Lord Thrapston was moved to enunciate a solemn truth.

"Aggy," said he, shaking his finger at her, "in this world you can't

have your fun for nothing." But then he spoilt it by adding

regretfully, "More's the pity!" and off he hobbled to the club, intent

on finding Calder Wentworth.

For some time after he went, Agatha sat on her stool in deep thought.

Then she rose, sat down at the writing-table, took a pen, and began to

bite the end of it. At last she started to write:

"I don't know whether I ought to write or not, but I must tell you how

it happened. Oh, don't think too badly of me! I came down just because

I had heard so much about the Court and I wanted to see it, and I came

as I did with Nettie Wallace just for fun. I never meant to say I was a

dress-maker, you know; but people would ask questions and I had to say

something. I never, never thought of you. I thought you were about

fifteen. And you know--oh, you must know--that I met you quite by

accident, and was just as surprised as you were. And the rest was all

your fault. I didn't want to come again; you know I refused ever so

many times; and you promised you wouldn't come if I came, and then you

did come. It was really all your fault. And I'm very, very sorry, and

you must please try to forgive me, dear Mr. Merceron, and not think me

a very wicked girl. I had no idea of coming every evening, but you

persuaded me. You know you persuaded me. And how could I tell you I was

engaged? You know you never asked me. I would have told you if you had.

I am telling Mr. Wentworth all about it, and I don't think you ought to

have persuaded me to meet you as you did. It wasn't really kind or nice

of you, was it? Because, of course, I'm not very old, and I don't know

much about the world, and I never thought of all the horrid things

people would say. Do, please, keep this quite a secret. I felt I must

write you just a line. I wonder what you're thinking about me, or

whether you're thinking about me at all. You must never think of me

again. I am very, very unhappy, and I do most earnestly hope, dear Mr.

Merceron, that I have not made you unhappy. We were both very much to

blame, weren't we? But we slipped into it without knowing. Good-by. I

don't think I shall ever forget the dear old Pool, and the temple,

and--the rest. But you must please forget me and forgive me. I am very

miserable about it and about everything. I think we had better not know

each other any more, so please don't answer this. Just put it in the

fire and think no more about it or me. I wanted to tell you all this

when I saw you to-day, but I couldn't. Good-by. Why did we ever meet?"

"Agatha Glyn."

She read this rather confused composition over twice, growing more

sorry for herself each time. Then she put it in an envelope, addressed

it to Charlie, looked out Uncle Van in the Directory, and sent it under

cover to his residence. Then she went and lay down on the hearth-rug,

and began to cry, and through her tears she said aloud to herself,

"I wonder whether he'll write or come."

Because it seemed to her entirely impossible that, in spite of her

prayer, he should put the letter in the fire and let her go. Surely he

too remembered the dear old Pool, and the temple, and--the rest!

CHAPTER IX

TWO MEN OF SPIRIT

"The fact is," observed Lord Thrapston complacently, "the girl very

much resembles me in disposition."

Calder's eyes grew larger and rounder.

"Do you really think so?" he asked anxiously.

"Well, this little lark of hers--hang me, it's just what I should have

enjoyed doing fifty years ago."

"Ah--er--Lord--Thrapston, have you noticed the resemblance you speak of

in any other way?"

"That girl, except that she is a girl, is myself over again--myself

over again."

"The deuce!"

"I beg your pardon, Calder; I grow hard of hearing."

"Nothing. Lord Thrapston. Look here, Lord Thrapston----"

"Well, well, my dear boy?"

"Oh, nothing; that is--"

"But she'll be all right in your hands, my boy. You must keep an eye;

on her, don't you know: she'll need a bit o' driving; but I really

don't see why you should come to grief. I don't, 'pon my soul. No.

With tact on your part, you might very well pull through."

"How d'ye mean tact, Lord Thrapston?"

"Oh, amuse her. Let her travel; give her lots of society; don't bother

her with domestic affairs. Don't let her feel she's under any

obligation. That's what she kicks against. So do I; always did."

Calder pulled his mustache. Lord Thrapston had briefly sketched the

exact opposite of his ideal of married life.

"The fact is," continued the old man, "the boy's an uncommon handsome

boy. She can't resist that. No more can I; never could."

There chanced to be a mirror opposite Calder, and he impartially

considered himself. There was, he concluded, every prospect of Miss

Glyn resisting any engrossing passion for him.

"It's very good of you to have told, me all about it," he remarked,

rising. "I'll think it over."

"Yes, do. Of course, I admit she's given you a perfectly good reason

for breaking off your engagement if you like. Mind that. We don't feel

aggrieved, Calder. Act as you think best. We admit we're in the wrong,

but we must stand by what we've done."

"I shouldn't like to give her any pain--"

"Pain! Oh, dear me, no, my dear boy. She won't fret. Make your mind

easy about that."

Calder felt a sudden impulse to disclose to Lord Thrapston his secret

opinion of him, and he recollected, with a pang, that in the course of

so doing he would have to touch on more than one characteristic shared

by the old man and Agatha. Where were his visions of a quiet home in

the country, of freedom from the irksome duties of society, of an

obedient and devoted wife, surrounded by children and flanked by

jampots? He had once painted this picture for Agatha, shortly after she

had agreed to that arrangement which she declined to call a promise of

marriage; and it occurred to him now that she had allowed the subject

to drop without any expression of concurrence. He took leave of Lord

Thrapston and went for a solitary walk. He wanted to think. But the

position of affairs was such that other persons also felt the need of

reflection, and Calder had not been walking by the Row very long

before, lifting his eyes, he saw a young man approaching. The young man

was not attired as he ought to have been: he wore a light suit, a

dissolute necktie, and a soft wideawake crammed down low on his head.

He had obviously forsworn the vanities of the world and was wearing the

willow. He came up to Calder and held out his hand.

"Wentworth," he said, "I left you rudely the other day. I was doing you

an injustice. I have heard the truth from Mrs. Blunt. You are free from

all blame. We--we are fellow-sufferers."

His tones were so mournful that Calder shook his hand with warm

sympathy, and remarked, "Pretty rough, on us both, ain't it?"

"For me," declared Charlie, "everything is over. My trust in woman is

destroyed; my pleasure in life is--"

"Well, I don't feel A1 myself, old chap," said Calder.

"I have written to--to her, to say good-by."

"No, have yon, though?"

"What else could I do? Wentworth, do you suppose that, even if she was

free, I would think of her for another moment? Can there be love where

there is no esteem, no trust, no confidence?"

"I was just thinking that when you came up," said Calder.

"No, at whatever cost, I--every self-respecting man--must consider

first of all what he owes to his name, to his family, to

his--Wentworth, to his unborn children."

Calder nodded.

"You, of course," pursued Charlie, "will be guided by your own

judgment. As to that, the circumstances seal my lips."

"I don't like it, you know," said Calder.

"As regards you, she may or may not have excuses. I don't know; but she

wilfully and grossly deceived me. I have done with her."

"Gad, I believe you're right, Merceron, old chap! A chap ought to stand

up for himself, by Jove! You'd never feel safe with her, would you, by

Jove?"

"Good-by," said Charlie suddenly. "I leave Paddington by the 4.15."

"Where are you off to?"

"Hell--I mean home," answered Charlie.

Calder beat his stick against his leg.

"I can't stay here either," he said moodily.

Charlie stretched out his hand again.

"Come with me," said he.

"Eh? what?"

"Come with me; we'll forget her together."

Calder looked at him.

"Well, you are a good chap. Dashed if I don't. Yes, I will. We'll enjoy

ourselves like thunder. But I say, Merceron, I--I ought to write to

her, oughtn't I?"

"I am just going to write myself."

"To--to say good-by, eh?"

"Yes."

"I shall write and break it off."

"Come along. We'll go to your rooms and got the thing done, and then

catch the train. My luggage is at the station now."

"It won't take me a minute to get mine."

"Wentworth, I'm glad to be rid of her."

"All--oh, well--so am I," said Calder.

Late that evening the butler presented Miss Agatha Glyn with two

letters on a salver. As her eye fell on the addresses, she started.

Her heart began to beat. She sat and looked at the two momentous

missives.

"Now which," she thought, "shall I read first? And what shall I do, if

they are both obstinate?"

There was another contingency which Miss Glyn did not contemplate.

After a long hesitation, she took up Charlie's letter, and opened it.

It was very short, and began abruptly without any words of address:

"I have received your letter. Your excuses make it worse. I could

forgive everything except deceit. I leave London to-day. Good-by.--C.

M."

"Deceit!" cried Agatha. "How dare he? What a horrid boy!"

She was walking up and down the room in a state of great indignation.

She had never been talked to like that in her life before. It was

ungentlemanly, cruel, brutal. She flung Charlie's letter angrily down

on the table.

"I am sure poor dear old Calder won't treat me like that!" she

exclaimed, taking up his letter.

It ran thus: "My dear Agatha:--I hope you will believe that I write

this without any feeling of anger towards you. My regard for you

remains very great, and I hope we shall always be very good friends;

but, after long and careful consideration, I have come to the

conclusion that the story Lord Thrapston told, me shows conclusively

what I have been fearing for some time past--namely, that I have not

been so lucky as to win a real affection from you, and that we are not

likely to make one another happy. Therefore, thanking you very much for

your kindness in the past, I think I had better restore your liberty to

you. I shall hear with, very great pleasure of your happiness. I leave

town to day for a little while, in order that you may not be exposed to

the awkwardness of meeting me.

"Always your most sincerely,

"Calder Wentworth."

Agatha passed her hand across her brow; then she reread Calder's

letter, and then Charlie's. Yes, there, was not the least doubt about

it! Both of the gentlemen had well, what they had done did not admit of

being put into tolerable words. With a little shriek, Agatha flung

herself on the sofa.

The door opened and Lord Thrapston entered.

"Well, Aggy, what's the news? Still bothered by your two young men?

Hullo! what's wrong?"

"Read them!" cried Agatha, with a gesture towards the table.

"Eh? Head what? Oh, I see."

He sat down at the table and put on his glasses. Agatha turned her face

towards the wall; for her also everything was over. For a time no sound

was audible save an occasional crackle of the note-paper in Lord

Thrapston's shaking fingers. Then, to Agatha's indescribable

indignation, there came another sort of crackle--a dry, grating,

derisive chuckle--from that flinty-hearted old man, her grandfather.

"Good, monstrous good, 'pon my life!" said he.

"You're laughing at me!" she cried, leaping up.

"Well, my dear, I'm afraid I am."

"Oh, how cruel men are!"

"H'm! They're both men of spirit evidently."

"Calder I can just understand. I--perhaps I did treat Calder rather

badly---"

"Oh, you go so far as to admit that, do you, Aggy?"

"But Charlie! Oh, to think that Charlie should treat me like that!" and

she threw herself on the sofa again.

Lord Thrapston sat quite still. Presently Agatha rose, came to the

table, and took up her two letters. She looked at them both; and the

old man, seeming to notice nothing, yet kept his eye on her.

"I shall destroy these things," said she; and she tore Calder's letter

into tiny fragments, and flung them on the fire. Charlie's she crumpled

up and held in her hand.

"Good-night, grandpapa," she said wearily, and kissed him.

"Good-night, my dear," he answered.

And, whatever she did when she went upstairs, Lord Thrapston was in a

position to swear that Charlie's letter was not destroyed in the

drawing-room.

CHAPTER X

THE INCARNATION OF LADY AGATHA

"She's such a dear good girl, Mr. Wentworth," said Lady Merceron.

"She's the greatest comfort I have."

It was after luncheon at Langbury Court. Lady Merceron and Calder sat

on the lawn: Mrs. Marland and Millie Bushell were walking up and down;

Charlie was lying in a hammock. A week had passed since the two young

men had startled Lady Merceron by their unexpected arrival, and since

then the good lady had been doing her best to entertain them; for, as

she could not help noticing-, they seemed a little dull. It was a great

change from the whirl of London to the deep placidity of the Court, and

Lady Merceron could not quite understand why Charlie had tired so soon

of his excursion, or why his friend persisted with so much fervor that

anything was better than London, and the Court was the most charming

place he had ever seen. Of the two Charlie seemed to feel the ennui

much the more severely. Yet, while Mr. Wentworth spoke of returning to

town in a few weeks, Charlie asseverated that he had paid his last

visit to that revolting and disappointing place. Lady Merceron wished

she had Uncle Van by her side to explain these puzzling

inconsistencies. However, there was a bright side to the affair: the

presence of the young men was a godsend to poor Millie, who, by reason

of the depressed state of agriculture, had been obliged this year to go

without her usual six weeks of London in the season.

