CHAPTER XX

THE CONFIDENCE OF LORD ARRANMORE

The servants had left the room, and the doors were fast closed. Lord

Arranmore sat a little forward in his high-backed chair, one hand

grasping the arm, the other stretched flat upon the table before him.

By his side, neglected, was a cedar-wood box of his favourite

cigarettes.

"I am going," he said, thoughtfully, "to tell you a story, of whom the

hero is--myself. A poor sort of entertainment perhaps, but then there

is a little tragedy and a little comedy in what I have to tell. And you

three are the three people in the world to whom certain things were

better told."

They bent forward, fascinated by the cold directness of his speech, by

the suggestion of strange things to come. The mask of their late gaiety

had fallen away. Lady Caroom, grave and sad-eyed, was listening with an

anxiety wholly unconcealed. Under the shaded lamplight their faces,

dominated by that cold masterly figure at the head of the table, were

almost Rembrandtesque.

"You have heard a string of incoherent but sufficiently damaging

accusations made against me to-day by a young lady whose very existence,

I may say, was a surprise to me. It suited me then to deny them.

Nevertheless they were in the main true."

The announcement was no shock. Every one of the three curiously enough

had believed the girl.

"I must go a little further back than the time of which she spoke. At

twenty-six years old I was an idle young man of good family, but scant

expectations, supposed to be studying at the Bar, but in reality idling

my time about town. In those days, Lady Caroom, you had some knowledge

of me."

"Up to the time of your disappearance--yes. I remember, Arranmore," she

continued, her manner losing for a moment some of its restraint, and

her eyes and tone suddenly softening, "dancing with you that evening.

We arranged to meet at Ranelagh the next day, and, when the next day

came, you had vanished, gone as completely as though the earth had

swallowed you up. For weeks every one was asking what has become of

him. And then--I suppose you were forgotten."

"This," Lord Arranmore continued, "is the hardest part of my narrative,

the hardest because the most difficult to make you understand. You will

forgive my offering you the bare facts only. I will remind you that I

was young, impressionable, and had views. So to continue!"

The manner of his speech was in its way chillingly impressive. He was

still sitting in exactly the same position, one hand upon the arm of his

high-backed chair, the other upon the table before him. He made use of

no gestures, his face remained as white and emotionless as a carved

image, his tone, though clear and low, was absolutely monotonous. But

there was about him a subtle sense of repression apparent to all of

them.

"On my way home that night my hansom knocked down an old man. He was

not seriously hurt, and I drove him home. On the way he stared at me

curiously. Every now and then he laughed--unpleasantly.

"'I have never seen any one out of your world before,' he said. 'I

dare say you have never spoken to any one out of mine except to toss us

alms. Come and see where I live.'

"He insisted, and I went. I found myself in a lodging-house, now pulled

down and replaced by one of Lord Rowton's tenement houses. I saw a

hundred human beings more or less huddled together promiscuously, and

the face of every one of them was like the face of a rat. The old man

dragged me from room to room, laughing all the time. He showed me

children herded together without distinction of sex or clothing, here

and there he pointed to a face where some apprehension of the light was

fighting a losing battle with the ghouls of disease, of vice, of foul

air, of filth. I was faint and giddy when we had looked over that one

house, but the old man was not satisfied. He dragged me on to the roof

and pointed eastwards. There, as far as the eyes could reach, was a

blackened wilderness of smoke-begrimed dwellings. He looked at me and

grinned. I can see him now. He had only one tooth, a blackened yellow

stump, and every time he opened his mouth to laugh he was nearly choked

with coughing. He leaned out over the palisading and reached with both

his arms eastward. 'There,' he cried, frantically, 'you have seen one.

There are thousands and tens of thousands of houses like this, a million

crawling vermin who were born into the world in your likeness, as you

were born, my fine gentleman. Day by day they wake in their holes, fill

their lungs with foul air, their stomachs with rotten food, break their

backs and their hearts over some hideous task. Every day they drop a

little lower down. Drink alone keeps them alive, stirs their blood now

and then so that they can feel their pulses beat, brings them a blessed

stupor. And see over there the sun, God's sun, rises every morning,

over them and you. Young man! You see those flaming spots of light?

They are gin-palaces. You may thank your God for them, for they alone

keep this horde of rotten humanity from sweeping westwards, breaking up

your fine houses, emptying your wine into the street, tearing the silk

and laces from your beautiful soft-limbed women. Bah! But you have

read. It would be the French Revolution over again. Oh, but you are

wise, you in the West, your statesmen and your philanthropists, that you

build these gin-palaces, and smile, and rub your hands and build more

and spend the money gaily. You build the one dam which can keep back

your retribution. You keep them stupefied, you cheapen the vile liquor

and hold it to their noses. So they drink, and you live. But a day of

light may come.'"

Lord Arranmore ceased speaking, stretched out his hand and helped

himself to wine with unfaltering fingers.

