary. 
 
 "Time enough to throw it all up in, you think?" 
 said ^larcella, recklessly, putting on her gloves for 
 departure. "Perhaps you'll be pleased to hear that 
 I am going to a meeting of Mr. Raeburn's next 
 week?" 
 
 "I am glad. You ought to go to them all." 
 
 "Really, Mary! How am T to lift you out of this 
 squaw theory of matrimony? Allow me to inform 
 you that the following evening I am going to one of 
 Mr. Wharton's — here in the schoolroom ! " 
 
 She enjoyed her friend's disapproval. 
 
 "By yourself, Marcella? It isn't seemly! " 
 
 "I shall take a maid. Mr. Wl:iarton is going to
 
 302 MARCELLA. 
 
 tell us how the people can — get the land, and how, 
 when they have got it, all the money that used to go 
 in rent will go in taking off taxes and making life 
 comfortable for the poor." She looked at Mary with 
 a teasing smile. 
 
 " Oh ! I dare say he will make his stealing sound 
 very pretty," said Mary, with unwonted scorn, as she 
 opened the front door for her friend. 
 
 Marcella flashed out. 
 
 ''I know you are a saint, Mary," she said, turning 
 back on the path outside to deliver her last shaft. " I 
 am often not so sure whether you are a Christian ! " 
 
 Then she hurried off without another word, leaving 
 the flushed and shaken Mary to ponder this strange 
 dictum. 
 
 Marcella was just turning into the straight drive 
 which led past the church on the left to Mellor House, 
 when she heard footsteps behind her, and, looking 
 round, she saw Edward Hallin. 
 
 ''Will you give me some lunch. Miss Boyce, in 
 return for a message? I am here instead of Aldous, 
 who is very sorry for himself, and will be over later. 
 I am to tell you that he went down to the station to 
 meet a certain box. The box did not come, but will 
 come this afternoon; so he waits for it, and will bring 
 it over." 
 
 Marcella flushed, smiled, and said she understood. 
 Hallin moved on beside her, evidently glad of the 
 opportunity of a talk with her. 
 
 "We are all going together to the Gairsley meeting 
 next week, aren't we? I am so glad you are coming. 
 Aldous will do his best."
 
 MARCELLA. 303 
 
 There was something very winning in his tone to 
 her. It implied both his old and peculiar friendship 
 for Aldous, and his eager wish to find a new friend in 
 her — to adopt her into their comradeship. Some- 
 thing very winning, too, in his whole personality — 
 in the loosely knit, nervous figure, the irregular charm 
 of feature, the benignant eyes and brow — even in 
 the suggestions of physical delicacy, cheerfully con- 
 cealed, yet none the less evident. The whole balance 
 of Marcella's temper changed in some sort as she 
 talked to him. She found herself wanting to please, 
 instead of wanting to conquer, to make an effect. 
 
 "You have just come from the village, I think?" 
 said Hallin. " Aldous tells me you take a great in- 
 terest in the people?" 
 
 He looked at her kindly, the look of one who saw 
 all his fellow-creatures nobly, as it were, and to their 
 best advantage. 
 
 "One may take an interest," she said, in a dissat- 
 isfied voice, poking at the snow crystals on the road 
 before her with the thorn-stick she carried, " but one 
 can do so little. And I don't know anything; not 
 even what I want myself." 
 
 "Xo; one can do next to nothing. And systems 
 and theories don't matter, or, at least, very little. 
 Yet, when you and Aldous are together, there will be 
 more chance of doing, for you than for most. You 
 will be two happy and powerful people ! His power 
 will be doubled by happiness; I have always known 
 that." 
 
 Marcella was seized with shyness, looked away, and 
 did not know what to answer. At last she said
 
 304 MARC ELL A. 
 
 abruptly — her head still turned to the woods on her 
 left — 
 
 " Are you sure he is going to be happy? " 
 
 " Shall I produce his letter to me?" he said, ban- 
 tering — "or letters? For I knew a great deal about 
 you before October 5 " (their engagement-day), "and 
 suspected what was going to hajopen long before 
 Aldous did. Xo ; after all, no ! Those letters are my 
 last bit of the old friendship. But the new began 
 that same day," he hastened to add, smiling: " It may 
 be richer than the old; I don't know. It depends on 
 you." 
 
 "I don't think — I am a very satisfactory friend," 
 said Marcella, still awkward, and speaking with diffi- 
 culty. 
 
 "Well, let me find out, won't you? I don't think 
 Aldous would call me exacting. I believe he would 
 give me a decent character, though I tease him a good 
 deal. You must let me tell you sometime what he 
 did for me — what he was to me — at Cambridge? I 
 shall always feel sorry for Aldous 's wife that she did 
 not know him at college." 
 
 A shock went through Marcella at the word — that 
 tremendous word — wife. As Hallin said it, there 
 was something intolerable in the claim it made ! 
 
 "I should like you to tell me," she said faintly. 
 Then she added, with more energy and a sudden 
 advance of friendliness, " But you really must come 
 in and rest. Aldous told me he thought the walk 
 from the Court was too much for you. Shall we take 
 this short way?" 
 
 And she opened a little gate leading to a door at
 
 MARCELLA. 305 
 
 the side of the house through the Cedar Garden. The 
 narrow path only admitted of single file, and Hallin 
 followed her, admiring her tall youth and the fine 
 black and white of her head and cheek as she turned 
 every now and then to speak to him. He realised 
 more vividly than before the rare, exciting elements 
 of her beauty, and the truth in Aldous's comparison of 
 her to one of the tall women in a Florentine fresco. 
 But he felt himself a good deal baffled by her, all 
 the same. In some ways, so far as any man who is 
 not the lover can understand such things, he under- 
 stood why Aldous had fallen in love with her; in 
 others, she bore no relation whatever to the woman 
 his thoughts had been shaping all these years as his 
 friend's fit and natural wife. 
 
 Luncheon passed as easily as any meal could be 
 expected to do, of which Mr. Boyce was partial presi- 
 dent. During the preceding month or two he had 
 definitely assumed the character of an invalid, although 
 to inexperienced eyes like Marcella's there did not 
 seem to be very much the matter. But, whatever the 
 facts might be, Mr. Boyce' s adroit use of them had 
 made a great difference to his position in his own 
 household. His wife's sarcastic freedom of manner 
 was less apparent; and he was obviously less in awe 
 of her. Meanwhile he was as sore as ever towards 
 the Raeburns, and no more inclined to take an}^ par- 
 ticular pleasure in Marcella's prospects, or to make 
 himself agreeable towards his future son-in-law. He 
 and Mrs. Boyce had been formally asked in Miss Rae- 
 burn's best hand to the Court ball, but he had at once 
 snappishly announced his intention of staying at 
 
 VOL. I. —20
 
 306 MARCELLA. 
 
 home. Marcella sometimes looked back with aston- 
 ishment to his eagerness for social notice when they 
 first came to Mellor. Clearly the rising irritability 
 of illness had made it doubly unpleasant to him to 
 owe all that he was likely to get on that score to his 
 own daughter; and, moreover, he had learnt to occupy 
 himself more continuously on his own land and with 
 his own affairs. 
 
 As to the state of the village, neither Marcella' s 
 entreaties nor reproaches had any effect upon him. 
 When it appeared certain that he would be summoned 
 for some specially flagrant piece of neglect he would 
 spend a few shillings on repairs; otherwise not a 
 farthing. All that filial softening towards him of 
 which Marcella had been conscious in the early 
 autumn had died away in her. She said to herself 
 now plainly and bitterly that it was a misfortune to 
 belong to him ; and she would have pitied her mother 
 most heartily if her mother had ever allowed her the 
 smallest expression of such a feeling. As it was, she 
 was left to wonder and chafe at her mother's new- 
 born mildness. 
 
 In the drawing-room, after luncheon, Hallin came 
 up to Marcella in a corner, and, smiling, drew from 
 his pocket a folded sheet of foolscap. 
 
 " I made Aldous give me his speech to show you, be- 
 fore to-morrow night," he said. "He would hardly 
 let me take it, said it was stupid, and that you Avould 
 not agree with it. But I wanted you to see how he 
 does these things. He speaks now, on an average, 
 two or three times a week. Each time, even for an 
 audience of a score or two of village folk, he writes
 
 3rARCELLA. 307 
 
 out what he has to say. Then he speaks it entirely 
 without notes. In this way, though he has not much 
 natural gift, he is making himself gradually an effect- 
 ive and practical speaker. The danger with him, of 
 course, is lest he should be over-subtle and over- 
 critical — not simple and popular enough. " 
 
 Marcella took the paper half unwillingly and 
 glanced over it in silence. 
 
 '* You are sorry he is a Tory, is that it? " he said to 
 her, but in a lower voice, and sitting down beside her. 
 
 Mrs. Boyce, just catching the words from where she 
 sat with her work, at the further side of the room, 
 looked up with a double wonder — wonder at Mar- 
 cella' s folly, wonder still more at the deference with 
 which men like Aldous Raeburn and Hallin treated 
 her. It was inevitable, of course — youth and beauty 
 rule the world. But the mother, under no spell her- 
 self, and of keen, cool wit, resented the intellectual 
 confusion, the lowering of standards involved. 
 
 " I suppose so," said Marcella, stupidly, in answer to 
 Hallin' s question, fidgeting the papers under her 
 hand. Then his curious confessor's gift, his quiet 
 questioning look with its sensitive human interest to 
 all before him, told upon her. 
 
 " I am sorry he does not look further ahead, to the 
 great changes that must come," she added hurriedly. 
 "This is all about details, palliatives. I want him to 
 be more impatient." 
 
 "Great political changes you mean?" 
 
 She nodded ; then added — 
 
 "But only for the sake, of course, of great social 
 changes to come after."
 
 308 MARCELLA. 
 
 He pondered a moment. 
 
 " Aldous has never believed in great changes coming 
 suddenly. He constantly looks upon me as rash in 
 the things /adopt and believe in. But for the con- 
 triving, unceasing effort of every day to make that 
 part of the social machine in which a man finds him- 
 self work better and more equitably, I have never 
 seen Aldous's equal — for the steady passion, the 
 persistence, of it." 
 
 She looked up. His pale face had taken to itself 
 glow and fire; his eyes were full of strenuous, nay, 
 severe expression. Her foolish pride rebelled a little. 
 
 "Of course, I haven't seen much of that yet," she 
 said slowly. 
 
 His look for a moment was indignant, incredulous, 
 then melted into a charming eagerness. 
 
 "But you will! naturally you will! — see every- 
 thing. I hug myself sometimes now for pure plea- 
 sure that some one besides his grandfather and I will 
 know what Aldous is and does. Oh! the people on 
 the estate know; his neighbours are beginning to 
 know; and now that he is going into Parliament, the 
 country will know some day, if work and high intelli- 
 gence have the power I believe. But I am impatient! 
 In the first place — I may say it to you, Miss Boyce ! 
 — I want Aldous to come out of that manner of his 
 to strangers, which is the only bit of the true Tory in 
 him ; you can get rid of it, no one else can — How 
 long shall I give you? — And in the next, I want the 
 world not to be wasting itself on baser stuff when it 
 might be praising Aldous ! " 
 
 "Does he mean Mr. Wharton?" thought Marcella,
 
 MABCELLA. 309 
 
 quickly. " But this world — our world — hates him 
 and runs him down." 
 
 But she had no time to answer, for the door opened 
 to admit Aldous, flushed and bright-ej^ed, looking 
 round the room immediately for her, and bearing a 
 parcel in his left hand. 
 
 '•Does she love him at all?" thought Hallin, with 
 a nervous stiffening of all his lithe frame, as he 
 walked away to talk to Mrs. Boyce, "or, in spite of 
 all her fine talk, is she just marrying him for his 
 money and position ! " 
 
 Meanwhile, Aldous had drawn Marcella into the 
 Stone Parlour and was standing by the nre with his 
 arm covetously round her. 
 
 " I have lost two hours with you I might have had, 
 just because a tiresome man missed his train. Make 
 up for it by liking these pretty things a little, for my 
 sake and my mother's." 
 
 He opened the jeweller's case, took out the fine old 
 pearls — necklace and bracelets — it contained, and 
 put them into her hand. They were his first consid- 
 erable gift to her, and had been chosen for associa- 
 tion's sake, seeing that his mother had also worn them 
 before her marriage. 
 
 She flushed first of all with a natural pleasure, the 
 girl delighting in her gaud. Then she allowed her- 
 self to be kissed, which was, indeed, inevitable. 
 Finally she turned them over and over in her hands; 
 and he began to be puzzled by her. 
 
 "They are much too good for me. I don't know 
 whether you ought to give me such precious things. 
 I am dreadfully careless and forgetful. Mamma 
 always says so."
 
 310 MARCELLA. 
 
 " I shall want you to wear tliem so often that you 
 won't have a chance of forgetting them, " he said gaily. 
 
 "Will you? Will you want me to wear them so 
 often?" she asked, in an odd voice. "Anyway, I 
 should like to have just these, and nothing else. I 
 am glad that we know nobody, and have no friends, 
 and that I shall have so few presents. You won't 
 give me many jewels, will you? " she said suddenly, 
 insistently, turning to him. "I shouldn't know what 
 to do with them. I used to have a magpie's wish for 
 them; and now — I don't know, but they don't give 
 me pleasure. Not these, of course — not these ! " she 
 added hurriedly, taking them up and beginning to 
 fasten the bracelets on her wrists. 
 
 Aldous looked perplexed. 
 
 "My darling!" he said, half laughing, and in the 
 tone of the apologist, " You know we have such a lot 
 of things. And I am afraid my grandfather will want 
 to give them all to you. Need one think so much 
 about it? It isn't as though they had to be bought 
 fresh. They go with pretty gowns, don't they, and 
 other people like to see them?" 
 
 "No, but it's what they imply — the wealth — the 
 having so much while other people want so much. 
 Things begin to oppress me so ! " she broke out, in- 
 stinctively moving away from him that she might 
 express herself with more energy. " I like luxuries 
 so desperately, and when I get them I seem to myself 
 now the vulgarest creature alive, who has no right to 
 an opinion or an enthusiasm, or anything else worth 
 having. You must not let me like them — you must 
 help me not to care about them ! "
 
 MARCELLA. 311 
 
 Kaeburn's eye as lie looked at her was tenderness 
 itself. He could of course neither mock her, nor put 
 what she said aside. This question she had raised, 
 this most thorny of all the personal questions of the 
 present — the ethical relation of the individual to the 
 World's Fair and its vanities — was, as it happened, 
 a question far more sternly and robustly real to him 
 than it was to her. Every word in his few sentences, 
 as they stood talking by the fire, bore on it for a prac- 
 tised ear the signs of a long wrestle of the heart. 
 
 But to Marcella it sounded tame; her ear was 
 haunted by the fragments of another tune which she 
 seemed to be perpetually trying to recall and piece 
 together. Aldous's slow minor made her impatient. 
 
 He turned presently to ask her what she had been 
 doing with her morning — asking her with a certain 
 precision, and observing her attentively. She replied 
 that she had been showing Mr. Wharton the house, 
 that he had walked down with her to the village, and 
 was gone to a meeting at Widrington. Then she 
 remarked that he was very good company, and very 
 clever, but dreadfully sure of his own opinion. 
 Finally she laughed, and said drily : 
 
 " There will be no putting him down all the same. 
 I haven't told anybody yet, but he saved my life this 
 morning." 
 
 Aldous caught her wrists. 
 
 " Saved your life ! Dear — What do you mean? " 
 
 She explained, giving the little incident all — per- 
 haps more than — its dramatic due. He listened 
 with evident annoyance, and stood pondering when 
 she came to an end.
 
 312 MARCELLA. 
 
 "So I shall "be expected to take quite a different 
 view of him henceforward?" he inquired at last, 
 looking round at her, with a very forced smile. 
 
 " I am sure I don't know that it matters to him 
 what view anybody takes of him," she cried, flush- 
 ing. " He certainly takes the frankest views of other 
 people, and expresses them." 
 
 And while she played with the pearls in their box 
 she gave a vivid account of her morning's talk with 
 the Eadical candidate for West Brookshire, and of 
 their village expedition. 
 
 There was a certain relief in describing the scorn 
 with which her acts and ideals had been treated; and, 
 underneath, a woman's curiosity as to how Aldous 
 would take it. 
 
 "I don't know what business he had to express 
 himself so frankly," said Aldous, turning to the fire 
 and carefully putting it together. " He hardly knows 
 you — it was, I think, an impertinence." 
 
 He stood upright, with his back to the hearth, a 
 strong, capable, frowning Englishman, very much on 
 his dignity. Such a moment must surely have be- 
 come him in the eyes of a girl that loved him. Mar- 
 cella proved restive under it. 
 
 "No; it's very natural," she protested quickly. 
 "When people are so much in earnest they don't stop 
 to think about impertinence! I never met any one 
 who dug up one's thoughts by the roots as he does." 
 
 Aldous was startled by her flush, her sudden atti- 
 tude of opposition. His intermittent lack of readiness 
 overtook him, and there was an awkward silence. 
 Then, pulling himself together with a strong hand.
 
 MABCELLA. 313 
 
 he left the subject and began to talk of her straw- 
 plaiting scheme, of the Gairsley meeting, and of 
 Hallin. But in the middle Marcella unexpectedly 
 said : 
 
 " I wish you would tell me, seriously, what reasons 
 you have for not liking Mr. Wharton? — other than 
 politics, I mean? " 
 
 Her black eyes fixed him with a keen insistence. 
 
 He was silent a moment Avith surprise; then he 
 said: 
 
 " I had rather not rake up old scores." 
 
 She shrugged her shoulders, and he was roused to 
 come and put his arm round her again, she shrinking 
 and turning her reddened face away. 
 
 ^'Dearest,"' he said, "you shall put me in charity 
 with all the world. But the worst of it is," he added, 
 half laughing, " that I don't see how I am to help dis- 
 liking him doubly henceforward for having had the 
 luck to put that fire out instead of me ! "
 
 CHAPTEE VI. 
 
 A FEW busy and eventful weeks, days never for- 
 gotten by Marcella in after years, passed quickly by. 
 Parliament met in the third week of January. Min- 
 isters, according to universal expectation, found them- 
 selves confronted by a damaging amendment on the 
 Address, and were defeated by a small majority. A 
 dissolution and appeal to the country followed im- 
 mediately, and the meetings and speech-makings, 
 already active throughout the constituencies, were 
 carried forward with redoubled energy. In the Tud- 
 ley End division, Aldous Paeburn was fighting a 
 somewhat younger opponent of the same country- 
 gentleman stock — a former fag indeed of his at 
 Eton — whose zeal and fluency gave him plenty to 
 do. Under ordinary circumstances Aldous would 
 have thrown himself with all his heart and mind 
 into a contest which involved for him the most stimu- 
 lating of possibilities, personal and public. But, as 
 these days went over, he found his appetite for the 
 struggle flagging, and was harassed rather than spurred 
 by his adversary's activity. The real truth was that 
 he could not see enough of Marcella ! A curious un- 
 certainty and unreality, moreover, seemed to have 
 crept into some of their relations ; and it had begun 
 to gall and fever him that Wharton should be staying 
 
 314
 
 MARCELLA. 315 
 
 there, week after week, beside her, in her father's 
 house, able to spend all the free intervals of the fight 
 in her society, strengthening an influence which Kae- 
 burn's pride and delicacy had hardly allowed him as 
 yet, in spite of his instinctive jealousy from the begin- 
 ning, to take into his thoughts at all, but which was 
 now apparent, not only to himself but to others. 
 
 In vain did he spend every possible hour at Mellor 
 he could snatch from a conflict in which his party, his 
 grandfather, and his own personal fortunes were all 
 deeply interested. In vain — with a tardy instinct 
 that it was to Mr. Boyce's dislike of himself, and to 
 the wilful fancy for Wharton's society which this dis- 
 like had promoted, that Wharton's long stay at Mellor 
 was largely owing — did Aldous subdue himself to 
 propitiations and amenities wholly foreign to a strong 
 character long accustomed to rule without thinking 
 about it. Mr. Boyce showed himself not a whit less 
 partial to Wharton than before ; pressed him at least 
 twice in Raeburn's hearing to make Mellor his head- 
 quarters so long as it suited him, and behaved with an 
 irritable malice with regard to some of the details of 
 the wedding arrangements, which neither Mrs. Boyce's 
 indignation nor Marcella's discomfort and annoyance 
 could restrain. Clearly there was in him a strong 
 consciousness that by his attentions to the Radical 
 candidate he was asserting his independence of the 
 Raeburns, and nothing for the moment seemed to be 
 more of an object with him, even though his daughter 
 was going to marry the Raeburns' heir. Meanwhile, 
 Wharton was always ready to walk or chat or play 
 billiards with his host in the intervals of his own cam-
 
 316 MARCELLA. 
 
 paign ; and his society had thus come to count con- 
 siderably among the scanty daily pleasures of a sickly 
 and disappointed man. Mrs. Boyce did not like her 
 guest, and took no pains to disguise it, least of all 
 from Wharton. But it seemed to be no longer possi- 
 ble for her to take the vigorous measures she would 
 once have taken to get rid of him. 
 
 In vain, too, did Miss Raeburn do her best for the 
 nephew to whom she was still devoted, in spite of his 
 deplorable choice of a wife. She took in the situation 
 as a whole probably sooner than anybody else, and she 
 instantly made heroic efforts to see more of Marcella, 
 to get her to come oftener to the Court, and in many 
 various ways to procure the poor deluded Aldous more 
 of his betrothed's society. She paid many chattering 
 and fussy visits to Mellor — visits which chafed Mar- 
 cella — and before long, indeed, roused a certain sus- 
 picion in the girl's wilful mind. Between Miss 
 Eaeburn and Mrs. Boyce there was a curious under- 
 standing. It was always tacit, and never amounted to 
 friendship, still less to intimacy. But it often yielded 
 a certain melancholy consolation to Aldous Raeburn's 
 great-aunt. It was clear to her that this strange 
 mother was just as much convinced as she was that 
 Aldous was making a great mistake, and that Marcella 
 was not worthy of him. But the engagement being 
 there — a fact not apparently to be undone — both 
 ladies showed themselves disposed to take pains with 
 it, to protect it against aggression. Mrs. Boyce found 
 herself becoming more of a chaperon than she had 
 ever yet professed to be; and Miss Eaeburn, as we 
 have said, made repeated efforts to capture Marcella 
 and hold her for Aldous, her lawful master.
 
 MABCELLA, 317 
 
 But Marcella proved extremely difficult to manage. 
 In the first place she was a young person of many 
 engagements. Her village scheme absorbed a great 
 deal of time. She was deep in a varied correspond- 
 ence, in the engagement of teachers, the provision of 
 work-rooms, the collecting and registering of workers, 
 the organisation of local committees and so forth. 
 New sides of the girl's character, new capacities and 
 capabilities were coming out ; new forms of her natural 
 power over her fellows were developing every day; 
 she was beginning, under the incessant stimulus of 
 Wharton's talk, to read and think on social and eco- 
 nomic subjects, with some system and coherence, and 
 it was evident that she took a passionate mental 
 pleasure in it all. And the more pleasure these 
 activities gave her, the less she had to spare for those 
 accompaniments of her engagement and her position 
 that was to be, which once, as Mrs. Boyce's sharp eyes 
 perceived, had been quite normally attractive to her. 
 
 " Why do you take up her time so, with all these 
 things ? " said Miss Raeburn impatiently to Lady 
 Winterbourne, who was now Marcella's obedient helper 
 in everything she chose to initiate. " She doesn't care 
 for anything she ought to care about at this time, and 
 Aldous sees nothing of her. As for her trousseau, 
 Mrs. Boyce declares she has had to do it all. Marcella 
 won't even go up to London to have her wedding-dress 
 fitted ! " 
 
 Lady Winterbourne looked up bewildered. 
 
 "But I can't make her go and have her wedding- 
 dress fitted, Agneta ! And I always feel you don't 
 know what a fine creature she is. You don't really
 
 318 MARCELLA. 
 
 appreciate her. It's splendid the ideas she has about 
 this work, and the way she throws herself into it." 
 
 " I dare say ! " said Miss Eaeburn, indignantly. 
 "That's just what I object to. Why can't she throw 
 herself into being in love with Aldous ! That's her 
 business, I imagine, just now — if she were a young 
 woman like anybody else one had ever seen — instead 
 of holding aloof from everything he does, and never 
 being there when he wants her. Oh ! I have no 
 patience with her. But, of course, I must — " said 
 Miss E,aeburn, hastily correcting herself — '' of course, 
 I must have patience." 
 
 " It will all come right, I am sure, when they are 
 married," said Lady Winterbourne, rather helplessly. 
 
 "That's just what my brother says," cried Miss 
 E-aeburn, exasperated. "He won't hear a word — 
 declares she is odd and original, and that Aldous will 
 soon know how to manage her. It's all very well; 
 nowadays men do7i't manage their wives ; that's all 
 gone with the rest. And I am sure, my dear, if she 
 behaves after she is married as she is doing now, with 
 that most objectionable person Mr. Wharton — walking, 
 and talking, and taking up his ideas, and going to his 
 meetings — she'll be a handful for any husband." 
 
 " Mr. Wharton ! " said Lady Winterbourne, aston- 
 ished. Her absent black eyes, the eyes of the dreamer, 
 of the person who lives by a few intense affections, 
 saw little or nothing of what was going on immedi- 
 ately under them. " Oh ! but that is because he is 
 staying in the house, and he is a Socialist ; she calls 
 herself one — " 
 
 "My dear," said Miss Raeburn, interrupting em-
 
 MARCELLA. 319 
 
 phatically ; "if — you — liacl — now — an unmarried 
 daughter at home — engaged or not — would you care 
 to have Harry Wharton hanging about after her ? " 
 
 "Harry Wharton?" said the other, pondering; 
 "he is the Levens' cousin, isn't he? he used to stay 
 with them. I don't think I have seen him since 
 then. But yes, I do remember ; there was something 
 — something disagreeable ? " 
 
 She stopped with a hesitating, interrogative air. 
 No one talked less scandal, no one put the uglinesses 
 of life away from her with a hastier hand than Lady 
 Winterbourne. She was one of the most consistent of 
 moral epicures. 
 
 "Yes, extremely disagreeable," said Miss Eaeburn, 
 sitting bolt upright. " The man has no principles — 
 never had any, since he was a child in petticoats. I 
 know Aldous thinks him unscrupulous in politics and 
 everything else. And then, just when you are worked 
 to death, and have hardly a moment for your own 
 affairs, to have a man of that type always at hand to 
 spend odd times with your lady love — flattering her, 
 engaging her in his ridiculous schemes, encouraging 
 her in all the extravagances she has got her head 
 twice too full of already, setting her against your own 
 ideas and the life she will have to live — you will 
 admit that it is not exactly soothing I " 
 
 " Poor Aldous ! " said Lady Winterbourne, thought- 
 fully, looking far ahead with her odd look of absent 
 rigidity, which had in realit}^ so little to do Avitli a 
 character essentially soft ; " but you see he did know 
 all about her opinions. And I don't think — no, I 
 really don't think — I could speak to her."
 
 320 MARCELLA. 
 
 In truth, this woman of nearly seventy — old in 
 years, but wholly young in temperament — was alto- 
 gether under Marcella's spell — more at ease with her 
 already than with most of her own children, finding in 
 her satisfaction for a hundred instincts, suppressed 
 or starved by her own environment, fascinated by the 
 girl's friendship, and eagerly grateful for her visits. 
 Miss Raeburn thought it all both incomprehensible 
 and silly. 
 