"And she never grumbles about it," said Lady Merceron admiringly. "She

looks after her district, and takes a ride, and plays tennis, when she

can get a game, poor girl, and is always cheerful and happy. She'd be a

treasure of a wife to any man."

"You'd better persuade Charlie of that, Lady Merceron."

"Oh, Charlie never thinks of such a thing as marrying. He thinks of

nothing but his antiquities."

"Doesn't he?" asked Calder, with apparent sympathy and a covert sad

amusement.

"Mr. Wentworth," said Mrs. Marland, approaching, "I believe it's

actually a fact that you've been here a week and have never yet been to

the Pool."

At this fateful word, Calder looked embarrassed, Charlie raised his

head from the hammock, and Millie glanced involuntarily towards him.

"We must take you," pursued Mrs. Marland, "this very evening. You'll

come, Miss Bushell?"

"I don't think I care very much about the Pool," said Millie.

"We won't let Mr. Merceron take you in his canoe this time."

Charlie rolled out of the hammock and came up to them.

"You must take us to the Pool. I don't believe you've been there since

you came back. Poor Agatha will quite---"

"Agatha?" exclaimed Calder.

"Agatha Merceron, you know. Why, haven't you heard---?"

"Oh, ah! Yes, of course. I beg your pardon."

"I hate that beastly Pool," said Charlie.

"How can you?" smiled Mrs. Marland. "You used to spend hours there

every evening."

Charlie glanced uneasily at Calder, who turned very red.

"Times have changed, have they?" Mrs. Marland asked archly. "You've got

tired of looking in vain for Agatha?"

"Oh, all right," said Charlie crossly, "we'll go after tea."

Anything seemed better than this rallying mood of Mrs. Marland's.

Presently the two young men went off together to play a game at

billiards; but after half a dozen strokes Charlie plumped down in a

chair.

"I say, Calder, old chap, how do you feel?" he asked.

Calder licked his cigar meditatively.

"Better," said he at last.

"Oh!"

"And you?"

"Worse--worse every day. I can't stand it, old chap. I shall go back."

"What, to her?"

"Yes."

"That's hardly sticking to our bargain, you know."

"But, hang it, what's the good of our both cutting her?"

"Oh, I thought you did it because you were disgusted with her. That was

my reason."

"So it was mine, but---"

"Probably she's got some other fellow by now," observed Calder calmly.

"The devil!" cried Charlie. "What makes you think so?"

"Oh, nothing. I know her way, you see."

"You think she's that sort of girl? Good heavens!"

"Well, if she wasn't, I'd like to know where you'd be, my friend. I

shouldn't have the honor of your acquaintance."

Charlie ignored this point.

"And yet you wanted, to marry her?"

"I dare say I was an ass--like better men before me and--er--since me."

"Hang it!" cried Charlie. "I'm sick of the whole thing. I'm sick of

life. I'm sick of all the nonsense of it. For two straws I'd have done

with it, and marry Millie Bushell."

"What! Look here, Charlie--"

Calder left his sentence unfinished.

"Well?" said Charlie.

"If," said Calder slowly, "there are any girls, either down here or in

London, whom you're quite sure you'll never want to marry, I should

like to be introduced to one of 'em, Charlie, if you've no objections."

"What do you mean?"

"Why, in fact, during this last week, Charlie, I have come to have a

great esteem for Miss Bushell. There's about her a something--a

solidity---"

"She can't help that, poor girl."

"A solidity of mind," said Calder, a little stiffly.

"Oh, I beg pardon. But I say, Calder, what are you driving at?"

"Charlie! Charlie!" sounded from outside. "Tea's ready."

Calder rose and took Charlie by the arm.

"Should I be safe," he asked solemnly, "in allowing myself to fall in

love with Miss Bushell, or are you likely to step in again?"

"You mean it? Honor bright, Calder?"

"Yes."

"Where's Bradshaw? By Jove, where's Bradshaw?"

"Bradshaw? What the devil has Bradshaw----?"

"Why, a train, man--a train to town."

"I don't want to go to town, bless the man---"

"You! No, but I do. To town, Calder--to Agatha, you old fool."

"Oh, that's your lay?"

"Yes, of course. I couldn't go back on you, but if you're off---"

"Charlie, old fellow, think again."

"Go to the deuce! Where's that---?"

"Charlie, Charlie! Tea!"

"Hang tea!" he cried; but Calder dragged him off, telling him that

to-morrow would do for Bradshaw.

At tea Charlie's spirits were very much better, and it was observed

that Calder Wentworth paid marked attention to Millie Bushell, so that,

when they started for the Pool, Millie was prevailed upon to be one of

the party, on the understanding that Mr. Went worth would take care of

her. This time the expedition went off more quietly than it had

previously, but at the last moment the ladies declared that they would,

be late for dinner if they waited till it was time for Agatha Merceron

to come.

"Oh, nonsense!" said Calder. "Come over to the temple, Miss Bushell. I

won't upset the canoe."

"Well, if you insist," said Millie.

Then Mrs. Marland remarked in the quietest voice in the world---

"There's some one in the temple."

"What?" cried Millie.

"Eh?" exclaimed Calder.

"Nonsense!" said Charlie.

"I saw a face at the window," insisted Mrs. Marland.

"Oh, Mrs. Marland! Was it very awful?"

"Not at all, Millie--very pretty," and she gave Charlie a look full of

meaning.

"Look, look!" cried Millie in strong agitation.

And, as they looked, a slim figure in white came quietly out of the

temple, a smile--and, alas! no vestige of a blush--on her face, walked

composedly down the steps, and, standing on the lowest one, thence--did

not throw herself into the water--but called, in the most natural voice

in the world, "Which of you is coming to fetch me?"

Charlie looked at Calder. Calder said,

"I think you'd better put her across, old man. And--er--we might as

well walk on."

They turned away, Millie's eyes wide in surprise, Mrs. Marland smiling

the smile of triumphant sagacity.

"I was coming to you to-morrow," cried Charlie the moment his canoe

bumped against the stops.

"What do you mean, sir, by staying away a whole week? How could you?"

"I don't know," said Charlie. "You see, I couldn't come till Calder----

"Oh, what about Calder?"

"He's all right."

"What? Miss--the girl you upset out of the canoe?"

"I think so," said Charlie.

"Ah, well!" said Agatha. "But how very curious!" Then she smiled at

Charlie, and asked, "But what love can there be, Mr. Merceron, where

there is deceit?"

Charlie took no notice at all of this question.

"Do you mind Calder going?" he whispered.

"Well, not much," said Miss Glyn.

Thus it was that the barony of Warmley returned to the house of

Merceron, and the portrait of the wicked lord came to hang once more in

the dining-room. So the curtain falls on the comedy; and what happened

afterwards behind the scenes, whether another comedy, or a tragedy, or

a mixed half-and-half sort of entertainment, now grave, now gay,

sometimes perhaps delightful, and again of tempered charm--why, as to

all this, what reck the spectators who are crowding out of the theatre

and home to bed?

But it seems as if, in spite of certain drawbacks in Agatha Merceron's

character, nothing very dreadful can have happened, because Mr. and

Mrs. Wentworth, who are very particular folk, went to stay at the Court

the other day, and their only complaint was that Charlie and his bride

were always at the Pool!

And, for his own part, if he may be allowed a word (which some people

say he ought not to be) here, just at the end, the writer begs to say

that he once knew Agatha, and--he would have taken the risks. However,

a lady to whom he has shown this history differs entirely from him, and

thinks that no sensible man would have married her. But, then, that is

not the question.

THE CURATE OF POLTONS

I must confess at once that at first, at least, I very much admired the

curate. I am not referring to my admiration of his fine figure--six

feet high and straight as an arrow--nor of his handsome, open,

ingenuous countenance, or his candid blue eye, or his thick curly hair.

No; what won my heart from an early period of my visit to my cousins,

the Poltons of Poltons Park, was the fervent, undisguised, unashamed,

confident, and altogether matter-of-course manner in which he made love

to Miss Beatrice Queenborough, only daughter and heiress of the wealthy

shipowner Sir Wagstaff Queenborough, Bart., and Eleanor his wife. It

was purely the manner of the curate's advances that took my fancy: in

the mere fact of them there was nothing remarkable. For all the men in

the house (and a good many outside) made covert. stealthy, and

indirect steps in the same direction; for Trix (as her friends called

her) was, if not wise, at least pretty and witty, displaying to the

material eye a charming figure, and to the mental a delicate

heartlessness--both attributes which challenge a self-respecting mans

best efforts. But then came the fatal obstacle. From heiresses in

reason a gentleman need neither shrink nor let himself be driven; but

when it comes to something like twenty thousand a year--the reported

amount of Trix's dot--he distrusts his own motives almost as much as

the lady's relatives distrust them for him. We all felt this--Stanton,

Rippleby, and I; and, although I will not swear that we spoke no tender

words and gave no meaning glances, yet we reduced such concessions to

natural weakness to a minimum, not only when Lady Queenborough was by,

but at all times. To say truth, we had no desire to see our scalps

affixed to Miss Trix's pretty belt, nor to have our hearts broken (like

that of the young man in the poem) before she went to Homburg in the

autumn. With the curate it was otherwise. He--Jack Ives, by the way,

was his name--appeared to rush, not only upon his fate, but in the face

of all possibility and of Lady Queenborough. My cousin and hostess,

Dora Polton, was very much distressed about him. She said that he was

such a nice young fellow, and that it was a great pity to see him

preparing such unhappiness for himself. Nay, I happen to know that she

spoke very seriously to Trix, pointing out the wickedness of trifling

with him; whereupon Trix, who maintained a bowing acquaintance with her

conscience, avoided him for a whole afternoon and endangered all Algy

Stanton's prudent resolutions by taking him out in the Canadian canoe.

This demonstration in no way perturbed the curate. He observed that, as

there was nothing better to do, we might as well play billiards, and

proceeded to defeat me in three games of a hundred up (no, it is quite

immaterial whether we played for anything or not), after which he told

Dora that the vicar was taking the evening service--it happened to be

the day when there was one at the parish church--a piece of information

only relevant in so far as it suggested that Mr. Ives could accept an

invitation to dinner if one were proffered to him. Dora, very weakly,

rose to the bait; Jack Ives, airily remarking that there was no use in

ceremony among friends, seized the place next to Trix at dinner (her

mother was just opposite) and walked on the terrace after dinner with

her in the moonlight. When the ladies retired he came into the

smoking-room, drank a whiskey-and-soda, said that Miss Queenborough was

really a very charming companion, and apologized for leaving us early

on the ground that his sermon was still unwritten. My good cousin, the

squire, suggested rather grimly that a discourse on the vanity of human

wishes might be appropriate.

"I shall preach." said Mr. Ives thoughtfully, "on the opportunities of

wealth."

This resolution he carried out on the next day but one, that being a

Sunday. I had the pleasure of sitting next to Miss Trix, and I watched

her with some interest as Mr. Ives developed his theme. I will not try

to reproduce the sermon, which would have seemed by no means a bad one,

had any of our party been able to ignore the personal application which

we read into it: for its main burden was no other than this--that

wealth should be used by those who were fortunate enough to possess it

(here Trix looked down and fidgeted with her prayer-book) as a means of

promoting greater union between themselves and the less richly endowed,

and not--as, alas, had too often been the case--as though it were a new

barrier set up between them and their fellow--creatures. (Here Miss

Trix blushed slightly, and had recourse to her smelling-bottle.) "You,"

said the curate, waxing rhetorical as he addressed an imaginary, but

bloated, capitalist, "have no more right to your money than I have. It

is intrusted to you to be shared with me." At this point I heard Lady

Queenborough sniff, and Algy Stanton snigger. I stole a glance at Trix

and detected a slight waver in the admirable lines of her mouth.

