One afternoon late in October Ginger was sitting cross-legged on the
hearthrug of Judy's drawing-room. Outside a remarkably fine London
fog had sat down on the town during the morning, and, like the frog
footman in 'Alice in Wonderland,' proposed to sit there till to-morrow,
if not for days and days. But a large fire was burning in the grate,
for Judy detested unfired rooms, and the electric light was burning.
The windows were not shuttered nor the blinds drawn, because Ginger,
a Sybarite in sensations, said it made him so much more comfortable
to see how disgusting it was outside. So the jaundiced gloom peered
in through the windows, and by contrast gave an added animation to
Ginger's conversation. He had usually a good deal to say, whether
events of interest had occurred lately or not. But just now events of
some importance to him and Judy had been occurring with bewildering
rapidity, and in consequence conversation showed even less signs than
usual of flagging.
'In fact, the world is like a morning paper, so crammed with news that
one can't read any one paragraph without another catching one's eye.
And your new paragraph, Judy, is most exciting. What has happened, do
you suppose?'
'Nothing--probably nothing; Sybil is just tired of it all. She is like
that. She goes on enjoying things enormously till a moment comes; at
that moment she finds them instantly and immediately intolerable. I am
only surprised that it didn't occur sooner.'
'Well, she had enough of New York pretty soon,' said Ginger. 'She
only stopped down at Long Island for ten days. Then she had a month's
travelling; she returns to New York on a Monday, and leaves for England
forty-eight hours afterwards. You know, she enjoyed it enormously at
first. I think something did happen.'
Judy shook her head.
'No; on her return she found she couldn't endure it for a single
moment longer. And I'm sure I don't wonder. The description of the
pearl-fishing party made me sick. Besides, what could have happened?'
Ginger handed his cup for some more tea.
'If you want me to guess, I will,' he said; 'but I don't think you'll
like it.'
'Pray guess,' said she.
'Well, I guess that Bilton--her own Bilton--suddenly behaved like--like
Bilton.'
'Why?' said Judy.
'Because she wrote me a letter full of Bilton one week, since when his
name has not occurred.'
Judy nodded.
'The same applies to Mrs. Emsworth,' she said. 'Do you think----?'
'Yes,' said Ginger.
'For a fool, you are rather sharp,' said Judy. 'I wonder if it is so.'
'I don't; I know it,' said Ginger. 'By the way, I saw poor Charlie
yesterday.'
'Were you down at Sheringham?'
'No; he has left Sheringham. Apparently you have to get up when a
bell rings, and eat all that is given you, and live out of doors till
another bell rings. Charlie said he would sooner die like a gentleman
than live like a Strasburg goose. So he left. He is down at Brighton in
his mother's house, living out of doors.'
Judy stirred her tea thoughtfully.
'Has he told Sybil yet?' she asked. 'You remember he would not let us
tell her; he said he wished to tell her himself.'
'I don't know; I know he meant to.'
'Humanly speaking, what chance has he got?' she asked.
'A good one, if he will be sensible; he probably won't. But one person
could make him sensible.'
Judy never asked unnecessary questions, and let this pass in silence.
'And have you heard from the millionaire?' she asked.
'Bertie? Yes. Bertie seems uncommonly happy. So should I be if I was
going to marry the richest girl in the five continents. Also I think
he's in love with her.'
'Isn't Gallio delighted?'
'Yes; for the first time in his life, he really takes an interest
in Bertie. He says a man's efficiency is measured by his success.
Success means income, you know. Gallio speaks of himself as the most
inefficient man of his own acquaintance. But the pictures have to be
sold, all the same. Bertie's news came a little too late.'
'Pictures?' asked Judy.
'Hadn't you heard. You see, Gallio, about a month ago, suddenly became
aware that he had a genius for speculating on the Stock Exchange. He
chose American rails to exercise his genius on. But the American rails
went flat, and knocked him flat. So all the Dutch pictures are up at
Christie's next week. He doesn't care. As soon as he gets the money
for them, he is going to speculate again. He has written to Bertie in
case he can get any sort of special information from Palmer. He has
stockbrokers to dinner, and lunches with bulls and bears.'