 " Apparently no one can ! " cried that lady in 
 answer to her friend's demurrer ; '• is all the world 
 afraid of her ? " 
 
 And she departed in wrath. But she knew, never- 
 theless, that she was just as much afraid of Marcella 
 as anybody else. In her own sphere at the Court, or 
 in points connected with Avhat was due to the family, 
 or to Lord Maxwell especially, as the head of it, this 
 short, capable old lady could hold her own amply with 
 Aldous's betrothed, could maintain, indeed, a sharp 
 and caustic dignity, which kept Marcella very much 
 in order. Miss Raeburn, on the defensive, was 
 strong; but when it came to attacking Marcella's 
 own ideas and proceedings, Lord Maxwell's sister 
 became shrewdly conscious of her own weaknesses. 
 She had no wish to measure her wits on any general 
 field with Marcella's. She said to herself that the 
 girl was too clever and would talk you down. 
 
 Meanwhile, things went untowardly in various 
 ways. Marcella disciplined herself before the Gairs- 
 ley meeting, and went thither resolved to give Aldous 
 as much sympathy as she could. But the perform- 
 ance only repelled a mind over which Wharton was
 
 MARCELLA. 321 
 
 ever}" day gaining more influence. There was a portly 
 baronet in the chair ; there were various Primrose 
 Dames on the platform and among the audience ; 
 there was a considerable representation of clergy ; 
 and the labourers present seemed to Marcella the 
 most obsequious of their kind. Aldous spoke well — 
 or so the audience seemed to think ; but she could 
 feel no enthusiasm for anything that he said. She 
 gathered that he advocated a Government inspection 
 of cottages, more stringent precautions against cattle 
 disease, better technical instruction, a more abundant 
 provision of allotments and small freeholds, &c. ; and 
 he said many cordial and wise-sounding things in 
 praise of a progress which should go safely and wisely 
 from step to step, and run no risks of dangerous reac- 
 tion. But the assumptions on which, as she told her- 
 self rebelliously, it all went — that the rich and the 
 educated must rule, and the poor obe}" ; that existing 
 classes and rights, the forces of individualism and 
 competition, must and would go on pretty much as 
 they were ; that great houses and great people, the 
 English land and game system, and all the rest of our 
 odious class paraphernalia were in the order of the 
 universe ; these ideas, conceived as the furniture of 
 Aldous's mmd, threw her again into a ferment of 
 passionate opposition. And when the noble baronet 
 in the chair — to her eye, a pompous, frock-coated 
 stick, sacrificing his after-dinner sleep for once, that 
 he might the more effectually secure it in the future 
 — proposed a vote of confidence in the Conservative 
 candidate ; when the vote was carried with much 
 cheering and rattling of feet ; when the Primrose 
 
 VOL. 1. — 21
 
 322 MARCELLA. 
 
 Dames on the platform smiled graciously down upon 
 the meeting as one smiles at good children in their 
 moments of pretty behaviour; and when, finally, 
 scores of toil-stained labourers, young and old, went 
 up to have a word and a hand-shake with " Muster 
 Raeburn," Marcella held herself aloof and cold, with 
 a look that threatened sarcasm should she be spoken 
 to. Miss Kaeburn, glancing furtively round at her, 
 was outraged anew by her expression. 
 
 " She will be a thorn in all our sides," thought that 
 lady. "Aldous is a fool! — a poor dear noble mis- 
 guided fool ! " 
 
 Then on the way home, she and Aldous drove to- 
 gether. Marcella tried to argue, grew vehement, and 
 said bitter things for the sake of victory, till at last 
 Aldous, tired, worried, and deeply wounded, could 
 bear it no longer. 
 
 " Let it be, dear, let it be ! " he entreated, snatching 
 at her hand as they rolled along through a stormy 
 night. " We grope in a dark world — you see some 
 points of light in it, I see others — won't you give me 
 credit for doing what I can — seeing what I can ? I 
 am sure — sure — you will find it easier to bear with 
 differences when we are quite together — when there 
 are no longer all these hateful duties and engagements 
 — and persons — between us." 
 
 " Persons ! I don't know what you mean ! " said 
 Marcella. 
 
 Aldous only just restrained himself in time. Out 
 of sheer fatigue and slackness of nerve he had been all 
 but betrayed into some angry speech on the subject 
 of AVharton, the echoes of whose fantastic talk, as it
 
 MARC ELLA. 323 
 
 seemed to him, were always hanging about Mellor 
 when he went there. But he did refrain, and was 
 thankful. That he was indeed jealous and disturbed, 
 that he had been jealous and disturbed from the mo- 
 ment Harry Wharton had set foot in ]\Iellor, he him- 
 self knew quite well. But to play the jealous part in 
 public was more than the Raeburn pride could bear. 
 There was the dread, too, of defining the situation — 
 of striking some vulgar irrevocable note. 
 
 So he parried Marcella's exclamation by asking her 
 whether she had any idea how many human hands a 
 parliamentary candidate had to shake between break- 
 fast and bed; and then, having so slipped into another 
 tone, he tried to amuse himself and her by some of 
 the daily humours of the contest. She lent herself 
 to it and laughed, her look mostly turned away from 
 him, as though she were following the light of the 
 carriage lamps as it slipped along the snow-laden 
 hedges, her hand lying limply in his. But neither 
 were really gay. His soreness of mind grew as in the 
 pauses of talk he came to realise more exactly the 
 failure of the evening — of his very successful and 
 encouraging meeting — from his own private point of 
 view. 
 
 "Didn't you like that last speech?" he broke out 
 suddenly — " that labourer's speech ? I thought you 
 would. It was entirely his own idea — nobody asked 
 him to do it." 
 
 In reality Gairsle}' represented a corner of the estate 
 which Aldous had specially made his own. He had 
 spent much labour and thought on the improvement of 
 what had been a backward district, and in particular
 
 324 MARCELLA. 
 
 he had tried a small profit-sharing experiment upon a 
 farm there which he had taken into his own hands for 
 the purpose. The experiment had met with fair suc- 
 cess, and the labourer in question, who was one of the 
 workers in it, had volunteered some approving remarks 
 upon it at the meeting. 
 
 " Oh ! it was very proper and respectful ! " said 
 Marcella, hastily. 
 
 The carriage rolled on some yards before Aldous 
 replied. Then he spoke in a drier tone than he had 
 ever yet used to her. 
 
 "You do it injustice, I think. The man is per- 
 fectly independent, and an honest fellow. I was 
 grateful to him for what he said." 
 
 " Of course, I am no judge ! " cried Marcella, quickly 
 
 — repentantly. "Why did you ask me? I saw 
 everything crooked, I suppose — it was your Prim- 
 rose Dames — they got upon my nerves. Why did 
 you have them ? I didn't mean to vex and hurt you 
 
 — I didn't indeed — it was all the other way — and 
 now I have." 
 
 She turned upon him laughing, but also half crying, 
 as he could tell by the flutter of her breath. 
 
 He vowed he was not hurt, and once more changed 
 both talk and tone. They reached the drive's end 
 without a word of Wharton. But Marcella went to 
 bed hating herself, and Aldous, after his solitar}^ 
 drive home, sat up long and late, feverishly pacing 
 and thinking. 
 
 Then next evening how differently things fell ! 
 Marcella, having spent the afternoon at the Court,
 
 MARCELLA. 825 
 
 hearing all the final arrangements for the ball, and 
 bearing with Miss Raeburn in a way which aston- 
 ished herself, came home full of a sense of duty done, 
 and announced to her mother that she was going to 
 Mr. Wharton's meeting in the Baptist chapel that 
 evening. 
 
 " Unnecessary, don't you think ? " said Mrs. Boyce, 
 lifting her eyebrows. " However, if you go, I shall go 
 with you." 
 
 Most mothers, dealing with a girl of twenty-one, 
 under the circumstances, Avould have said, " I had 
 rather you stayed at home." jMrs. Boyce never em- 
 ployed locutions of this kind. She recognised with 
 perfect calmness that Marcella's bringing up, , and 
 especiall}^ her independent years in London, had made 
 it impossible. 
 
 Marcella fidgeted. 
 
 *'I don't know why you should, mamma. Papa 
 will be sure to w^ant you. Of course, I shall take 
 Deacon." 
 
 " Please order dinner a quarter of an hour earlier, 
 and tell Deacon to bring down my walking things to 
 the hall," was all Mrs. Boyce said in answer. 
 
 Marcella walked upstairs with her head very stiff. 
 So her mother, and Miss Raeburn too, thought it 
 necessary to keep watch on her. How preposterous ! 
 She thought of her free and easy relations with her 
 Kensington student-friends, and wondered when a 
 more reasonable idea of the relations between men 
 and women would begin to penetrate English country 
 society. 
 
 Mr. Bo3^ce talked recklessly of going too.
 
 326 MARCELLA. 
 
 "Of course, I know he will spout seditious non- 
 sense," he said irritably to his wife, " but it's the fel- 
 low's power of talk that is so astonishing. He isn't 
 troubled with 3'our Raeburn heaviness." 
 
 Marcella came into the room as the discussion was 
 going on. 
 
 "If papa goes," she said in an undertone to her 
 mother as she passed her, "it will spoil the meeting- 
 The labourers will turn sulky. I shouldn't wonder if 
 they did or said something unpleasant. As it is, you 
 had much better not come, mamma. They are sure to 
 attack the cottages — and other things." 
 
 Mrs. Boyce took no notice as far as she herself was 
 concerned, but her quiet decision at last succeeded in 
 leaving Mr. Boyce safely settled by the lire, provided 
 as usual Avith a cigarette and a French novel. 
 
 The meeting was held in a little iron Baptist chapel, 
 erected some few years before on the outskirts of the 
 village, to the grief and scandal of Mr. Harden. There 
 were about a hundred and twenty labourers present, 
 and at the back some boys and girls, come to giggle 
 and make a noise — nobody else. The Baptist minis- 
 ter, a smooth-faced young man, possessed, as it turned 
 out, of opinions little short of Wharton's own in point 
 of vigour and rigour, was already in command. A few 
 late comers, as they slouched in, stole side looks at 
 Marcella and the veiled lady in black beside her, sit- 
 ting in the corner of the last bench ; and ^Marcella 
 nodded to one or two of the audience, Jim Hurd 
 amongst them. Otherwise no one took any notice of 
 them. It was the first time that Mrs. Boyce had been 
 inside any building belonging to the village.
 
 MABCELLA. 327 
 
 "Wharton arrived late. He had been canvassing at 
 a distance, and neither of the Mellor ladies had seen 
 him all day. He slipped up the bench with a bow 
 and a smile to greet them. " I am done ! " he said 
 to Marcella, as he took off his hat. ''^ly voice is 
 gone, my mind ditto. I shall drivel for half an hour 
 and let them go. Did you ever see such a stolid 
 set ? " 
 
 " You will rouse them," said Marcella. 
 
 Her eyes were animated, her colour high, and she 
 took no account at all of his plea of weariness. 
 
 '•You challenge me? I must rouse them — that 
 was what you came to see ? Is that it ? " 
 
 She laughed and made no answer. He left her and 
 went up to the minister's desk, the men shuffling their 
 feet a little, and rattling a stick here and there as he 
 did so. 
 
 The young minister took the chair and introduced 
 the speaker. He had a strong Yorkshire accent, and 
 his speech was divided between the most vehement 
 attacks, couched in the most Scriptural language, upon 
 capital and privilege — that is to say, on landlords 
 and the land system, on State churches and the " idle 
 rich," interspersed with quavering returns upon him- 
 self, as though he were scared by his own invective. 
 " My brothers, let us be calm ! " he would say after 
 every burst of passion, with a long deep-voiced em- 
 phasis on the last word ; " let us, above all things, be 
 calm ! " — and then bit by bit voice and denunciation 
 would begin to mount again towards a fresh climax 
 of loud-voiced attack, only to sink again to the same 
 lamb-like refrain. Mrs. Boyce's thin lip twitched,
 
 328 MARCELLA, 
 
 and Marcella bore the good gentleman a grudge for 
 providing her mother with so much unnecessary 
 amusement. 
 
 As for Wharton, at the opening of his speech he 
 spoke both awkwardly and flatly ; and Marcella had 
 a momentary shock. He was, as he said, tired, and 
 his wits were not at command. He began with the 
 general political programme of the party to which — 
 on its extreme left wing — he proclaimed himself to 
 belong. This programme was, of course, by now a 
 newspaper commonplace of the stalest sort. He him- 
 self recited it without enthusiasm, and it was received^ 
 without a spark, so far as appeared, of interest or 
 agreement. The minister gave an " hear, hear," of a 
 loud official sort ; the men made no sign. 
 
 " They might be a set of Dutch ch-eeses ! " thought 
 Marcella, indignantly, after a while. " But, after all, 
 why should they care for all this ? I shall have to 
 get up in a minute and stop those children romping." 
 
 But through all this, as it were, Wharton was only 
 waiting for his second wind. There came a moment 
 when, dropping his quasi-official and high political 
 tone, he said suddenly with another voice and emphasis : 
 
 "Well now, my men, I'll be bound you're thinking, 
 ' That's all pretty enough ! — we haven't got anything 
 against it — we dare say it's all right ; but we don't 
 care a brass ha'porth about any of it ! If that's all 
 you'd got to say to us, you might have let us bide at 
 home. We don't have none too much time to rest 
 our bones a bit by the fire, and talk to the missus and 
 the kids. Why didn't you let us alone, instead of 
 bringing us out in the cold ? '
 
 MARCELLA. 329 
 
 "Well, but it isiiH all I've got to say — and you 
 know it — because I've spoken to you before. What 
 I've been talking about is all true, and all important, 
 and you'll see it some day when you're fit. But what 
 can men in your position know about it, or care about 
 it ? What do any of you want, but bread — " 
 
 — He thundered on the desk — 
 
 " — a bit of decent comfort — a bit of freedom — 
 freedom from tyrants who call themselves your bet- 
 ters ! — a bit of rest in your old age, a home that's 
 something better than a dog-hole, a wage that's some- 
 thing better than starvation, an honest share in the 
 wealth you are making every day and every hour for 
 other peoi^le to gorge and plunder ! " 
 
 He stopped a moment to see how that took. A knot 
 of young men in a corner rattled their sticks vigor- 
 ously. The older men had begun at any rate to look 
 at the speaker. The boys on the back benches in- 
 stinctively stopped scuffling. 
 
 Then he threw himself into a sort of rapid question- 
 and-answer. What were their wages ? — eleven shil- 
 lings a week ? 
 
 " Not they ! " cried a man from the middle of the 
 chapel. " Yer mus' reckon it wet an' dry. I wor 
 turned back two days las' week, an' two days this, 
 fower shillin' lost each week — that's what I call skin- 
 nin' ov yer." 
 
 Wharton nodded at him approvingly. By now he 
 knew the majority of the men in each village by 
 name, and never forgot a face or a biography. 
 " You're right there, Watkins. Eleven shillings, 
 then, when it isn't less, never more, and precious
 
 330 MARCELLA. 
 
 often less ; and harvest money — the people that are 
 kind enough to come round and ask you to vote Tory 
 for them make a deal of that, don't they ? — and a 
 few odds and ends here and there — precious few of 
 them ! There ! that's about it for wages, isn't it ? 
 Thirty pounds a year, somewhere about, to keep a 
 wife and children on — and for ten hours a day work, 
 not counting meal times — that's it, I think. Oh, you 
 are well off I — aren't j^ou ? " 
 
 He dropped his arms, folded, on the desk in front 
 of him, and paused to look at them, his bright kin- 
 dling eye running over rank after rank. A chuckle of 
 rough laughter, bitter and jeering, ran through the 
 benches. Then they broke out and applauded him. 
 
 Well, and about their cottages ? 
 
 His glance caught ^larcella, passed to her mother 
 sitting stiffly motionless under her veil. He drew 
 himself up, thought a moment, then threw himself 
 far forward again over the desk as though the better 
 to launch what he had to say, his voice taking a grind- 
 ing determined note. 
 
 He had been in all parts of the division, he said ; 
 seen everything, inquired into everything. No doubt, 
 on the great properties there had been a good deal 
 done of late years — public opinion had effected some- 
 thing, the landlords had been forced to disgorge some 
 of the gains wrested from labour, to pay for the de- 
 cent housing of the labourer. But did anybody sup- 
 pose that enough had been done ? Why, he had seen 
 de7is — aye, on the best properties — ^lot fit for the 
 pigs that the farmers wouldn't let tlie labourers keep, 
 lest they should steal their straw for the littering of
 
 MARCELLA. 331 
 
 them ! — where a man was bound to live the life of a 
 beast, and his children after him — 
 
 A tall thin man of about sixt}'' rose in his place, 
 and pointed a long quavering finger at the speaker. 
 
 " What is it, Darwin ? speak up ! " said Wharton, 
 dropping at once into the colloquial tone, and stooping 
 forward to listen. 
 
 " jVIy sleepin' room 's six foot nine b}' seven foot six. 
 We have to shift our bed for the rain 's comin' in, an" 
 yer may see for yoursels ther ain"t much room to 
 shift it in. An' beyont us ther 's a room for the chil- 
 len, same size as ourn, an' no window, nothin' but the 
 door into us. Ov a summer night the chillen, three 
 on 'em, is all of a sweat afore they're asleep. An' no 
 garden, an' no chance o' decent ways nohow. An' if 
 yer ask for a bit o' repairs yer get sworn at. An' 
 that's all that most on us can get out of Squire 
 Boyce ! " 
 
 There was a hasty whisper among some of the men 
 round him, as they glanced over their shoulders at the 
 two ladies on the back bench. One or two of them 
 half rose, and tried to pull him down. Wharton 
 looked at Marcella ; it seemed to him he saw a sort 
 of passionate satisfaction on her pale face, and in the 
 erect carriage of her head. Then she stooped to the 
 side and whispered to her mother. Mrs. Boyce shook 
 her head and sat on, immovable. All this took but 
 a second or two. 
 
 '• Ah, well," said Wharton, " we won't have names ; 
 that'll do us no good. It's not the men you've got to 
 go for so much — thougli we shall go for them too be- 
 fore long when we've got the law more on our side.
 
 332 MARCELLA. 
 
 It's the system. It's the whole way of dividing the 
 wealth that you made, you and your children — by your 
 work, your hard, slavish, incessant work — between you 
 and those who do7iH work, who live on your labour and 
 grow fat on your poverty ! What we want is a fair 
 division. There ought to be wealth enough — there is 
 wealth enough for all in this blessed country. The 
 earth gives it ; the sun gives it : labour extracts and 
 piles it up. AVhy should one class take three-fourths 
 of it and leave you and your fellow-workers in the 
 cities the miserable pittance which is all you have to 
 starve and breed on ? Why ? — ivhy 9 I say. Why ! — 
 because you are a set of dull, jealous, poor-spirited 
 cowards, unable to pull together, to trust each other, to 
 give up so much as a pot of beer a week for the sake 
 of your children and your liberties and your class — 
 there, thafs why it is, and I tell it you straight 
 out ! " 
 
 He drew himself up, folded his arms across his 
 chest, and looked at them — scorn and denunciation in 
 every line of his young frame, and the blaze of his blue 
 eye. A murmur ran through the room. Some of the 
 men laughed excitedly. Darwin sprang up again. 
 
 " You keep the perlice off us, an' gie us the cuttin' 
 up o' their bloomin' parks an' we'll do it fast enough," 
 he cried. 
 
 "Much good that'll do you, just at present," said 
 Wharton, contemptuously. " Now, you just listen to 
 me." 
 
 And, leaning forward over the desk again, his finger 
 pointed at the room, he went through the regular So- 
 cialist programme as it affects the country districts —
 
 MARCELLA. 333 
 
 the transference of authority within the villages from 
 the few to the many, the landlords taxed more and more 
 heavily during the transition time for the provision 
 of house room, water, light, education and amusement 
 for the labourer ; and ultimately land and capital at 
 the free disposal of the State, to be supplied to the 
 worker on demand at the most moderate terms, while 
 the annexed rent and interest of the capitalist class 
 relieves him of taxes, and the disappearance of squire, 
 State parson, and plutocrat leaves him master in his 
 own house, the slave of no man, the equal of all. 
 And, as a first step to this new Jerusalem — organisa- 
 tion! — self-sacrifice enough to form and maintain a 
 union, to vote for Eadical and Socialist candidates in 
 the teeth of the people who have coals and blankets 
 to give away. 
 
 " Then I suppose you think you'd be turned out of 
 your cottages, dismissed your work, made to smart 
 for it somehow. Just you try ! There are people all 
 over the country ready to back you, if you'd only back 
 yourselves. But you loonH. You won't fight — that's 
 the worst of you; that's what makes all of us sick 
 when we come down to talk to you. You won't spare 
 twopence halfpenny a week from boozing — not you! 
 — to subscribe to a union, and take the first little step 
 towards filling your stomachs and holding your heads 
 up as free men. What's the good of your grumbling ? 
 I suppose you'll go on like that — grumbling and 
 starving and cringing — and talking big of the things 
 you could do if you would : — and all the time not one 
 honest effort — not one! — to better yourselves, to 
 pull the yoke off your necks ! By the Lord ! I tell
 
 334 MARCELLA. 
 
 you it's a damned sort of business talking to fellows 
 like you ! " 
 
 Marcella started as he flung the words out with a 
 bitter, nay, a brutal, emphasis. The smooth-faced min- 
 ister coughed loudly with a sudden movement, half 
 got up to remonstrate, and then thought better of it. 
 Mrs. Boyce for the first time showed some animation 
 under her veil. Her eyes followed the speaker with 
 a quick attention. 
 
 As for the men, as they turned clumsily to stare at, 
 to laugh, or talk to each other, Marcella could hardly 
 make out whether they were angered or fascinated. 
 Whichever it Avas, Wharton cared for none of them. 
 His blood was up ; his fatigue thrown off. Standing 
 there in front of them, his hands in his pockets, pale 
 with the excitement of speaking, his curly head thrown 
 out against the whitened wall of the chapel, he lashed 
 into the men before him, talking their language, their 
 dialect even; laying bare their weaknesses, sensuali- 
 ties, indecisions ; painting in the sombrest colours the 
 grim truths of their melancholy lives. 
 
 Marcella could hardly breathe. It seemed to her 
 that, among these cottagers, she had never lived till 
 now — under the blaze of these eyes — within the 
 vibration of this voice. Never had she so realised the 
 power of this singular being. He was scourging, dis- 
 secting, the weather-beaten men before him, as, with 
 a difference, he had scourged, dissected her. She 
 found herself exulting in his powers of tyranny, in 
 the naked thrust of his words, so nervous, so pitiless. 
 And then by a sudden flash she thought of him by 
 Mrs. Hurd's fire, the dying child on his knee, against
 
 31 AE CELL A. 335 
 
 his breast. *' Here," she thought, while her pulses 
 leapt, "is the leader for me — for these. Let him call, 
 I will follow." 
 
 It was as though he followed the ranging of her 
 thought, for suddenly, when she and his hearers least 
 expected it, his tone changed, his storm of speech 
 sank. He fell into a strain of quiet sympathy, en- 
 couragement, hope; dwelt with a good deal of homely 
 iteration on the immediate practical steps which each 
 man before him could, if he would, take towards the 
 common end ; spoke of the help and support lying 
 ready for the country labourers throughout demo- 
 cratic England if they would but put forward their 
 own energies and quit themselves like men; pointed 
 forward to a time of plent}^, education, social peace ; 
 and so — with some good-tempered banter of his oppo- 
 nent, old Dodgson, and some precise instructions as to 
 how and where they were to record their votes on the 
 day of election — came to an end. Two or three other 
 speeches followed, and among them a few stumbling 
 words from Hurd. Marcella approved herself and 
 applauded him, as she recognised a sentence or two 
 taken bodily from the Labour Clarion of the preced- 
 ing week. Then a resolution pledging the meeting to 
 support the Liberal candidate was passed unanimously 
 amid evident excitement. It was the first time that 
 such a thing had ever happened in Mellor. 
 
 Mrs. Boyce treated her visitor on their way home 
 with a new respect, mixed, however, as usual, with her 
 prevailing irony. For one who knew her, her manner 
 implied, not that she liked him any more, but that a
 
 336 MARC EL LA. 
 
 man so well trained to his own profession must always 
 hold his own. 
 
 As for Marcella, she said little or nothing. But 
 Wharton, in the dark of the carriage, had a strange 
 sense that her eye was often on him, that her mood 
 marched with his, and that if he could have spoken 
 her response would have been electric. 
 
 When he had helped her out of the carriage, and 
 they stood in the vestibule — Mrs. Boyce having walked 
 on into the hall — he said to her, his voice hoarse with 
 fatigue : 
 
 " Did I do your bidding, did I rouse them ? " 
 
 Marcella was seized with sudden shyness. 
 
 " You rated them enough." 
 
 " Well, did you disapprove ? " 
 
 '' Oh, no ! it seems to be your way.'' 
 
 " My proof of friendship ? Well, can there be a 
 greater ? Will you show me some to-morrow ? " 
 
 " How can I ? " 
 
 "Will you criticise? — tell me where you thought I 
 was a fool to-night, or a hypocrite ? Your mother would." 
 
 " I dare say ! " said Marcella, her breath quickening; 
 " but don't expect it from me." 
 
 " Why ? " 
 
 "Because — because I don't pretend. I don't know 
 whether you roused them, but you roused me." 
 
 She swept on before him into the dark hall, with- 
 out giving him a moment for reply, took her candle, 
 and disappeared. 
 
 Wharton found his own staircase, and went up to 
 bed. The light he carried showed his smiling eyes 
 bent on the ground, his mouth still moving as though 
 with some pleasant desire of speech.
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 Whartox was sitting alone in the big Mellor 
 drawing-room, after dinner. He had drawn one of 
 the few easy chairs the room possessed to the fire, and 
 with his feet on the fender, and one of Mr. Boyce's 
 French novels on his knee, he was intensely enjoying 
 a moment of physical ease. The work of these weeks 
 of canvassing and speaking had been arduous, and he 
 was naturally indolent. Now, beside this fire and at 
 a distance, it amazed him that any motive whatever, 
 public or private, should ever have been strong enough 
 to take him out through the mire on these winter 
 nights to spout himself hoarse to a parcel of rustics. 
 " What did I do it for?" he asked himself; "what 
 am I going to do it for again to-morrow ? " 
 
 Ten o'clock. Mr. Boyce was gone to bed. No 
 more entertainuig of him to be done ; one might be 
 thankful for that mercy. Miss Boyce and her mother 
 would, he supposed, be down directl}^ They had 
 gone up to dress at nine. It was the night of the 
 Maxwell Court ball, and the carriage had been ordered 
 for half-past ten. In a few minutes he would see 
 Miss Boyce in her new dress, wearing Baeburn's pearls. 
 He was extraordinarily observant, and a number of 
 little incidents and domestic arrangements bearing on 
 the feminine side of Marcel la's life had been apparent 
 
 VOL. I. — 22 337
 
 338 MARCELLA. 
 
 to him from the beginning. He knew, for instance, 
 that the trousseau was being made at home, and that 
 during the last few weeks the lady for whom it was 
 destined had shown an indifference to the progress of 
 it which seemed to excite a dumb annoyance in her 
 mother. Curious woman, Mrs. Boyce ! 
 