"A very good sermon, didn't you think?" I said to her, as we walked

home.

"Oh, very, she replied demurely.

"Ah, if we followed all we heard in church!" I sighed.

Miss Trix walked in silence for a few yards. By dint of never becoming

anything else, we had become very good friends; and presently she

remarked, quite confidentially, "He's very silly, isn't he?"

"Then you ought to snub him," said I, severely.

"So I do--sometimes. He's rather amusing, though.

"Of course, if you're prepared to make the sacrifice involved---"

"Oh, what nonsense!"

"Then you've no business to amuse yourself with him."

"Dear, dear! how moral you are!" said Trix.

The next development in the situation was this. My cousin Dora received

a letter from the Marquis of Newhaven, with whom she was acquainted,

praying her to allow him to run down to Poltons for a few days: he

reminded her that she had once given him a general invitation: if it

would not be inconvenient--and so forth. The meaning of this

communication did not, of course, escape my cousin, who had witnessed

the writers attentions to Trix in the preceding season, nor did it

escape the rest of us (who had talked over the said attentions at the

club) when she told us about it, and announced that Lord Newhaven would

arrive in the middle of next day. Trix affected dense unconsciousness;

her mother allowed herself a mysterious smile--which, however, speedily

vanished when the curate (he was taking lunch with us) observed in a

cheerful tone, "Newhaven! oh, I remember the chap at the

House--ploughed twice in Smalls--stumpy fellow, isn't he? Not a bad

chap, though, you know, barring his looks. I'm glad he's coming."

"You won't be soon, young man," Lady Queenborough's angry eye seemed to

say.

"I remember him," pursued Jack, "awfully smitten with a tobacconist's

daughter in the Corn--oh, it's all right, Lady Queenborough--she

wouldn't look at him."

This quasi-apology was called forth by the fact of Lady Queenborough

pushing back her chair and making for the door. It did not at all

appease her to hear of the scorn of the tobacconist's daughter. She

glared sternly at Jack, and disappeared. He turned to Trix and reminded

her--without diffidence and coram populo, as his habit was, that she

had promised him a stroll in the west wood.

What happened on that stroll I do not know; but meeting Miss Trix on

the stairs later in the afternoon, I ventured to remark, "I hope you

broke it to him gently, Miss Queenborough?"

"I don't know what you mean," replied Trix, haughtily.

"You were out nearly two hours," said I.

"Were we?" asked Trix with a start. "Good gracious! Where was mamma,

Mr. Wynne?"

"On the lawn--watch in hand."

Miss Trix went slowly upstairs, and there is not the least doubt that

something serious passed between her and her mother, for both of them

were in the most atrocious of humors that evening; fortunately the

curate was not there. He had a Bible class.

The next day Lord Newhaven arrived. I found him on the lawn when I

strolled up, after a spell of letter-writing, about four o'clock.

Lawn-tennis was the order of the day, and we were all in flannels.

"Oh, here's Mark," cried Dora, seeing me.

"Now, Mark, you and Mr. Ives had better play against Trix and Lord

Newhaven. That'll make a very good set."

"No, no, Mrs. Polton," said Jack Ives. "They wouldn't have a chance.

Look here, I'll play with Miss Queenborough against Lord Newhaven and

Wynne."

Newhaven--whose appearance, by the way, though hardly distinguished,

was not quite so unornamental as the curate had led us to

expect--looked slightly displeased, but Jack gave him no time for

remonstrance. He whisked Trix off, and began to serve all in a moment.

I had a vision of Lady Queenborough approaching from the house with

face aghast. The set went on; and, owing entirely to Newhaven's absurd

chivalry in sending all the balls to Jack Ives instead of following the

well-known maxim to "pound away at the lady," they beat us. Jack wiped

his brow, strolled up to the tea-table with Trix, and remarked in

exultant tones:

"We make a perfect couple, Miss Queenborough; we ought never to be

separated."

Dora did not ask the curate to dinner that night, but he dropped in

about nine o'clock to ask her opinion as to the hymns on Sunday; and

finding Miss Trix and Newhaven in the small drawing-room he sat down

and talked to them. This was too much for Trix; she had treated him

very kindly and had allowed him to amuse her; but it was impossible to

put up with presumption of that kind. Difficult as it was to discourage

Mr. Ives, she did it, and he went away with a disconsolate, puzzled

expression. At the last moment, however, Trix so far relented as to

express a hope that he was coming to tennis to-morrow, at which he

brightened up a little. I do not wish to be uncharitable--least of all

to a charming young lady--but my opinion is that Miss Trix did not wish

to set the curate altogether adrift. I think, however, that Lady

Queenborough must have spoken again, for when Jack did come to tennis,

Trix treated him with the most freezing civility and a hardly disguised

disdain, and devoted herself to Lord Newhaven with as much assiduity as

her mother could wish. We men, over our pipes, expressed the opinion

that Jack Ives's little hour of sunshine was passed, and that nothing

was left to us but to look on at the prosperous uneventful course of

Lord Newhaven's wooing. Trix had had her fun (so Algy Stanton bluntly

phrased it) and would now settle down to business.

"I believe, though," he added, "that she likes the curate a bit, you

know."

During the whole of the next day--Wednesday--Jack Ives kept away; he

had, apparently, accepted the inevitable, and was healing his wounded

heart by a strict attention to his parochial duties. Newhaven remarked

on his absence with an air of relief; and Miss Trix treated it as a

matter of no importance; Lady Queenborough was all smiles; and Dora

Polton restricted herself to exclaiming, as I sat by her at tea, in a

low tone and à propos of nothing in particular, "Oh, well--poor Mr.

Ives!"

But on Thursday there occurred an event, the significance of which

passed at the moment unperceived, but which had, in fact, most

important results. This was no other than the arrival of little Mrs.

Wentworth, an intimate friend of Dora's. Mrs. Wentworth had been left a

widow early in life; she possessed a comfortable competence; she was

not handsome, but she was vivacious, amusing, and, above all,

sympathetic. She sympathized at once with Lady Queenborough in her

maternal anxieties, with Trix on her charming romance, with Newhaven on

his sweet devotedness, with the rest of us in our obvious

desolation--and, after a confidential chat with Dora; she sympathized

most strongly with poor Mr. Ives on his unfortunate attachment.

Nothing would satisfy her, so Dora told me, except the opportunity of

plying Mr. Ives with her soothing balm; and Dora was about to sit down

and write him a note, when he strolled in through the drawing-room

window, and announced that his cooks mother was ill, and that he should

be very much obliged if Mrs. Polton would give him some dinner that

evening. Trix and Newhaven happened to enter by the door at the same

moment, and Jack darted up to them, and shook hands with the greatest

effusion. He had evidently buried all unkindness--and with it, we

hoped, his mistaken folly. However that might be, he made no effort to

engross Trix, but took his seat most docilely by his hostess--and she,

of course, introduced him to Mrs. Wentworth. His behavior, was, in

fact, so exemplary, that even Lady Queenborough relaxed her severity,

and condescended to cross-examine him on the morals and manners of the

old women of the parish. "Oh, the Vicar looks after them," said Jack;

and he turned to Mrs. Wentworth again.

There can be no doubt that Mrs. Wentworth had a remarkable power of

sympathy. I took her into dinner, and she was deep in the subject of my

"noble and inspiring art," before the soup was off the table. Indeed,

I'm sure that my life's ambitions would have been an open book to her

by the time that the joint arrived, had not Jack Ives, who was sitting

on the lady's other side, cut into the conversation just as Mrs.

Wentworth was comparing my early struggles with those of Mr. Carlyle.

After this intervention of Jack's I had not a chance. I ate my dinner

without the sauce of sympathy, substituting for it a certain amusement

which I derived from studying the face of Miss Trix Queenborough, who

was placed on the opposite side of the table. And if Trix did look now

and again at Mrs. Wentworth and Jack Ives, I cannot say that her

conduct was unnatural. To tell the truth, Jack was so obviously

delighted with his new friend that it was quite pleasant--and, as I

say, under the circumstances, rather amusing--to watch them. We felt

that the Squire was justified in having a hit at Jack when Jack said,

in the smoking-room, that he found himself rather at a loss for a

subject for his next sermon.

"What do you say," suggested my cousin, puffing at his pipe, "to taking

constancy as your text?"

Jack considered the idea for a moment, but then he shook his head.

"No. I think," he said, reflectively, "that I shall preach on the power

of sympathy."

That sermon afforded me--I must confess it, at the risk of seeming

frivolous--very great entertainment. Again I secured a place by Miss

Trix--on her left, Newhaven being on her right, and her face was worth

study when Jack Ives gave us a most eloquent description of the

wonderful gift in question. It was, he said, the essence and the crown

of true womanliness, and it showed itself--well, to put it quite

plainly, it showed itself, according to Jack Ives, in exactly that sort

of manner and bearing which so honorably and gracefully distinguished

Mrs. Wentworth. The lady was not, of course, named, but she was clearly

indicated. "Your gift, your precious gift," cried the curate,

apostrophizing the impersonation of sympathy, "is given to you, not for

your profit, but for mine. It is yours, but it is a trust to be used

for me. It is yours, in fact, to share with me." At this climax, which

must have struck upon her ear with a certain familiarity, Miss Trix

Queenborough, notwithstanding the place and occasion, tossed her pretty

head and whispered to me, "What horrid stuff!"

In the ensuing week Jack Ives was our constant companion; the continued

illness of his servant's mother left him stranded, and Dora's kind

heart at once offered him the hospitality of her roof. For my part I

was glad, for the little drama which now began was not without its

interest. It was a pleasant change to see Jack genially polite to Trix

Queenborough, but quite indifferent to her presence or absence, and

content to allow her to take Newhaven for her partner at tennis as

often as she pleased. He himself was often an absentee from our games.

Mrs. Wentworth did not play, and Jack would sit under the trees with

her, or take her out in the canoe. What Trix thought I did not know,

but it is a fact that she treated poor Newhaven like dirt beneath her

feet, and that Lady Queenborough's face began to lose its transiently

pleasant expression. I had a vague idea that a retribution was working

itself out, and disposed myself to see the process with all the

complacency induced by the spectacle of others receiving punishment for

their sins.

A little scene which occurred after lunch one day was significant. I

was sitting on the terrace, ready booted and breeched, waiting for my

horse to be brought round. Trix came out and sat down by me.

"Where's Newhaven?" I asked.

"Oh, I don't always want Lord Newhaven," she exclaimed petulantly; "I

sent him off for a walk--I'm going out in the Canadian canoe with Mr.

Ives."

"Oh, you are, are you?" said I smiling. As I spoke, Jack Ives ran up to

us.

"I say, Miss Queenborough," he cried, "I've just got your message

saying you'd let me take you on the lake."

"Is it a great bore?" asked Trix, with a glance--a glance that meant

mischief.

"I should like it awfully, of course," said Jack; "but the fact is I've

promised to take Mrs. Wentworth--before I got your message, you know."

Trix drew herself up.

"Of course, if Mrs. Wentworth---" she began.

"I'm very sorry," said Jack.

Then Miss Queenborough, forgetting--as I hope--or choosing--to

disregard my presence, leant forward and asked in her most coaxing

tones, "Don't you ever forget a promise, Mr. Ives?"

Jack looked at her. I suppose her dainty prettiness struck him afresh,

for he wavered and hesitated.

"She's gone upstairs," pursued the tempter, "and we shall be safe away

before she comes down again."

Jack shuffled with one foot on the gravel.

"I tell you what," he said. "I'll ask her if she minds me taking you

for a little while before I----"

I believe he really thought that he had hit upon a compromise

satisfactory to all parties. If so, lie was speedily undeceived. Trix

flushed rod and answered angrily, "Pray don't trouble. I don't want to

go."

"Perhaps afterwards you might--" suggested the curate, but now rather

timidly.

"I'm going out with Lord Newhaven," said she. And she added in an

access of uncontrollable annoyance, "Go, please go. I--I don't want

you."

Jack sheered off, with a look of puzzled shamefacedness. He disappeared

into the house. Nothing passed between Miss Trix and myself. A moment

later Newhaven came out.

"Why, Miss Queenborough," said he, in apparent surprise, "Ives is going

with Mrs. Wentworth in the canoe!"