Judy was silent a moment.
'What about Mrs. Emsworth?' she asked suddenly.
Ginger had got hold of a large Persian cat, and was stroking it. The
animal was in the full ecstasy of sensuous pleasure, with eyes shut and
neck strained to his hand. But, as Judy asked this, he paused a moment,
and stroked it the wrong way. It hit at him with its paw, and fled in
violent indignation.
'Well, what about Mrs. Emsworth?' he repeated.
'Ginger, don't be ridiculous. It is loyal of you to pretend not to know
what I mean, but still ridiculous. How has Bertie managed to do this
under her very guns?'
'I suppose he silenced them first,' said Ginger cautiously. 'Or perhaps
she has no guns.'
'Why, then, two years ago, did we all talk about nothing else but her
and Bertie?'
'Because we are gossips,' said he.
'Do you mean that?'
Ginger examined his injured hand.
'Yes, I mean that,' he said. 'Bertie told me all that happened. He fell
desperately in love with her; he wrote her a very foolish letter, which
proposed, oh, all sorts of things--marriage among them. Immediately
afterwards she--well, we all began talking about her and Bilton.'
'What happened to the letter?' asked Judy.
'Don't know,' said he.
Judy was silent a little.
'Anyhow, it all hangs together with your idea about Sybil and Bilton,'
she said at length.
'I wondered if you were going to see that,' said Ginger rather loftily.
Judy went to the window and looked out.
'I like that fog,' she said, 'because it renders all traffic and
business of all sorts out of the question. I like the feeling that
London, anyhow, has to pause, and just twiddle its thumbs until God
makes the wind blow.'
'After all, a fog comes from smoke, and it was man who lit the fires,'
remarked Ginger parenthetically.
'You needn't remind one of that,' said she. 'Now, Sybil told me there
were no fogs in New York. That is awful. Her letters were awful. The
whole of life was a ceaseless grind; if you stopped for a moment, you
were left behind. How hopelessly materialistic! Why, the only people
who do any good in the world--apart from making Pullman cars and
telephones, that is to say--are exactly those who do stop--who sit
down and think. All the same, it is possible to stop too much. You are
always stopping. Ginger, why don't you ever do something?'
'Because it is so vastly more amusing to observe other people doing
things,' said he. 'As a rule, they do them so badly. Besides, Sybil
seems to me an awful warning. She deliberately went to seek the
strenuous life. Well, something has happened; the strenuous life has
been one too many for her. Oh, by the way, I have more news for you
-the most important of all, nearly. You have been talking so much that
I couldn't get a word in.'
'Slander,' said Judy. 'Get it in now.'
'Gallio, as you know, has been trying to sell Molesworth. Well,
advances have been made to him through an agent about it. He wants to
know the name of the purchaser, but he can't find out.'
'What does Gallio care as long as the price is a good one?'
'You can't tell about Gallio; he has some charming prejudices.
Besides--I don't understand the ins and outs of it--Bertie's consent
has to be obtained. But he is offered two hundred thousand for a
barrack he never lives in, and some acres of land which nobody will
farm. He has telegraphed to Bertie about it to-day.'
'Well, I suppose it's no use being old-fashioned,' said Judy; 'but I
think it's horrible to sell what has been yours so long. Probably the
buyer is some awful South African Jew.'
'Very likely. But it's nothing new. Money has always possessed its
own buying power--it always will. Only there's such a devil of a lot
of it now in certain hands that a poor man can't keep anything of his
own. And the hands that own it are not English. But they want England.
Anyhow, as you say, it is no use being old-fashioned; but it is an
immense luxury. You are luxurious, Judy.'
'What do you mean?'
'Well, the greatest luxury of your life was refusing to ask Mrs. Palmer
to your house. How you could afford it I don't know.'
'It was delicious,' said Judy with great appreciation.
'Sybil was so sensible about it. She took just your view; she said she
couldn't afford it herself, but that I was my own mistress. I wonder--I
really wonder--why I find that class of person so intolerable.'
'Because you are old-fashioned; because you do not believe what is
undoubtedly true--that wealth will get you anything----'
'Anything material it certainly will get you.'