 He found himself listening to every opening door, 
 and already, as it were, gazing at Marcella in her 
 white array. He was not asked to this ball. As he 
 had early explained . to Miss Boyce, he and Miss 
 Raeburn had been " cuts " for years, for what reason 
 he had of course left Marcella to guess. As if Mar- 
 cella found an}^ difficulty in guessing — as if the pre- 
 posterous bigotries and intolerances of the Ladies' 
 League were not enough to account for any similar 
 behaviour on the part of any similar high-bred spin- 
 ster ! As for this occasion, she was far too proud 
 both on her own behalf and Wharton's to say any- 
 thing either to Lord Maxwell or his sister on the 
 subject of an invitation for her father's guest. 
 
 It so happened, however, that Wharton was aware 
 of certain other reasons for his social exclusion from 
 Maxwell Court. There was no necessity, of course, 
 for enlightening Miss Boyce on the point. But as he 
 sat waiting for her, Wharton's mind went back to the 
 past connected with those reasons. In that past 
 Raeburn had had the whip-hand of him ; Raeburn 
 had been the moral superior dictating indignant terms 
 to a young fellow detected in flagrant misconduct. 
 Wharton did not know that he bore him any particu- 
 lar grudge. But he had never liked Aldous, as a boy, 
 that he could remember ; naturally he had liked him
 
 MARC ELL A. 339 
 
 less since that old affair. The remembrance of it had 
 made his position at jMellor particularly sweet to him 
 from the beginning ; he was not sure that it had not 
 determined his original acceptance of the offer made 
 to him by the Liberal Committee to contest old 
 Dodgson's seat. And during the past few weeks the 
 exhilaration and interest of the general position — 
 considering all things — had been very great. ]S"ot 
 only was he on the point of ousting the Maxwell can- 
 didate from a seat which he had held securely for 
 years — Wharton was i^erf ectly well aware by now 
 that he was trespassing on Aldous Kaeburn's preserves 
 in ways far more important, and infinitely more irri- 
 tating ! He and Raeburn had not met often at Mellor 
 during these weeks of fight. Each had been too 
 busy. But whenever they had come across each other 
 Wharton had clearly perceived that his presence in 
 the house, his growing intimac}' with Marcella Boyce, 
 the free-masonry of opinion between them, the interest 
 she took in his contest, the village friendships they 
 had in common, were all intensely galling to Aldous 
 Raeburn. 
 
 The course of events, indeed, had lately produced 
 in Wharton a certain excitement — recklessness even. 
 He had come down into these parts to court " the joy 
 of eventful living " — politically and personally. But 
 the situation had proved to be actually far more poign- 
 ant and personal than he had expected. This proud, 
 crude, handsome girl — to her certainly it was largely 
 due that the days had flown as they had. He was 
 perfectly, one might almost say gleefully, aware that 
 at the present moment it was he and not Aldous Rae-
 
 340 MAR CELL A. 
 
 burn who was intellectually her master. His mind 
 flew back at first with amusement, then with a thrill 
 of something else, over their talks and quarrels. He 
 smiled gaily as he recalled her fits of anger with him, 
 her remonstrances, appeals — and then her awkward 
 inevitable submissions when he had crushed her with 
 sarcasm or with facts. Ah ! she would go to this ball 
 to-night; Aldous Raeburn would parade her as his 
 possession; but she would go with thoughts, ambi- 
 tions, ideals, which, as they developed, would make 
 her more and more difficult for a Raeburn to deal 
 with. And in those thoughts and ambitions the man 
 who had been her tormentor, teacher, and companion 
 during six rushing weeks knew well that he already 
 counted for much. He had cherished iu her all those 
 ^'divine discontents" which were already there when 
 he first knew her; taught her to formulate them, 
 given her better reasons for them ; so that by now 
 she was a person with a far more defined and stormy 
 will than she had been to begin with. Wharton did 
 not particularly know why he should exult; but he 
 did exult. At any rate, he was prodigiously tickled — 
 entertained — by the whole position. 
 
 A step, a rustle outside — he hastily shut his book 
 and listened. 
 
 The door opened, and Marcella came in — a white 
 vision against the heavy blue of the walls. With her 
 came, too, a sudden strong scent of flowers, for she 
 carried a marvellous bunch of hot-house roses, Aldous's 
 gift, which had just arrived by special messenger. 
 
 Wharton sprang up and placed a chair for her. 
 
 "I had begun to believe the ball only existed in my
 
 M ABC ELL A. 341 
 
 own imagination ! " he said gaily. " Surely you are 
 very late." 
 
 Then he saw that she looked disturbed. 
 
 " It was papa,'' she said, coming to the fire, and 
 looking down into it. '' It lias been another attack of 
 pain — not serious, mamma says ; she is coming down 
 directly. But I wonder why they come, and why he 
 thinks himself so ill — do you know ? " she added 
 abruptly, turning to her companion. 
 
 Wharton hesitated, taken by surprise. During the 
 past weeks, wdiat with Mr. Boyce's confidence and his 
 own acuteness, he had arrived at a very shrewd notion 
 of what was wrong with his host. But he was not 
 going to enlighten tlie daughter. 
 
 ^'I should say your father wants a great deal of 
 care — and is nervous about himself," he said quietly. 
 " But he will get the care — and your mother knows 
 the whole state of the case." 
 
 "Yes, she knows," said Marcella. "I wish I did." 
 
 And a sudden painful expression — of moral worry, 
 remorse — passed across the girl's face. Wharton 
 knew that she had often been impatient of late with 
 her father, and incredulous of his complaints. He 
 thought he understood. 
 
 " One can often be of more use to a sick person if 
 one is not too well acquainted with what ails them," 
 he said. " Hope and cheerfulness are everything in a 
 case like your father's. He wall do well." 
 
 " If he does he won't owe any of it — " 
 
 She stopped as impulsively as she had begun. " To 
 me," she meant to have said; then had retreated 
 hastily, before lier own sense of something undul}^
 
 342 MARCELLA. 
 
 intimate and personal. Wharton stood quietly beside 
 her, saying nothing, but receiving and soothing her 
 self-reproach just as surely as though she had put it 
 into words. 
 
 " You are crushing your flowers, I think," he said 
 suddenly. 
 
 And indeed her roses were dangling against her 
 dress, as if she had forgotten all about them. 
 
 She raised them carelessly, but he bent to smell 
 them, and she held them out. 
 
 " Summer I " he said, plunging his face into them 
 with a long breath of sensuous enjoyment. " How the 
 year sweeps round in an instant I And all the effect 
 of a little heat and a little money. Will you allow 
 me a philosopher's remark ? " 
 
 He drew back from her. His quick inquisitive but 
 still respectful eye took in every delightful detail. 
 
 ''If I don't give you leave, my experience is that 
 you will take it ! " she said, half laughing, half resent- 
 ful, as though she had old aggressions in mind. 
 
 " You admit tlie strength of the temptation ? It is 
 very simple, no one could help making it. To be 
 spectator of the height of anything — the best, the 
 climax — makes any mortal's pulses run. Beauty, 
 success, happiness, for instance ? " 
 
 He paused smiling. She leant a thin hand on the 
 mantelpiece and looked away ; Aldous's pearls slipped 
 backwards along her white arm. 
 
 "Do you suppose to-night will be the height of 
 happiness ? " she said at last with a little scorn. 
 " These functions don't present themselves to me in 
 such a light."
 
 MARCELLA. 343 
 
 Wharton could have laughed out — her pedantry was 
 so young and unconscious. But he restrained himself. 
 
 " I shall be with the majority to-night," he said 
 demurely, " I may as well warn you." 
 
 Her colour rose. No other man had ever dared to 
 speak to her with this assurance, this cool scrutinis- 
 ing air. She told herself to be indignant ; the next 
 moment she ivas indignant, but with herself for 
 remembering conventionalities. 
 
 "Tell me one thing," said Wharton, changing his 
 toue wholly. ^' I know you went down hurriedly to 
 the village before dinner. Was anything wrong ? " 
 
 "Old Patton is very ill," she said, sighing. "I 
 went to ask after him; he may die any moment. 
 And the Hurds' boy too." 
 
 He leant against the mantelpiece, talking to her 
 about both cases with a quick incisive common-sense 
 — not unkind, but without a touch of unnecessary 
 sentiment, still less of the superior person — which 
 represented one of the moods she liked best in him. 
 In speaking of the poor he always took the tone of 
 comradeship, of a plain equality, and the tone was, in 
 fact, genuine. 
 
 " Do you know," he said presently, " I did not tell 
 you before, but I am certain that Kurd's wife is afraid 
 of you, that she has a secret from you ? " 
 
 " From me ! how could she ? I know every detail 
 of their affairs." 
 
 " No matter. I listened to what she said that day 
 in the cottage when I had the boy on my knee. I 
 noticed her face, and I am quite certain. She has a 
 secret, and above all a secret from vou."
 
 344 MARCELLA. 
 
 Marcella looked disturbed for a moment, then she 
 laughed. 
 
 " Oh, no ! " she said, with a little superior air. " I 
 assure you I know her better than you." 
 
 Wharton said no more. 
 
 " Marcella ! " called a distant voice from the hall. 
 
 The girl gathered up her white skirts and her 
 flowers in haste. 
 
 " Good-night ! " 
 
 " Good-night ! I shall hear you come home and 
 wonder how you have sped. One word, if I may ! 
 Take your rdle and play it. There is nothing subjects 
 dislike so much as to see royalty decline its jmrt." 
 
 She laughed, blushed, a little proudly and uncer- 
 tainly, and went without reply. As she shut the door 
 behind her, a sudden flatness fell upon her. She 
 walked through the dark Stone Parlour outside, seeing 
 still the firmly-knit lightly-made figure — boyish, mid- 
 dle-sized, yet never insignificant — the tumbled waves 
 of fair hair, the eyes so keenly blue, the face with its 
 sharp mocking lines, its powers of sudden charm. 
 Then self-reproach leapt, and possessed her. She 
 quickened her pace, hurrying into the hall, as though 
 from something she was ashamed or afraid of. 
 
 In the hall a new sensation awaited her. Her 
 mother, fully dressed, stood waiting by the old billiard- 
 table for her maid, who had gone to fetch her a cloak. 
 
 Marcella stopped an instant in surprise and delight, 
 then ran up to her. "Mamma, how lovely you look! 
 I haven't seen you like that, not since I was a child. 
 I remember you then once, in a low dress, a white 
 dress, with flowers, coming into the nursery. But that
 
 MARC ELL A. 345 
 
 black becomes you so well, and Deacon has done your 
 hair beautifully ! " 
 
 She took her mother's hand and kissed her cheek, 
 touched by an emotion which had many roots. There 
 was infinite relief in this tender natural outlet; she 
 seemed to recover possession of herself. 
 
 Mrs. Boyce bore the kiss quietly. Her face was a 
 little pinched and white. But the unusual display 
 Deacon had been allowed to make of her pale golden 
 hair, still long and abundant; the unveiling of the 
 shapely shoulders and neck, little less beautiful than 
 her daughter's ; the elegant lines of the velvet dress, 
 all these things had very nobly transformed her. ^lar- 
 cella could not restrain her admiration and delight. 
 Mrs. Boyce winced, and, looking upward to the gallery, 
 which ran round the hall, called Deacon impatiently. 
 
 " Only, mamma," said Marcella, discontentedly, " I 
 don't like that little chain round your neck. It is not 
 equal to the rest, not worthy of it." 
 
 "I have nothing else, my dear," said Mrs. Boyce, 
 drily. " Now, Deacon, don't be all night ! " 
 
 Nothing else ? Yet, if she shut her eyes, Marcella 
 could perfectly recall the diamonds on the neck and 
 arms of that white figure of her childhood — could see 
 herself as a baby playing Avith the treasures of her 
 mother's jewel-box. 
 
 Nowadaj's, Mrs. Boyce was very secretive and re- 
 served about her personal possessions. Marcella never 
 went into her room unless she was asked, and would 
 never have thought of treating it or its contents with 
 any freedom. 
 
 The mean chain which Avent so ill with the costly
 
 346 MARCELLA. 
 
 hoarded dress — it recalled to Marcella all the inex- 
 orable silent miseries of her mother's past life, and all 
 the sordid disadvantages and troubles of her own 
 youth. She followed Mrs. Boyce out to the carriage 
 in silence — once more in a tumult of sore pride and 
 doubtful feeling. 
 
 Four weeks to her wedding-day ! The words dinned 
 in her ears as they drove along. Yet they sounded 
 strange to her, incredible almost. How much did she 
 know of Aldous, of her life that was to be — above 
 all, how much of herself? She was not happy — had 
 not been happy or at ease for many days. Yet in her 
 restlessness she could think nothing out. Moreover, 
 the chain that galled and curbed her was a chain of 
 character. In spite of her modernuess, and the com- 
 plexity of many of her motives, there was certain in- 
 herited simplicities of nature at the bottom of her. 
 In her wild demonic childhood you could always trust 
 Marcie Boyce, if she had given you her word — her 
 schoolfellows knew that. If her passions were half- 
 civilised and southern, her way of understanding the 
 point of honour was curiously English, sober, tenacious. 
 So now. Her sense of bond to Aldous had never been 
 in the least touched by any of her dissatisfactions and 
 revolts. Yet it rushed upon her to-night with amaze- 
 ment, and that in four weeks she was going to marry 
 him ! Why ? how ? — what would it really mean for 
 him and for lier ? It was as though in mid-stream she 
 were trying to pit herself for an instant against the 
 current which had so far carried them all on, to see 
 what it might be like to retrace a step, and could only
 
 MARC ELL A. 347 
 
 realise with dismay the force and rapidity of the 
 water. 
 
 Yet all the time another side of her was well aware 
 that she was at that moment the envy of half a county, 
 that in another ten minutes hundreds of eager and 
 critical eyes would be upon her ; and her pride was 
 rising to her part. The little incident of the chain 
 had somehow for the moment made the ball and her 
 place in it more attractive to her. 
 
 They had no sooner stepped from their carriage than 
 Aldous, who was waiting in the outer hall, joyously 
 discovered them. Till tlien he had been walking aim- 
 lessly amid the crowd of his own guests, wondering 
 when she would come, how she would like it. This 
 splendid function had been his grandfather's idea ; it 
 would never have entered his own head for a moment. 
 Yet he understood his grandfather's wish to present 
 his heir's promised bride in this public ceremonious 
 way to the society of which she would some day be 
 the natural leader. He understood, too, that there 
 was more in the wish than met the ear; that the 
 occasion meant to Lord ^Maxwell, whether Dick Boyce 
 were there or no, the final condoning of things past 
 and done with, a final throwing of the Maxwell shield 
 over the Boyce weakness, and full adoption of ^lar- 
 cella into her new family. 
 
 All this he understood and was grateful for. But 
 how would she respond ? How would she like it — 
 this parade that was to be made of her — these peo- 
 ple that must be introduced to her ? He was full of 
 anxieties.
 
 348 MAECELLA. 
 
 Yet in many ways his mind had been easier of late. 
 During the last week she had been very gentle and 
 good to him — even Miss Raeburn had been pleased 
 with her. There had been no quoting of Wharton 
 when they met ; and he had done his philosopher's 
 best to forget him. He trusted her proudly, intensely ; 
 and in four weeks she would be his wife. 
 
 " Can you bear it ? " he said to her in a laughing 
 whisper as she and her mother emerged from the 
 cloak-room. 
 
 " Tell me what do do," she said, flushing. ^' I will 
 do my best. What a crowd ! Must we stay very 
 long ? " 
 
 ''Ah, my dear Mrs. Boyce," cried Lord Maxwell, 
 meeting them on the steps of the inner quadrangular 
 corridor — " Welcome indeed ! Let me take you in. 
 Marcella ! with Aldous's permission ! " he stooped his 
 white head gallantly and kissed her on the cheek — 
 " Remember I am an old man ; if I choose to pay you 
 compliments, you will have to put up with them ! " 
 
 Then he offered Mrs. Boyce his arm, a stately figure 
 in his ribbon and cross of the Bath. A delicate red 
 had risen to that lady's thin cheek in spite of her 
 self-possession. " Poor thing," said Lord Maxwell to 
 himself as he led her along — "poor thing! — how 
 distinguished and charming still ! One sees to-night 
 what she was like as a girl." 
 
 Aldous and Marcella followed. They had to pass 
 along the great corridor which ran round the quadran- 
 gle of the house. The antique marbles which lined 
 it were to-night masked in flowers, and seats covered 
 in red had been fitted in wherever it was possible, and
 
 MARCELLA. 349 
 
 were now crowded with dancers '• sitting out." From 
 the ball-room ahead came waves of waltz-music ; the 
 ancient house was alive with colour and perfume, with 
 the sounds of laughter and talk, lightly fretting, and 
 breaking the swaying rhythms of the band. Beyond 
 the windows of the corridor, which had been left un- 
 curtained because of the beauty of the night, the 
 stiff Tudor garden with its fountains, which filled up 
 the quadrangle, was gaily illuminated under a bright 
 moon ; and amid all the varied colour of lamps, 
 drapery, dresses, faces, the antique heads ranged 
 along the walls of the corridor — here Marcus Aure- 
 lius, there Trajan, there Seneca — and the marble 
 sarcophagi which broke the line at intervals, stood in 
 cold, whitish relief. 
 
 Marcella passed along on Aldous's arm, conscious 
 that people were streaming into the corridor from all 
 the rooms opening upon it, and that every eye was 
 fixed upon her and her mother. " Look, there she is," 
 she heard in an excited girl's voice as they passed 
 Lord Maxwell's library, now abandoned to the crowd 
 like all the rest. "Come, quick ! There — I told you 
 she was lovely ! " 
 
 Every now and then some old friend, man or 
 woman, rose smiling from the seats along the side, and 
 Aldous introduced his bride. 
 
 " On her dignity ! " said an old hunting squire to 
 his daughter when they had passed. '^ Shy, no doubt 
 — very natural ! But nowadays girls, when they're 
 shy, don't giggle and blush as they used to in my 
 young days ; they look as if you meant to insult 
 them, and they weren't going to allow it ! Oh, very
 
 350 MARCEL LA. 
 
 handsome — very handsome — of course. But you 
 can see she's advanced — peculiar — or what d'ye call 
 it ? — woman's rights, I suppose, and all that kind of 
 thing ? Like to see you go in for it, Nettie, eh ! " 
 
 " She's aivfuUy handsome," sighed his pink-cheeked, 
 insignificant little daughter, still craning her neck to 
 look — " very simply dressed too, except for those 
 lovely pearls. She does her hair very oddly, so low 
 down — in those plaits. Nobody does it like that 
 nowadays." 
 
 " That's because nobody has such a head," said her 
 brother, a young Hussar lieutenant, beside her, in the 
 tone of connoisseurship. '* By George, she's ripping — 
 she's the best-looking girl I've seen for a good long 
 time. But she's a Tartar, I'll swear — looks it, any- 
 way." 
 
 "Every one says she has the most extraordinary 
 opinions," said the girl, eagerly. " She'll manage him, 
 don't you think ? I'm sure he's very meek and 
 mild." 
 
 " Don't know that," said the young man, twisting 
 his moustache with the air of exhaustive information. 
 " Raeburn's a very good fellow — excellent fellow — 
 see him shooting, you know — that kind of thing. I 
 expect he's got a will when he wants it. The mother's 
 handsome, too, and looks a lady. The father's kept 
 out of the way, I see. Bather a blessing for the 
 Raeburns. Can't be pleasant, you know, to get a 
 man like that in the family. Look after your spoons 
 — that kind of thing." 
 
 Meanwhile Marcella was standing beside Miss 
 Baeburn, at the head of the long ball-room, and doing
 
 MARCELLA. 351 
 
 her best to behave prettily. One after another she 
 bowed to, or shook hands with, half the magnates of 
 the county — the men in pink, the women in the new 
 London dresses, for which this brilliant and long- 
 expected ball had given so welcome an excuse. They 
 knew little or nothing of her, except that she was 
 clearly good-looking, that she was that fellow Dick 
 Boyce's daughter and was reported to be " odd." 
 Some, mostly men, who said their conventional few 
 words to her, felt an amused admiration for the skill 
 and rapidity with which she had captured the por^?* 
 of the county ; some, mostly women, were already 
 jealous of her. A few of the older people here and 
 there, both men and women — but after all they shook 
 hands like the rest! — knew perfectly well that the 
 girl must be going through an ordeal, were touched by 
 the signs of thought and storm in the face, and looked 
 back at her with kind eyes. 
 
 But of these last Marcella realised nothing. What 
 she was saying to herself was that, if they knew little 
 of her, she knew a great deal of many of them. In 
 their talks over the Stone Parlour fire she and Whar- 
 ton had gone through most of the properties, large 
 and small, of his division, and indeed of the divisions 
 round, by the help of the knowledge he had gained in 
 his canvass, together with a blue-book — one of the 
 numberless ! — recently issued, on the state of the 
 midland labourer. He had abounded in anecdote, 
 sarcasm, reflection, based partly on his own experi- 
 ences, partly on his endless talks with the working- 
 folk, now in the public-house, now at their own 
 chimney-corner. Marcella, indeed, had a large unsus-
 
 352 MARCELLA. 
 
 pected acquaintance with the county before she met 
 it in the flesh. She knew that a great many of these 
 men who came and spoke to her were doing their best 
 according to their lights, that improvements were 
 going on, that times were mending. But there were 
 abuses enough still, and the abuses were far more 
 vividly present to her than the improvements. In 
 general, the people who thronged these splendid 
 rooms were to her merely the incompetent members 
 of a useless class. The nation would do away with 
 them in time ! Meanwhile it might at least be asked 
 of them that they should practise their profession of 
 landowning, such as it was, with greater conscience 
 and intelligence — that they should not shirk its 
 opportunities or idle them away. And she could 
 point out those who did both — scandalously, intol- 
 erably. Once or twice she thought passionately of 
 Minta Hurd, washing and mending all day, in her 
 damp cottage ; or of the Pattons in " the parish 
 house," thankful after sixty years of toil for a hovel 
 where the rain came through the thatch, and where 
 the smoke choked you, unless, with the thermometer 
 below freezing-point, you opened the door to the blast. 
 Why should these people have all the gay clothes, the 
 flowers, the jewels, the delicate food — all the delight 
 and allthe leisure ? And those, nothing ! Her soul 
 rose against what she saw as she stood there, going 
 through her part. Wharton's very words, every in- 
 flection of his voice was in her ears, playing chorus 
 to the scene. 
 
 But when these first introductions, these little 
 empty talks of three or four phrases apiece, and all
 
 31 AR CELL A. 353 
 
 of them alike, were nearly done with, Marcella looked 
 eagerl}^ round for Mary Harden. There she was, sit- 
 ting quietly against the wall in a remote corner, her 
 plain face all smiles, her little feet dancing under the 
 white muslin frock which she had fashioned for her- 
 self with so much pain under Marcella's directions. 
 Miss Raeburn was called away to find an arm-chair 
 for some dowager of importance; Marcella took ad- 
 vantage of the break and of the end- of a dance to 
 hurry down the room to ]SIary. Aldous, who was 
 talking to old Sir Charles Leven, Frank's father, a 
 few steps off, nodded and smiled to her as he saw her 
 move. 
 
 " Have you been dancing, Mary ? " she said severely. 
 
 " I wouldn't for worlds ! 1 never was so much 
 amused in my life. Look at those girls — those 
 sisters — in the huge velvet sleeves, like coloured 
 balloons ! — and that old lady in the pink tulle and 
 diamonds. — I do so want to get her her cloak ! And 
 those Lancers ! — I never could have imagined people 
 danced like that. They didn't dance them — they 
 romped them ! It wasn't beautiful — was it ? " 
 
 " Why do you expect an English crowd to do any- 
 thing beautiful ? If we could do it, we should be too 
 ashamed." 
 
 "But it is beautiful, all the same, you scornful per- 
 son!" cried Mary, dragging her friend down beside 
 her. " How pretty the girls are ! And as for the 
 diamonds, I never saw anything so wonderful. I wish 
 I could have made Charles come ! " 
 
 " Wouldn't he ? " 
 
 " Xo " — she looked a little troubled — " he couldn't 
 
 VOL. 1,-23
 
 854 M ABC ELLA. 
 
 think it would be quite right. But I don't know — a 
 sight like this takes me off my feet, shakes me up, 
 and does me a world of good ! " 
 
 " You dear, simple thing ! " said Marcella, slipping 
 her hand into Mary's as it lay on the bench. 
 
 "Oh, you needn't l)e so superior !" cried Mary, — 
 " not for another year at least. 1 don't believe you 
 are much more used to it than I am ! " 
 
 "If you mean," said Marcelhi, " that I was never at 
 anything so big and splendid as this before, you are 
 quite right." 
 
 And she looked round the room with that curious, 
 cold air of personal detachment from all she saw, which 
 had often struck Mary, and to-night made her indig- 
 nant. 
 
 " Then enjoy it ! " she said, laughing and frowning 
 at the same time. " That's a much more plain duty 
 for you than it was for Charles to stay at home — 
 there ! Haven't you been dancing? " 
 
 " No, Mr. Raeburn doesn't dance. But he thinks 
 he can get through the next Lancers if I will steer 
 him." 
 
 " Then I shall find a seat where I can look at you," 
 said Mary, decidedly. " Ah, there is Mr. Raeburn 
 coming to introduce somebody to you. I knew they 
 wouldn't let you sit here long." 
 
 Aldous brought up a young Guardsman, who boldly 
 asked Miss Boyce for the pleasure of a dance. Mar- 
 cella consented ; and off they swept into a room which 
 was only just beginning to fill for the new dance, and 
 where, therefore, for the moment the young grace of 
 both had free play. Marcella had been an indefati-
 
 MARC ELL A. 355 
 
 gable dancer in the old London days at those students' 
 parties, with their dyed gloves and lemonade suppers, 
 which were running in her head now, as she swayed 
 to the rhythm of this perfect band. The mere delight 
 in movement came back to her ; and while they 
 danced, she danced with all her heart. Then in the 
 pauses she would lean against the wall beside her 
 partner, and rack her brain to find a word to say to 
 him. As for anything that he said, every word — 
 whether of Ascot, or the last Academ}^, or the new 
 plays, or the hunting and the elections — sounded to 
 her more vapid than the last. 
 
 Meanwhile Aldous stood near Mary Harden and 
 watched the dancing figure. He had never seen her 
 dance before. Mary shyly stole a look at him from 
 time to time. 
 
 " Well," he said at last, stooping to his neighbour, 
 " what are you thinking of ? " 
 
 ^' I think she is a dream ! " said Mary, flushing with 
 the pleasure of being able to say it. They were great 
 friends, he and she, and to-night somehow she was not 
 a bit afraid of him. 
 
 Aldous's eye sparkled a moment ; then he looked 
 down at her with a kind smile. 
 
 " If you suppose I am going to let you sit here all 
 night, you are very much mistaken. Marcella gave me 
 precise instructions. I am going off this moment to 
 find somebody." 
 
 " Mr. Kaeburn — don't ! " cried Mary, catching at 
 him. But he was gone, and she was left in trepida- 
 tion, imagining the sort of formidable young man who 
 was soon to be presented to her, and shaking at the 
 thought of him.
 
 356 MABCELLA. 
 
 AVhen the dance was over Marcella returned to 
 Miss Eaeburn, who was standing at the door into the 
 corridor and had beckoned to her. She went through 
 a number of new introductions, and declared to herself 
 that she was doing all she could. Miss Eaeburn was 
 not so well satisfied. 
 