In an instant I saw what she had done. In rash presumption she had told

Newhaven that she was going with the curate--and now the curate had

refused to take her--and Ives had met him in search of Mrs. Wentworth.

What could she do? Well, she rose--or fell--to the occasion. In the

coldest of voices she said, "I thought you'd gone for your walk."

"I was just starting," he answered apologetically, "when I met Ives.

But, as you weren't going with him---" He paused, an inquiring look in

his eyes. He was evidently asking himself why she had not gone with the

curate.

"I'd rather be left alone, if you don't mind," said she. And then,

flushing red again, she added. "I changed my mind and refused to go

with Mr. Ives. So he went off to get Mrs. Wentworth instead."

I started. Newhaven looked at her for an instant, and then turned on

his heel. She turned to me, quick as lightning and with her face all

aflame, "If you tell, I'll never speak to you again," she whispered.

After this there was silence for some minutes.

"Well?" she said, without looking at me.

"I have no remark to offer, Miss Queenborough," I returned.

"I suppose that was a lie, wasn't it?" she asked, defiantly.

"It's not my business to say what it was," was my discreet answer.

"I know what you're thinking."

"I was thinking-," said I, "which I would rather be--the man you will

marry, or the man you would like---"

"How dare you? It's not true. Oh, Mr. Wynne, indeed it's not true!"

Whether it were true or not I did not know. But if it had been, Miss

Trix Queenborough might have been expected to act very much in the way

in which she proceeded to act: that is to say, to be extravagantly

attentive to Lord Newhaven when Jack Ives was present, and markedly

neglectful of him in the curate's absence. It also fitted in very well

with the theory which I had ventured to hint, that her bearing towards

Mrs. Went worth was distinguished by a stately civility, and her

remarks about that lady by a superfluity of laudation; for if these be

not two distinguishing marks of rivalry in the well-bred, I must go

back to my favorite books and learn from them--more folly. And if

Trix's manners were all that they should be, praise no less high must

be accorded to Mrs. Wentworth's; she attained an altitude of admirable

unconsciousness, and conducted her flirtation (the poverty of language

forces me to the word, but it is over flippant) with the curate in a

staid, quasi-maternal way. She called him a delightful boy, and said

that she was intensely interested in all his aims and hopes.

"What does she want?" I asked Dora, despairingly. "She can't want to

marry him." I was referring to Trix Queenborough, not to Mrs. Wentworth.

"Good gracious, no!" answered Dora, irritably. "It's simple jealousy.

She won't let the poor boy alone till he's in love with her again.

It's a horrible shame!"

"Oh, well, he has great recuperative power," said I.

"She'd better be careful, though. It's a very dangerous game. How do

you suppose Lord Newhaven likes it?"

Accident gave me that very day a hint how little Lord Newhaven liked

it, and a glimpse of the risk Miss Trix was running. Entering the

library suddenly, I heard Newhaven's voice raised above his ordinary

tones.

"I won't stand it," he was declaring. "I never know how she'll treat me

from one minute to the next."

My entrance, of course, stopped the conversation very abruptly.

Newhaven had come to a stand in the middle of the room, and Lady

Queenborough sat on the sofa, a formidable frown on her brow.

Withdrawing myself as rapidly as possible, I argued the probability of

a severe lecture for Miss Trix, ending in a command to try her noble

suitor's patience no longer. I hope all this happened, for I, not

seeing why Mrs. Wentworth should monopolize the grace of sympathy, took

the liberty of extending mine to Newhaven. He was certainly in love

with Trix, not with her money, and the treatment he underwent must have

been as trying to his feelings as it was galling to his pride.

My sympathy was not premature, for Miss Trix's fascinations, which were

indubitably great, began to have their effect. The scene about the

canoe was re-enacted, but with a different denouement. This time the

promise was forgotten, and the widow forsaken. Then Mrs. Wentworth put

on her armor. We had, in fact, reached this very absurd situation that

these two ladies were contending for the favors of, or the domination

over, such an obscure, poverty-stricken, hopelessly ineligible person

as the curate of Poltons undoubtedly was. The position seemed to me

then, and still seems, to indicate some remarkable qualities in that

young man.

At last Newhaven made a move. At breakfast, on Wednesday morning, he

announced that, reluctant as he should be to leave Poltons Park, he was

due at his aunt's place, in Kent, on Saturday evening, and must

therefore make his arrangements to leave by noon on that day. The

significance was apparent. Had he come down to breakfast with "Now or

Never!" stamped in fiery letters across his brow, it would have been

more obtrusive, indeed, but not a whit plainer. We all looked down at

our plates, except Jack Ives. He flung one glance (I saw it out of the

corner of my left eye) at Newhaven, another at Trix; then he remarked

kindly--

"We shall be uncommonly sorry to lose you, Newhaven."

Events began to happen now, and I will tell them as well as I am able,

supplementing my own knowledge by what I learnt afterwards from

Dora--she having learnt it from the actors in the scene. In spite of

the solemn warning conveyed in Newhaven's intimation, Trix, greatly

daring, went off immediately after lunch for what she described as 'a

long ramble' with Mr. Ives. There was, indeed, the excuse of an old

woman at the end of the ramble, and Trix provided Jack with a small

basket of comforts for the useful old body; but the ramble was, we

felt, the thing, and I was much annoyed at not being able to accompany

the walkers in the cloak of darkness or other invisible contrivance.

The ramble consumed three hours--full measure. Indeed, it was half-past

six before Trix alone, walked up the drive. Newhaven, a solitary

figure, paced up and down the terrace fronting the drive. Trix came on,

her head thrown back and a steady smile on her lips. She saw Newhaven:

he stood looking at her for a moment with what she afterwards described

as an indescribable smile on his face, but not, as Dora understood from

her, by any means a pleasant one. Yet, if not pleasant, there is not

the least doubt in the world that it was highly significant; for she

cried out nervously, "Why are you looking at me like that? What's the

matter?"

Newhaven, still saying nothing, turned his back on her and made as if

he would walk into the house and leave her there, ignored, discarded,

done with. She, realizing the crisis which had come, forgetting

everything except the imminent danger of losing him once for all,

without time for long explanation or any round--about seductions, ran

forward, laying her hand on his arm and blurting out, "But I've refused

him."

I do not know what Newhaven thinks now, but I sometimes doubt whether

he would not have been wiser to shake off the detaining hand and pursue

his lonely way, first into the house, and ultimately to his aunt's. But

(to say nothing of the twenty thousand a year, which, after all, and

lie you as romantic as you may please to be, is not a thing to be

sneezed at) Trix's face, its mingled eagerness and shame, its flushed

cheeks and shining eyes, the piquancy of its unwonted humility,

overcame him. He stopped dead.

"I--I was obliged to give him an--an opportunity," said Miss Trix,

having the grace to stumble a little in her speech. "And--and it's all

your fault."

The war was thus, by happy audacity, carried into Newhaven's own

quarters.

"My fault!" he exclaimed. "My fault that you walk all day with that

curate!"

Then Miss Trix--and let no irrelevant considerations mar the

appreciation of line acting--dropped her eyes and murmured softly,

"I--I was so terribly afraid of seeming to expect you."

Wherewith she (and not he) ran away, lightly, up the stairs, turning

just one glance downwards as she reached the landing. Newhaven was

looking up from below with an 'enchanted' smile--the word is Trix's

own: I should probably have used a different one.

Was then the curate of Poltons utterly defeated--brought to his knees,

only to lie spurned? It seemed so: and he came down to dinner that

night with a subdued and melancholy expression. Trix, on the other

hand, was brilliant and talkative to the last degree, and the gayety

spread from her all round the table, leaving untouched only the

rejected lover and Mrs. Wentworth; for the last-named lady, true to her

distinguishing quality, had begun to talk to poor Jack Ives in low

soothing tones.

After dinner Trix was not visible; but the door of the little boudoir

beyond stood half-open, and very soon Newhaven edged his way through.

Almost at the same moment Jack Ives and Mrs. Wentworth passed out of

the window and began to walk up and down the gravel. Nobody but myself

appeared to notice these remarkable occurrences, but I watched them

with keen interest. Half an hour passed and then there smote on my

watchful ear the sound of a low laugh from the boudoir. It was followed

almost immediately by a stranger sound from the gravel walk. Then, all

in a moment, two things happened. The boudoir door opened, and Trix,

followed by Newhaven, came in smiling; from the window entered Jack

Ives and Mrs. Wentworth. My eyes were on the curate. He gave one sudden

comprehending glance towards the other couple; then he took the widows

hand, led her up to Dora, and said, in low yet penetrating tones, "Will

you wish us joy, Mrs. Polton?" The Squire, Rippleby, and Algy Stanton

were round them in an instant. I kept my place, watching now the face

of Trix Queenborough. She turned first flaming red, then very pale. I

saw her turn to Newhaven and speak one or two urgent imperative words

to him. Then, drawing herself up to her full height, she crossed the

room to where the group was assembled round Mrs. Wentworth and Jack

Ives.

"What's the matter? What are you saying?" she asked.

Mrs. Wentworth's eyes were modestly cast down, but a smile played round

her mouth. No one spoke for a moment. Then Jack Ives said, "Mrs.

Wentworth has promised to be my wife. Miss Queenborough."

For a moment, hardly perceptible. Trix hesitated; then, with the most

winning, touching, sweetest smile in the world, she said, "So you took

my advice, and our afternoon walk was not wasted after all!"

Mrs. Polton is not used to these fine flights of diplomacy; she had

heard before dinner something of what had actually happened in the

afternoon; and the simple woman positively jumped. Jack Ives met Trix's

scornful eyes full and square.

"Not at all wasted," said he with a smile. "Not only has it shown me

where my true happiness lies, but it has also given me a juster idea of

the value and sincerity of your regard for me, Miss Queenborough."

"It is as real, Mr. Ives, as it is sincere," said she.

"It is like yourself, Miss Queenborough," said he, with a little bow;

and he turned from her and began to talk to his fiancée.

Trix Queenborough moved slowly towards where I sat. Newhaven was

watching her from where he stood alone on the other side; of the room.

"And have you no news for us?" I asked, in low tones.

"Thank you," she said haughtily; "I don't care that mine should be a

pendant to the great tidings about the little widow and the curate."

After a moment's pause she went on:

"He lost no time, did he? He was wise to secure her before what

happened this afternoon could leak out. Nobody can tell her now."

"This afternoon?"

"He asked me to marry him this afternoon."

"And you refused?"

"Yes."

"Well, his behavior is in outrageously bad taste, but---"

She laid a hand on my arm, and said in calm level tones,

"I refused him because I dared not have him; but I told him I cared for

him, and he said he loved me. And I let him kiss me. Good-night, Mr.

Wynne."

I sat still and silent. Newhaven came across to us. Trix put out her

hand and caught him by the sleeve.

"Fred," she said, "my dear honest old Fred, you love me, don't you?"

Newhaven, much embarrassed and surprised, looked at me in alarm. But

her hand was in his now, and her eyes imploring him.

"I should rather think I did, my dear," said he.

I really hope that Lord and Lady Newhaven will not be very unhappy,

while Mrs. Ives quite worships her husband, and is convinced that she

eclipsed the brilliant and wealthy Miss Queenborough. Perhaps she

did--perhaps not. There are, as I have said, great qualities in the

curate of Poltons, but I have not quite made up my mind precisely what

they are. I ought, however, to say that Dora takes a more favorable

view of him and a less lenient view of Trix than I. That is perhaps

natural. Besides, Dora does not know the precise manner in which the

curate was refused. By the way, he preached next Sunday on the text,

"The children of this world are wiser in their generation than the

children of light."

A THREE-VOLUME NOVEL

It was, I believe, mainly as a compliment to me that Miss Audrey Liston

was asked to Poltons. Miss Liston and I were very good friends, and my

cousin Dora Polton thought, as she informed me, that it would be nice

for me to have someone I could talk to about "books and so on." I did

not complain. Miss Liston was a pleasant young woman of six-and-twenty;

I liked her very much except on paper, and I was aware that she made it

a point of duty to read something at least of what I wrote. She was in

the habit of describing herself as an "authoress in a small way." If it

were pointed out that six three-volume novels in three years (the term

of her literary activity at the time of which I write) could hardly be

called "a small way." she would smile modestly and say that it was not

really much; and if she were told that the English language embraced no

such word as "authoress," she would smile again and say that it ought

to, a position towards the bugbear of correctness with which, I

confess, I sympathize in some degree. She was very diligent; she worked

from ten to one every day while she was at Poltons; how much she wrote

is between her and her conscience.