'Quite so. And this is a materialistic age. I must go, as I'm dining
out. Mind you let me know anything fresh in all these events that
concern us.'
Ginger went out into the thick, dim-coloured evening with a sense
of quickened interest in things. His only passion in life was the
observation of other people, but for the last month or two he had
found very little to observe. Apart from his work as a clerk in the
Foreign Office, which could have been done quite as well in half the
time by an ordinary bank clerk at a quarter of his salary, his life
was valueless from an economical point of view, while as far as his
work went (from the same point of view) he was positively fraudulent.
Thus, judged by the relentless standards of America, where work is paid
for strictly by the demand which exists for it, and that demand is
tested simply and solely by the criterion of whether it adds directly
or indirectly to the wealth of the country, Ginger's services would
have been dispensed with. For he was--though the wedge was being pulled
out, not pushed in--the thin end of that wedge which in the days of
George III. had provided so amply for the younger sons, nephews, and
connections of the nobility. But the leisured ease in which those
fortunate people could live in those days was rapidly passing away, and
Ginger, from an economical point of view, was a very small specimen of
an interesting survival. For, provided that a thing is done equally
well in a cheap way as in an expensive way, it is inexcusable in the
public service not to have it done as cheaply as possible. Whether the
complete application of this principle will be found wholly successful
in its working will be for succeeding generations to determine. But
even to-day we have, so to speak, a working model of it in America.
The money, once earned, of course becomes the entire property of the
individual, and it is perfectly right that beggars should starve for
a crust, while on the foreshore of Mon Repos the glutted vulgarocracy
gabble and search for pearls.
So the interesting survival made his groping way westwards, in order
to dress for dinner. The fog was extremely dense, and the light from
the street-lamps was not sufficient to pierce the thickness that lay
between them, so that a man following the curb of the pavement had
passed out of range of one before he came within range of the next.
Dim shadows of people suddenly loomed large and close, and as suddenly
vanished into the fog. In the roadway omnibuses and cabs proceeded at
a foot-pace, some drivers even leading their horses; here a hansom had
gone utterly astray, and was at a standstill on the pavement, being
backed slowly off into the road. Through the dense air sound also came
muffled and subaqueously; it was like a city in a dream.
At the corner of Bond Street a man, walking faster than is usual in a
fog, ran into Ginger just below a gas-lamp, and apologized in a voice
that struck him as familiar. The next moment he saw who it was.
'Pray don't mention it,' he said. 'I thought you were in America, Mr.
Bilton.'
Bilton peered at him a moment, and recognised him also. 'Really, Lord
Henry, if it was necessary for me to run into someone, I should have
chosen you. At the present moment I may be in Australia for all I know.
Is this London, and if so, what part?'
'Corner of Bond Street,' said Ginger. 'Which way are you going?'
'South Audley Street,' said the other; 'I'm going to see your father,
in fact, about the sale of Molesworth.'
'Are you going to buy it?' asked Ginger.
'No; but I have been asked to communicate direct with him about it. The
intending purchaser wants me to see about doing it up.'
'I am going that way too,' said Ginger; 'let us go together. Walking is
the only way. You know, we don't know who the intending purchaser is.'
'That so?' asked Bilton. 'Well, there's no reason any longer for
secrecy; it's Lewis S. Palmer.'
'Lewis Palmer?' asked Ginger.
'Yes; pity your father didn't ask an extra ten thousand.'
'He would have, if he had known who the purchaser was,' said Ginger
candidly. 'Do you know if Mr. Palmer means to live there?' he asked.
'No more than he means to live on the new Liverpool and Southampton
line.'
'Ah! he hasn't got that through yet,' said Ginger, with a sudden
feeling of satisfaction that there had been considerable difficulties
in getting the Bill through the House last session. There had really
been no reason why it should not have been passed, except that the
Commons objected to it merely because the line was practically to
belong to a man who was not English.
Bilton laughed a short, rather shoulder-shrugging laugh.
'London is the last place to know what happens in London,' he said.