 " Why can't she smile and chatter like other girls ? " 
 thought Aunt Xeta, impatiently. " It's her ' ideas,' I 
 suppose. What rubbish! There, now — just see the 
 difference ! *' 
 
 Eor at the moment Lady Winterbourne came up, 
 and instantly Marcella was all smiles and talk, hold- 
 ing her friend by both hands, clinging to her almost. 
 
 '' Oh, do come here ! " she said, leading her into a 
 corner. '' There's such a crowd, and I say all the 
 wrong things. There ! " with a sigh of relief. "Xow 
 I feel myself protected." 
 
 " I mustn't keep you," said Lady Winterbourne, a 
 little taken aback by her effusion. ''Everybody is 
 wanting to talk to you." 
 
 " Oh, I know ! There is Miss Eaeburn looking at 
 me severely already. But I must do as I like a 
 little." 
 
 " You ought to do as Aldous likes," said Lady AYin- 
 terbourne, suddenly, in her deepest and most tragic 
 voice. It seemed to her a moment had come for ad- 
 monition, and she seized it hastily. 
 
 Marcella stared at her in surprise. She knew by 
 now that when Lady Winterbourne looked most for- 
 bidding she was in reality most shy. But still she was 
 taken aback. 
 
 '• Why do you say that, I wonder ? " she asked, half
 
 MARCELLA. 357 
 
 reproachfully. "I have been behaving mj^self quite 
 nicely — I have indeed ; at least, as nicely as I knew 
 how." 
 
 Lady Winterbounie's tragic air yielded to a slow 
 smile. 
 
 "You look very well, my dear. That white be- 
 comes you charmingly ; so do the pearls. I don't 
 wonder that Aldous always knows where you are." 
 
 Marcella raised her ej'es and caught those of Aldous 
 fixed upon her from the other side of the room. She 
 blushed, smiled slightly, and looked away. 
 
 "Who is that tall man just gone up to speak to 
 him ? " she asked of her companion. 
 
 "That is Lord Wandle," said Lady Winterbourne, 
 "and his plain second wife behind him. Edward 
 always scolds me for not admiring him. He says 
 women know nothing at all about men's looks, and 
 that Lord Wandle was the most splendid man of his 
 time. But I always think it an unpleasant face." 
 
 " Lord Wandle ! " exclaimed Marcella, frowning. 
 " Oh, please come with me, dear Lady Winterbourne ! 
 I know he is asking Aldous to introduce him, and I 
 w^on't — no I will not — be introduced to him." 
 
 And laying hold of her astonished companion, she 
 drew her hastily through a doorway near, walked 
 quickly, still gripping her, through two connected 
 rooms beyond, and finally landed her and herself on a 
 sofa in Lord Maxwell's library, pursued meanwhile 
 through all her hurried course by the curious looks of 
 an observant throng. 
 
 " That man ! — no, that would really have been too 
 much!" said JNIarcella, using her large feather fan 
 with stormy energy.
 
 358 MABCELLA. 
 
 " What is the matter with you, my dear ? " said 
 Lady Wiiiterbourne in her amazement ; '-and what is 
 the matter with Lord Wandle ? " 
 
 " You must know ! " said Marcella, indignantly. 
 ''Oh, you must have seen that case in the paper last 
 week — that shocking case! A woman and two chil- 
 dren died in one of his cottages of blood-poisoning — 
 nothing in the world but his neglect — his brutal 
 neglect ! " Her breast heaved ; she seemed almost on 
 the point of weeping. " The agent was appealed to 
 
 — did nothing. Then the clergyman wrote to him 
 direct, and got an answer. The answer was pub- 
 lished. For cruel insolence I never saw anything 
 like it ! He ought to be in prison for manslaughter 
 
 — and he comes here! And people laugh and talk 
 with him ! " 
 
 She stopped, almost choked by her own passion. 
 But the incident, after all, Avas only the spark to the 
 mine. 
 
 Lady Winterbourne stared at her helplessly. 
 
 " Perhaps it isn't true," she suggested. '• The news- 
 papers put in so many lies, especially about us — the 
 landlords. Edward says one ought never to believe 
 them. Ah, here comes Aldous." 
 
 Aldous, indeed, with some perplexity on his brow, 
 was to be seen approaching, looking for his betrothed. 
 Marcella dropped her fan and sat erect, her angry 
 colour fading into whiteness. 
 
 " My darling ! I couldn't think what had become of 
 you. May I bring Lord Wandle and introduce him 
 to you ? He is an old friend here, and my godfather. 
 Not that I am particularly proud of the relationship,"
 
 MARCELLA. 359 
 
 he said, dropping his voice as he stooped over her. 
 "He is a soured, disagreeable fellow, and I hate many 
 of the things he does. But it is an old tie, and my 
 grandfather is tender of such things. Only a word or 
 two ; then I will get rid of him." 
 
 " Aldous, I cajiH,'' said ]\[arcella, looking up at him. 
 '• How could I ? I saw that case. I must be rude to him." 
 
 Aldous looked considerably disturbed. 
 
 " It was very bad," he said slowly. " I didn't know 
 you had seen it. What shall I do ? I promised to go 
 back for him." 
 
 •^ Lord Wandle — Miss Boyce ! " said ^liss Rae- 
 burn's sharp little voice behind Aldous. Aldous, 
 moving aside in hasty dismay, saw his aunt, looking- 
 very determined, presenting her tall neighbour, who 
 bowed with old-fashioned deference to the girl on the 
 sofa. 
 
 Lady AVinterbourne looked with trepidation at 
 Marcella. But the social instinct held, to some ex- 
 tent. Ninety-nine women can threaten a scene of the 
 kind Lady Winterbourne dreaded, for one that can 
 carry it through. Marcella wavered ; then, with her 
 most forbidding air, she made a scarcely perceptible 
 return of Lord Wandle's bow. 
 
 " Did you escape in here out of the heat ? " he asked 
 her. " But I am afraid no one lets you escape to-night. 
 The occasion is too interesting." 
 
 Marcella made no reply. Lady Winterbourne threw 
 in a nervous remark on the crowd. 
 
 "Oh, yes, a great crush," said Lord Wandle. "Of 
 course, we all come to see Aldous happy. How long 
 is it, Miss Boyce, since you settled at Mellor ? "
 
 S60 MAUCELLA. 
 
 "Six months." 
 
 She looked straight before her and not at him as 
 she ans^vered, and her tone made Miss Raeburn's blood 
 boil. 
 
 Lord Wandle — a battered, coarsened, but still mag- 
 nificent-looking man of sixt}^ — examined the speaker 
 an instant from half-shut eyes, then put up his hand to 
 his moustache with a half-smile. 
 
 " You like the country ? " 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 As she spoke her reluctant monosyllable, the girl 
 had really no conception of the degree of hostility ex- 
 pressed in her manner. Instead she was hating herself 
 for her own pusillanimity. 
 
 " And the people ? " 
 
 " Some of them." 
 
 And straightway she raised her fierce black eyes to 
 his, and the man before her understood, as plainly as 
 any one need understand, that, whoever else Miss Boyce 
 might like, she did not like Lord Wandle, and wished 
 for no more conversation with him. 
 
 Her interrogator turned to Aldous with smiling 
 aplomb. 
 
 '' Thank you, my dear Aldous. Now let me retire. 
 No one must monopolise j^our charming lady." 
 
 And again he bowed low to her, this time with 
 an ironical emphasis not to be mistaken, and walked 
 away. 
 
 Lady Winterbourne saw him go up to his wife, who 
 had followed him at a distance, and speak to her 
 roughly with a frown. They left the room, and 
 presently, through the other door of the library which
 
 MARCELLA. 361 
 
 opened on the corridor, she saw them pass, as though 
 they were going to their carriage. 
 
 Marcella rose. She looked first at Miss Eaeburn — 
 then at Aldoiis. 
 
 " Will you take me away ? " she said, going up to 
 him ; " I am tired — take me to your room." 
 
 He put her hand inside his arm, and they pushed 
 their way through the crowd. Outside in the passage 
 they met Hallin. He had not seen her before, and he 
 put out his hand. But there was something distant in 
 his gentle greeting which struck at this moment like a 
 bruise on Marcella's quivering nerves. It came across 
 her that for some time past he had made no further 
 advances to her ; that his first eager talk of friendship 
 between himself and her had dropped ; that his accept- 
 ance of her into his world and Aldous's was somehow 
 suspended — in abeyance. She bit her lip tightly and 
 hurried Aldous along. Again the same lines of gay, 
 chatting people along the corridor, and on either side 
 of the wide staircase — greetings, introduction — a 
 nightmare of publicity. 
 
 "Rather pronounced — to carry him off like that," 
 said a clergyman to his wife with a kindly smile, as 
 the two tall figures disappeared along the upper gal- 
 lery. "She will have him all to herself before long." 
 
 Aldous shut the door of his sitting-room behind 
 them. Marcella quickly drew her hand out of his 
 arm, and going forward to the mantelpiece rested both 
 elbows upon it and hid her face. 
 
 He looked at her a moment in distress and astonish- 
 ment, standing a little apart. Then he saw that she
 
 362 MARC ELL A. 
 
 was crying. The colour flooded into his face, and 
 going up to her he took her hand, which was all she 
 would yield him, and, holding it to his lips, said in 
 her ear every soothing tender word that love's tutor- 
 ing could bring to mind. In his emotion he told him- 
 self and her that he admired and loved her the more 
 for the incident dow^nstairs, for the temper she had 
 shown ! She alone among them all had had the cour- 
 age to strike the true stern Christian note. As to the 
 annoyance such courage might bring upon him and 
 her in the future — even as to the trouble it might 
 cause his own dear folk — what real matter ? In 
 these things she should lead. 
 
 What could love have asked better than such a 
 moment? Yet Marcella's weeping was in truth the 
 weeping of despair. This man's very sweetness to 
 her, his very assumption of the right to comfort and 
 approve her, roused in her a desperate stifled sense of 
 bonds that should never have been made, and that 
 now could not be broken. It was all plain to her at 
 last. His touch had no thrill for her; his frown no 
 terror. She had accepted him without loving him, 
 coveting what he could give her. And now^ it seemed 
 to her that she cared nothing for anything he could 
 give !^ that the life before her was to be one series 
 of petty conflicts between her and a surrounding cir- 
 cumstance which must inevitably in the end be too 
 strong for her, conflicts from which neither heart nor 
 ambition could gain anything. She had desired a 
 great position for what she might do with it. But 
 what could she do with it ! She would be subdued — 
 oh ! very quickly ! — to great houses and great people.
 
 MARCELLA. 363 
 
 and all the vapid pomp and idle toil of wealth. All 
 that picture of herself, stooping from place and power, 
 to bind up the wounds of the people, in which she had 
 once delighted, was to her now a mere flimsy vulgar- 
 ity. She had been shown other ideals — other ways 
 
 — and her pulses were still swaying under the audacity 
 
 — the virile inventive force of the showman. Every- 
 thing she had once desired looked flat to her ; every- 
 thing she was not to have, glowed and shone. Poverty, 
 adventure, passion, the joys of self-realisation — these 
 she gave up. She would become Lady Maxwell, make 
 friends with Miss Raeburn, and wear the family dia- 
 monds ! 
 
 Then, in the midst of her rage with herself and 
 fate, she drew herself away, looked up, and caught full 
 the e3^es of Aldous Raeburn. Conscience stung and 
 burned. What was this life she had dared to trifle 
 with — this man she had dared to treat as a mere 
 pawn in her own game ? She gave way utterly, 
 appalled at her own misdoing, and behaved like a 
 penitent child. Aldous, astonished and alarmed by 
 her emotions and by the wild incoherent things she 
 said, won his way at last to some moments of divine 
 happiness, when, leaving her trembling hand in his, 
 she sat submissively beside him, gradually quieting 
 down, summoning back her smiles and her beauty, and 
 letting him call her all the fond names he would.
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 Scarcely a word was exchanged between Marcella 
 and lier motlier on the drive home. Yet under ordi- 
 nary circumstances Marcella' s imagination would 
 have found some painful exercise in the effort to find 
 out in what spirit her mother had taken the evening 
 — the first social festivity in which Eichard Boyce's 
 wife had taken part for sixteen years. In fact, Mrs. 
 Boyce had gone through it very quietly. After her 
 first public entry on Lord Maxwell's arm she had sat 
 in her corner, taking keen note of everything, enjoy- 
 ing probably the humours of her kind. Several old 
 acquaintances who had seen her at Mellor as a young 
 wife in her first married years had come up with some 
 trepidation to speak to her. She had received them 
 with her usual well-bred indifference, and they had 
 gone away under the impression that she regarded 
 herself as restored to society by this great match that 
 her daughter was making. Lady Winterbourne had 
 been shyly and therefore formidably kind to her; and 
 both Lord Maxwell and Miss Ilaeburn had been gen- 
 uinely interested in smoothing the effort to her as 
 much as they could. She meanwhile watched Mar- 
 cella — except through the encounter with Lord 
 Wandle, which she did not see — and found some real 
 pleasure in talking both to Aldous and to Hallin. 
 
 Yet all through she was preoccupied, and towards 
 364
 
 MARCELLA. 365 
 
 the end very anxious to get home, a state of mind 
 which prevented her from noticing ^Marcella's changed 
 looks after her reappearance with Ahlous in the ball- 
 room, as closely as she otherwise might have done. 
 Yet the mother had observed that the end of Mar- 
 cella's progress had been somewhat different from the 
 beginning; that the girl's greetings had been gen- 
 tler, her smiles softer; and that in particular she had 
 taken some pains, some wistful pains, to make Hallin 
 talk to her. Lord Maxwell — ignorant of the Wandle 
 incident — was charmed with her, and openly said so, 
 both to the mother and Lady Winterbourne, in his 
 hearty old man's way. Only Miss Raeburn held in- 
 dignantly aloof, and would not pretend, even to Mrs. 
 Boyce. 
 
 And now Marcella was tired — dead tired, she said 
 to herself, both in mind and body. She lay back 
 in the carriage, trying to sink herself in her own 
 fatigue, to forget everything, to think of nothing. 
 Outside the night was mild, and the moon clear. For 
 some days past, after the break up of the long frost, 
 there had been heavy rain. Xow the rain had cleared 
 away, and in the air there was already an early 
 promise of spring. As she walked home from the 
 village that afternoon she had felt the buds and the 
 fields stirring. 
 
 When they got home, Mrs. Boyce turned to her 
 daughter at the head of the stairs, "Shall I unlace 
 your dress, ]\rarcella? " 
 
 "Oh no, thank you. Can I help you?" 
 
 "No. Good-night." 
 
 "Mamma!" Marcella turned and ran after her.
 
 366 MA EC ELL A. 
 
 " I should like to know how papa is. I will wait here 
 if you will tell me." 
 
 Mrs. Boyce looked surprised. Then she went into 
 her room and shut the door. jMarcella waited out- 
 side, leaning against the old oak gallery which ran 
 round the hall, her candle the one spot of light and 
 life in the great dark house. 
 
 "He seems to have slept well," said Mrs. Boyce, 
 reappearing, and speaking under her breath. "He 
 has not taken the opiate I left for him, so he cannot 
 have been in pain. Good-night." 
 
 Marcella kissed her and went. Somehow, in her 
 depression of nerve and will, she was loth to go away 
 by herself. The loneliness of the night, and of her 
 wing of the house, weighed upon her ; the noises made 
 by the old boards under her steps, the rustling draughts 
 from the dark passages to right and left startled and 
 troubled her ; she found herself childishly fearing lest 
 her candle should go out. 
 
 Yet, as she descended the two steps to the passage 
 outside her door, she could have felt little practical 
 need of it, for the moonlight was streaming in through 
 its uncovered windows, not directly, but reflected 
 from the Tudor front of the house which ran at right 
 angles to this passage, and was to-night a shining 
 silver palace, every battlement, window, and mould- 
 ing in sharpest light and shade under the radiance of 
 the night. Beneath her feet, as she looked out into 
 the Cedar Garden, was a deep triangle of shadow, 
 thrown by that part of the building in which she 
 stood; and beyond the garden the barred black masses 
 of the cedars closing up the view lent additional magic
 
 MARCELLA. 367 
 
 to the glittering unsubstantial fabric of the moonlit 
 house, which was, as it were, embosomed and framed 
 among them. She paused a moment, struck by the 
 strangeness and beauty of the spectacle. The Tudor 
 front had the air of some fairy banqueting-hall lit by 
 unearthly hands for some weird gathering of ghostly 
 knights. Then she turned to her room, impatiently 
 longing in her sick fatigue to be quit of her dress and 
 ornaments and tumble into sleep. 
 
 Yet she made no hurry. She fell on the first chair 
 that offered. Her candle behind her had little power 
 over the glooms of the dark tapestried room, but it 
 did serve to illuminate the lines of her own form, as 
 she saw it reflected in the big glass of her wardrobe, 
 straight in front of her. She sat with her hands 
 round her knees, absently looking at herself, a white 
 long-limbed apparition struck out of the darkness. 
 But she was conscious of nothing save one mounting 
 overwhelming passionate desire, almost a cry. 
 
 Mr. Wharton must go away — he 7nnst — or she 
 could not bear it. 
 
 Quick alternations of insight, memory, self-recog- 
 nition, self-surrender, rose and broke upon her. At 
 last, physical weariness recalled her. She put up her 
 hands to take off her pearls. 
 
 As she did so, she started, hearing a noise that 
 made her turn her head. Just outside her door a 
 little spiral staircase led down from her corridor to 
 the one below, which ran at the back of the old library, 
 and opened into the Cedar Garden at its further end. 
 
 Steps surely — light steps — along the corridor 
 outside, and on the staircase. Xor did they die
 
 368 MARC ELLA. 
 
 away. She could still hear them, — as she sat, 
 arrested, straining her ears, — pacing slowly along 
 the lower passage. 
 
 Her heart, after its pause, leapt into fluttering life. 
 This room of hers, the two passages, the library, and 
 the staircase, represented that part of the house to 
 which the ghost stories of Mellor clung most persist- 
 ently. Substantially the block of building was of 
 early Tudor date, but the passages and the staircase 
 had been alterations made with some clumsiness at 
 the time of the erection of the eighteenth-century 
 front, with a view to bringing these older rooms into 
 the general plan. Marcella, however, might demon- 
 strate as she pleased that the Boyce who was sup- 
 posed to have stabbed himself on the staircase died 
 at least forty years before the staircase was made. 
 None the less, no servant would go alone, if she could 
 help it, into either passage after dark; and there was 
 much excited marvelling how Miss Boyce could sleep 
 where she did. Deacon abounded in stories of things 
 spiritual and peripatetic, of steps, groans, lights in 
 the library, and the rest. Marcella had consistently 
 laughed at her. 
 
 Yet all the same she had made in secret a very dili- 
 gent pursuit of this ghost, settling in the end to a 
 certain pique with him that he would not show him- 
 self to so ardent a daughter of the house. She had 
 sat up waiting for him; she had lingered in the corri- 
 dor outside, and on the stairs, expecting him. By 
 the help of a favourite carpenter she had made re- 
 searches into roofs, water-pipes, panelling, and old 
 cupboards, in the hope of finding a practical clue to 
 him. In vain.
 
 MARCELLA. 369 
 
 Yet here were the steps — regular, soft, unmistaka- 
 ble. The colour rushed back into her cheeks! Her 
 eager healthy youth forgot its woes, flung off its weari- 
 ness, and panted tor an adventure, a discovery. Spring- 
 ing up, she threw her fur wrap round her again, and 
 gently opened the door, listening. 
 
 For a minute, nothing — then a few vague sounds 
 as of something living and moving down below — 
 surely in the library? Then the steps again. Im- 
 possible that it should be any one breaking in. Xo 
 burglar would walk so leisurely. She closed her door 
 behind her, and, gathering her white satin skirts about 
 her, she descended the staircase. 
 
 The corridor below was in radiant moonlight, 
 chequered by the few pieces of old furniture it con- 
 tained, and the black and white of the old portrait 
 prints hanging on the walls. At first her seeking, 
 excited eyes could make out nothing. Then in a flash 
 they perceived the figure of Wharton at the further 
 end near the garden door, leaning against one of the 
 windows. He was apparently looking out at the 
 moonlit house, and she caught the faint odour of a 
 cigarette. 
 
 Her first instinct was to turn and fly. But Whar- 
 ton had seen her. As he looked about him at the 
 sound of her approach, the moon, which was just 
 rounding the corner of the house, struck on her full, 
 amid the shadows of the staircase, and she heard his 
 exclamation. 
 
 Dignity — a natural pride — made her pause. She 
 came forward slowly — he eagerly. 
 
 "I heard footsteps," she said, with a coldness 
 
 VOL. I. 2J:
 
 370 MARCEL LA. 
 
 under which he plainly saw her embarrassment. '' I 
 could not suppose that anybody was still up, so I 
 came down to see." 
 
 He was silent a moment, scanning her with laugh- 
 ing eyes. Then he shook his head. "Confess you 
 took me for the ghost?" he said. 
 
 , She hesitated; then must laugh too. She herself 
 had told him the stories, so that his guess was natural. 
 
 "Perhaps I did," she said. "One more disappoint- 
 ment! Good-night." 
 
 He looked after her a quick undecided moment as 
 she made a step in front of him, then at the half- 
 burnt cigarette he held in his hand, threw the end 
 away with a hasty gesture, overtook her and walked 
 beside her along the corridor. 
 
 " I heard you and your mother come in, " he said, as 
 though explaining himself. "Then I waited till I 
 thought you must both be asleep, and came down 
 here to look at that wonderful effect on the old house. '^ 
 He pointed to the silver palace outside. " I have a 
 trick of being sleepless — a trick, too, of wandering 
 at night. My own people know it, and bear with me, 
 but I am abashed tliat you should have found me out. 
 Just tell me — in one word — how the ball went? " 
 
 He paused at the foot of the stairs, his hands on 
 his sides, as keenly wide-awake as though it were 
 three o'clock in the afternoon instead of three in the 
 morning. 
 
 Womanlike, her mood instantly shaped itself to his. 
 
 "It went very well," she said perversely, putting 
 her satin-slippered foot on the first step. "There 
 were six hundred people upstairs, and four hundred
 
 MARCELLA. 371 
 
 coachmen and footmen downstairs, according to our 
 man. Everybody said it was splendid." 
 
 His piercing enigmatic gaze could not leave her. 
 As he had often frankly warned her, he was a man in 
 quest of sensations. Certainly, in this strange meet- 
 ing with Aldous Raeburn's betrothed, in the midst of 
 the sleep-bound house, he had found one. Her eyes 
 were heavy, her cheek pale. But in this soft vague 
 light — w^hite arms and neck now hidden, now re- 
 vealed by the cloak she had thrown about her glisten- 
 ing satin — she was more enchanting than he had 
 ever seen her. His breath quickened. 
 
 He said to himself that he would make Miss Boyce 
 stay and talk to him. What harm — to her or to 
 Raeburn? Raeburn would have chances enough be- 
 fore long. Why admit his monopoly before the time? 
 She was not in love with him! As to Mrs. Grundy 
 — absurd ! What in the tru-e reasonableness of things 
 was to prevent human beings from conversing by 
 night as well as by day? 
 
 ''One moment" — he said, delaying her. "You 
 must be dead tired — too tired for romance. Else I 
 should say to you, turn aside an instant and look at 
 the library. It is a sight to remember." 
 
 Inevitably she glanced behind her, and saw that 
 the library door was ajar. He flung it open, and the 
 great room showed wide, its high domed roof lost in 
 shadow, while along the bare floor and up the latticed 
 books crept, here streaks and fingers, and there wide 
 breadths of light from the unshuttered and curtainless 
 windows. 
 
 "Isn't it the very poetry of night and solitude?"
 
 372 MARCELLA. 
 
 he said, looking in with her. "You love the place; 
 but did you ever see it so lovable? The dead are 
 here; you did right to come and seek them! Look at 
 your namesake, in that ray. To-night she lives! 
 She knows that is her husband opposite — those are 
 her books beside her. And the rebel! " — he pointed 
 smiling to the portrait of John Boyce. ''When you 
 are gone I shall shut myself up here — sit in his 
 chair, invoke him — and put my speech together. I 
 am nervous about to-morrow" (he was bound, as she 
 knew, to a large Labour Congress in the ^lidlands, 
 where he was to preside), "and sleep will make no 
 terms with me. Ah! — how strange! Who can that 
 be passing the avenue?" 
 
 He made a step or two into the room, and put up 
 his hand to his brow, looking intently. Involunta- 
 rily, yet with a thrill, Marcella followed. They 
 walked to the window. 
 
 "It is Hurcl!^^ she cried in a tone of distress, 
 pressing her face against the glass. "Out at this 
 time, and with a gun ! Oh, dear, dear ! " 
 
 There could be no question that it was Hurd. 
 Wharton had seen him linger in the shadowy edge of 
 the avenue, as though reconnoitring, and now, as he 
 stealthily crossed the moonlit grass, his slouching 
 dwarf's figure, his large head, and the short gun 
 under his arm, were all plainly visible. 
 
 "What do you suppose he is after? " said Wharton, 
 still gazing, his hands in his pockets. 
 
 "I don't know; he wouldn't poach on our land; 
 I'm sure he wouldn't! Besides, there is nothing to 
 poach." — Wharton smiled. — "He must be going,
 
 MARCELLA. 373 
 
 after all, to Lord Maxwell's coverts ! They are just 
 beyond the avenue, on the side of the hill. Oh! it is 
 too disappointing! Can we do anything?" 
 
 She looked at her' companion with troubled eyes. 
 This incursion of something sadly and humanly real 
 seemed suddenly to have made it natural to be stand- 
 ing beside him there at that strange hour. Her con- 
 science was soothed. 
 
 Wharton shook his head. 
 
 "I don't see what we could do. How strong the 
 instinct is! I told 3^ou that woman had a secret. 
 Well, it is only one form — the squalid peasant's 
 form — of the same instinct which sends the young 
 fellows of our class ruffling it and chancing it all. over 
 the world. It is the instinct to take one's fling, to 
 get out of the rut, to claim one's innings against the 
 powers that be — iS"ature, or the law, or convention." 
 
 " I know all that — I never blame them ! " — cried 
 Marcella — " but just now it is so monstrous — so 
 dangerous ! Westall specially alert — and this gang 
 about! Besides, I got him work from Lord Max- 
 well, and made him promise me — for the wife and 
 children's sake." 
 
 Wharton shrugged his shoulders. 
 
 "I should think Westall is right, and that the gang 
 have got hold of him. It is what always happens. 
 The local man is the catspaw. — So you are sorry for 
 him — this man?" he said in another tone, facing 
 round upon her. 
 
 She looked astonished, and drew herself up ner- 
 vously, turning at the same time to leave the room. 
 But before she could reply he hurried on:
 
 374 MABCELLA. 
 
 " He — may escape liis risk. Give your pity, Miss 
 Boyce, rather to one — who has not escaped ! " 
 
 "I don't know what 3'ou mean," she said, uncon- 
 sciously laying a hand on one of the old chairs beside 
 her to steady herself. "But it is too late to talk. 
 Good-night, Mr. AVharton." 
 
 "Good-bye," he said quietly, yet with a low em- 
 phasis, at the same time moving out of her path. 
 She stopped, hesitating. Beneath the lace and faded 
 flowers on her breast he could see how her heart beat. 
 