There was another impeachment which Miss Liston was hardly at the

trouble to deny. "Take my characters from life!" she would exclaim.

"Surely every artist (Miss Liston often referred to herself as an

artist) must!" And she would proceed to maintain--what is perhaps true

sometimes--that people rather liked being put into books, just as they

liked being photographed, for all that they grumble and pretend to be

afflicted when either process is levied against them. In discussing

this matter with Miss Liston I felt myself on delicate ground, for it

was notorious that I figured in her first book in the guise of a

misogynistic genius; the fact that she lengthened (and thickened) my

hair, converted it from an indeterminate brown to a dusty black, gave

me a drooping mustache, and invested my very ordinary work-a-day eyes

with a strange magnetic attraction, availed nothing; I was at once

recognized, and, I may remark in passing, an uncommonly disagreeable

fellow she made me. Thus I had passed through the fire. I felt

tolerably sure that I presented no other aspect of interest, real or

supposed, and I was quite content that Miss Liston should serve all the

rest of her acquaintance as she had served me. I reckoned they would

last her, at the present rate of production, about five years.

Fate was kind to Miss Liston, and provided her with most suitable

patterns for her next piece of work at Poltons itself. There were a

young man and a young woman staying in the house--Sir Gilbert

Chillington and Miss Pamela Myles. The moment Miss Liston was appraised

of a possible romance; she began the study of the protagonists. She was

looking out, she told me, for some new types (if it were any

consolation--and there is a sort of dignity about it--to be called a

type, Miss Liston's victims were always welcome to so much), and she

had found them in Chillington and Pamela. The former appeared to my

dull eye to offer no salient novelty; he was tall, broad, handsome, and

he possessed a manner of enviable placidity. Pamela, I allowed, was

exactly the heroine Miss Liston loved--haughty, capricious, difficile,

but sound and true at heart (I was mentally skimming Volume I.). Miss

Liston agreed with me in my conception of Pamela, but declared that I

did not do justice to the artistic possibilities latent in Chillington;

he had a curious attraction which it would tax her skill (so she

gravely informed me) to the utmost to reproduce. She proposed that I

also should make a study of him, and attributed my hurried refusal to a

shrinking from the difficulties of the task.

"Of course," she observed, looking at our young friends who were

talking nonsense at the other side of the lawn, "they must have a

misunderstanding."

"Why, 'of course'," said I, lighting my pipe. "What should you say to

another man?"

"Or another woman?" said Miss Liston.

"It comes to the same thing," said I. (About a volume and a half I

meant.)

"But it's more interesting'. Do you think she'd better be a married

woman?" And Miss Liston looked at me inquiringly.

"The age prefers them married," I remarked.

This conversation happened on the second day of Miss Liston's visit,

and she lost no time in beginning to study her subjects. Pamela, she

said, she found pretty plain sailing, but Chillington continued to

puzzle her. Again, she could not make up her mind whether to have a

happy or a tragic ending. In the interests of a tender-hearted public,

I pleaded for marriage-bells.

"Yes, I think so," said Miss Liston, but she sighed, and I think she

had an idea or two for a heart-broken separation, followed by mutual,

life-long, hopeless devotion.

The complexity of young Sir Gilbert did not, in Miss Liston's opinion,

appear less on further acquaintance; and indeed, I must admit that she

was not altogether wrong in considering him worthy of attention. As I

came to know him better, I discerned in him a smothered

self-appreciation, which came to light in response to the least tribute

of interest or admiration, but was yet far remote from the

aggressiveness of a commonplace vanity. In a moment of indiscretion I

had chaffed him--he was very good-natured--on the risks he ran at Miss

Liston's hands; he was not disgusted, but neither did he plume himself

or spread his feathers. He received the suggestions without surprise,

and without any attempt at disclaiming fitness for the purpose; but he

received it as a matter which entailed a responsibility on him. I

detected the conviction that, if the portrait was to be painted, it was

due to the world that it should be well painted; the subject must give

the artist full opportunities.

"What does she know about me?" he asked, in meditative tones.

"She's very quick; she'll soon pick up as much as she wants," I assured

him.

"She'll probably go all wrong," he said, sombrely; and of course I

could not tell him that it was of no consequence if she did. He would

not have believed me, and would have done precisely what he proceeded

to do, and that was to afford Miss Liston every chance of appraising

his character and plumbing the depths of his soul.

I may say at once that I did not regret this course of action; for the

effect of it was to allow me a chance of talking to Pamela Myles, and

Pamela was exactly the sort of a girl to beguile the long pleasant

morning hours of a holiday in the country. No one had told Pamela that

she was going to be put in a book, and I don't think it would have made

any difference had she been told. Pamela's attitude towards books was

one of healthy scorn, confidently based on admitted ignorance. So we

never spoke of them, and my cousin Dora condoled with me more than once

on the way in which Miss Liston, false to the implied terms of her

invitation, deserted me in favor of Sir Gilbert, and left me to the

mercies of a frivolous girl. Pamela appeared to be as little aggrieved

as I was. I imagined that she supposed that Chillington would ask her

to marry him some day before very long, and I was sure she would accept

him; but it was quite plain that, if Miss Liston persisted in making

Pamela her heroine, she would have to supply from her own resources a

large supplement of passion. Pamela was far too deficient in the

commodity to be made anything of, without such reinforcement, even by

an art more adept at making much out of nothing than Miss Liston's

straightforward method could claim to be.

A week passed, and then, one Friday morning, a new light burst on me.

Miss Liston came into the garden at eleven o'clock and sat down by me

on the lawn. Chillington and Pamela had gone riding with the squire,

Dora was visiting the poor. We were alone. The appearance of Miss

Liston at this hour (usually sacred to the use of the pen), no less

than her puzzled look, told me that an obstruction had occurred in the

novel. Presently she let me know what it was.

"I'm thinking of altering the scheme of my story, Mr. Wynne," said she.

"Have you ever noticed how sometimes a man thinks he's in love when he

isn't really?"

"Such a case sometimes occurs," I acknowledged.

"Yes, and he doesn't find out his mistake----"

"Till they're married?"

"Sometimes, yes," she said, rather as though she were making an

unwilling admission. "But sometimes he sees it before--when he meets

somebody else."

"Very true," said I, with a grave nod.

"The false can't stand against the real." pursued Miss Liston; and then

she fell into meditative silence. I stole a glance at her face; she was

smiling. Was it in the pleasure of literary creation--an artistic

ecstasy? I should have liked to answer yes, but I doubted it very much.

Without pretending to Miss Liston's powers, I have the little subtlety

that is needful to show me that more than one kind of smile may be seen

on the human face, and that there is one very different from others;

and finally, that that one is not evoked, as a rule, merely by the

evolution of the troublesome encumbrance in pretty writing, vulgarly

called a "plot."

"If," pursued Miss Liston, "some one comes who can appreciate him and

draw out what is best in him----"

"That's all very well," said I, "but what of the first girl?"

"Oh, she's--she can be made shallow, you know; and I can put in a man

for her. People needn't be much interested in her."

"Yes, you could manage it that way," said I, thinking how Pamela--I

took the liberty of using her name for the shallow girl--would like

such treatment.

"She will really be valuable mainly as a foil," observed Miss Liston;

and she added generously, "I shall make her nice, you know, but

shallow--not worthy of him."

"And what are you going to make the other girl like?" I asked.

Miss Liston started slightly; also she colored very slightly, and she

answered, looking away from me across the lawn, "I haven't quite made

up my mind yet, Mr. Wynne."

With the suspicion which this conversation aroused fresh in my mind, it

was curious to hear Pamela laugh, as she said to me on the afternoon of

the same day, "Aren't Sir Gilbert and Audrey Liston funny? I tell you

what, Mr. Wynne, I believe they're writing a novel together."

"Perhaps Chillington's giving her the materials for one," I suggested.

"I shouldn't think," observed Pamela, in her dispassionate way, "that

anything very interesting had ever happened to him."

"I. thought you liked him," I remarked, humbly.

"So I do. What's that got to do with it?" asked Pamela.

It was beyond question that Chillington enjoyed Miss Liston's society;

the interest she showed in him was incense to his nostrils. I used to

overhear fragments of his ideas about himself, which he was revealing

in answer to her tactful inquiries. But neither was it doubtful that he

had by no means lost his relish for Pamela's lighter talk; in fact, he

seemed to turn to her with some relief--perhaps it is refreshing to

escape from self-analysis, even when the process is conducted in the

pleasantest possible manner--and the hours which Miss Liston gave to

work were devoted by Chillington to maintaining his cordial relations

with the lady whose comfortable and not over-tragical disposal was

taxing Miss Liston's skill. For she had definitely decided all her

plot; she told me so a few days later. It was all planned out; nay, the

scene in which the truth as to his own feelings bursts on Sir Gilbert

(I forget at the moment what name the novel gave him) was, I

understood, actually written; the shallow girl was to experience

nothing worse than a wound to her vanity, and was to turn with as much

alacrity as decency allowed to the substitute whom Miss Liston had now

provided. All this was poured into my sympathetic ear, and I say

sympathetic with all sincerity; for, although I may occasionally treat

Miss Liston's literary efforts with less than proper respect, she

herself was my friend, and the conviction under which she was now

living would, I knew, unless it were justified, bring her into much of

that unhappiness in which one generally found her heroine plunged about

the end of Volume II. The heroine generally got out all right, and the

knowledge that she would enabled the reader to preserve cheerfulness.

But would poor little Miss Liston get out? I was none too sure of it.

Suddenly a change came in the state of affairs. Pamela produced it. It

must have struck her that the increasing intimacy of Miss Liston and

Chillington might become something other than "funny." To put it

briefly and metaphorically, she whistled her dog back to her heels. I

am not skilled in understanding or describing the artifices of ladies;

but even I saw the transformation in Pamela. She put forth her strength

and put on her prettiest gowns; she refused to take her place in the

see-saw of society, which Chillington had recently established for his

pleasure. If he spent an hour with Miss Liston, Pamela would have

nothing of him for a day; she met his attentions with scorn unless they

were undivided. Chillington seemed at first puzzled; I believe that he

never regarded his talks with Miss Liston in other than a business

point of view, but directly he understood that Pamela claimed him, and

that she was prepared, in case he did not obey her call, to establish a

grievance against him, he lost no time in manifesting his obedience. A

whole day passed in which, to my certain knowledge, he was not alone a

moment with Miss Liston, and did not, save at the family meals,

exchange a word with her. As he walked off with Pamela, Miss Liston's

eyes followed him in wistful longing; she stole away upstairs and did

not come down till five o'clock. Then finding me strolling about with a

cigarette, she joined me.

"Well, how goes the book?" I asked.

"I haven't done much to it just lately," she answered, in a low voice.

"I--it's--I don't quite know what to do with it."

"I thought you'd settled?"

"So I had, but--oh, don't let's talk about it, Mr. Wynne!"

But a moment later she went on talking about it.

"I don't know why I should make it end happily," she said. "I'm sure

life isn't always happy, is it?"

"Certainly not," I answered. "You mean your man might stick to the

shallow girl after all?"

"Yes," I just heard her whisper.

"And be miserable afterwards?" I pursued.

"I don't know," said Miss Liston. "Perhaps he wouldn't."

"Then you must make him shallow himself."

"I can't do that," she said quickly. "Oh, how difficult it is!"

She may have meant merely the art of writing--when I cordially agreed

with her--but I think she meant also the way of the world, which does

not make me withdraw my assent. I left her walking up and down in front

of the drawing-room windows, a rather forlorn little figure, thrown

into distinctness by the cold rays of the setting sun.