'The Bill was passed this afternoon. Lewis S. Palmer owns that line as
much as I own my walking-stick. He could sit down on the up-track and
Mrs. Palmer on the down-track, and stop all traffic if he chose. You
don't seem to like it.'
Ginger rather resented this, chiefly because it was true.
'Why should I not like it?' he said.
'Can't say, I'm sure,' said Bilton. 'I guess your country ought to be
very grateful. Palmer will show you how to run a line properly. He
won't give you engines which are so pretty that they ought to be hung
on the wall, and he won't give you cars covered with gilt and mirrors.
But he'll run you trains quicker than you ever had them run yet; he'll
give you express freight rates that will be as cheap as transport
by sea, and he'll pull the two ports together like stringing beads,
instead of letting them roll about unconnected. Of course, he'll get
his bit out of it, but all the benefit of rapid transport and cheap
fares will be yours. I guess your House of Commons was annoyed they
didn't think of it themselves.'
They had got to Hyde Park Corner, and the fog had suddenly grown less
dense and the darkness was clarified. Across the open square they could
see the dark mass of the arch at the top of Constitution Hill, and
farther on the dim shapes of the houses in Grosvenor Place. Hansoms no
longer passed as if going to a funeral, but jingled merrily by to the
cheerful beat of the horses' hoofs on the road. All the traffic was
resuscitated; buses swayed and nodded; silent-footed electric broughams
made known their advent by their clear metallic bells, and the two
turned more briskly up Hamilton Place.
'And what has brought you to England so suddenly?' asked Ginger. 'I
thought you intended to stop in America throughout Mrs. Emsworth's
tour.'
'Circumstances altered my plan,' said Bilton. 'I had several pieces
of business here; for instance, Lewis S. Palmer wished me to conduct
the negotiations of Molesworth, as his agent seemed to be a sort of
fool-man, and tell him what must be done to make it liveable in.'
'It is going to be lived in?' said Ginger, quite unable to stifle the
curiosity he felt.
'Oh, certainly it is going to be lived in. Then I wanted to secure--I
have secured--the lease of the Coronation Theatre for next summer.'
'I thought Mrs. Emsworth had taken it,' said Ginger.
'No; she meant to, but she did not complete her contract before leaving
for America. In fact, she let an excellent chance slip.'
'You have cut her out?'
'Certainly. Then there was another thing. Now, do you know, Lord Henry,
whether Mrs. Massington has arrived in London yet? She sailed the day
before I did, but we made a very fast voyage. She was in the _Oceanic_.'
'She arrives this evening,' said Ginger.
'And goes to her sister's, to Miss Farady's?' asked Bilton.
'Yes. Here we are. Won't you come in with me? I will see if my father
is at home.'
Gallio was in, and very much at Bilton's service. Personally, he
detested the man, but he liked his way of doing business, and he
particularly liked the business he had come to do. Bertie's consent
had been received by cable that afternoon, and a short half-hour was
sufficient to draw up the extremely simple deed by virtue of which
Molesworth, the house and park, and all that was within, house and park
passed into the possession of Lewis S. Palmer on payment of the sum of
two hundred thousand pounds.
'And I'll cable to Lewis right along,' said Bilton at the conclusion,
'and you'll find the sum standing to your credit to-morrow morning. By
the way, Lewis expressly told me to ask you whether you had any wishes
of any sort with regard to Molesworth--any small thing you wanted out
of it, or anything you wanted kept exactly as it is.'
Gallio considered a moment.
'Ah, there's the visitors' book,' he said; 'I should rather like to
have that. I don't think it could be of any value to Mrs. Palmer, as it
only contains the names of friends of mine who have stayed there.'
'Distinguished names?' asked Bilton.
'I suppose you might call some of them distinguished.'
'I guess Mrs. Palmer might like to keep it on,' said Bilton.
'But I'll ask. Anything else?'
'I should rather like the oak avenue left as it is,' said Gallio. 'It
was planted in the reign of Henry VIII., and several what you would
call distinguished people--James I. and George I. among them--planted
trees there.'
'Mrs. Palmer will have a gold fence put round it,' said Bilton, with a
touch of sarcasm.