 "^NTot good-bye? You are coming back after the 
 meeting?" 
 
 "I think not. I must not inflict myself — on Mrs. 
 Boyce — any more. You will all be very busy during 
 the next three Aveeks. It would be an intrusion if I 
 were to come back at such a time — especially — con- 
 sidering the fact " — he spoke slowly — " that I am as 
 distasteful as I now know myself to be, to your future 
 husband. Since you all left to-night the house has 
 been very quiet. I sat over the Are thinking. It 
 grew clear to me. I must go, and go at once. Besides 
 — a lonely man as I am must not risk his nerve. 
 His task is set him, and there are none to stand by 
 him if he fails.'' 
 
 She trembled all over. Weariness and excitement 
 made normal self-control almost impossible. 
 
 "Well, then, I must say thank you," she said indis- 
 tinctly, "for you have taught me a great deal." 
 
 " You will unlearn it ! " he said gaily, recovering 
 his self-possession, scf it seemed, as she lost hers. 
 " Besides, before many weeks are over you will have 
 heard hard things of me. I know that very well. I
 
 MARCELLA. 375 
 
 can say nothing to meet them. Xor should I attempt 
 anything. It may sound brazen, but that past of 
 mine, which I can see perpetually present in Aldous 
 Raeburn's mind, for instance, and which means so 
 much to his good aunt, means to me just nothing at 
 all ! The doctrine of identity must be true — I must 
 be the same person I was then. But, all the same, 
 what I did then does not matter a straw to me now. 
 To all practical purposes I am another man. I was 
 then a youth, idle, desoeiivre, playing with all the keys 
 of life in turn. I have now unlocked the path that 
 suits me. Its quest has transformed me — as I be- 
 lieve, ennobled me. I do not ask Raeburn or any one 
 else to believe it. It is my own affair. Only, if we 
 ever meet again in life, you and I, and 3'ou think you 
 have reason to ask humiliation of me, do not ask it, 
 do not expect it. The man you will have in your 
 mind has nothing to do with me. I will not be 
 answerable for his sins." 
 
 As he said these things he was leaning lightly for- 
 ward, looking up at her, his arms resting on the back 
 of one of the old chairs, one foot crossed over the 
 other. The attitude was easy calm itself. The tone 
 
 — indomitable, analytic, reflective — matched it. Yet, 
 all the same, her woman's instinct divined a hidden 
 agitation, and, woman-like, responded to that and that 
 only. 
 
 "Mr. Raeburn will never tell me old stories about 
 anybody," she said proudly. "I asked him once, out 
 
 — out of curiosity — about you, and he would tell me 
 nothing." 
 
 " Generous ! " said Wharton, drily. " I am grateful."
 
 376 MAIWELLA. 
 
 "No! " cried Marcella, indignantly, rushing blindly 
 at the outlet for emotion. "No! — you are not grate- 
 ful; you are always judging him harshly — criticising, 
 despising what he does." 
 
 Wharton was silent a moment. Even in the moon- 
 light she could see the reddening of his cheek. 
 
 " So be it," he said at last. " I submit. You must 
 know best. But you? are you always content? Does 
 this milieu into which you are passing always satisfy 
 you? To-night, did your royalty please you? will it 
 soon be enough for you? " 
 
 "You know it is not enough," she broke out, hotly; 
 " it is insulting that you should ask in that tone. It 
 means that you think me a hypocrite ! — and I have 
 given you no cause — " 
 
 " Good heavens, no ! " he exclaimed, interrupting 
 her, and speaking in a low, hurried voice. " I had no 
 motive, no reason for what I said — none — but this, 
 that you are going — that we are parting. I spoke in 
 gibes to make you speak — somehow to strike — to 
 reach you. To-morrow it will be too late! " 
 
 And before, almost, she knew that he had moved, 
 he had stooped forward, caught a fold of her dress, 
 pressed it to his lips, and dropped it. 
 
 "Don't speak," he said brokenly, springing up, and 
 standing before her in her path. " Y^ou shall forgive 
 me — I will compel it! See! here w^e are on this 
 moonlit space of floor, alone, in the night. Very 
 probably we shall never meet again, except as stran- 
 gers. Put off convention, and speak to me, soul to 
 soul ! You are not happy altogether in this marriage. 
 I know it. Y^ou have as good as confessed it. Yet
 
 MARCELLA. 377 
 
 you will go through with it. You have given your 
 word — your honour holds you. I recognise that it 
 holds you. I say nothing, not a syllable, against your 
 bond! But here, to-night, tell me, promise me that 
 you will make this marriage of yours serve our hopes 
 and ends, the ends that you and I have foreseen to- 
 gether — that it shall be your instrument, not your 
 chain. "We have been six weeks together. You say 
 you have learnt from me; you have! you have given 
 me your mind, your heart to write on, and I have 
 written. Henceforward you will never look at life 
 as you might have done if I had not been here. Do 
 you think I triumph, that I boast? Ah! " he drew in 
 his breath — " What if in helping you, and teaching 
 you — for I have helped and taught you! — I have 
 undone myself? What if I came here the slave of 
 impersonal causes, of ends not my own? What if I 
 leave — maimed — in face of the battle? Not your 
 fault? No, perhaps not! but, at least, you owe me 
 some gentleness now, in these last words — some kind- 
 ness in farewell." 
 
 He came closer, held out his hands. With one of 
 her own she put his back, and lifted the other dizzily 
 to her forehead. 
 
 " Don't come near me ! " she said, tottering. " What 
 is it? I cannot see. Go! " 
 
 And guiding herself, as though blindfold, to a chaii', 
 she sank upon it, and her head dropped. It was tlie 
 natural result of a moment of intense excitement com- 
 ing upon nerves already strained and tried to theii- 
 utmost. She fought desperately against her weak- 
 ness; but there was a moment when all around her 
 swam, and she knew nothing.
 
 378 MARC ELL A. 
 
 Then came a strange awakening. What was this 
 room, this weird light, these unfamiliar forms of 
 things, this warm support against which her cheek 
 lay? She opened her eyes languidly. They met 
 Wharton's half in wonder. He was kneeling beside 
 her, holding her. But for an instant she realised 
 nothing except his look, to which her own helplessly 
 replied. 
 
 " Once ! " she heard him whisper. " Once ! Then 
 nothing more — for ever." 
 
 And stooping, slowly, deliberately, he kissed her. 
 
 In a stinging flow, life, shame, returned upon her. 
 She struggled to her feet, pushing him from her. 
 
 "You dared," she said, ^^ dared such a thing! " 
 
 She could say no more; but her attitude, fiercely 
 instinct, through all her physical weakness, with her 
 roused best self, was speech enough. He did not ven- 
 ture to approach her. She walked away. He heard 
 the door close, hurrying steps on the little stairs, then 
 silence. 
 
 He remained where she had left him, leaning 
 against the latticed wall for some time. When he 
 moved it was to pick up a piece of maidenhair which 
 had dropped from her dress. 
 
 "That was a scene! " he said, looking at it, and at 
 the trembling of his own hand. " It carries one back 
 to the days of the Romantics. Was I Alfred de 
 Musset? — and she George Sand? Did any of them 
 ever taste a more poignant moment than I — when she 
 
 — lay upon my breast? To be helpless — yet yield 
 nothing — it challenged me ! Yet I took no advantage 
 
 — none. When she looked — when her eye, her soul,
 
 MABCELLA. 379 
 
 was, for that instant, mine, then ! — Well ! — the world 
 has rushed with me since I saw her on the stairs ; life 
 can bring me nothing of such a quality again. What 
 did I say? — how much did I mean? My God! how 
 can I tell? I began as an actor, did I finish as a 
 
 man 
 
 9" 
 
 He paced up and down, thinking ; gradually, by the 
 help of an iron will quieting down each rebellious 
 pulse. 
 
 " That poacher fellow did me a good turn. Dare ! 
 the word galled. But, after all, what woman could 
 say less? And what matter? I have held her in my 
 arms, in a setting — under a moon — worthy of her. 
 Is not life enriched thereby bej'ond robbery? And 
 what harm? Eaeburn is not injured. She will never 
 tell — and neither of us will ever forget. Ah ! — what 
 was that?" 
 
 He walked quickly to the window. What he had 
 heard had been a dull report coming apparently from 
 the woods beyond the eastern side of the avenue. As 
 he reached the window it was followed by a second. 
 
 "That poacher's gun? — no doubt!" — he strained 
 his eyes in vain — " Collision perhaps — and mischief? 
 No matter ! I have nothing to do with it. The world 
 is all lyric for me to-night. I can hear in it no other 
 rhythm." 
 
 The night passed away. When the winter morning 
 broke, Marcella was lying with wide sleepless eyes, 
 waiting and pining for it. Her candle still burnt 
 beside her; she had had no courage for darkness, nor 
 the smallest desire for sleep. She had gone through
 
 380 MARCELLA. 
 
 shame and anguish. But she would have scorned to 
 pity herself. Was it not her natural, inevitable por- 
 tion? 
 
 "I will tell Aldous everything — everythiyig," she 
 said to herself for the hundredth time, as the light 
 penetrated. "Was that only seven striking — seven 
 — impossible ! " 
 
 She sat up haggard and restless, hardly able to bear 
 the thought of the hours that must pass before she 
 could see Aldous — put all to the touch. 
 
 Suddenly she remembered Hurd — then old Patton. 
 
 "He was dying last night," she thought, in her 
 moral torment — her passion to get away from her- 
 self. "Is he gone? This is the hour when old 
 people die — the dawn. I will go and see — go at 
 once." 
 
 She sprang up. To baffle this ache within her by 
 some act of repentance, of social amends, however 
 small, however futile — to propitiate herself, if but by 
 a hairbreadth — this, no doubt, Avas the instinct at 
 work. She dressed hastily, glad of the cold, glad of 
 the effort she had to make against the stiffness of her 
 own young bones — glad of her hunger and f aintness, 
 of everything physically hard that had to be fought 
 and conc[uered. 
 
 In a very short time she had passed quietly down- 
 stairs and through the hall, greatly to the amazement 
 of William, who opened the front door for her. Once 
 in the village road the damp raw air revived her 
 greatly. She lifted her hot temples to it, welcoming 
 the waves of wet mist that swept along the road, feel- 
 ing her youth come back to her.
 
 MARC ELL A. 381 
 
 Suddenly as she was nearing the end of a narrow 
 bit of lane between high hedges, and the first houses 
 of the village were in sight, she was stopped by a 
 noise behind her — a strange unaccountable noise as 
 of women's voices, calling and wailing. It startled 
 and frightened her, and she stood in the middle of the 
 road waiting. 
 
 Then she saAv coming towards her two women run- 
 ning at full speed, crying and shouting, their aprons 
 up to their faces. 
 
 "What is it? What is the matter?" she asked, 
 going to meet them, and recognising two labourers' 
 wives she knew. 
 
 "Oh I miss — oh! miss!" said the foremost, too 
 wrapt up in her news to be surprised at the sight of 
 her. "They've just found him — they're bringin' ov 
 'im home; they've got a shutter from Muster W^ellin! 
 'im at Disley Farm. It wor close by Disley wood 
 they found 'em. And there's one ov 'is men they've 
 sent off ridin' for the inspector — here he come, miss! 
 Come out o' th' way! " 
 
 They dragged her back, and a young labourer gal- 
 loped past them on a farm colt, urging it on to its full 
 pace, his face red and set. 
 
 "Who is found? " cried Marcella — "What is it? " 
 
 " Westall, miss — Lor' bless you — Shot him in the 
 head they did — blowed his brains right out — and 
 Charlie Dynes — oh! he's knocked about shamful — 
 the doctor don't give no hopes of him. Oh deary — 
 deary me ! And we're goin' for Muster Harden — ee 
 must tell the widder — or ]\liss Mary — none on us 
 can!"
 
 382 MARCELLA. 
 
 "And who did it? " said Marcella, pale with horror, 
 holding her. 
 
 " Why the poachers, miss. Them as they've bin 
 waitin' for all along — and they do say as Jim Hurd 's 
 in it. Oh Lord, oh Lord ! " 
 
 Marcella stood petrified, and let them hurry on.
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 The lane was still again, save for the unwonted 
 sounds coming from the groups which had gathered 
 round the two women, and were now moving beside 
 them along the village street a hundred yards ahead. 
 
 Marcella stood in a horror of memory — seeing 
 Kurd's figure cross the moonlit avenue from dark to 
 dark. Where was he ? Had he escaped ? Suddenly 
 she set off running, stung by the thought of what 
 might have already happened under the eyes of that 
 unhappy wife, those wretched children. 
 
 As she entered the village, a young fellow ran up 
 to her in breathless excitement. "They've got 'im, 
 miss. He'd come straight home — 'adn't made no 
 attempt to run. As soon as Jenkins " (Jenkins was 
 the policeman) "beared of it, ee went straight across 
 to 'is house, an' caught 'im. Ee wor goin' to make off 
 — 'is wife 'ad been persuadin' ov 'im all night. But 
 they've got him, miss, sure enough!" 
 
 The lad's exultation was horrible. Marcella waved 
 him aside and ran on. A man on horseback appeared 
 on the road in front of her leading from Widrington 
 to the village. She recognised Aldous Raeburn, who 
 had checked his horse in sudden amazement as he 
 saw her talking to the boy. 
 
 " My darling ! what are you here for ? Oh ! go 
 383 ^
 
 384 MARCELLA, 
 
 home — go Jio^ne I — out of this horrible business. 
 They have sent for me as a magistrate. Dynes is 
 alive — I heg you! — go home! " 
 
 She shook her head, out of breath and speechless 
 with running. At the same moment she and he, 
 looking to the right, caught sight of the crowd stand- 
 ing in front of Hurd's cottage. 
 
 A man ran out from it, seeing the horse and its 
 rider. 
 
 " Muster Raeburn ! Muster Kaeburn ! They've 
 cotched 'im ; Jenkins has got 'im." 
 
 " Ah ! " said Aldous, drawing a long, stern breath ; 
 '•he didn't try to get off then? Marcella! — ^you are 
 not going there — to that house! " 
 
 He spoke in a tone of the strongest remonstrance. 
 Her soul rose in anger against it. 
 
 " I am going to /ier," she said panting ; — " don't 
 wait." 
 
 And she left him and hurried on. 
 
 As soon as the crowd round the cottage saw her 
 coming, they divided to let her pass. 
 
 " She's quiet now, miss," said a woman to her sig- 
 nificantly, nodding towards the hovel. " Just after 
 Jenkins got in you could hear her crying out pitiful." 
 
 " That was when they wor a-handcuffin' him," said 
 a man beside her. 
 
 Marcella shuddered. 
 
 '^ Will they let me in? " she asked. 
 
 " They won't let none ov us in," said the man. 
 " There's Hurd's sister," and he pointed to a weeping 
 woman supported by two others. ''They've kep' her 
 out. But here's the inspector, miss ; you ask him."
 
 MARCELLA. 385 
 
 The inspector, a shrewd officer of long experience, 
 fetched in haste from a mile's distance, galloped up, 
 and gave his horse to a boy. 
 
 Marcella went up to him. 
 
 He looked at her with sharp interrogation. " You 
 are Miss Boyce ? Miss Boyce of Mellor ? " 
 
 " Yes, I want to go to the wife ; I will promise not 
 to get in your way." 
 
 He nodded. The crowd let them pass. The in- 
 spector knocked at the door, which was cautiously 
 unlocked by Jenkins, and the two went in together. 
 
 " She's a queer one," said a thin, weasel-eyed man 
 in the crowd to his neighbour. '' To think o' her 
 bein' in it — at this time o' day. You could see 
 Muster Raeburn was a tellin' of her to go 'ome. But 
 she's alius pampered them Hurds." 
 
 The speaker was Ned Patton, old Patton's son, and 
 Kurd's companion on many a profitable night-walk. 
 It was barely a week since he had been out with 
 Hurd on another ferreting expedition, some of the 
 proceeds of which Avere still hidden in Patton's out- 
 house. But at the present moment he was one of the 
 keenest of the crowd, watching eagerly for the moment 
 when he should see his old comrade come out, trapped 
 and checkmated, bound safely and surely to the 
 gallows. The natural love of incident and change 
 which keeps life healthy had been starved in him by 
 his labourer's condition. This sudden excitement had 
 made a brute of him. 
 
 The man next him grimaced, and took his i)ipe out 
 of his mouth a moment. 
 
 " She won't be able to do notliin' for 'im ! Ther
 
 386 MARCELLA. 
 
 isn't a man nor boy in this 'ere place as didn't know 
 as ee hated Westall like pison, and would be as like as 
 not to do for 'im some day. That'll count agen 'im 
 now terrible strong! Ee wor alius one to blab, ee wor.'^ 
 
 "Well, an' Westall said jus' as much!" struck in 
 another voice ; " theer wor sure to be a fight iv ever 
 Westall got at 'im — on the job. You see — they may 
 bring it in manslarter after all." 
 
 " 'Ow does any one know ee wor there at all ? who 
 seed him ? " inquired a white-haired elderly man, 
 raising a loud quavering voice from the middle of the 
 crowd. 
 
 " Charlie Dynes seed 'im," cried several together. 
 
 " How do yer know ee seed 'im ? " 
 
 From the babel of voices which followed the white- 
 haired man slowly gathered the beginnings of the mat- 
 ter. Charlie Dynes, Westall's assistant, had been first 
 discovered by a horsekeeper in Farmer Wellin's em- 
 ployment as he was going to his work. The lad had 
 been found under a hedge, bleeding and frightfully 
 injured, but still alive. Close beside him was the 
 dead body of Westall with shot-wounds in the head. 
 On being taken to the farm and given brandy, Dynes 
 was asked if he had recognised anybody. He had 
 said there were five of them, " town chaps " ; and then 
 he had named Hurd quite plainly — whether anybody 
 else, nobody knew. It was said he would die, and 
 that INIr. Eaeburn liad gone to take his deposition. 
 
 " An' them town chaps got otf , eh ? " said tlie elderly 
 man. 
 
 ''Clean!" said Patton. lefiUing his pipe. ''Trust 
 them ! "
 
 MARCELLA. 387 
 
 Meanwhile, inside this poor cottage Marcella was 
 putting out all the powers of the soul. As the door 
 closed behind her and the inspector, she saw Hurd sit- 
 ting handcuffed in the middle of the kitchen, watched 
 by a man whom Jenkins, the local policeman, had got 
 in to help him, till some more police should arrive. 
 Jenkins was now upstairs searching the bedroom. 
 The little bronchitic boy sat on the fender, in front of 
 the untidy fireless grate, shivering, his emaciated face 
 like a yellowish white mask, his eyes fixed immovably 
 on his father. Every now and then he Avas shaken 
 with coughing, but still he looked — with the dumb 
 devoted attention of some watching animal. 
 
 Hurd, too, was sitting silent. His eyes, which 
 seemed wider open and more brilliant than usual, 
 wandered restlessly from thing to thing about the 
 room; his great earth-stained hands in their fetters 
 twitched every now and then on his knee. Haggard 
 and dirty as he was, there was a certain aloofness, a 
 dignity even, about the misshapen figure which struck 
 Marcella strange I3'. Both criminal and victim may 
 have it — this dignity. It means that a man feels 
 himself set apart from his kind. 
 
 Hurd started at sight of Marcella. " I want to 
 speak to her," he said hoarsely, as the inspector 
 approached him — " to that lady" — nodding towards 
 her. 
 
 '•Very well," said the inspector; ''only it is my 
 duty to warn you that anything you say now will be 
 taken down and used as evidence at the inquest." 
 
 Marcella came near. As she stood in front of him. 
 one treml)ling ungloved hand crossed over the other,
 
 388 MARCELLA. 
 
 the diamond in lier engagement ring catching the light 
 from the window sparkled brightly, diverting even for 
 the moment the eyes of the little fellow against whom 
 her skirts were brushing. 
 
 "Ee might ha' killed me just as well as I killed 
 'im/' said Hurd, bending over to her and speaking 
 with difficulty from the dryness of his mouth. " I 
 didn't mean nothink o' what happened. He and 
 Charlie came on us round Disley Wood. He didn't 
 take no notice o' them. It was they as beat Charlie. 
 But he came straight on at me — all in a fury — a 
 blackguardin' ov me^ with his stick up. I thought he 
 was for beatin' my brains out, an' I up with my gun 
 and fired. He was so close — that was how he got it 
 all in the head. But ee might 'a' killed me just as 
 well." 
 
 He paused, staring at her with a certain anguished 
 intensity, as though he were watching to see how she 
 took it — nay, trying its effect both on her and him- 
 self. He did not look afraid or cast down — nay, 
 there was a curious buoyancy and steadiness about his 
 manner for the moment which astonished her. She 
 could almost have fancied that he was more alive, 
 more of a man than she had ever seen him — mind 
 and body better fused, more at command, 
 
 " Is there anything more you wish to say to me ? " 
 she asked him, after waiting. 
 
 Then suddenly his manner changed. Their eyes 
 met. Hers, Avith all their subtle inheritance of vari- 
 ous expression, their realised character, as it were, 
 searched his, tried to understand them — those peasant 
 eyes, so piercing to her strained sense in their animal
 
 MARCELLA. 389 
 
 urgenc}^ and sliame. Why had lie done this awful 
 thing ? — deceived her — wrecked his wife ? — that 
 was what her look asked. It seemed to her too 
 childish — too stupid to be believed. 
 
 "I haven't made nobbut a poor return to you, miss," 
 he said in a shambling way, as though the words were 
 dragged out of him. Then he threw up his head 
 again. " But I didn't mean nothiuk o' what hap- 
 pened," he repeated, doggedly going off again into a 
 rapid yet, on the whole, vivid and consecutive account 
 of Westall's attack, to which Marcella listened, try- 
 ing to remember every word. 
 
 '' Keep that for your solicitor," the inspector said at 
 last, interrupting him ; " you are only giving pain to 
 Miss Boyce. You had better let her go to your wife." 
 
 Hurd looked steadily once more at Marcella. " It 
 be a bad end I'm come to," he said, after a moment. 
 " But I thank you kindly all the same. They^ll want 
 seein' after." He jerked his head towards the boy, 
 then towards the outhouse or scullery where his wife 
 was. '• She takes it terr'ble hard. She wanted me to 
 run. But I said, ^ No, I'll stan' it out.' Mr. Brown 
 at the Court '11 give you the bit wages he owes me. 
 But they'll have to go on the Union. Everybody '11 
 turn their backs on them now." 
 
 '' I will look after them," said Marcella, " and I 
 will do the best I can for you. Now I will go to Mrs. 
 Hurd." 
 
 Minta Hurd was sitting in a corner of the outhouse 
 on the clay floor, her head leaning against the wall. 
 The face was turned upward, the eyes shut, the mouth 
 helplessly open. When Marcella saw her, she knew
 
 390 MARCELLA. 
 
 that the unhappy woman had already wept so much 
 in the hours since lier husband came back to her that 
 she coukl weep no more. The two little girls in the 
 scantiest of clothing, half-fastened, sat on the floor 
 beside her, shivering and begrimed — watching her. 
 They had been crying at the tops of their voices, but 
 were now only whimpering miserably, and trying at 
 intervals to dry their tear-stained cheeks with the 
 skirts of their frocks. The baby, wrapped in an old 
 shawl, lay on its mother's knee, asleep and unheeded. 
 The little lean-to place, full of odds and ends of rub- 
 bish, and darkened overhead by a string of damp 
 clothes — was intolerably cold in the damp February 
 dawn. The children were blue ; the mother felt like 
 ice as Marcella stooped to touch her. Outcast misery 
 could go no further. 
 
 The mother moaned as she felt Marcella's hand, then 
 started wildly forward, straining her thin neck and 
 swollen eyes that she might see through the two open 
 doors of the kitchen and the outhouse. 
 
 " They're not taking him away ? " she said fiercely. 
 " Jenkins swore to me they'd give me notice." 
 
 '' Xo, he's still there," said Marcella, her voice shak- 
 ing. " The inspector 's come. You shall have notice." 
 
 Mrs. Hurd recognised her voice, and looked up at 
 her in amazement. 
 
 " You must put this on," said Marcella, taking off 
 the short fur cape she wore. '' You are perished. 
 Give me the baby, and wrap yourself in it." 
 
 But Mrs. Hurd put it away from her with a vehe- 
 ment hand. 
 
 "I'm not cold, miss — I'm barniniJ- hot. He made
 
 MABCELLA. 391 
 
 me come in here. He said he'd do better if the chil- 
 dren and I ud go away a bit. An' I couldn't go upstairs, 
 because — because — " she hid her face on her knees. 
 
 Marcella had a sudden sick vision of the horrors 
 this poor creature nmst have gone through since her 
 husband had appeared to her, splashed with the blood 
 of his enemy, under that same marvellous moon 
 which — 
 
 Her mind repelled its own memories with haste. 
 Moreover, she was aware of the inspector standing 
 at the kitchen door and beckoning to her. She stole 
 across to him so softly that Mrs. Hurd did not hear 
 her. 
 
 '^ We have found all we want," he said in his official 
 tone, but under his breath — '• the clothes anyway. 
 We must now look for the gun. Jenkins is first going 
 to take him off to Widrington. The inquest will be 
 held to-morrow here, at ' The Green IMan.' We shall 
 bring him over." Then he added in another voice, 
 touching his hat, '• I don't like leaving you, miss, in 
 this place. Shall Jenkins go and fetch somebody to 
 look after that poor thing ? They'll be all swarming 
 in here as soon as we've gone." 
 
 "No, I'll stay for a while. I'll look after her. 
 They won't come in if I'm here. Except his sister — 
 Mrs. Mnllins — she may come in, of course, if she 
 wants." 
 
 The inspector hesitated. 
 
 "I'm going now to meet Mr. Raeburn, miss. I'll 
 tell him that you're here." 
 
 " He knows," said Marcella, briefly. " Now are you 
 ready ? "
 
 392 MAP^CELLA. 
 
 He signed assent, and Marcella went back to the 
 wife. 
 
 " Mrs. Hurd/' she said, kneeling on the ground be- 
 side her, ''they're going." 
 
 The wife sprang up with a cry and ran into the 
 kitchen, where Hurd was already on his feet between 
 Jenkins and another policeman, who were to convey 
 him to the gaol at Widrington. But when she came 
 face to face with her husband something — perhaps 
 the nervous appeal in his strained eyes — checked her, 
 and she controlled herself piteously. She did not even 
 attempt to kiss him. With her eyes on the ground, 
 she put her hand on his arm. " They'll let me come 
 and see you, Jim ? " she said, trembling. 
 
 " Yes ; you can find out the rules," he said shortly. 
 " Don't let them children cry. They want their break- 
 fast to warm them. There's plenty of coal. I brought 
 a sack home from Jellaby's last night myself. Good- 
 bye." 
 
 "jSTow, march," said the inspector, sternly, pushing 
 the wife back. 
 
 Marcella put her arm round the shaking woman. 
 The door opened ; and beyond the three figures as they 
 passed out, her eye passed to the waiting crowd, then 
 to the misty expanse of common and the dark woods 
 behind, still wrapped in fog. 
 