All was not over yet. That evening Chillington broke away. Led by

vanity, or interest, or friendliness, I know not which--tired maybe of

paying court (the attitude in which Pamela kept him), and thinking it

would be pleasant to play the other part for a while--after dinner he

went straight to Miss Liston, talked to her while we had coffee on the

terrace, and then walked about with her. Pamela sat by me; she was very

silent; she did not appear to be angry, but her handsome mouth wore a

resolute expression. Chillington and Miss Liston wandered on into the

shrubbery, and did not come into sight again for nearly half an hour.

"I think it's cold," said Pamela, in her cool, quiet tones. "And it's

also, Mr. Wynne, rather slow. I shall go to bed."

I thought it a little impertinent of Pamela to attribute the 'slowness'

(which had undoubtedly existed) to me, so I took my revenge by saying,

with, an assumption of innocence purposely and obviously unreal, "Oh,

but won't you wait and bid Miss Liston and Chillington good-night?"

Pamela looked at me for a moment. I made bold to smile.

Pamela's face broke slowly into an answering smile.

"I don't know what you mean, Mr. Wynne," said she.

"No?" said I.

"No," said Pamela, and she turned away. But before she went she looked

over her shoulder, and, still smiling, said, "Wish Miss Liston

good-night for me, Mr. Wynne. Anything I have to say to Sir Gilbert

will wait very well till to-morrow."

She had hardly gone in when the wanderers came out of the shrubbery and

rejoined me. Chillington wore his usual passive look, but Miss Liston's

face was happy and radiant. Chillington passed on into the

drawing-room. Miss Liston lingered a moment by me.

"Why, you look," said I, "as if you'd invented the finest scene ever

written."

She did not answer me directly, but stood looking up at the stars.

Then she said in a dreamy tone, "I think I shall stick to my old idea

in the book."

As she spoke Chillington came out. Even in the dim light I saw a frown

on his face.

"I say, Wynne," said he, "where's Miss Myles?"

"She's gone to bed," I answered. "She told me to wish you good-night

for her, Miss Liston. No message for you, Chillington."

Miss Liston's eyes were on him. He took no notice of her; he stood

frowning for an instant, then, with some muttered ejaculation, he

strode back into the house. We hoard his heavy tread across the

drawing-room; we heard the door slammed behind him, and I found myself

looking on Miss Liston's altered face.

"What does he want her for, I wonder?" she said, in an agitation that

made my presence, my thoughts, my suspicions, nothing to her. "He said

nothing to me about wanting to speak to her to-night." And she walked

slowly into the house, her eyes on the ground, and all the light gone

from her face and the joy dead in it. Whereupon I, left alone, began to

rail at the gods that a dear, silly little soul like Miss Liston should

bother her poor, silly little head about a hulking fool; in which

reflections I did, of course, immense injustice not only to an eminent

author, but also to a perfectly honorable, though somewhat dense and

decidedly conceited, gentleman.

The next morning Sir Gilbert Chillington ate dirt--there is no other

way of expressing it--in great quantities and with infinite humility.

My admirable friend Miss Pamela was severe. I saw him walk six yards

behind her for the length of the terrace; not a look nor a turn of her

head gave him leave to join her. Miss Liston had gone upstairs, and I

watched the scene from the window of the smoking-room. At last, at the

end of the long walk, just where the laurel-bushes mark the beginning

of the shrubberies--on the threshold of the scene of his crime--Pamela

turned round suddenly and faced the repentant sinner. The most

interesting things in life are those which, perhaps by the inevitable

nature of the case, one does not hear; and I did not hear the scene

which followed. For a while they stood talking--rather, he talked and

she listened. Then she turned again and walked slowly into the

shrubbery. Chillington followed. It was the end of a chapter, and I

laid down the book.

How and from whom Miss Liston heard the news, which Chillington himself

told me without a glimmer of shame or a touch of embarrassment some two

hours later, I do not know; but hear it she did before luncheon; for

she came down, ready armed with the neatest little speeches for both

the happy lovers. I did not expect Pamela to show an ounce more feeling

than the strictest canons of propriety demanded, and she fulfilled my

expectations to the letter; but I had hoped, I confess, that

Chillington would have displayed some little consciousness. He did not;

and it is my belief that, throughout the events which I have recorded,

he retained, and that he still retains, the conviction that Miss

Liston's interest in him was purely literary and artistic, and that she

devoted herself to his society simply because he offered an interesting

problem and an inspiring theme. An ingenious charity may find in that

attitude evidence of modesty; to my thinking it argues a more subtle

and magnificent conceit than if he had fathomed the truth, as many

humbler men in his place would have done.

On the day after the engagement was accomplished Miss Liston left us to

return to London. She came out in her hat and jacket and sat down by

me; the carriage was to be round in ten minutes. She put on her gloves

slowly and buttoned them carefully. This done, she said, "By the way,

Mr. Wynne, I've adopted your suggestion. The man doesn't find out."

"Then you've made him a fool?" I asked bluntly.

"No," she answered. "I--I think it might happen though he wasn't a

fool."

She sat with her hands in her lap for a moment or two, then she went on

in a lower voice, "I'm going to make him find out afterwards."

I felt her glance on me, but I looked straight in front of me.

"What! after he's married the shallow girl?"

"Yes," said Miss Liston.

"Rather too late, isn't it? At least if you mean there is to be a happy

ending."

Miss Liston enlaced her fingers.

"I haven't decided about the ending yet," said she.

"If you're intent is to be tragical--which is the fashion--you'll do as

you stand," said I.

"Yes," she answered slowly, "if I'm tragical I shall do as I stand."

There was another pause, and rather a long one; the wheels of the

carriage were audible on the gravel of the front drive. Miss Liston

stood up. I rose and held out my hand.

"Of course," said Miss Liston, still intent on her novel, "I could--"

She stopped again, and looked apprehensively at me. My face, I believe,

expressed nothing more than polite attention and friendly interest.

"Of course," she began again, "the shallow girl--his wife--might--might

die, Mr. Wynne."

"In novels," said I, with a smile, "while there's death there's hope."

"Yes, in novels," she answered, giving me her hand.

The poor little woman was very unhappy. Unwisely, I dare say, I

pressed, her hand. It was enough; the tears leapt to her eyes; she gave

my great fist a hurried squeeze. I have seldom been more touched by any

thanks, however warm or eloquent, and hurried away.

I have read the novel. It came out a little while ago. The man finds

out after the marriage; the shallow girl dies un regretted (she turns

out as badly as possible); the real love comes, and all ends joyfully.

It is simple story, prettily told in its little way, and the scene of

the reunion is written with genuine feeling--nay, with a touch of real

passion. But then Sir Gilbert Chillington never meets Miss Liston now.

And Lady Chillington not only behaves with her customary propriety, but

is in the enjoyment of most excellent health and spirits.

True art demands an adaptation, not a copy, of life. I saw that remark

somewhere the other day. It seems correct, if Miss Liston be any

authority.

THE PHILOSOPHER IN THE APPLE ORCHARD

It was a charmingly mild and balmy day. The sun shone beyond the

orchard, and the shade was cool inside. A light breeze stirred the

boughs of the old apple-tree under which the philosopher sat. None of

these things did the philosopher notice, unless it might be when the

wind blew about the leaves of the large volume on his knees, and he had

to find his place again. Then he would exclaim against the wind,

shuffle the leaves till he got the right page, and settle to his

reading. The book was a treatise on ontology; it was written by another

philosopher, a friend of this philosopher's; it bristled with

fallacies, and this philosopher was discovering them all, and noting

them on the fly-leaf at the end. He was not going to review the book

(as some might have thought from his behavior), or even to answer it in

a work of his own. It was just that he found a pleasure in stripping

any poor fallacy naked and crucifying it. Presently a girl in a white

frock came into the orchard. She picked up an apple, bit it, and found

it ripe. Holding it in her hand, she walked up to where the philosopher

sat, and looked at him. He did not stir. She took a bite out of the

apple, munched it, and swallowed it. The philosopher crucified a

fallacy on the fly-leaf. The girl flung the apple away.

"Mr. Jerningham," said she, "are you very busy?"

The philosopher, pencil in hand, looked up.

"No, Miss May," said he, "not very."

"Because I want your opinion."

"In one moment," said the philosopher, apologetically.

He turned back to the fly-leaf and began to nail the last fallacy a

little tighter to the cross. The girl regarded him, first with amused

impatience, then with a vexed frown, finally with a wistful regret. He

was so very old for his age, she thought; he could not be much beyond

thirty; his hair was thick and full of waves, his eyes bright and

clear, his complexion not yet divested of all youth's relics.

"Now, Miss May, I'm at your service," said the philosopher, with a

lingering look at his impaled fallacy; and he closed the book, keeping

it, however, on his knee.

The girl sat down just opposite to him.

"It's a very important thing I want to ask you," she began, tugging at

a tuft of grass, "and it's very--difficult, and you mustn't tell any

one I asked you; at least, I'd rather you didn't."

"I shall not speak of it; indeed, I shall probably not remember it,"

said the philosopher.

"And you mustn't look at me, please, while I'm asking you."

"I don't think I was looking at you, but if I was I beg your pardon,"

said the philosopher, apologetically.

She pulled the tuft of grass right out of the ground, and flung it from

her with all her force.

"Suppose a man--" she began. "No, that's not right."

"You can take any hypothesis you please," observed the philosopher,

"but you must verify it afterward, of course."

"Oh, do let me go on. Suppose a girl, Mr. Jerningham--I wish you

wouldn't nod."

"It was only to show that I followed you."

"Oh, of course you 'follow me', as you call it. Suppose a girl had two

lovers--you're nodding again--or, I ought to say, suppose there were

two men who might be in love with a girl."

"Only two?" asked the philosopher. "You see, any number of men might be

in love with--

"Oh, we can leave the rest out," said Miss May, with a sudden dimple;

"they don't matter."

"Very well," said the philosopher, "if they are irrelevant we will put

them aside."

"Suppose, then, that one of these men was, oh, _awfully_ in love with

the girl, and--and proposed, you know--"

"A moment!" said the philosopher, opening a note-book. "Let me take

down his proposition. What was it?"

"Why, proposed to her--asked her to marry him," said the girl, with a

stare.

"Dear me! How stupid of me! I forgot that special use of the word.

Yes?"

"The girl likes him pretty well, and her people approve of him, and all

that, you know."

"That simplifies the problem," said the philosopher, nodding again.

"But she's not in--in love with him, you know. She doesn't really care

for him--much. Do you understand?"

"Perfectly. It is a most natural state of mind."

"Well then, suppose that there's another man--what are you writing?"

"I only put down (B)--like that," pleaded the philosopher, meekly

exhibiting his note-book.

She looked at him in a sort of helpless exasperation, with just a smile

somewhere in the background of it.

"Oh, you really are--" she exclaimed. "But let me go on. The other man

is a friend of the girl's: he's very clever--oh, fearfully clever--and

he's rather handsome. You needn't put that down."

"It is certainly not very material," admitted the philosopher, and he

crossed out 'handsome'; 'clever' he left.

"And the girl is most awfully--she admires him tremendously; she thinks

him just the greatest man that ever lived, you know. And she--she--"

The girl paused.

"I'm following," said the philosopher, with pencil poised.

"She'd think it better than the whole world if--if she could be

anything to him, you know."

"You mean become his wife?"

"Well, of course I do--at least, I suppose I do."

"You spoke rather vaguely, you know."

The girl cast one glance at the philosopher as she replied:

"Well, yes; I did mean become his wife."

"Yes. Well?"

"But," continued the girl, starting on another tuft of grass, "he

doesn't think much about those things. He likes her. I think he likes

her-"

"Well, doesn't dislike her?" suggested the philosopher. "Shall we call

him indifferent?"

"I don't know. Yes, rather indifferent. I don't think he thinks about

it, you know. But she--she's pretty. You needn't put that down."

"I was not about to do so," observed the philosopher.

"She thinks life with him would be just heaven; and-and she thinks she

would make him awfully happy. She would-would be so proud of him, you

see."

"I see. Yes?"

"And--I don't know how to put it, quite--she thinks that if he ever

thought about it at all he might care for her; because he doesn't care

for anybody else, and she's pretty--"

"You said that before."

"Oh dear, I dare say I did. And most men care for somebody, don't they?

Some girl, I mean."

"Most men, no doubt," conceded the philosopher.

"Well then, what ought she to do? It's not a real thing, you know, Mr.