'That will add very greatly to the beauty of the sylvan scene,' Gallio
permitted himself to remark. 'In fact, if I ever have the pleasure of
seeing Molesworth again, I shall expect to find it improved out of all
recognition.'
'I expect Mrs. Palmer will smarten it up a bit,' said Bilton, quite
unmoved.
That excellent man of business went down to Molesworth next day in
order to inspect it generally, with a view to estimating what would
have to be spent on it to make it habitable. He had sufficient taste
to see the extraordinary dignity of the plain Elizabethan house;
and though he felt that Mrs. Palmer would probably have called it a
mouldy old ruin, he did not propose, even though he got a percentage
on the sale and the costs of renovation, to recommend any scheme of
gilding and mirrors. The tapestries were admirable, the Sheraton and
Chippendale furniture was excellently suited to the thoroughly English
character of the place, and the gardens wanted nothing but gardeners.
Bilton's extremely quiet and businesslike mind had its perceptive side,
and though he did not care for, yet he appreciated, the leisurely
solidity, the leisurely beauty of the place, so characteristic of
England, so innate with the genius of the Anglo-Saxon. The red,
lichen-toned house had grown there as surely as its stately oaks and
lithe beeches had grown there out of the English soil--indigenous,
not bought and planted. Cedar-trees with broad fans of leaves, and
starred by the ripe cones, made a spacious shade on the lawn, and
whispered gently to the stirring of the warm autumn wind, as they
bathed themselves in the mellow floods of October sunshine. Below the
lawn ran a dimpling trout-stream, and within the precincts of the park
stood the small Gothic church, grown gray in its patient, unremitting
service, gathering slowly round it the sons of the soil. Attached to
one aisle was the chapel of the family, and marble effigies of Scartons
knelt side by side, or, reclining on their tombs, raised dumb hands
of prayer. One had hung up his armour by him; by the feet of another
his hunting dogs lay stretched in sleep. One, but a beardless lad, the
second of the race, had been killed in the hunting-field; his wife,
so ran the inscription, was delivered of a child the same day, and
died within twenty-four hours of her lord. And over all was the air
of distinction, of race, of culture that could not be bought, though
Lewis S. Palmer, by right of purchase, was entitled to it all. Bilton
felt this, but dismissed it as an unprofitable emotion, and made a note
on his shirt-cuff to inquire whether the right of presentation to the
living belonged to the family.
Sybil Massington, in the meantime, had arrived in London, and while
Bilton was engaged in appraising the Molesworth estate, was herself in
the confessional of the wisest spinster in London. All her life she had
been accustomed to knowing what she wanted, and, knowing, to getting
it. But now, for the first time in matters of importance, she did not
know what she wanted, and was afraid of not getting anything at all.
Things in America, in fact, had gone quite stupendously awry; she was
upset, angry at herself and others, and, what to her was perhaps most
aggravating of all, uncertain of herself. To one usually so lucid, so
intensely reasonable as she was, this was of the nature of an idiocy;
it was as if she--the essential Sybil--stood by, while a sort of wraith
of herself sat feeble and indifferent in a chair, unable to make up its
mind about anything. She longed to take this phantom by the shoulders
and shake it into briskness and activity again, open its head and dust
its brain for it. But perhaps Judy could do it for her; anyhow, the
need, not so much of consultation, but of confession, was urgent. She
did not in the least want absolution, because she had done nothing
wrong; indeed, she wanted to confess because she was incapable of
doing anything at all. She had to make up her mind, and she could not;
perhaps stating the problem of her indecision very clearly might, even
if it did not elicit a suggestion from Judy, help her, at any rate, to
see what her difficulties were more clearly. And, though indecisive,
she still retained her candour, and told Judy all that had happened,
exactly as it had happened.
'Oh, I know it,' she said in answer to some question of Judy's. 'A
woman feels in her bones when a man is going to propose to her; only I
wasn't quite ready for it, and for two days I kept him from actually
asking me. Then, on the night that Mrs. Emsworth was acting there, I
went upstairs with her to her room. Two minutes afterwards Bilton came
in--strolled in.'