 When Mrs. Hurd saw the rows of people waiting 
 within a stone's throw of the door she shrank back. 
 Perhaps it struck her, as it struck Marcella, that every 
 face was the face of a foe. Marcella ran to the door 
 a;S the inspector stepped out, and locked it after him. 
 Mrs. Hurd, hiding herself behind a bit of baize cur-
 
 21 ABC EL LA. 393 
 
 tain, watched the two policemen mount with Hurd 
 into the fly that was waiting, and then followed it 
 with her eyes along the bit of straight road, uttering 
 sounds the while of low anguish, which wrung the 
 heart in Marcella's breast. Looking back in after 
 days it always seemed to her that for this poor soul 
 the true parting, the true wrench between life and 
 life, came at this moment. 
 
 She went up to her, her own tears running over. 
 
 "You must come and lie down," she said, recovering 
 herself as quickl}^ as possible. " You and the children 
 are both starved, and you will want your strength if 
 you are to help him. I will see to things." 
 
 She put the helpless woman on the wooden settle by 
 the fireplace, rolling up her cloak to make a pillow. 
 
 ''Xow, Willie, you sit by your mother. Daisy, 
 where's the cradle ? Put the baby down and come 
 and help me make the fire." 
 
 The dazed children did exactly as they were told, 
 and the mother lay like a log on the settle. Marcella 
 found coal and Avood under Daisy's guidance, and soon 
 lit the fire, piling on the fuel with a lavish hand. 
 Daisy brought her water, and she filled the kettle and 
 set it on to boil, while the little girl, still sobbing at 
 intervals like some little weeping automaton, laid the 
 breakfast. Then the children all crouched round the 
 warmth, while Marcella rubbed their cold hands and 
 feet, and "mothered" them. Shaken as she was with 
 emotion and horror, she was yet full of a passionate 
 joy that this pity, this tendance was allowed to her. 
 The crushing weight of self-contempt had lifted. She 
 felt morally free and at ease.
 
 394 MAR CELL A. 
 
 Already she was revolving what she could do for 
 Hurd. It was as clear as daylight to her that there 
 liad been no murder but a free fight — an even chance 
 between him and Westall. The violence of a hard and 
 tyrannous man had provoked his own destruction — 
 so it stood, for her passionate protesting sense. That 
 at any rate must be the defence, and some able man 
 must be found to press it. She thought she would 
 wa'ite to the Cravens and consult them. Her thoughts 
 carefully avoided the names both of Aldous Eaebum 
 and of Wharton. 
 
 She was about to make the tea when some one 
 knocked at the door. It proved to be Kurd's sister, a 
 helpless woman, with a face swollen by crying, who 
 seemed to be afraid to come into the cottage, and afraid 
 to go near her sister-in-law. Marcella gave her money, 
 and sent her for some eggs to the neighbouring shop, 
 then told her to come back in half an hour and take 
 charge. She was an incapable, but there was nothing 
 better to be done. '•' Where is Miss Harden ? " she 
 asked the Avoman. The answer was that ever since 
 the news came to the village the rector and his sister 
 had been with Mrs. Westall and Charlie Dyne's mother. 
 Mrs. Westall had gone into fit after fit ; it had taken 
 two to hold her, and Charlie's mother, who was in bed 
 recovering from pneumonia, had also been very bad. 
 
 Again Marcella' s heart contracted with rage rather 
 than pity. Such wrack and waste of human life, moral 
 and physical ! for what ? For the protection of a hate- 
 ful sport which demoralised the rich and their agents, 
 no less than it tempted and provoked the poor! 
 
 When she had fed and physically comforted the
 
 MABCELLA. 395 
 
 children, she went and knelt down beside Mrs. Hurd, 
 who still lay Avith closed eyes in heavy-breathing 
 stupor. 
 
 '^ Dear Mrs. Hurd," she said, "I want you to drink 
 this tea and eat something.'' 
 
 The half-stupefied woman signed refusal. But ]\Iar- 
 cella insisted. 
 
 ''You have got to fight for 3-our husband's life," 
 she said firmly, " and to look after your children. I 
 must go in a very short time, and before I go you 
 must tell me all that you can of this business. Hurd 
 would tell you to do it. He knows and you know 
 that I am to be trusted. I want to save him. I shall 
 get a good lawyer to help him. But first you must 
 take this — and then you must talk to me." 
 
 The habit of obedience to a "lady," established 
 long ago in j-ears of domestic service, held. The 
 miserable wife submitted to be fed, looked with for- 
 lorn wonder at the children round the fire, and then 
 sank back with a groan. In her tension of feeling 
 Marcella for an impatient moment thought her a poor 
 creature. Then with quick remorse she put her arms 
 tenderly round her, raised the dishevelled grey- 
 streaked head on her shoulder, and stooping, kissed 
 the marred face, her own lips quivering. 
 
 " You are not alone," saixl the girl with her whole 
 soul. '• You shall never be alone while I live. Now 
 tell me." 
 
 She made the white and gasping woman sit up in a 
 corner of the settle, and she herself got a stool and 
 established herself a little way off, frowning, self- 
 contained, and determined to make out the truth.
 
 396 MARCELLA. 
 
 " Shall I send the cliildren upstairs ? " she asked. 
 
 " Ko ! " said the boy, suddenly, in his husky voice, 
 shaking his head with energy, " I'm not a-going." 
 
 " Oh ! he's safe — is Willie," said Mrs. Hurd, look- 
 ing at him, but strangely, and as it Avere from a long 
 distance, '• and the others is too little." 
 
 Then gradually Marcella got the story out of her — 
 first, the misery of alarm and anxiety in which she 
 had lived ever since the Tudley End raid, owing first 
 to her knowledge of Kurd's connection with it, and 
 with the gang that had carried it out ; then to her 
 appreciation of the quick and ghastly growth of the 
 hatred between him and Westall ; lastly, to her sense 
 of ingratitude towards those who had been kind to 
 them. 
 
 " I knew we was acting bad towards you. I told 
 Jim so. I couldn't hardly bear to see you come in. 
 But there, miss, — I couldn't do anything. I tried, 
 oh ! the Lord knows I tried ! There was never no 
 happiness between us at last, I talked so. But I don't 
 believe he could help himself — he's not made like 
 other folks, isn't Jim — " 
 
 Her features became convulsed again with the 
 struggle for speech. Marcella reached out for the 
 toil-disligured hand that was fingering and clutching 
 at the edge of the settle, and held it close. Gradually 
 she made out that although Hurd had not been able of 
 course to conceal his night absences from his wife, he 
 had kept his connection with the Oxford gang abso- 
 lutely dark from her, till, in his wild exultation over 
 Westall's discomfiture in the Tudley End raid, he had 
 said things in his restless snatches of sleep which
 
 3fARCELLA. 397 
 
 had enabled her to get the whole truth out of him 
 by degrees. Her reproaches, her fears, had merely 
 angered and estranged him ; her nature had had some- 
 how to accommodate itself to his, lest affection should 
 lose its miserable all. 
 
 As to this last fatal attack on the Maxwell coverts, 
 it was clear to Marcella, as she questioned and listened, 
 that the wife had long foreseen it, and that she now 
 knew much more about it than — suddenly — she would 
 allow herself to say. For in the midst of her out- 
 pourings she drew herself together, tried to collect 
 and calm herself, looked at Marcella with an agonised, 
 suspicious eye, and fell silent. 
 
 "I don't know nothing about it, miss," she stub- 
 bornly declared at last, with an inconsequent absurdity 
 which smote Marcella's pity afresh. '-'How am I to 
 know ? There was seven o' them Oxford fellows at 
 Tudley End — that I know. Who's to say as Jim was 
 with 'em at all last night ? Who's to say as it wasn't 
 them as — " 
 
 She stopped, shivering. Marcella held her reluctant 
 hand. 
 
 "You don't know," she said quietly, '-that I saw 
 your husband in here for a minute before I came in 
 to you, and that he told me, as he had already told 
 Jenkins, that it was in a struggle with him that 
 Westall was shot, but that he had tired in self-defence 
 because Westall was attacking him. You don't know, 
 too, that Charlie Dynes is alive, and says he saw 
 Kurd — " 
 
 " Charlie Dynes ! " Mrs. Hurd gave a shriek, and 
 then fell to weeping and trembling again, so that 
 Marcella had need of patience.
 
 398 MARCELLA. 
 
 "If you can't help me more," she said at last in 
 despair, '' I don't know what we shall do. Listen to 
 me. Your husband will be charged with AVestall's 
 murder. That I am sure of. He says it was not 
 murder — that it happened in a fight. I believe it. I 
 want to get a lawyer to prove it. I am your friend — 
 you know I am. But if you are not going to help me 
 by telling me what you know of last night I may as 
 well go home — and get your sister-in-law to look after 
 you and the children." 
 
 She rose as she spoke. Mrs. Hurd clutched at her. 
 
 "Oh, my God!" she said, looking straight before 
 her vacantly at the children, who at once began to cry 
 again. " O/i, my God! Look here, miss" — her voice 
 dropped, her swollen eyes fixed themselves on Marcella 
 — the words came out in a low, hurried stream — " It 
 was just after four o'clock I heard that door turn ; I 
 got up in my nightgown and ran down, and there was 
 Jim. • Put that light out,' he says to me, sharp like. 
 ' Oh, Jim,' says I, ' wherever have you been ? You'll 
 be the death o' me and them poor children ! ' ' You 
 go to bed,' says he to me, 'and I'll come presently.' 
 But I could see him, 'cos of the moon, almost as plain 
 as day, an' I couldn't take my eyes off him. And he 
 went about the kitchen so strange like, puttin' down 
 his hat and takin' it up again, an' I saw he hadn't got 
 his gun. So I went up and caught holt on him. An' 
 he gave me a push back. ' Can't you let me alone ? ' 
 he says ; 'you'll know soon enough.' An' then I looked 
 at my sleeve where I'd touched him — oh, my God ! 
 my God ! " 
 
 Marcella, white to the lips and shuddering too.
 
 MABCELLA. 399 
 
 held her tight. She had the seeing faculty which 
 goes with such quick, nervous natures, aud she saw 
 the scene as though she had been there — the moon- 
 lit cottage, the miserable husband and wife, the life- 
 blood on the woman's sleeve. 
 
 Mrs. Hurd went on in a torrent of half-finished 
 sentences and fragments of remembered talk. She 
 told her husband's story of the encounter with the 
 keepers as he had told it to her, of course with ad- 
 ditions and modifications already struck out b}^ the 
 agony of inventive pain ; she described how she had 
 made him take his blood-stained clothes and hide them 
 in a hole in the roof ; then how she had urged him 
 to strike across country at once and get a few hours 
 start before the ghastly business was known. But 
 the more he talked to her the more confident he be- 
 came of his own story, and the more determined to 
 stay and brave it out. Besides, he was shrewd enough 
 to see that escape for a man of his deformity was im- 
 possible, and he tried to make her understand it so. 
 But she was mad and blind with fear, and at last, just 
 as the light was coming in, he told her roughly, to 
 end their long wrestle, that he should go to bed and 
 get some sleep. She would make a fool of him, and 
 he should want all his wits. She followed him up 
 the steep ladder to their room, weeping. And there 
 was little Willie sitting up in bed, choking with the 
 phlegm in his throat, and half dead of fright because 
 of the voices l)elow. 
 
 '•And when Hurd see him, he went and cuddled 
 him up, and rubbed his legs and feet to warm them, 
 an' I could hear him groanin'. And I says to him.
 
 400 MABCELLA. 
 
 'Jim, if you won't go for my sake, will you go for 
 the boy's ? ' For you see, miss, there was a bit of 
 money in the house, an' I thought he'd hide himself 
 by day and walk by night, and so get to Liverpool 
 perhaps, and off to the States. An' it seemed as 
 though my head would burst with listening for people 
 comin', and him taken up there like a rat in a trap, an' 
 no way of provin' the truth, and everybody agen him, 
 because of the things he'd said. And he burst out 
 a-cryin', an' Willie cried. An' I came an' entreated of 
 him. An' he kissed me ; an' at last he said he'd go. 
 An' I made haste, the light was getting so terrible 
 strong ; an' just as he'd got to the foot of the stairs, 
 an' I was holding little Willie in my arms an' saying 
 good-bye to him — " 
 
 She let her head sink against the settle. There 
 was no more to say, and Marcella asked no more 
 questions — she sat thinking. Willie stood, a wasted, 
 worn figure, by his mother, stroking her face ; his 
 hoarse breathing was for the time the only sound in 
 the cottage. 
 
 Then Marcella heard a loud knock at the door. 
 She got up and looked through the casement window. 
 The crowd had mostly dispersed, but a few people 
 stood about on the green, and a policeman was sta- 
 tioned outside the cottage. On the steps stood Aldous 
 Eaeburn, his horse held behind him by a boy. 
 
 She went and opened the door. 
 
 " I will come," she said at once. " There — I see 
 Mrs. Mullins crossing the common. !N^ow I can leave 
 her." 
 
 Aldous, taking off his hat, closed the door behind
 
 MABCELLA. 401 
 
 him, and stood with his hand on ^Marcella's arm, look- 
 ing at the huddled woman on the settle, at the pale 
 children. There was a solemnity in his expression, 
 a mixture of judgment and pity wldch showed that 
 the emotion of other scenes also — scenes through 
 which he had just passed — was entering into it. 
 
 ''Poor unhappy souls," he said slowly, under his 
 breath. " You say that you have got some one to 
 see after her. She looks as though it might kill her, 
 too." 
 
 jNIarcella nodded. Xow that her task, for the 
 moment, was nearly over, she could hardly restrain 
 herself nervously or keep herself from crying. Aldous 
 observed her with disquiet as she put on her hat. 
 His heart was deeply stirred. She had chosen more 
 nobly for herself than he would have chosen for her, 
 in thus daring an awful experience for the sake of 
 mercy. His moral sense, exalted and awed by the 
 sight of death, approved, worshipped her. His man's 
 impatience i:>ined to get her away, to cherish and com- 
 fort her. Why, she could hardly have slept three 
 hours since they parted on the steps of the Court, 
 amidst the crowd of carriages ! 
 
 Mrs. ^lullins came in still scared and weeping, and 
 dropping frightened curtseys to "Muster Raeburn." 
 Marcella spoke to her a little in a whisper, gave some 
 counsels which filled Aldous with admiration for the 
 girl's practical sense and thoughtfulness, and promised 
 to come again later. jNIrs. Hurd neither moved nor 
 opened her eyes. 
 
 " Can you walk ? " said Aldous, bending over her, 
 as they stood outside the cottage. " I can see that 
 
 VOL. I. — 26
 
 402 MARCELLA. 
 
 you are worn out. Could you sit my horse if I led 
 him ? " 
 
 " 'No, let us walk." 
 
 They went on together, followed by the eyes of 
 the village, the boy leading the horse some distance 
 behind. 
 
 " Where have you been ? " said Marcella, when they 
 had passed the village. " Oh, 2:)lease don't think of 
 my being tired ! I had so much rather know it all. I 
 must know^ it all." 
 
 She w^as deathly pale, but her black eyes flashed 
 impatience and excitement. She even drew her hand 
 out of the arm where Aldous was tenderly holding it, 
 and walked on erect by herself. 
 
 " I have been with poor Dynes," said Aldous, sadly ; 
 " we had to take his deposition. He died while I was 
 there." 
 
 " He died ? " 
 
 " Yes. The fiends who killed him had left small 
 doubt of that. But he lived long enough, thank God, 
 to give the information which will, I think, bring them 
 to justice I " 
 
 The tone of the magistrate and the magnate goaded 
 Marcella's quivering nerves. 
 
 ''What is justice?" she cried; "the system that 
 wastes human lives in protecting your tame pheas- 
 ants ? " 
 
 A cloud came over the stern clearness of his look. 
 He gave a bitter sigh — the sigh of the man to whom 
 his own position in life had been, as it were, one long 
 scruple. 
 
 " You may well ask that ! " he said. " You cannot
 
 MAR CELL A. 403 
 
 imagine that I did not ask it of myself a hundred 
 times as I stood by that poor fellow's bedside." 
 
 They walked on in silence. She was hardly ap- 
 peased. There was a deep, inner excitement in her 
 urging her towards difference, towards attack. At 
 last he resumed : 
 
 ''But w^hatever the merits of our present game 
 SA'stem may be, the present case is surely clear — 
 horribly clear. Six men, with at least three guns 
 among them, probably more, go out on a pheasant- 
 stealing expedition. They come across two keepers, 
 one a lad of seventeen, who have nothing but a light 
 stick apiece. The boy is beaten to death, the keeper 
 shot dead at the first brush by a man who has been 
 his life-long enemy, and threatened several times in 
 public to ' do for him.' If that is not brutal and de- 
 liberate murder, it is difficult to say what is ! " 
 
 Marcella stood still in the misty road trying to 
 command herself. 
 
 " It was not deliberate," she said at last with diffi- 
 cult}^ ; " not in Kurd's case. I have heard it all from 
 liis own mouth. It was a struggle — he might have 
 been killed instead of Westall — Westall attacked, 
 Hurd defended himself." 
 
 Aldous shook his head. 
 
 "Of course Hurd would tell you so," he said sadly, 
 '- and his poor wife. He is not a bad or vicious fellow, 
 like the rest of the rascally pack. Probably wlien he 
 came to himself, after the moment of rage, he could 
 not simply believe what he had done. But that 
 makes no difference. It was murder; no judge (tr 
 jury could possibly take any other view. Dynes's
 
 404 MARCEL LA. 
 
 evidence is clear, and tlie proof of motive is over- 
 whelming." 
 
 Then, as he saw her pallor and trembling, he broke 
 off in deep distress. " My dear one, if I could but 
 have kept you out of this ! " 
 
 They were alone in the misty road. The boy with 
 the horse was out of sight. He would fain have put 
 his arm round her, have consoled and supported her. 
 But she would not let him. 
 
 " Please understand," she said in a sort of gasp, as 
 she drew herself away, " that I do not believe Hurd is 
 guilty — that I shall do my very utmost to defend him. 
 He is to me the victim of unjust, abominable laws ! 
 If you will not help me to protect him — then I must 
 look to some one else." 
 
 Aldous felt a sudden stab of suspicion — presenti- 
 ment. 
 
 " Of course he will be well defended ; he will have 
 every chance ; that you may be sure of," he said 
 slowly. 
 
 Marcella controlled herself, and they walked on. As 
 they entered the drive of Mellor, Aldous thought pas- 
 sionately of those divine moments in his sitting-room, 
 hardly yet nine hours old. And now — noiv ! — she 
 Avalked beside him as an enemy. 
 
 The sound of a step on the gravel in front of them 
 made them look up. Past, present, and future met in 
 the girl's bewildered and stormy sense as she recog- 
 nised Wharton.
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 The lirst sitting of the Birmingliam Labour Con- 
 gress was just over, and tlie streets about the hall in 
 which it had been held were beginning to fill with 
 the issuing delegates. Rain Avas pouring down and 
 umbrellas were plentiful. 
 
 Harry Wharton, accompanied by a group of men, 
 left the main entrance of the hall, — releasing him- 
 self with difficulty from the friendly crowd about the 
 doors — and crossed the street to his hotel. 
 
 "Well, I'm glad you think I did decently," he 
 said, as they mounted the hotel stairs. "What a 
 beastly day, and how stuffy that hall was! Come in 
 and have something to drink." 
 
 He threw open the door of his sitting-room as he 
 spoke. The four men with him followed him in. 
 
 "I must go back to the hall to see two or three 
 men before everybody disperses," said the one in 
 front. "No refreshment for me, thank you, Mr. 
 Wharton. But I want to ask a question — what 
 arrangements have you made for the reporting of 
 your speech?" 
 
 The man who spoke was thin and dark, with a 
 modest kindly eye. He wore a black frock coat, and 
 had the air of a minister. 
 
 " Oh, thank you, Bennett, it's all right. The Post, 
 405
 
 406 MABCELLA. 
 
 the Chronicle, and the Northern Guardian will have 
 full copies. I sent them off before the meeting. 
 And my own paper, of course. As to the rest they 
 may report it as they like. I don't care.'" 
 
 "They'll all have it," said another man, bluntly. 
 " It's the best speech you've ever made — the best 
 president's speech we've had yet, I say, — don't you 
 think so?" 
 
 The speaker, a man called Casey, turned to the two 
 men behind him. Both nodded. 
 
 "Hallin's speech last year was first-rate, " he con- 
 tinued, "but somehow Hallin damps you down, at 
 least he did me last year; what you want just now is 
 fight — and, my Avord ! Mr. Wharton let 'em have it ! " 
 
 And standing with his hands on his sides, he 
 glanced round from one to another. His own face 
 was flushed, partly from the effects of a crowded hall 
 and bad air, but mostly with excitement. All the 
 men present indeed — though it was less evident in 
 Bennett and Wharton than in the rest — had the bright 
 nervous look which belongs to leaders keenly con- 
 scious of standing well with the led, and of having 
 just emerged successfully from an agitating ordeal. 
 As they stood together they went over the speech to 
 which they had been listening, and the scene which 
 had followed it, in a running stream of talk, laughter, 
 and gossip. Wharton took little part, except to make 
 a joke occasionally at his own expense, but the pleas- 
 ure on his smiling lip, and in his roving, contented 
 eye was not to be mistaken. The speech he had just 
 delivered had been first thought out as he paced the 
 moonlit library and corridor at Mellor. After Mar-
 
 MARC ELLA. 407 
 
 cella had left him, and he was once more in his own 
 room, he had had the extraordinary self-control to 
 write it out, and make two or tliree machine -copies of 
 it for the press. Xeither its range nor its logical 
 order had suffered for that intervening experience. 
 The programme of labour for the next five years had 
 never been better presented, more boldly planned, 
 more eloquently justified. Hallin's presidential 
 speech of the year before, as Casey said, rang flat in 
 the memory when compared with it. Wharton knew 
 that he had made a mark, and knew also that his 
 speech had given him the whip-hand of some fellows 
 who would otherwise have stood in his way. 
 
 Casey was the first man to cease talking about the 
 speech. He had already betrayed himself about it 
 more than he meant. He belonged to the Xew 
 Unionism, and affected a costume in character — 
 fustian trousers, flannel shirt, a full red tie and work- 
 man's coat, all well calculated to set off a fine lion- 
 like head and broad shoulders. He had begun life as 
 a bricklayer's labourer, and was now the secretary of 
 a recently formed Union. His influence had been 
 considerable, but was said to be already on the wane; 
 though it was thought likely that he would win a 
 seat in the coming Parliament. 
 
 The other two men were Molloy, secretary to the 
 congress, short, smooth-faced, and wiry, a man whose 
 pleasant eye and manner were often misleading, since 
 he was in truth one of the hottest fighting men of a 
 fighting movement; and Wilkins, a friend of Casey's 
 — ex-iron worker, Union ofiicial, and Labour candi- 
 date for a Yorkshire division — an uneducated, pas-
 
 408 MARCELLA. 
 
 sionate fellow, speaking with a broad, Yorkshire 
 accent, a bad man of affairs, but honest, and endowed 
 with the influence which comes of sincerity, together 
 with a gift for speaking and superhuman powers of 
 physical endurance. 
 
 "Well, I'm glad it's over," said Wharton, throw- 
 ing himself into a chair with a long breath, and at 
 the same time stretching out his hand to ring the bell. 
 "Case}^, some whisky? iSTo? Nor you, Wilkins? 
 nor MoUoy? As for you, Bennett, I know it's no 
 good asking you. By George ! our grandfathers would 
 have thought ns a poor lot! AVel], some coffee at 
 any rate you must all of you have before you go 
 back. Waiter! coffee. By the way, I have been 
 seeing something of Hallin, Bennett, down in the 
 country. " 
 
 He took out his cigarette case as he spoke, and 
 offered it to the others. All refused except Molloy. 
 Casey took his half-smoked pipe out of his pocket and 
 lit up. He was not a teetotaler as the others were, 
 but he would have scorned .to drink his whisky and 
 water at the expense of a " gentleman " like Wharton, 
 or to smoke the " gentleman's " cigarettes. His class- 
 pride was irritably strong. Molloy, who was by nature 
 anybody's equal, took the cigarette with an easy good 
 manners, which made Casey look at him askance. 
 
 Mr. Bennett drew his chair close to Wharton's. The 
 mention of Hallin had roused a look of anxiety in his 
 quick dark eyes. 
 
 "How is he, Mr. Wharton? The last letter I had 
 from him he made light of his health. But you know 
 he only just avoided a breakdown in that strike busi-
 
 M ABC ELLA. 409 
 
 ness. We only pulled him tlirougli by the skin of his 
 teeth — Mr. Eaeburn and I." 
 
 "Oh, he's no constitution; never had, I supjjose. 
 But he seemed much as usual. He's staying -with 
 liaeburn, you know, and I've been staying with the 
 father of the young lady whom Eaeburn 's going to 
 marry." 
 
 "Ah! I've heard of that." said Bennett, with a 
 look of interest, "Well, Mr. Eaeburn isn't on our 
 side, but for judgment and fair dealing there are very 
 few men of his class and circumstances I would trust 
 as I would him. The lady should be happy." 
 
 "Of course,'" said Wharton, drily. "'However, 
 neither she nor Eaeburn are very happy just at this 
 moment. A horrible affair happened down there last 
 night. One of Lord Maxwell's gamekeepers- and a 
 * helper,' a lad of seventeen, were killed last night 
 in a fight with poachers. I only just heard the out- 
 lines of it before I came away, but I got a telegram 
 just before going into congress, asking me to defend 
 the man charged with the murder." 
 
 A quick expression of repulsion and disgust crossed 
 Bennett's face. 
 
 "There have been a whole crop of such cases 
 lately," he said. "How shall we ever escape from 
 the curse of this game system? " 
 
 "We shan't escape it," said Wharton, quietly, 
 knocking the end off his cigarette, " not in your life- 
 time or mine. When we get more Eadicals on the 
 bench we shall lighten the sentences; but that will 
 only exasperate the sporting class into finding new 
 ways of protecting themselves. Oh I the man will be
 
 410 MARCEL LA. 
 
 hung — that's quite clear to me. But it will be a 
 good case — from the public point of view — will 
 work up well — " 
 
 He ran his hand through his curls, considering. 
 "Will work up admirably," he added in a lower 
 tone of voice, as though to himself, his eyes keen and 
 brilliant as ever, in spite of the marks of sleepless- 
 ness and fatigue visible in the rest of the face, though 
 only visible there since he had allowed himself the 
 repose of his cigarette and arm-chair. 
 
 "Are yo' comin' to dine at the 'Peterloo 'to-night, 
 Mr. Wharton?" said Wilkins, as Wharton handed 
 him a cup of coffee ; " but of coorse you are — part of 
 yower duties, I suppose ? " 
 
 While Molloy and Casey were deep in animated 
 discussion of the great meeting of the afternoon he 
 had been" sitting silent against the edge of the table 
 — a short-bearded sombre figure, ready at any moment 
 to make a grievance, to suspect a slight. 
 
 "I'm afraid I can't," said Wharton, bending for- 
 ward and speaking in a tone of concern ; " that was 
 just what I was going to ask you all — if you would 
 make my excuses to-night? I have been explaining 
 to Bennett. I have an important piece of business 
 in the country — a labourer has been getting into 
 trouble for shooting a keeper ; they have asked me to 
 defend him. The assizes come on in little more than 
 a fortnight, worse luck ! so that the time is short — " 
 
 And he went on to explain that, by taking an even- 
 ing train back to Widrington, he could get the follow- 
 ing (Saturday) morning with the solicitor in charge 
 of the case, and be back in Birmingham, thanks to
 
 M ABC ELLA. 411 
 
 the convenience of a new line latel}^ opened, in time 
 for the second meeting of the congress, which was 
 tixed for the early afternoon. 
 