Jerningham. It's in--in a novel I was reading." She said this hastily,

and blushed as she spoke.

"Dear me! And it's quite an interesting case! Yes, I see. The question

is, Will she act most wisely in accepting the offer of the man who

loves her exceedingly, but for whom she entertains only a moderate

affection--"

"Yes; just a liking. He's just a friend."

"Exactly. Or in marrying the other whom she loves ex--"

"That's not it. How can she marry him? He hasn't--he hasn't asked her,

you see."

"True; I forgot. Let us assume, though, for the moment, that he has

asked her. She would then have to consider which marriage would

probably be productive of the greater sum total of--"

"Oh, but you needn't consider that."

"But it seems the best logical order. We can afterward make allowance

for the element of uncertainty caused by--"

"Oh no; I don't want it like that. I know perfectly well which she'd do

if he-the other man you know-asked her."

"You apprehend that--"

"Never mind what I 'apprehend'. Take it as I told you."

"Very good. A has asked her hand, B has not."

"Yes."

"May I take it that, but for the disturbing influence of B, A would be

a satisfactory--er--candidate?"

"Ye--es; I think so."

"She therefore enjoys a certainty of considerable happiness if she

marries A?"

"Ye--es; not perfect, because of--B, you know."

"Quite so, quite so; but still a fair amount of happiness. Is it not

so?"

"I don't--well, perhaps."

"On the other hand, if B did ask her, we are to postulate a higher

degree of happiness for her?"

"Yes, please, Mr. Jerningham--much higher."

"For both of them?"

"For her. Never mind him."

"Very well. That again simplifies the problem. But his asking her is a

contingency only?"

"Yes, that's all."

The philosopher spread out his hands.

"My dear young lady," he said, "it becomes a question of degree. How

probable or improbable is it?"

"I don't know; not very probable--unless--"

"Well?"

"Unless he did happen to notice, you know."

"Ah, yes; we supposed that, if he thought of it, he would probably take

the desired step-at least, that he might be led to do so. Could she

not--er--indicate her preference?"

"She might try--no, she couldn't do much. You see, he--he doesn't think

about such things."

"I understand precisely. And it seems to me, Miss May, that in that

very fact we find our solution."

"Do we?" she asked.

"I think so. He has evidently no natural inclination toward

her--perhaps not toward marriage at all. Any feeling aroused in him

would be necessarily shallow and, in a measure, artificial, and in all

likelihood purely temporary. Moreover, if she took steps to arouse his

attention one of two things would be likely to happen. Are you

following me?"

"Yes, Mr. Jerningham."

"Either he would be repelled by her overtures, which you must admit is

not improbable, and then the position would be unpleasant, and even

degrading, for her; or, on the other hand, he might, through a

misplaced feeling of gallantry--"

"Through what?"

"Through a mistaken idea of politeness, or a mistaken view of what was

kind, allow himself to be drawn into a connection for which he had no

genuine liking. You agree with me that one or other of these things

would be likely?"

"Yes, I suppose they would, unless he did come to care for her."

"Ah, you return to that hypothesis. I think it's an extremely fanciful

one. No, she need not marry A, but she must let B alone."

The philosopher closed his book, took off his glasses, wiped them,

replaced them, and leaned back against the trunk of the apple-tree.

The girl picked a dandelion in pieces. After a long pause she asked:

"You think B's feelings wouldn't be at all likely to--to change?"

"That depends on the sort of man he is. But if he is an able man, with

intellectual interests which engross him-a man who has chosen his path

in life--a man to whom women's society is not a necessity--"

"He's just like that," said the girl, and she bit the head off a daisy.

"Then," said the philosopher, "I see not the least reason for supposing

that his feelings will change."

"And would you advise her to marry the other--A?"

"Well, on the whole, I should. A is a good fellow (I think we made A a

good fellow), he is a suitable match, his love for her is true and

genuine--"

"It's tremendous!"

"Yes--and--er--extreme. She likes him. There is every reason to hope

that her liking will develop into a sufficiently deep and stable

affection. She will get rid of her folly about B, and make A a good

wife. Yes, Miss May, if I were the author of your novel I should make

her marry A, and I should call that a happy ending."

A silence followed. It was broken by the philosopher.

"Is that all you wanted my opinion about, Miss May?" he asked, with his

finger between the leaves of the treatise on ontology.

"Yes, I think so. I hope I haven't bored you?"

"I've enjoyed the discussion extremely. I had no idea that novels

raised points of such psychological interest. I must find time to read

one."

The girl had shifted her position till, instead of her full face, her

profile was turned toward him. Looking away toward the paddock that lay

brilliant in sunshine on the skirts of the apple orchard, she asked in

low slow tones, twisting her hands in her lap:

"Don't you think that perhaps if B found out afterward-when she had

married A, you know--that she had cared for him so very, very much, he

might be a little sorry?"

"If he were a gentleman he would regret it deeply."

"I mean--sorry on his own account; that--that he had thrown away all

that, you know?"

The philosopher looked meditative.

"I think," he pronounced, "that it is very possible he would. I can

well imagine it."

"He might never find anybody to love him like that again," she said,

gazing on the gleaming paddock.

"He probably would not," agreed the philosopher.

"And--and most people like being loved, don't they?"

"To crave for love is an almost universal instinct, Miss May."

"Yes, almost," she said, with a dreary little smile. "You see, he'll

get old, and-and have no one to look after him."

"He will."

"And no home."

"Well, in a sense, none," corrected the philosopher, smiling. "But

really you'll frighten me. I'm a bachelor myself, you know, Miss May."

"Yes," she whispered, just audibly.

"And all your terrors are before me."

"Well, unless--"

"Oh, we needn't have that 'unless'," laughed the philosopher,

cheerfully. "There's no 'unless' about it, Miss May."

The girl jumped to her feet; for an instant she looked at the

philosopher. She opened her lips as if to speak, and at the thought of

what lay at her tongue's tip her face grew red. But the philosopher was

gazing past her, and his eyes rested in calm contemplation on the

gleaming paddock.

"A beautiful thing, sunshine, to be sure," said he.

Her blush faded away into paleness; her lips closed. Without speaking,

she turned and walked slowly away, her head drooping. The philosopher

heard the rustle of her skirt in the long grass of the orchard; he

watched her for a few moments.

"A pretty, graceful creature," said he, with a smile. Then he opened

his book, took his pencil in his hand, and slipped in a careful

forefinger to mark the fly-leaf.

The sun had passed mid-heaven and began to decline westward before he

finished the book. Then he stretched himself and looked at his watch.

"Good gracious, two o'clock! I shall be late for lunch!" and he hurried

to his feet.

He was very late for lunch.

"Everything's cold," wailed his hostess. "Where have you been, Mr.

Jerningham?"

"Only in the orchard--reading."

"And you've missed May!"

"Missed Miss May? How do you mean? I had a long talk with her this

morning-a most interesting talk."

"But you weren't here to say good-by. Now you don't mean to say that

you forgot that she was leaving by the two-o'clock train? What a man

you are!"

"Dear me! To think of my forgetting it!" said the philosopher,

shamefacedly.

"She told me to say good-bye to you for her."

"She's very kind. I can't forgive myself."

His hostess looked at him for a moment; then she sighed, and smiled,

and sighed again.

"Have you everything you want?" she asked.

"Everything, thank you," said he, sitting down opposite the cheese, and

propping his book (he thought he would just run through the last

chapter again) against the loaf; "everything in the world that I want,

thanks."

His hostess did not tell him that the girl had come in from the apple

orchard and run hastily upstairs, lest her friend should see what her

friend did see in her eyes. So that he had no suspicion at all that he

had received an offer of marriage-and refused it. And he did not refer

to anything of that sort when he paused once in his reading and

exclaimed:

"I'm really sorry I missed Miss May. That was an interesting case of

hers. But I gave the right answer; the girl ought to marry A."

And so the girl did.

THE DECREE OF DUKE DEODONATO

"It is a most anxious thing--to be an absolute ruler," said Duke

Deodonato, "but I have made up my mind. The Doctor has convinced me

(here Dr. Fusbius, Ph.D., bowed very low) that marriage is the best,

noblest, wholesomest, and happiest of human conditions."

"Your Highness will remember--" began the President of the Council.

"My lord, I have made up my mind," said Duke Deodonato.

Thus speaking, the Duke took a large sheet of foolscap paper, and wrote

rapidly for a moment or two.

"There," he said, pushing the paper over to the President, "is the

decree."

"The decree, sir?"

"I think three weeks afford ample space," said Duke Deodonato.

"Three weeks, sir?"

"For every man over twenty-one years of age in this Duchy to find

himself a wife."

"Your Highness," observed Dr. Fusbius with deference, "will consider

that between an abstract proposition and a practical measure--"

"There is to the logical mind no stopping-place," interrupted Duke

Deodonato.

"But, sir," cried the President, "imagine the consternation which

this--!"

"Let it be gazetted to-night," said Duke Deodonato.

"I would venture," said the President, "to remind your Highness that

you are yourself a bachelor."

"Laws," said Duke Deodonato, "do not bind the Crown unless the Crown is

expressly mentioned."

"True, sir; but I humbly conceive that it would be pessimi exempli--"

"You are right; I will marry myself," said Duke Deodonato.

"But, sir, three weeks! The hand of a princess cannot be requested and

granted in--"

"Then find me somebody else," said Deodonato; "and pray leave me. I

would be alone;" and Duke Deodonato waved his hand to the door.

Outside the door the President said to the Doctor,

"I could wish, sir, that you had not convinced his Highness."

"My lord," rejoined the Doctor, "truth is my only preoccupation."

"Sir," said the President, "are you married?"

"My lord," answered the Doctor, "I am not."

"I thought not," said the President, as he folded up the decree, and

put it in his pocket.

It is useless to deny that Duke Deodonato's decree caused considerable

disturbance in the Duchy. In the first place, the Crown lawyers raised

a puzzle of law. Did the word 'man' as used in the decree, include

'woman'?

The President shook his head, and referred the question to his Highness.

"It seems immaterial," observed the Duke. "If a man marries, a woman

marries."

"Ex vi terminorum," assented the Doctor.

"But, sir," said the President, "there are more women than men in the

Duchy."

Duke Deodonato threw down his pen. "This is very provoking," said he.

"Why was it allowed? I'm sure it happened before _I_ came to the

throne."

The Doctor was about to point out that it could hardly have been

guarded against, when the President (who was a better courtier)

anticipated him.

"We did not foresee that your Highness, in your Highness's wisdom,

would issue this decree," he said humbly.

"True," said Duke Deodonato, who was a just man.

"Would your Highness vouchsafe any explanation--?"

"What are the Judges for?" asked Duke Deodonato. "There is the law--let

them interpret it."

Whereupon the Judges held that a 'man' was not a 'woman' and that

although every man must marry, no woman need.

"It will make no difference," said the President.

"None at all," said Dr. Fusbius.

Nor, perhaps, would it, seeing that women are ever kind, and in no way

by nature averse from marriage, had it not become known that Duke

Deodonato himself intended to choose a wife from the ladies of his own

dominions, and to choose her (according to the advice of Dr. Fusbius,

who, in truth, saw little whither his counsel would in the end carry

the Duke) without regard to such adventitious matters as rank or

wealth, and purely for her beauty, talent, and virtue. Which resolve

being proclaimed, straightway all the ladies of the Duchy, of

whatsoever station, calling, age, appearance, wit, or character,

conceiving each of them that she, and no other, should become the

Duchess, sturdily refused all offers of marriage (although they were

many of them as desperately enamored as virtuous ladies may be), and

did nought else than walk, drive, ride, and display their charms in the

park before the windows of the ducal palace. And thus it fell out that

when a week had gone by, no man had obeyed Duke Deodonato's decree, and

they were, from sheer want of brides, like to fall into contempt of the

law and under the high displeasure of the Duke.

Upon this the President and Dr. Fusbius sought audience of his

Highness, and humbly laid before him the unforeseen obstacle which had

occurred.

"Woman is ever ambitious," said Dr. Fusbius.

"Nay," corrected the President, "they have seen his Highness's person

as his Highness has ridden through the city."

Duke Deodonato threw down his pen.