'You mean he didn't knock?' asked Judy.
'Oh, my dear, what does it matter whether he knocked or not? As a
matter of fact, I think he did, but he came in on the top of his knock.
Anyhow, there was no doubt in my mind as to what their relations were;
but, to make sure, I asked Mrs. Emsworth. It was a horrible thing to
do, but I did it. I like that woman; she is what she is, but she is
extremely _bon enfant_, a nice, straightforward boy. And she told me.
I was perfectly right: he had been living with her for the last two
years.'
Sybil got up, and began walking up and down the room. 'It hurt me,'
she went on; 'it hurt me intolerably. It hurt my self-respect that he
should come to me like that. No, he had not broken with her--at any
rate, not definitely. She was perfectly straightforward with me, and in
a curious sort of way she was sorry for me, as one is sorry for a pain
one does not understand. She could not see, I think, that it made any
difference.'
Judy's rather short nose went in the air.
'Luckily, it does not matter much what that sort of woman thinks,' she
said.
Sybil did not reply for a moment.
'You don't see my difficulty, then,' she said; 'my difficulty, my
indecision, is that I am not certain whether she is right or not. Look
at it this way: I was attracted by Mr. Bilton; I felt for him that
which I believe in me does duty for love. I liked him and I admired
him; I liked the fact that he admired me. Now, all the time that I
liked and admired him this thing had happened. I liked the man who had
done that. What difference, then, can my knowing it make?'
Judy looked at her in surprise.
'If he had happened to be a murderer?' she said.
'I should not ever have liked him.'
'I don't know what to say to you,' said Judy, really perplexed. 'What
you tell me is so unlike you.'
'I know it is. I have changed, I suppose. I think America changed me.
What has happened? Is it that I have become hard or that I have learned
common-sense? What I cannot make out is whether I would sooner have
learned this or not. If I had not learned it, I should be now engaged
to him; but, knowing it, shall I marry him?'
'Have you seen him since?'
'No. He has behaved very typically, very cleverly. He neither tried
to see me again nor wrote to me. He has very quick perceptions, I
am sure. I am sure he reasoned it out with himself, and came to the
conclusion that it was better not to approach me in any way for a time.
He was quite right; if he had tried to explain things away, or had
even assured me that there was nothing to explain, I should have had
nothing more to say to him. I should have told him that he and all that
concerned him was a matter of absolute indifference to me. He has been
wise: he simply effaced himself, and he has therefore made me think
about him.'
Sybil paused in front of the looking-glass, and smoothed her hair with
an absent hand. Then she turned round again.
'You will see,' she said. 'He will follow me to England. I don't think
you like him, Judy,' she added.
'My approbation is not necessary to you.'
'Not in the least; but why don't you?'
'Because I am old-fashioned--because we belong to totally different
generations, you and I. I don't like motor-cars, either, you see; and
a person's feeling for motor-cars is a very good criterion as to the
generation to which he belongs.'
Sybil laughed.
'How odd you are!' she said; 'they are fast and convenient. But about
Mr. Bilton: he is a very remarkable man. He can do anything he chooses
to do, and whatever he chooses to do turns into gold. He owns half
the theatres in New York; he has a big publishing business there;
he furnishes houses for people; he has made a fortune on the Stock
Exchange. Some of those Americans are like spiders sitting in the
middle of their webs, which extend in all directions, and whatever wind
blows, it blows some fly into their meshes. Just as a great artist like
Michael Angelo can write a sonnet, or hew a statue out of the marble,
or paint a picture, fitting the artistic sense like a handle to any
knife, so with a man like him. He sees money everywhere. He is very
efficient.'
'Is he quite unscrupulous?' asked Judy.
'Not unscrupulous exactly, but relentless; that is the spirit of
America: it fascinates me, and it repels me. Some of them remind me
of destiny--Mr. Palmer does. By the way, he asked me, when I was over
there, if Molesworth was for sale. Have you heard anything about it?'
'Yes; Ginger told me that negotiations were going on. He didn't know,
nor did Gallio, who the possible purchaser was. No doubt it was Mr.
Palmer.'