 He spoke Avith great cordiality and persuasiveness. 
 Among the men who surrounded him, his youth, good 
 looks, and easy breeding shone out conspicuous. In 
 the opinion of Wilkins, indeed, who followed his 
 every word and gesture, he was far too well dressed 
 and too well educated. A day would soon come when 
 the labour movement would be able to show these 
 young aristocrats the door. Not yet, however. 
 
 "Well, I thowt you wouldn't dine with us," he 
 said, turning away with a blunt laugh. 
 
 Bennett's mild eye showed annoyance. "Mr. 
 Wharton has explained himself very fully, I think," 
 he said, turning to the others. "We shall miss him 
 at dinner — but this matter seems to be one of life 
 and death. And we mustn't forget anj^way that Mr. 
 Wharton is fulfilling this engagement at great incon- 
 venience to himself. We none of us knew when we 
 elected him last year that he would have to be fight- 
 ing his election at the same time. Xext Saturday, 
 isn't it?" 
 
 Bennett rose as he spoke and carefully buttoned his 
 coat. It was curious to contrast his position among 
 his fellows — one of marked ascendency and authority 
 
 — with his small insignificant physique. He had a 
 gentle deprecating eye, and the heart of a poet. He 
 played the flute and possessed the gift of repeating 
 verse — especially Ebenezer Eliot's Corn Law Rhymes 
 
 — so as to stir a great audience to enthusiasm or 
 tears. The Weslevan communitv of his native Che-
 
 412 MARCELLA. 
 
 shire village owned no more successful class-leader, 
 and no liumbler Christian. At the same time he 
 could hold a large business meeting sternly in check, 
 was the secretary of one of the largest and oldest 
 Unions in the country, had been in Parliament for 
 years, and was generally looked upon even by the men 
 who hated his " moderate " policy, as a power not to 
 be ignored. 
 
 " Next Saturday. Yes ! " said Wharton, nodding 
 in answer to his inquiry. 
 
 "Well, are you going to do it?" said Casey, look- 
 ing round at him. 
 
 "Oh, yes!" said Wharton, cheerfully; "oh, yes! 
 we shall do it. We shall settle old Dodgson, I think." 
 
 "Are the Eaeburns as strong as they were?" asked 
 Molloy, who knew Brookshire. 
 
 "What landlord is? Since '84 the ground is mined 
 for them all — ^good and bad — and they know it." 
 
 "The mine takes a long time blowing up — too long 
 for my patience," said Wilkins, gruffly. "How the 
 country can go on year after year paying its tribute 
 to these plunderers passes my comprehension. But 
 you may attack them as you please. You will never 
 get any forrarder so long as Parliament and the Cabi- 
 net is made up of them and their hangers on." 
 
 Wharton looked at him brightly, but silently, 
 making a little assenting inclination of the head. 
 He was not surprised that anything should pass Wil- 
 kins's comprehension, and he was determined to give 
 him no opening for holding forth. 
 
 " Well, we'll let you alone, " said Bennett. " You'll 
 have very little time to get off in. We'll make your
 
 MARCELLA. 413 
 
 excuses, Mr. Wharton. You may be sure everybody 
 is so pleased with your speech we shall find thein all 
 in a good temper. It was grand ! — let me congratu- 
 late you again. Good-night — I hope you'll get your 
 poacher off ! " 
 
 The others followed suit, and they all took leave in 
 character ; — Molloy, with an eager business reference 
 to the order of the day for Saturday, — "Give me 
 your address at Widrington; I'll post you everything 
 to-night, so that you may have it all under your eye " 
 — Casey, with the off-hand patronage of the man who 
 would not for the world have his benevolence mis- 
 taken for servility, — and Wilkins with as gruff a nod 
 and as limp a shake of the hand as possible, It 
 might perhaps have been read in the manner of the 
 last two, that although this young man had just made 
 a most remarkable impression, and was clearly des- 
 tined to go far, they were determined not to yield 
 themselves to him a moment before they must. In 
 truth, both were already jealous of him; whereas 
 Molloy, absorbed in the business of the congress, 
 cared for nothing except to know whether in the next 
 two days' debates Wharton would show himself as 
 good a chairman as he was an orator; and Bennett, 
 while saying no word that he did not mean, was fully 
 conscious of an inner judgment, which pronounced 
 five minutes of Edward Hallin's company to be worth 
 more to him than anything which this brilliant young 
 fellow could do or say. 
 
 Wharton saw them out, then came back and threw 
 himself again into his chair by the window. The
 
 414 MABCELLA, 
 
 Venetian blinds were not closed, and he looked out 
 on a wide and handsome street of tall red-briok 
 houses and shops, crowded with people and carriages, 
 and lit with a lavishness of gas which overcame 
 even the February dark and damp. But he noticed 
 nothing, and even the sensation of his triumph was 
 passing off. He was once more in the Mellor drive; 
 Aldous E-aeburn and Marcella stood in front of him; 
 the thrill of the moment beat once more in his pulse. 
 
 He buried his head in his hands and thought. The 
 news of the murder had reached him from Mr. Boyce. 
 The master of ^Nlellor had heard the news from Wil- 
 liam, the man-servant, at half -past seven, and had 
 instantly knocked up his guest, by way of sharing the 
 excitement with which his own feeble frame was 
 throbbing. 
 
 "By Gad! I never heard such an atrocious busi- 
 ness," said the invalid, his thin hand shaking against 
 his dressing-gown. ''That's what your Radical 
 notions bring us to! We shall have them plunder- 
 ing and burning the country houses next." 
 
 " I don't think my Radical notions have much to 
 do with it," said Wharton, composedly. 
 
 But there was a red spot in his cheeks which belied 
 his manner. So when he — they — saw Hurd cross 
 the avenue he was on his way to this deed of blood. 
 The shot that he, Wharton, had heard had been the 
 shot which slew Westall? Probably. Well, what 
 was the bearing of it? Could she keep her own coun- 
 sel or would they find themselves in the witness box? 
 The idea quickened his pulse amazingly. 
 
 "Any clue? Any arrests?" he asked of his host.
 
 MABCELLA. 415 
 
 " Why, I told yon, " said Boyce, testily, though as a 
 matter of fact he had said nothing. " They have got 
 that man Hnrd. The ruffian has been a marked man 
 by the keepers and police, they tell me, for the last 
 year or more. And there's my daughter has been 
 pampering liim and his wife all the time, and jireach- 
 ing to me about them! She got Kaeburn even to take 
 him on at the Court. I trust it will be a lesson to 
 her." 
 
 AVharton drew a breath of relief. So the man was 
 in custody, and there was other evidence. Good! 
 There was no saying what a woman's conscience might 
 be capable of, even against her friends and herself. 
 
 When Mr. Boyce at last left him free to dress and 
 make his preparations for the early train, by which 
 the night before, after the ladies' departure for the 
 ball, he had suddenly made up his mind to leave 
 IMellor, it was some time before Wharton could rouse 
 himself to action. The situation absorbed him. Miss 
 Boyce's friend was now in imminent danger of his 
 neck, and Miss Bo3^ce's thoughts must be of necessity 
 concentrated upon his plight and that of his family. 
 He foresaw the passion, the saeva indignatio, that she 
 must ultimately throw — the general situation being 
 what it was — into the struggle for Kurd's life. 
 Whatever the evidence might be, he would be to her 
 either victim or champion — and Westall, of course, 
 merely the Holof ernes of the piece. 
 
 How would Kaeburn take it? Ah, well! the situa- 
 tion must develop. It occurred to liim, however, that 
 lie would catch an earlier train to Widrington than 
 the one he had fixed on, and have half an hour's talk
 
 416 MARCELLA. 
 
 with a solicitor who was a good friend of his before 
 going on to Birmingham. Accordingly, he rang for 
 William — who came, all staring and dishevelled, 
 fresh from the agitation of the servants' hall — gave 
 orders for his luggage to be sent after him, got as 
 much fresh information as he could from the excited 
 lad, plunged into his bath, and finally emerged, fresh 
 and vigorous in every nerve, showing no trace what- 
 ever of the fact that two hours of broken sleep had 
 been his sole portion for a night, in which he had 
 gone through emotions and sustained a travail of 
 brain either of which would have left their mark on 
 most men. 
 
 Then the meeting in the drive! How plainly he 
 saw them both — Kaeburn grave and pale, Marcella 
 in her dark serge skirt and cap, with an eye all pas- 
 sion and a cheek white as her hand. 
 
 " A tragic splendour enwrapped her ! — a fierce 
 heroic air. She was the embodiment of the moment 
 — of the melancholy morning with its rain and leaf- 
 less woods — of the haman anguish throbbing in the 
 little village. And I, who had seen her last in her 
 festal dress, who had held her warm perfumed youth 
 in my arms, who had watched in her white breast the 
 heaving of the heart that I — / had troubled ! — how 
 did I find it possible to stand and face her? But I 
 did. It rushed through me at once how I would make 
 her forgive me — how I would regain possession of 
 her. I had thought the play was closed: it was 
 suddenly plain to me that the second act was but just 
 beginning. She and Eaeburn had already come to
 
 MABCELLA. 417 
 
 words — I knew it directly I saw them. This busi- 
 ness will divide them more and more. His conscience 
 will come in — and a Kaeburn's conscience is the 
 devil ! 
 
 " By now he hates me ; every word I speak to him 
 
 — still more every word to her — galls him. But he 
 controlled himself when I made him tell me the story 
 
 — I had no reason to complain — though every now 
 and then I could see him wince under the knowledge 
 I must needs show of the persons and places concerned 
 
 — a knowledge I could only have got from her. And 
 she stood by meanwhile like a statue. Not a word, 
 not a look, so far, though she had been forced to touch 
 my hand. But my instinct saved me. I roused, her 
 
 — I plaj-ed upon her! I took the line that I was 
 morally certain she had been taking in their tete-cl-tete. 
 Why not a scuffle? — a general scrimmage? — in which 
 it was matter of accident who fell? The man surely 
 was inoffensive and gentle, incapable of deliberate 
 murder. And as to the evidence of hatred, it told 
 both ways. He stiffened and was silent. What a fine 
 brow he has — a look sometimes, when he is moved, 
 of antique power and probity ! But she — she trembled 
 
 — animation came back. She would almost have 
 spoken to me — but I did well not to prolong it — to 
 hurry on." 
 
 Then he took the telegram out of his pocket which 
 had been put into his hands as he reached the hotel, 
 his mouth quivering again with the exultation which 
 he had felt when he had received it. It recalled to 
 his ranging memory all the details of his hurried in- 
 terview with the little Widrington solicitor, who had 
 
 VOL. I. — 27
 
 418 MAliCELLA. 
 
 already scented a job in the matter of Kurd's defence. 
 This man — needy, shrewd, and well equipped with 
 local knowledge — had done work for Wharton and 
 the party, and asked nothing better than to stand well 
 with the future member for the division. "There is 
 a lady," Wharton had said, "the daughter of Mr. 
 Boyce of Mellor, who is already very much interested 
 in this fellow and his family. She takes this business 
 greatly to heart. I have seen her this morning, but 
 had no time to discuss the matter with her. She will, 
 I have little doubt, try to help the relations in the 
 arrangements for the defence. Go to her this morning 
 
 — tell her that the case has my sympathy — that, as 
 she knows, I am a barrister, and, if she wishes it, I 
 will defend Hurd. I shall be hard put to it to get up 
 the case with the election coming on, but I will do it 
 
 — for the sake of the public interest involved. You 
 understand? Her father is a Tory — and she is just 
 about to marry Mr. Eaeburn. Her position, therefore, 
 is difficult. Nevertheless, she will feel strongly — she 
 does feel strongly about this case, and about the whole 
 game system — and I feel moved to support her. She 
 Avill take her own line, whatever happens. See her 
 
 — see the wife, too, who is entirely under Miss Boyce's 
 influence — and wire to me at my hotel at Birming- 
 liam. K they wish to make other arrangements, well 
 and good. I shall have all the more time to give to 
 the election." 
 
 Leaving this commission behind him, he had started 
 on his journey. At tlie end of it a telegram had been 
 handed to him on the stairs of his hotel : 
 
 "Have seen the lady, also Mrs. Hurd. You are 
 urgently asked to undertake defence. "
 
 MARCELLA. 419 
 
 He spread it out before him now, and pondered it. 
 The bit of flimsy paper contained for him the promise 
 of all he most coveted, — influence, emotion, excite- 
 ment. "She will have returns upon herself," he 
 thought smiling, "' when I see her again. She will be 
 dignified, resentful; she will suspect everything I say 
 or do — still more, she will suspect herself. Xo mat- 
 ter! The situation is in my hands. "Whether I suc- 
 ceed or fail, she will be forced to work with me, to 
 consult with me — she will owe me gratitude. What 
 made her consent? — she must have felt it in some 
 sort a humiliation. Is it that Raeburn has been driv- 
 ing her to strong measures — that she wants, woman- 
 like, to win, and thought me after all her best chance, 
 and put her pride in her pocket? Or is it? — ah! one 
 should put tJiat out of one's head. It's like wine — it 
 unsteadies one. And for a thing like this one must 
 go into training. Shall I write to her — there is just 
 time now, before I start — take the lofty tone, the 
 equal masculine tone, which I have noticed she likes? 
 — ask her pardon for an act of madness — before we 
 go together to the rescue of a life? It might do — it 
 might go down. But no, I think not! Let the situa- 
 tion develop itself. Action and reaction — the unex- 
 pected — I commit myself to that. She — marry 
 Aldous Raeburn in a month? Well, she may — cer- 
 tainly she may. But there is no need for me, I think, 
 to take it greatly into account. Curious! twenty- 
 four hours ago I thought it all done with — dead and 
 done with. 'So like Provvy,' as Bentham used to 
 say, when he heard of anything particularly unseemly 
 in the way of natural catastrophe. Now to dine, and
 
 420 MARCELLA. 
 
 be off! How little sleep can I do with in the next 
 fortnight?" 
 
 He rang, ordered his cab, and then went to the 
 coffee-room for some hasty food. As he was passing 
 one of the small tables with which the room was filled, 
 a man who was dining there with a friend recognised 
 him and gave him a cold nod. Wharton walked on to 
 the further end of the room, and, while waiting for 
 his meal, buried himself in the local evening paper, 
 Avhich already contained a report of his speech. 
 
 "Did you see that man?" asked the stranger of his 
 friend. 
 
 "The small young fellow with the curly hair?" 
 "Small young fellow, indeed! He is the wiriest 
 athlete I know — extraordinary physical strength for 
 his size — and one of the cleverest rascals out as a 
 politician. I am a neighbour of his in the country. 
 His property joins mine. I knew his father — a little, 
 dried-up old chap of the old school — very elegant 
 manners and very obstinate — worried to death by his 
 wife — oh, my goodness ! such a woman ! " 
 
 "What's the name?" said the friend, interrupting, 
 "Wharton — H. S. Wharton. His mother was a 
 daughter of Lord Westgate, and her mother was an 
 actress whom the old lord married in his dotage. 
 Lady Mildred Wharton was like Garrick, only natural 
 Avhen she was acting, which she did on every possible 
 occasion. A preposterous woman! Old Wharton 
 ought to have beaten her for her handwriting, and 
 murdered her for her gowns. Her signature took a 
 sheet of note-paper, and as for her dress I never could 
 get out of her way. Whatever part of the room I
 
 MABCELLA. 421 
 
 happened to be in I always found my feet tangled in 
 her skirts. Somehow, I never could understand how 
 she was able to find so much stuff of one pattern. 
 But it was only to make you notice her, like all the 
 rest. Every bit of her was a pose, and the maternal 
 pose was the worst of all." 
 
 "H. S. Wharton?" said the other. "Why, that's 
 the man who has been speaking here to-day. I've 
 just been reading the account of it in the Evening 
 Star. A big meeting — called by a joint committee 
 of the leading Birmingham trades to consider the 
 Liberal election programme as it affects labour — 
 that's the man — he's been at it hammer and tongs — 
 red-hot — all the usual devices for harrying the 
 employer out of existence, with a few trifles — grad- 
 uated income-tax and land nationalisation — thrown 
 in. Oh! that's the man, is it? — they ^ay he had a 
 great reception — spoke brilliantly — and is certainly 
 going to get into Parliament next week." 
 
 The speaker, who had the air of a shrewd and pros- 
 perous manufacturer, put up his eyeglass to look at 
 this young Robespierre. His vis-ct-vis — a stout coun- 
 try gentleman who had been in the army and knocked 
 about the world before coming into his estate — 
 shrugged his shoulders. 
 
 "So I hear — he daren't show his nose as a candi- 
 date in our part of the world, though of course he 
 does us all the harm he can. I remember a good 
 story of his mother — she quarrelled with her husband 
 and all her relations, his and hers, and then she took 
 to speaking in public, accompanied by her dear boy. 
 On one occasion she was speaking at a market town
 
 422 MABCELLA. 
 
 near us, and telling the farmers that as far as she was 
 concerned she would like to see the big properties cut 
 up to-morrow. The sooner her father's and husband's 
 estates were made into small holdings stocked with 
 public capital the better. After it was all over, a 
 friend of mine, who was there, was coming home in 
 a sort of omnibus that ran between the town and a 
 neighbouring village. He found himself between two 
 fat farmers, and this was the conversation — broad 
 Lincolnshire, of course: 'Did tha hear Lady Mildred 
 Wharton say them things, Willum?' 'Aye, a did.' 
 'What did tha think, Willum? ' 'What did tlm think, 
 George ? ' ' Wal, aa thowt Laady Mildred Wharton wor 
 a graiit fule, Willum, if tha asks me.' 'I'll uphowd 
 tha, George! I'll uphowd tha!' said the other, and 
 then they talked no more for the rest of the journey." 
 
 The friend laughed. 
 
 " So it was from the dear mamma that the j^oung 
 man got his opinions?" 
 
 " Of course. She dragged him into every absurdity 
 she could from the time he was fifteen. When the 
 husband died she tried to get the servants to come in 
 to meals, but the butler struck. So did Wharton him- 
 self, who, for a Socialist, has always showed a very 
 pretty turn for comfort. I am bound to say he was 
 cut up when she died. It was the only time I ever 
 felt like being civil to him — in those months after 
 she departed. I suppose she was devoted to him — 
 which after all is something." 
 
 "Good heavens!" said the other, still lazily turn- 
 ing over the pages of the newspaper as they sat wait- 
 ing for their second course, " here is another poaching
 
 MAUCELLA. 423 
 
 murder — in Brooksliire — the third I have noticed 
 within a month. On Lord Maxwell's property — you 
 know them?" 
 
 "I know the old man a little — fine old fellow! 
 They'll make him President of the Council, I suppose. 
 He can't have much work left in him; but it is such 
 a popular, respectable name. Ah! I'm sorry; the 
 sort of thing to distress him terribly." 
 
 "I see the grandson is standing." 
 
 " Oh 3^es ; will get in too. A queer sort of man — 
 great ability and high character. But you can't 
 imagine him getting on in politics, unless it's by 
 sheer weight of wealth and family influence. He'll 
 find a scruple in every bush — never stand the rough 
 work of the House, or get on with the men. My 
 goodness ! you have to pull with some queer customers 
 nowadays. By the way, I hear he is making an 
 unsatisfactory marriage — a girl very handsome, but 
 with no manners, and like nobody else — the daughter, 
 too, of an extremely shady father. It's surprising; 
 you'd have thought a man like Aldous Raeburn would 
 have looked for the pick of things." 
 
 " Perhaps it was she looked for the pick of things ! " 
 said the other, with a blunt laugh. *' Waiter, another 
 bottle of champagne."
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 Marcella was lying on the sofa in the Mellor 
 drawing-room. The February evening had just been 
 shut out, but she had tokl William not to bring the 
 lamps till they were rung for. Even the fire-light 
 seemed more than she could bear. She was utterly 
 exhausted both in body and mind; yet, as she lay 
 there with shut eyes, and hands clasped under her 
 cheek, a start Avent through her at every sound in the 
 house, which showed that she was not resting, but 
 listening. She had spent the morning in the Hurds' 
 cottage, sitting by Mrs. Hurd and nursing the little 
 boy. Minta Hurd, always delicate and consumptive, 
 was now generally too ill from shock and misery to 
 be anywhere but in her bed, and Willie was growing 
 steadily weaker, though the child's spirit was such 
 that he would insist on dressing, on hearing and 
 knowing everything about his father, and on moving 
 about the house as usual. Yet every movement of 
 his wasted bones cost him the effort of a hero, and 
 the dumb signs in him of longing for his father in- 
 creased the general impression as of some patient 
 creature driven by Nature to monstrous and dispro- 
 portionate extremity. 
 
 The plight of this handful of human beings worked 
 in Marcella like some fevering torture. She was 
 
 424
 
 MARCELLA. 425 
 
 wholly out of gear physically and morally. Another 
 practically sleepless night, i^eopled with images of 
 horror, had decreased her stock of sane self-control, 
 already lessened by long conflict of feeling and the 
 pressure of self-contempt. Now, as she lay listening 
 for Aldous Kaeburn's ring and step, she hardly knew 
 whether to be angry with him for coming so late, or 
 miserable that he should come at all. That there 
 was a long score to settle between herself and him she 
 knew well. Shame for an experience which seemed 
 to her maiden sense indelible — both a weakness and 
 a treachery — lay like a dull weight on heart and 
 conscience. But she would not realise it, she would 
 not act upon it. She shook the moral debate from 
 her impatiently. Aldous should have his due all in 
 good time — should have ample opportunity of decid- 
 ing whether he would, after all, marry such a girl as 
 she. Meanwhile his attitude with regard to the 
 murder exasperated her. Yet, in some strange way 
 it relieved her to be angry and sore with him — ■ to 
 have a grievance she could avow, and on which she 
 made it a merit to dwell. His gentle, yet lirm differ- 
 ence of opinion with her on the subject struck her as 
 something new in him. It gave her a kind of fierce 
 pleasure to fight it. He seemed somehow to be pro- 
 viding her with excuses — to be coming down to her 
 level — to be equalling wrong with wrong. 
 
 The door handle turned. At last ! She sprang up. 
 But it was only William coming in with the evening 
 post. Mrs. Boyce followed him. She took a quiet 
 look at her daughter, and asked if her headache was 
 better, and then sat down near her to some needle-
 
 426 MARC ELL A. 
 
 work. During these two days she had been unusually 
 kind to Marcella. She had none of the little femi- 
 nine arts of consolation. She was incapable of fuss- 
 ing, and she never caressed. But from the moment 
 that Marcella had come home from the village that 
 morning, a pale, hollow-eyed wreck, the mother had 
 asserted her authority. She would not hear of the 
 girl's crossing the threshold again; she had put her 
 on the sofa and dosed her with sal-volatile. And 
 Marcella was too exhausted to rebel. She had only 
 stipulated that a note should be sent to Aldous, ask- 
 ing him to come on to Mellor with the news as soon 
 as the verdict of the coroner's jury should be given. 
 The jury had been sitting all day, and the verdict 
 was expected in the evening. 
 
 Marcella turned over her letters till she came to 
 one from a London firm which contained a number 
 of cloth patterns. As she touched it she threw it 
 aside with a sudden gesture of impatience, and sat 
 upright. 
 
 "Mamma! I have something to say to you." 
 
 "Yes, my dear." 
 
 " Mamma, the wedding must be put off 1 — it miist ! 
 — for some weeks. I have been thinking about it 
 while I have been lying here. How can I? — you 
 can see for yourself. That miserable woman depends 
 on me altogether. How can I sj^end my time on 
 clothing and dressmakers? I feel as if I could think 
 of nothing else — nothing else in the world — but her 
 and her children." She spoke with difficulty, her 
 voice high and strained. " The assizes may be held 
 that very week — who knows? — the very day we are 
 married."
 
 MARCELLA. 427 
 
 She stopped, looking at her mother almost threat- 
 eningly. Mrs. Boyce showed no sign of surprise. 
 She put her work down. 
 
 "I had imagined you miglit say something of the 
 kind," she said after a pause. "I don't know that, 
 from your point of view, it is unreasonable. But, of 
 course, you must understand that very few people 
 will see it from your point of view. Aldous Kae- 
 burn may — 3^ou must know best. But his people 
 certainly won't; and your father will think it — " 
 
 ''Madness," she was going to say, but with her 
 usual instinct for the moderate fastidious word she 
 corrected it to "foolish." 
 
 Marcella's tired eyes were all wilfulness and 
 defiance. 
 
 "I can't help it. I couldn't do it. I will tell 
 Aldous at once. It must be put off for a month. 
 And even that," she added with a shudder, *'\vill be 
 bad enough." 
 
 Mrs. Boj'ce could not help an unperceived shrug 
 of the shoulders, and a movement of pity towards the 
 future husband. Then she said drily, — 
 
 "You must always consider whether it is just to 
 Mr. Eaeburn to let a matter of this kind interfere so 
 considerably with his wishes and his plans. He must, 
 I suppose, be in London for Parliament within six 
 weeks." 
 
 Marcella did not answer. She sat with her hands 
 round her knees lost in perplexities. The wedding, 
 as originally fixed, was now three weeks and three 
 days off. After it, she and Aldous were to have 
 spent a short fortnight's honeymoon at a famous
 
 428 MAECELLA. 
 
 house in the north, lent them for the occasion by a 
 Duke who was a cousin of Aldous's on the mother's 
 side, and had more houses than he knew what to do 
 with. Then they were to go immediately up to Lon- 
 don for the opening of Parliament. The furnishing 
 of the Mayfair house was being pressed on. In her 
 new-born impatience with such things, Marcella had 
 hardly of late concerned herself with it at all, and 
 Miss Eaeburn, scandalised, yet not unwilling, had 
 been doing the whole of it, subject to conscientious 
 worryings of the bride, whenever she could be got 
 hold of, on the subject of papers and curtains. 
 
 As they sat silent, the unspoken idea in the 
 mother's mind was — "Eight weeks more will carry 
 us past the execution." Mrs. Boyce had already pos- 
 sessed herself very clearly of the facts of the case, and 
 it was her perception that Marcella was throwing her- 
 self headlong into a hopeless struggle — together with 
 something else — a confession perhaps of a touch of 
 greatness in the girl's temper, passionate and violent 
 as it was, that had led to this unwonted softness of 
 manner, this absence of sarcasm. 
 
 Very much the same thought — only treated as a 
 nameless horror not to be recognised or admitted — 
 was in Marcella's mind also, joined however with an- 
 other, unsuspected even by Mrs. Boyce's acuteness. 
 " Very likely — when I tell him — he will not want 
 to marry me at all — and of course I shall tell him." 
 
 But not yet — certainly not yet. She had the in- 
 stinctive sense that during the next few weeks she 
 should want all her dignity with Aldous, that she 
 could not afford to put herself at a disadvantage with
 
 MARCELLA. 429 
 
 him. To be troubled about her own sins at such a 
 moment would be like the meanness of the lazy and 
 canting Christian, who whines about saving his soul 
 while he ought to be rather occupied with feeding the 
 bodies of his wife and children. 
 
 A ring at the front door. Marcella rose, leaning 
 one hand on the end of the sofa — a long slim hgure 
 in her black dress — haggard and pathetic. 
 
 When Aldous entered, her face was one question. 
 He went up to her and took her hand. 
 