"This is very tiresome," said he, knitting his brows. "My lord, I would

be further advised on this matter. Return at the same hour to-morrow."

The next day Duke Deodonato's forehead had regained its customary

smoothness, and his manner was tranquil and assured.

"Our pleasure is," said he to the President, "that, albeit no woman

shall be compelled to marry if so be that she be not invited thereunto;

yet, if bidden, she shall in no wise refuse, but straightway espouse

that man who first after the date of these presents shall solicit her

hand."

The President bowed in admiration.

"It is, if I may humbly say so, a practical and wise solution, sir," he

said.

"I apprehend that it will remedy the mischief," said Duke Deodonato,

not ill-pleased.

And doubtless it would have had an effect as altogether satisfactory,

excellent, beneficial, salutary, and universal as the wisdom of Duke

Deodonato had anticipated from it, had it not fallen out that, on the

promulgation of the decree, all the aforesaid ladies of the Duchy, of

whatsoever station, calling, age, appearance, wit, or character,

straightway, and so swiftly that no man had time wherein to pay his

court to them, fled to and shut and bottled and barricaded themselves

in houses, castles, cupboards, cellars, stables, lofts, churches,

chapels, chests, and every other kind of receptacle whatsoever, and

there remained beyond reach of any man, be he whom he would, lest haply

one, coming, should ask their hand in marriage, and thus they should

lose all prospect of wedding the Duke.

When Duke Deodonato was apprised of this lamentable action on the part

of the ladies of the Duchy, he frowned and laid down his pen.

"This is very annoying," said he. "There appears to be a disposition

to thwart Our endeavors for the public good."

"It is gross contumacy," said Dr. Fusbius.

"Yet," remarked the President, "inspired by a natural, if

ill-disciplined, admiration for his Highness's person."

"The decree is now a fortnight old," observed Duke Deodonato. "Leave

me, I will consider further of this matter."

Now even as his Highness spoke a mighty uproar arose under the palace

windows, and Duke Deodonato, looking out of the window (which, be it

remembered, but for the guidance of Heaven he might not have done),

beheld a maiden of wonderful charms struggling in the clutches of two

halberdiers of the guard, who were haling her off to prison.

"Bring hither that damsel," said Deodonato.

Presently the damsel, still held by the soldiers, entered the room.

Her robe was dishevelled and rent, her golden hair hung loose on her

shoulders, and her eyes were full of tears.

"At whose suit is she arrested?" asked Deodonato.

"At the suit of the most learned Dr. Fusbius, may it please your

Highness."

"Sir," said Dr. Fusbius, "it is true. This lady, grossly contemning

your Highness's decree, has refused my hand in marriage."

"Is it true, damsel?" asked Duke Deodonato.

"Hear me, your Highness!" answered she "I left my dwelling but an

instant, for we were in sore straits for--"

"Bread?" asked Deodonato, a touch of sympathy in his voice.

"May it please your Highness, no--pins wherewith to fasten our hair.

And, as I ran to the merchant's, this aged man--"

"I am but turned of fifty," interrupted Fusbius.

"And have not yet learnt silence?" asked Deodonato severely. "Damsel,

proceed!"

"Caught me by my gown as I ran and--"

"I proposed marriage to her," said Fusbius.

"Nay, if you proposed marriage, she shall marry you," said Deodonato.

"By the crown of my fathers, she shall marry you. But what said he,

damsel?"

"May it please your Highness, he said that I had the prettiest face in

all the Duchy, and that he would have no wife but me; and thereupon he

kissed me; and I would have none of him, and I struck him and escaped."

"Send for the Judges," said Duke Deodonato. "And meanwhile keep this

damsel and let no man propose marriage to her until Our pleasure be

known."

Now when the Judges were come, and the maiden was brought in and set

over against them on the right hand, and the learned Doctor took his

stand on the left, Deodonato prayed the Judges that they would perpend

carefully and anxiously of the question--using all lore, research,

wisdom, discretion, and justice--whether Dr. Fusbius had proposed

marriage unto the maiden or no.

"Thus shalt Our mind be informed, and We shall deal profitably with

this matter," concluded Duke Deodonato.

Upon which arose great debate. For there was one part of the learned

men which leant upon the letter and found no invitation to marriage in

the words of Dr. Fusbius; while another part would have it that in all

things the spirit and mind of the utterer must be regarded, and that

it sorted not with the years, virtues, learning, and position of the

said most learned Doctor to suppose that he had spoken such words and

sealed the same with a kiss, save under the firm impression, thought,

and conviction that he was offering his hand in marriage; which said

impression, thought, and conviction were fully and reasonably declared

and evident in his actions, manner, bearing, air, and conduct.

"This is very perplexing," said Duke Deodonato, and he knit his brows;

for as he gazed upon the beauty of the damsel, it seemed to him a thing

unnatural, undesirable, unpalatable, unpleasant, and unendurable, that

she should wed Dr. Fusbius. Yet if such were the law--Duke Deodonato

sighed, and he glanced at the damsel: and it chanced that the damsel

glanced at Duke Deodonato, and, seeing that he was a proper man and

comely, and that his eye spoke his admiration of her, she blushed; and

her cheek that had gone white when those of the Judges who favored the

learned Doctor were speaking, went red as a rose again, and she strove

to order her hair and to conceal the rent that was in her robe. And

Duke Deodonato sighed again.

"My Lord," he said to the President, "we have heard these wise and

erudite men; and, forasmuch as the matter is difficult, they are

divided among themselves, and the staff whereon we leant is broken.

Speak, therefore, your mind."

Then the President of the Council looked earnestly at Duke Deodonato,

but the Duke veiled his face with his hand.

"Answer truly," said he, "without fear or favor; so shall you fulfil

Our pleasure."

And the President, looking round upon the company, said:

"It is, Your Highness, by all reasonable, honest, just, proper, and

honorable intendment, as good, sound, full, and explicit an offer of

marriage as hath ever been had in this Duchy."

"So be it," said Duke Deodonato; and Dr. Fusbius smiled in triumph,

while the maiden grew pale again.

"And," pursued the President, "it binds, controls, and rules every man,

woman, and child in these Your Highness's dominions, and hath the force

of law over all."

"So be it," said Deodonato again.

"Saving," added the President, "Your Highness only."

There was a movement among the company.

"For," pursued the President, "by the ancient laws, customs, manners,

and observances of the Duchy, no decree or law shall in any way

whatsoever impair, alter, lessen, or derogate from the high rights,

powers, and prerogatives of Your Highness, whom may Heaven long

preserve. Although, therefore, it be, by and pursuant to Your

Highness's decree, the sure right of every man in this Duchy to be

accepted in marriage of any damsel whom he shall invite thereunto, yet

is this right in all respects subject to and controlled by the natural,

legal, inalienable, unalterable, and sovereign prerogative of Your

Highness to marry what damsel so ever it shall be Your pleasure to bid

share your throne. Hence I, in obedience to Your Highness's commands,

pronounce and declare that this damsel is lawfully and irrevocably

bound and affianced to the learned Dr. Fusbius, unless and until it

shall please Your Highness yourself to demand her hand in marriage. May

what I have spoken please Your Highness." And the President sat down.

Duke Deodonato sat awhile in thought, and there was silence in the

hall. Then he spoke:

"Let all withdraw, saving the damsel only."

And they one and all withdrew, and Duke Deodonato was left alone with

the damsel.

Then he arose and gazed long on the damsel; but the damsel would not

look on Duke Deodonato.

"How are you called, lady?" asked Duke Deodonato.

"I am called Dulcissima," said she.

"Well named!" said Deodonato softly, and he went to the damsel, and he

laid his hand, full gently, on her robe, and he said, "Dulcissima, you

have the prettiest face in all the Duchy, and I will have no wife but

you;" and Duke Deodonato kissed the damsel.

The damsel forbore to strike Duke Deodonato, as she had struck Dr.

Fusbius. Again her cheek went red, and again pale, and she said, "I wed

no man on compulsion."

"Madam, I am Your Sovereign," said Duke Deodonato; and his eyes were on

the damsel.

"If you were an Archangel--!" cried the damsel.

"Our House is not wont to be scorned of ladies," said Deodonato. "Am I

crooked, or baseborn, or a fool?"

"This day in your Duchy women are slaves, and men their masters by your

will," said she.

"It is the order of nature," said Deodonato.

"It is not my pleasure," said the damsel.

Then Deodonato laid his hand on his silver bell, for he was very angry.

"Fusbius waits without," said he.

"I will wed him and kill him," cried Dulcissima.

Deodonato gazed on her.

"You had no chance of using the pins," said he, "and the rent in your

gown is very sore."

And upon this the eyes of the damsel lost their fire and sought the

floor; and she plucked at her girdle, and would not look on Deodonato.

And they said outside, "It is very still in the Hall of the Duke."

Then said Deodonato,

"Dulcissima, what would you?"

"That you repeal your decrees," said she.

Deodonato's brow grew dark; he did not love to go back.

"What I have decreed, I have decreed," said he.

"And what I have resolved, I have resolved," said she.

Deodonato drew near to her.

"And if I repeal the decrees?" said he.

"You will do well," said she.

"And you will wed--?"

"Whom I will," said she.

Deodonato turned to the window, and for a space he looked out; and the

damsel smoothed her hair and drew her robe, where it was whole, across

the rent; and she looked on Deodonato as he stood, and her bosom rose

and fell. And she prayed a prayer that no man heard or, if he heard,

might be so base as to tell. But she saw the dark locks of Deodonato's

hair and his form, straight as an arrow and tall as a six-foot wand, in

the window. And again, outside, they said, "It is strangely still in

the Hall of the Duke."

Then Deodonato turned, and he pressed with his hand on the silver bell,

and straightway the Hall was filled with the Councillors, the Judges,

and the halberdiers, attentive to hear the will of Deodonato and the

fate of the damsel. And the small eyes of Fusbius glowed and the calm

eyes of the President smiled.

"My Cousins, Gentlemen, and my faithful Guard," said Deodonato, "Time,

which is Heaven's mighty Instrument, brings counsel. Say! what the Duke

has done, shall any man undo?"

Then cried they all, save one, "No man!"

And the President said, "Saving the Duke."

"The decrees which I made," said Deodonato, "I unmake. Henceforth let

men and maidens in my Duchy marry or not marry as they will, and God

give them joy of it."

And all, save Fusbius, cried "Amen." But Fusbius cried, "Your Highness,

it is demonstrated beyond cavil, ay, to the satisfaction of your

Highness--"

"This is very tedious," said Deodonato. "Let him speak no more."

And again he drew near to Dulcissima, and there, before them all, he

fell on his knee. And a murmur ran through the hall.

"Madam," said Deodonato, "if you love me, wed me. And, if you love me

not, depart in peace and in honor; and I, Deodonato, will live my life

alone."

Then the damsel trembled, and barely did Deodonato catch her words:

"There are many men here," said she.

"It is not given to Princes," said Deodonato, "to be alone.

Nevertheless, if you will, leave me alone."

And the damsel bent low, so that the breath of her mouth stirred the

hair on Deodonato's head, and he shivered as he knelt.

"My Prince and my King!" said she.

And Deodonato shot to his feet, and before them all he kissed her, and,

turning, spoke:

"As I have wooed, let every man in this Duchy woo. As I have won, let

every man that is worthy win. For, unless he so woo, and unless he so

win, vain is his wooing and vain is his winning, and a fig for his

wedding, say I, Deodonato! I, that was Deodonato, and now am--Deodonato

and Dulcissima."

And a great cheer rang out in the Hall, and Fusbius fled to the door;

and they tore his gown as he went and cursed him for a knave. But the

President raised his voice aloud and cried--"May Heaven preserve your

Highnesses--and here's a blessing on all windows!"

And that is the reason why you will find (if you travel there, as I

trust you may, for nowhere are the ladies fairer or the men so gallant)

more windows in the Duchy of Deodonato than anywhere in the wide world

besides. For the more windows, the wider the view; and the wider the

view, the more pretty damsels do you see; and the more pretty damsels

you see, the more jocund a thing is life-and that is what the men of

the Duchy love--and not least Duke Deodonato, whom, with his bride

Dulcissima, may Heaven long preserve!