Sybil put her head on one side, considering.
'What was the price?' she asked.
'Two hundred thousand.'
'Of course, money does not mean anything particular to the Palmers,'
she said; 'but I rather wonder why they bought it. Mr. Palmer has been
looking out for an English house, I know, but I should have thought
Molesworth was too remote.'
'I expect they paid for the spirit of ancestry which clings to the
place,' said Judy. 'Molesworth seemed to me, the only time I saw it, to
be the most typically English house I had ever seen. Mrs. Palmer can't
procure ancestors, but she can procure the frame for them.'
'That is not charitably said, dear Judy,' said her sister; 'besides,
I am sure that is not it. Ah, I know! They have bought it to give to
Bertie on his marriage; that must be it.'
'If so, there is a large-leaved, coarse sort of delicacy about it,'
said Judy.
'There again you are not charitable. Besides, you have not seen Amelie.
She is charming, simply charming--a girl, too, a real flesh and
blood girl. And she adores him; she adores him with all her splendid
vitality.'
'And Bertie?' asked Judy.
'Oh, they will be very happy,' said Sybil. 'It will be a great success.
He admires her immensely; he likes her immensely. Dear Judy, there are
many ways of love; one way of love is Bertie's and mine. That is all.'
'Did he adore Mrs. Emsworth like that?' asked Judy.
'Well, no, I imagine not; that was the other way of love.'
She took up the morning paper. Then a sudden thought seemed to strike
her, and she laid it down again.
'By the way, is Charlie in town?' she asked. 'I heard from him just
before I left America; he said he had not been well. His letter made me
feel rather anxious. There was an undercurrent of--of keeping something
back.'
'Did he tell you no more than that?' asked Judy.
Sybil glanced up, and, seeing Judy's face, knitted her brows into a
frown.
'Judy, what is it?' she asked quickly; 'tell me at once.'
'I can't, dear; he wished to tell you himself. I promised him I
wouldn't.'
'But is there something wrong--something really wrong?'
Judy nodded.
'Where is he?'
'Down at Brighton with his mother.'
'Judy, you must tell me,' said her sister; 'it is merely saving me a
couple of hours of horrid anxiety. I shall go down to see him this
afternoon. Now, what is it? Is it lungs? I will tell Charlie I forced
you to tell me.'
'There is no use in my not answering you,' said Judy.
'Yes, it is that.'
'Serious?'
'Consumption is always serious.'
Sybil said nothing for a moment.
'I shall go down this afternoon,' she said. 'Why is he at Brighton? Why
is he not at some proper place?'
'He went to Sheringham for a time, but he left it.'
'But he has got to get better,' said Sybil quickly. 'He must do what is
sensible.'
Judy glanced up at her a moment.
'As things at present stand, he does not much want to get better,' she
said.
Sybil turned, and looked at her long and steadily.
'You mean me?' she asked.
There was silence. Sybil went to the writing-table and wrote a
telegram, while her sister took up the paper she had dropped and looked
at it mechanically. Almost immediately a short paragraph struck her
eye, but her mind, dwelling on other things, did not at once take in
its significance.
'Yet you advised me yourself not to marry him,' said Sybil, as she rang
the bell.
'I know I did; nor have I really changed my mind. But it is in your
power to make him want to live.'
Sybil turned on her rather fiercely.
'You have no right to load me with such responsibilities,' she said.
'It is not my fault that he loves me; it is not my fault that I am as I
am.'
'I know it is not,' said Judy; 'but, Sybil, be wise--be very wise. I
don't know what you can do, but certainly nobody else can do anything.
I am very sorry for you.' Sybil gave the telegram, asking Charlie if
she could come, to the servant, and stood in silence again by the fire.
After a pause Judy took up the paper again.
'There is something here that concerns you,' she said; 'it is that Mr.
Bilton arrived in London yesterday.'
Sybil turned, then suddenly threw her arms wide.
'Oh, Judy, Judy,' she cried, 'I am unutterably unhappy! I am perplexed,
puzzled; I don't know what I feel.'
And she flung herself down on the sofa by Judy's side, and burst into
uncontrollable sobs.