 ^'In the case of Westall the verdict is one of 
 'Wilful Murder' against Hurd. In that of poor 
 Charlie Dynes the court is adjourned. Enough evi- 
 dence has been taken to justify burial. But there is 
 news to-night that one of the Widrington gang has 
 turned informer, and the police say they will have 
 their hands on them all within the next two or three 
 days." 
 
 ^larcella withdrew herself from him and fell back 
 into the corner of the sofa. Shading her eyes with 
 her hand she tried to be very composed and business- 
 like. 
 
 "Was Hurd himself examined?" 
 
 " Yes, under the new Act. He gave the account 
 which he gave to you and to his wife. But the 
 Court — " 
 
 ''Did not believe it?" 
 
 "No. The evidence of motive was too strong. It 
 was clear from his own account that he was out for 
 poaching purposes, that he was leading the Oxford 
 gang, and that he had a gun while Westall was un- 
 armed. He admitted too that Westall called on him
 
 430 MARCELLA^ 
 
 to give up the bag of pheasants he held, and the gun. 
 He refused. Then he says Westall came at him, and 
 he fired. Dick Patton and one or two others gave 
 evidence as to the language he has habitually used 
 about Westall for months past." 
 
 " Cowards — curs ! " cried Marcella, clenching both 
 her hands, a kind of sob in her throat. 
 
 Aldous, already white and careworn, showed, Mrs. 
 Boyce thought, a ray of indignation for an instant. 
 Then he resumed steadily — 
 
 "And Brown, our steward, gave evidence as to his 
 employment since October. The coroner summed up 
 carefully, and I think fairly, and the verdict was 
 given about half -past six." 
 
 "They took him back to prison?" 
 
 "Of course. He comes before the magistrates on 
 Thursday." 
 
 " And you will be one ! " 
 
 The girPs tone Avas indescribable. 
 
 Aldous started. Mrs. Boyce reddened with anger, 
 and checking her instinct to intervene began to put 
 away her working materials that she might leave 
 them together. While she was still busy Aldous 
 said : 
 
 "You forget; no magistrate ever tries a case in 
 which he is personally concerned. I shall take no 
 part in the trial. My grandfather, of course, must 
 prosecute." 
 
 " But it will be a bench of landlords, " cried Mar- 
 cella; "of men with whom a poacher is already con- 
 demned." 
 
 "You are unjust to us, I think," said Aldous,
 
 MARCELLA. 431 
 
 slowly, after a pause, during which Mrs. Boyce left 
 the room — " to some of us, at any rate. Besides, as 
 of course you know, the case will be simply sent on 
 for trial at the assizes. By the way " — his tone 
 changed — "I hear to-night that Harry Wharton un- 
 dertakes the defence." 
 
 "Yes," said Marcella, defiantly. "Is there any- 
 thing to say against it? You wouldn't wish Hurd 
 not to be defended, I suppose?" 
 
 "Marcella!" 
 
 Even her bitter mood was pierced by the tone. 
 She had never wounded him so deeply yet, and for a 
 moment he felt the situation intolerable; the surging 
 grievance and reproach, with which his heart was 
 really full, all but found vent in an outburst which 
 would have wholly swept away his ordinary measure 
 and self-control. But then, as he looked at her, it 
 struck his lover's sense painfully how pale and mis- 
 erable she was. He could not scold! But it came 
 home to him strongly that for her own sake and his it 
 would be better there should be explanations. After 
 all things had been going untowardly for many weeks. 
 His nature moved slowly and with much self-doubt, 
 but it was plain to him now that he must make a 
 stand. 
 
 After his cry, her first instinct was to ajDologise. 
 Then the words stuck in her throat. To her, as to 
 him, they seemed to be close on a trial of strength. 
 If she could not influence him in this matter — so 
 obvious, as it seemed to her, and so near to her heart 
 — what was to become of that lead of hers in their 
 married life, on which she had been reckoning from
 
 432 MARCELLA. 
 
 the beginning? All that was worst in her and all 
 that was best rose to the struggle. 
 
 But, as he did not speak, she looked up at last. 
 
 "I was waiting," he said in a low voice. 
 
 "What for?" 
 
 " Waiting till you should tell me you did not mean 
 what you said." 
 
 She saw that he was painfully moved; she also saw 
 that he was introdi^cing something into their relation, 
 an element of proud self-assertion, which she had 
 never felt in it before. Her own vanity instantly 
 rebelled. 
 
 "I ought not to have said exactly what I did," she 
 said, almost stifled by her own excitement, and mak- 
 ing great efforts not to play the mere wilful child; 
 " that I admit. But it has been clear to me from the 
 beginning that — that " — her words hurried, she took 
 up a book and restlessly lifted it and let it fall — 
 "you have never looked at this thing justly. You 
 have looked at the crime as any one must who is a 
 landowner; you have never allowed for the provoca- 
 tion; you have not let yourself feel pity — " 
 
 He made an exclamation. 
 
 " Do you know where I was before I went into the 
 inquest? " 
 
 "ISTo," she said defiantly, determined not to be 
 impressed, feeling a childish irritation at the inter- 
 ruption. 
 
 "I was with Mrs. Westall. Harden and I went in 
 to see her. She is a hard, silent woman. She is 
 clearly not popular in the village, and no one comes 
 in to her. Her " — he hesitated — " her baby is ex-
 
 MABCELLA. 433 
 
 pected before long. She is in such a state of shock 
 and excitement that Clarke thinks it quite possible 
 she may go out of her mind. I saw her sitting by the 
 fire, quite silent, not crying, but with a wild eye that 
 means mischief. We have sent in a nurse to help 
 Mrs. Jellison watch her. She seems to eare noth- 
 ing about her boy. Everything that that woman most 
 desired in life has been struck from her at a blow. 
 Why? That a man who was in no stress of poverty, 
 who had friends and employment, should indulge 
 himself in acts which he knew to be against the law, 
 and had promised you and his wife to forego, and 
 should at the same time satisfy a wild beast's hatred 
 against the man, who was simply defending his mas- 
 ter's property. Have you no pity for Mrs. Westall 
 or her child?" 
 
 He spoke as calmly as he could, making his appeal 
 to reason and moral sense ; but, in realit}^, every word 
 was charged with electric feeling. 
 
 "I am sorry for her! " cried Marcella, passionately. 
 "But, after all, how can one feel for the oppressor, 
 or those connected with him, as one does for the 
 victim?" He shook his head, protesting against the 
 word, but she rushed on. " You do know — for I told 
 you yesterday — how under the shelter of this hateful 
 game system Westall made Hurd's life a burden to 
 him when he was a young man — how he had begun 
 to bully him again this past year. We had the same 
 sort of dispute the other day about that murder in 
 Ireland. You were shocked that I would not con- 
 demn the Moonlighters who had shot their landlord 
 from behind a hedge, as you did. You said the man 
 
 VOL. I. —28
 
 434 MARCELLA. 
 
 had tried to do his duty, and that the murder was 
 brutal and unprovoked. But I thought of the system 
 — of the memories^ in the minds of the murderers. 
 There were excuses — he suffered for his father — I 
 am not going to judge that as I judge other murders. 
 So, when a Czar of Eussia is blown up, do you expect 
 one to think only of his wife and children? No! I 
 will think of the tyranny and the revolt ; I will pray, 
 yes, pray that I might have courage to do as they 
 did! You may think me wild and mad. • I dare say. 
 I am made so. I shall always feel so! " 
 
 She flung out her words at him, every limb quiver- 
 ing under the emotion of them. His cool, penetrat- 
 ing eye, this manner she had never yet known in him, 
 exasperated her. 
 
 "Where was the t^^ranny in this case?" he asked 
 her quietly. "I agree with you that there are mur- 
 ders and murders. But I thought your point was 
 that here was neither murder nor attack, but only an 
 act of self-defence. That is Kurd's plea." 
 
 She hesitated and stumbled. "I know," she said, 
 '' I know. I believe it. But, even if the attack had 
 been on Kurd's part, I should still find excuses, be- 
 cause of the system, and because of Westall's hateful- 
 ness." 
 
 He shook his head again. 
 
 " Because a man is harsh and masterful, and uses 
 stinging language, is he to be shot down like a dog?" 
 
 There was a silence. Marcella was lashing herself 
 up by thoughts of the deformed man in his cell, look- 
 ing forward after the wretched, unsatisfied life, which 
 was all society had allowed him, to the violent death
 
 MARCELLA. 435 
 
 by which societ}' would get rid of him — of the wife 
 yearning her heart away — of the boy, whom other 
 human beings, under the name of law, were about to 
 separate from his father for ever. At last she broke 
 out thickly and indistinctly : 
 
 "The terrible thing is that I cannot count upon 
 you — that now I cannot make you feel as I do — feel 
 with me. And by-and-by, when I shall want your 
 help desperately, when your help might be everything 
 — I suppose it will be no good to ask it." 
 
 He started, and bending forward he possessed him- 
 self of both her hands — her hot trembling hands — 
 and kissed them with a passionate tenderness. 
 
 "What help will you ask of me that I cannot give? 
 That would be hard to bear ! " 
 
 Still held by him, she answered his question by 
 another : 
 
 "Give me your idea of what will happen. Tell 
 me how 3^ou think it will end." 
 
 " I shall only distress you, dear, " he said sadly. 
 
 "Xo; tell me. You think him guilty. You be- 
 lieve he will be convicted." 
 
 "Unless some wholly fresh evidence is forthcom- 
 ing," he said reluctantly, "I can see no other issue." 
 
 "Very well; then he will be sentenced to death. 
 But, after sentence — I know — that man from Wid- 
 rington, that solicitor told me — if — if strong influ- 
 ence is brought to bear — if anybody whose word 
 counts — if Lord IMaxwell and you, were to join the 
 movement to save him — There is sure to be a move- 
 ment — the Radicals will take it up. Will you do 
 it — will you promise me now — for my sake? "
 
 436 MARCELLA. 
 
 He was silent. 
 
 She looked at him, all her heart burning in her 
 eyes, conscious of her woman's power too, and press- 
 ing it. 
 
 ''If that man is hung," she said pleadingly, ''it 
 will leave a mark on ni}^ life nothing will ever smooth 
 out. I shall feel myself somehow responsible. I 
 shall say to myself, if I had not been thinking about 
 my own selfish affairs — about getting married — 
 about the straw-plaiting — I might have seen what 
 was going on. I might have saved these people, who 
 have been my friends — my o^eal friends — from this 
 horror." 
 
 She drevv" her hands away and fell back on the sofa, 
 pressing her handkerchief to her e3'es. "If 3'ou had 
 seen her this morning! " she said in a strangled voice. 
 "She was saying, 'Oh, miss, if they do find him 
 guilt}^, they can't hang him — not my poor deformed 
 Jim, that never had a chance of being like the others. 
 Oh, we'll beg so hard. I know there's many people 
 will speak for him. He was mad, miss, when he did 
 it. He'd never been himself, not since last winter, 
 when we all sat and starved, and he was driven out of 
 his senses by thinking of me and the children. You'll 
 get Mr. Eaeburn to speak — won't you, miss? — and 
 Lord Maxwell? It was their game. I know it was 
 their game. But they'll forgive him. They're such 
 great people, and so rich — and we — we've always 
 had such a struggle. Oh, the bad times we've had, 
 and no one know! They'll try and get him off, miss? 
 Oh, I'll go and beg of them.' " 
 
 She stopped, unable to trust her voice any further.
 
 MABCELLA. 437 
 
 He stooiDed over lier and kissed her brow. There 
 was a certain solemnity in the moment for both of 
 them. The pity of human fate overshadowed them. 
 At last he said firmly, yet with great feeling: 
 
 '• I will not prejudge anything, that I promise you. 
 I will keep my mind open to the last. But — I should 
 like to say — it would not be any easier to me to 
 throw myself into an agitation for reprieve because 
 this man was tempted to crime by my property — on 
 my land. I should think it right to look at it alto- 
 gether from the public point of view. The satisfac- 
 tion of my own private compunctions — of my own 
 private feelings — is not what I ought to regard. My 
 own share in the circumstances, in the conditions 
 which made such an act possible does indeed concern 
 me deeply. You cannot imagine but that the moral 
 problem of it has possessed me ever since this dread- 
 ful thing happened. It troubled me much before. 
 Now, it has become an oppression — a torture. I 
 have never seen my grandfather so moved, so dis- 
 tressed, in all my remembrance of him. Yet he is a 
 man of the old school, with the old standards. As 
 for me, if ever I come to the estate I will change the 
 whole system, I will run no risks of such human 
 wreck and ruin as this — " 
 
 His voice faltered. 
 
 "But," he resumed, speaking steadily again, "I 
 ought to warn you that such considerations as these 
 will not affect my judgment of this particular case. 
 In the first place, I have no quarrel with capital pun- 
 ishment as such. I do not believe we could rightly 
 give it up. Your attitude properly means that wher-
 
 438 MABCELLA. 
 
 ever we can legitimately feel pity for a murderer, we 
 should let him escape his penalty. I, on the other 
 hand, believe that if the murderer saw things as they 
 truly are, he would himself claim his own death, as 
 his best chance, his only chance — in this mysterious 
 universe ! — of self -recovery. Then it comes to this 
 — was the act murder? The English law of murder 
 is not perfect, but it appears to me to be substantially 
 just, and guided by it — " 
 
 " You talk as if there were no such things as mercy 
 and pity in the world, " she interrupted wildly ; '' as 
 if law were not made and administered by men of just 
 the same stuff and fabric as the lawbreaker ! " 
 
 He looked troubled. 
 
 " Ah, but law is something beyond laws or those who 
 administer them," he said in a lower tone; "and the 
 law — the obligation-sense — of our own race and time, 
 however imperfect it may be, is sacred, not because 
 it has been imposed upon us from without, but be- 
 cause it has grown up to what it is, out of our own 
 best life — ours, yet not ours — the best proof we 
 have, when we look back at it in the large, when we 
 feel its work in ourselves of some diviner power than 
 our own will — our best clue to what that power 
 may be ! " 
 
 He spoke at first, looking away — wrestling out his 
 thought, as it were, by himself — then turning back 
 to her, his eyes emphasised the appeal implied, 
 though not expressed, in what he said — intense ap- 
 peal to her for sympathy, forbearance, mutual respect, 
 through all acuteness of difference. His look both 
 l)romised and implored.
 
 MARCELLA. 439 
 
 He had spoken to her but very rarely or indirectly 
 as yet of his own religious or philosophical beliefs. 
 She was in a stage when such things interested lier 
 but little, and reticence in personal matters was so 
 much the law of his life that even to her expansion 
 was difficult. So that — inevitably — she was arrested, 
 for the moment, as any quick perception must be, by 
 the things that unveil character. 
 
 Then an upheaval of indignant feeling swept the 
 impression away. All that he said might be ideally, 
 profoundly true — but — the red blood of the common 
 life was lacking in every word of it I He ought to be 
 incapable of saying it noiv. Her passionate question 
 w^as, how could he argue — how^ could he hold and 
 mark the ethical balance — when a ivoman was suffer- 
 ing, when children were to be left fatherless? Be- 
 sides — the ethical balance itself — does it not alter 
 according to the hands ^hat hold it — poacher or land- 
 lord, rich or poor? 
 
 But she was too exhausted to carry on the contest 
 in words. Both felt it would have to be renewed. 
 But she said to herself secretly that Mr. Wharton, 
 when he got to Avork, would alter the whole aspect of 
 affairs. And she knew well that her vantage-ground 
 as towards Aldous was strong. 
 
 Then at last he was free to turn his whole attention 
 for a little to her and her physical state, which made 
 him miserable. He had never imagined that any one, 
 vigorous and healthy as she was, could look so worn 
 out in so short a time. She let him talk to her — 
 lament, entreat, advise — and at last she took advan- 
 tage of his anxiety and her admissions to come to the 
 point, to plead that the marriage should be put off.
 
 440 MARCELLA. 
 
 She used the same arguments that she had done to 
 her mother. 
 
 "How can I bear to be thinking of these things?" 
 
 — she pointed a shaking linger at tlie dress patterns 
 lying scattered on tlie table — " with this agony, this 
 death, under my eyes?" 
 
 It was a great blow to him, and the practical incon- 
 veniences involved were great. But the fibre of him 
 
 — of which she had just felt the toughness — was 
 delicate and sensitive as her own, and after a very 
 short recoil he met her with great chivalry and sweet- 
 ness, agreeing that everything should be put off for 
 six weeks, till Easter in fact. She would have been 
 very grateful to him but that something — some 
 secret thought — checked the words she tried to say. 
 
 " I must go home then, " he said, rising and trying 
 to smile. " I shall have to make things straight with 
 Aunt Xeta, and set a great many arrangements in 
 train. Xow, you will try to think of something else? 
 Let me leave you with a book that I can imagine you 
 will read." 
 
 She let herself be tended and thought for. At the 
 last, just as he was going, he said: 
 
 "Have you seen Mr. Wharton at all since this 
 happened? " 
 
 His manner was just as usual. She felt that her 
 eye was guilty, but the darkness of the firelit room 
 shielded her. 
 
 "I have not seen him since we met him in the 
 drive. I saw the solicitor who is working up the 
 case for him yesterday. He came over to see Mrs. 
 Hurd and me. I had not thought of asking him, but
 
 MARCELLA. 441 
 
 we agreed that, if lie would undertake it, it would be 
 the best chance." 
 
 ''It is probably the best chance," said Aldous, 
 thoughtfully. "I believe Wharton has not done 
 much at the Bar since he was called, but that, no 
 doubt, is because he has had so much on his hands in 
 the way of journalism and politics. His ability is 
 enough for anything, and he will throw himself into 
 this. I do not think Hurd could do better." 
 
 She did not answer. She felt that he was magnani- 
 mous, but felt it coldly; without emotion. 
 
 He came and stooped over her. 
 
 " Good-night — good-night — tired child — dear 
 heart I When I saw you in that cottage this morning 
 I thought of the words, * Give, and it shall be given 
 unto you.' All that my life can do to pour good 
 measure, pressed down, running over, into yours, I 
 vowed you then ! " 
 
 When the door closed upon him, Marcella, stretched 
 ill the darkness, shed the bitterest tears that had 
 ever yet been hers — tears which transformed her 
 youth — which baptised her, as it were, into the ful- 
 ness of our tragic life. 
 
 She was still weeping when she heard the door 
 softly opened. She sprang up and dried her eyes, 
 but the little figure that glided in was not one to 
 shrink from. ]\Iary Harden came and sat down be- 
 side her. 
 
 "I knew you would be miserable. Let me come 
 and cry too. I have been my round — have seen 
 them all — and I came to bring you news." 
 
 "How has she taken — the verdict?" asked Mar-
 
 442 MARCELLA. 
 
 c.ella, struggling with her sobs, and succeeding at last 
 in composing herself. 
 
 " She was prepared for it. Charlie told her when 
 he saw her after you left this afternoon that she must 
 expect it." 
 
 There was a pause. 
 
 " I shall soon hear, I suppose, " said Marcella, in a 
 hardening voice, her hands round her knees, "what 
 Mr. Wharton is doing for the defence. He will ap- 
 pear before the magistrates, I suppose." 
 
 " Yes ; but Charlie thinks the defence will be mainly 
 reserved. Only a little more than a fortnight to the 
 assizes ! The time is so short. But now this man 
 has turned informer, they say the case is quite 
 straightforward. With all the other evidence the 
 police have there will be no difficulty in trying them 
 all. Marcella!" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 Had there been light enough to show it, Mary's 
 face would have revealed her timidity. 
 
 " Marcella, Charlie asked me to give you a message. 
 He begs you not to — not to make Mrs. Hurd hope 
 too much. He himself believes there is no hope, and 
 it is not kind." 
 
 "Are. you and he like all the rest,'- cried Marcella, 
 her passion breaking out again, " only eager to have 
 blood for blood?" 
 
 Mary waited an instant. 
 
 "It has almost broken Charlie's heart," she said at 
 last; "but he thinks it was murder, and that Hurd 
 will pay the penalty ; nay, more " — she spoke with a 
 kind of religious awe in her gentle voice — " that he
 
 MABCELLA. 443 
 
 ought to be glad to pay it. He believes it to be God's 
 will, and I have lieard hiiii say that he would even 
 have executions in public again — under stricter reg- 
 ulations of course — that we may not escape, as we 
 ahvays do if we can — from all sight and thought of 
 God's justice and God's x^nnishments." 
 
 Marcella shuddered and rose. She almost threw 
 Mary's hand away from her. 
 
 "Tell your brother from me, Maiy," she said, 
 " that his God is to me just a constable in the service 
 of the English game-laws ! If He is such a one, I at 
 least will fling my Everlasting No at him while I 
 live." 
 
 And she swept from the room, leaving Mary aghast. 
 
 Meanwhile there was consternation and wrath at 
 Maxwell Court, where Aldous, on his return from 
 Mellor, had first of all given his great-aunt the news of 
 the coroner's verdict, and had then gone on to break to 
 her the putting-off of the marriage. His champion- 
 ship of Marcella in the matter, and his disavowal of 
 all grievance were so quiet and decided, that Miss 
 Raeburn had been only able to allow herself a very 
 modified strain of comment and remonstrance, so long 
 as he was still there to listen. But she was all the 
 more outspoken when he was gone, and Lady Winter- 
 bourne was sitting with her. Lady Winterbourne, 
 who was at home alone, while her husband was with 
 a married daughter on the Kiviera, had come over to 
 dine t^te-ci-tete with her friend, finding it impossible 
 to remain solitary while so much was happening. 
 
 "Well, my dear," said Miss Raeburn, shortly, as her
 
 444 MARC ELL A. 
 
 guest entered the room, " I may as well tell you at 
 once that Aldous's marriage is put off." 
 
 " Put off ! " exclaimed Lady Winterbourne, bewil- 
 dered. "Why it was only Thursday that I was dis- 
 cussing it all w^ith Marcella, and she told me every- 
 thing was settled." 
 
 '* Thursday ! — I dare say ! " said Miss Kaeburn, 
 stitching away with fiery energy, "but since then a 
 poacher has murdered one of our gamekeepers, which 
 makes all the difference." 
 
 "What do you mean, Agneta?" 
 
 "What I say, my dear. The poacher was Mar- 
 cella's friend, and she cannot now distract her mind 
 from him sufficiently to marry Aldous, though every 
 plan he has in the world will be upset by her proceed- 
 ings. And as for his election, you may depend upon 
 it she will never ask or know whether he gets in next 
 Monday or no. That goes without saying. She is 
 meanwhile absorbed with the poacher's defence, Mr. 
 Wharton, of course, conducting it. This is your 
 modern young woman, my dear — tyx^ical, I should 
 think." 
 
 Miss Eaeburn turned her buttonhole in fine style, 
 and at lightning speed, to show the coolness of her 
 mind, then Avith a rattling of all her lockets, looked 
 up and waited for Lady Winterbourne 's reflections. 
 
 " She has often talked to me of these people — the 
 Kurds," said Lady Winterbourne, slowly. "She has 
 always made special friends with them. Don't you 
 remember she told us about them that day she first 
 came back to lunch? " 
 
 "Of course I remember! That day she lectured
 
 MARC ELL A. 445 
 
 Maxwell, at first sight, on his duties. She began 
 well. As for these people," said Miss Eaeburn, 
 more slowly, ''one is, of course, sorry for the wife 
 and children, though I am a good deal sorrier for 
 Mrs. Westall, and poor, poor Mrs. Dynes. The whole 
 affair has so upset Maxwell and me, we have hardly 
 been able to eat or sleep since. I thought it made 
 Maxwell look dreadfully old this morning, and with 
 all that he has got before him too! I shall insist on 
 sending for Clarke to-morrow morning if he does not 
 have a better night. And now this postponement 
 will be one more trouble — all the engagements to 
 alter, and the invitations. Really! that girl." 
 
 And Miss Kaeburn broke off short, feeling simply 
 that the words which were allowed to a well-bred 
 person were wholly inadequate to her state of mind. 
 
 " But if she feels it — as you or I might feel such a 
 thing about some one we knew or cared for, Agneta? " 
 
 "How can she feel it like that?" cried Miss Kae- 
 burn, exasperated. " How can she know any one of 
 — of that class well enough? It is not seemly, I tell 
 you, Adelaide, and I don't believe it is sincere. It's 
 just done to make herself conspicuous, and sliow her 
 power over Aldous. For other reasons too, if the 
 truth were known ! " 
 
 Miss Raeburn turned over the shirt she was making 
 for some charitable society and drew out some tack- 
 ing threads with a loud noise which relieved her. 
 Lady Winterbourne's old and delicate cheek had 
 flushed. 
 
 "I'm sure it's sincere," she said with empliasis. 
 " Do 3'ou mean to say, Agnata, that one can't sympa-
 
 446 MABCELLA. 
 
 thise, in such an awful thing, with people of another 
 class, as one would Avith one's own flesh and blood?" 
 
 Miss Raeburn winced. She felt for a moment the 
 pressure of a democratic world — a hated, formidable 
 world — through her friend's question. Then she 
 stood to her guns. 
 
 "I dare say you'll think it sounds bad," she said 
 stoutly ; " but in my young days it would have been 
 thought a piece of posing — of sentimentalism — 
 something indecorous and unfitting — if a girl had 
 put herself in such a position. Marcella ought to be 
 absorbed in her marriage ; that is the natural thing. 
 How Mrs. Boyce can allow her to mix herself with 
 such things as this murder — to live in that cottage, 
 as I hear she has been doing, passes my comprehen- 
 sion." 
 
 "You mean," said Lady Winterbourne, dreamily, 
 "that if one had been very fond of one's maid, and 
 she died, one wouldn't put on mourning for her. 
 Marcella would." 
 
 " I dare say," said Miss Eaeburn, snappishly. " She 
 is capable of anything far-fetched and theatrical." 
 
 The door opened and Hallin came in. He had been 
 suffering of late, and much confined to the house. 
 But the news of the murder had made a deep and pain- 
 ful impression upon him, and he had been eagerly 
 acquainting himself with the facts. Miss Raeburn, 
 whose kindness ran with unceasing flow along the 
 channels she allowed it, was greatly attached to him 
 in spite of his views, and she now threw herself upon 
 liim for sympathy in tlie matter of the wedding. In 
 any grievance that concerned Aldous she counted
 
 MABCELLA. 447 
 
 upon him, and her shrewd eyes had plainly perceived 
 that he had made no great friendship with Marcella. 
 
 "I am very sorry for Aldous," he said at once; 
 "but I understand her perfectly. So does Aldous." 
 
 Miss Raeburn was angrily silent. But when Lord 
 Maxwellj who had been talking with Aldous, came 
 in, he proved, to her final discomfiture, to be very 
 much of the same opinion. 
 
 "My dear," he said wearily as he dropped into his 
 chair, his old face grey and pinched, "this thing is 
 too terrible — the number of widows and orphans that 
 night's work will make before the end breaks my 
 heart to think of. It will be a relief not to have to 
 consider festivities while these men are actually be- 
 fore the courts. What I am anxious about is that 
 Marcella should not make herself ill with excitement. 
 The man she is interested in will be hung, must be 
 hung; and with her somewhat volatile, impulsive 
 nature — " 
 
 He spoke with old-fashioned discretion and meas- 
 ure. Then quickly he pulled himself up, and, with 
 some trivial question or other, offered his arm to 
 Lady Winterbourne, for Aldous had just come in, and 
 dinner was ready. 
 
 END OF VOL. I.
 
 :!H|||i!ii;:;i;j|jii; 
 
 
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