"I have tried," he continued, "to repeat the exact words which the old

man used to me, and I do not find it so difficult as you might imagine,

because at that time they made a great impression upon me. But I

cannot, of course, hope to reproduce to you his terrible earnestness,

the burning passion with which every word seemed to spring from his

lips. Their effect upon me at that time you will be able to judge when

I tell you this--that I never returned to my rooms, that for ten years I

never set foot west of Temple Bar. I first joined a small society in

Whitechapel, then I worked for myself, and finally I became a

police-court missionary at Southwark Police-Court. The history of

those years is the history of a slowly-growing madness. I commenced

by trying to improve whole districts-I ended with the individual."

Brooks' wineglass fell with a little crash upon the tablecloth. The

wine, a long silky stream, flowed away from him unstaunched, unregarded.

His eyes were fixed upon Lord Arranmore. He leaned forward.

"A police-court missionary!" he cried, hoarsely.

Lord Arranmore regarded him for a moment in silence.

"Yes. As you doubtless surmise, I am your father. Afterwards you may

ask me questions."

Brooks sat as one stupefied, and then a sudden warm touch upon his hand

sent the blood coursing once more through his veins. Sybil's fingers

lay for a moment upon his. She smiled kindly at him. Lord Arranmore's

voice once more broke the short silence.

"The individual was my greatest disappointment," he continued. "Young

and old, all were the same. I took them to live with me, I sent them

abroad, I found them situations in this country, I talked with them,

read with them, showed them the simplest means within their reach by

means of which they might take into their lives a certain measure of

beautiful things. Failure would only make me more dogged, more eager.

I would spend months sometimes with one man or boy, and at last I

would assure myself of success. I would find them a situation, see them

perhaps once a week, then less often, and the end was always the same.

They fell back. I had put the poison to sleep, but it was always there.

It was their everlasting heritage, a gift from father to son, bred in

the bone, a part of their blood.

"In those days I married a lady devoted to charitable works. Our

purpose was to work together, but we found it impracticable. There was,

I fear, little sympathy between us. The only bond was our work--and

that was soon to be broken. For there came a time, after ten breathless

years, when I paused to consider."

He raised his glass to his lips and drained it. The wine was powerful,

but it brought no tinge of colour to his cheeks, nor any lustre to his

eyes. He continued in the same firm, expressionless tone.

"There came a night when I found myself thinking, and I knew then that a

new terror was stealing into my life. I made my way up to the roof of

the house where that old man had first taken me, and I leaned once more

over the palisading and looked eastwards. I fancied that I could still

hear the echoes of his frenzied words, and for the first time I heard

the note of mockery ringing clearly through them. There they

stretched--the same blackened wilderness of roofs sheltering the same

horde of drinking, filthy, cursing, parasitical creatures; there flared

the gin-palaces, more of them, more brilliantly lit, more gorgeously

decorated. Ten years of my life, and what had I done? What could any

one do? The truth seemed suddenly written across the sky in letters of

fire. I, a poor human creature, had been fighting with a few other

fanatics against the inviolable, the unconquerable laws of nature. The

hideous mistake of all individual effort was suddenly revealed to me.

'We were like a handful of children striving to dam a mighty torrent

with a few handfuls of clay. Better a thousand times that these people

rotted--and died in their holes, that disease should stalk through their

streets, and all the evil passions born of their misery and filth should

be allowed to blaze forth that the whole world might see, so the laws of

the world might intervene, the great natural laws by which alone these

things could be changed. I looked down at myself, then wasted to the

bone, a stranger to the taste of wine or tobacco, to all the joys of

life, a miserable heart-broken wretch, and I cursed that old man and the

thought of him till my lips were dry and my throat ached. I walked back

to my miserable dwelling with a red fire before my eyes, muttering,

cursing that power which stood behind the universe, and which we call

God, that there should be vomited forth into the world day by day, hour

by hour, this black stream of human wretchedness, an everlasting mockery

to those who would seek for the joy of life.

"They took me to the hospital, and they called my illness brain-fever.

But long before they thought me convalescent I was conscious, lying

awake and plotting my escape. With cunning I managed it. Of my wife

and child I never once thought. Every trace of human affection seemed

withered up in my heart. I took the money subscribed for me with a

hypocrite's smile, and I slunk away from England. I went to Montreal in

Canada, and I deliberately entered upon a life of low pleasures. Pardon

me!"

He bent forward and with a steady hand readjusted the shade of a lamp

which was in danger of burning. Lady Caroom leaned back in her chair

with an indrawn sobbing breath. The action at such a moment seemed

grotesque. His own coolness, whilst with steady fingers he probed away

amongst the wounded places of his life, was in itself gruesome.

"My money," he continued, "was no large sum, but I eked it out with

gambling. The luck was always on my side. It's quite true that I

ruined the father of the young lady who paid me a visit to-day. After a

somewhat chequered career he was settling down in a merchant's office in

Montreal when I met him. His luck at cards was as bad as mine was good.

I won all he had, and more. I believe that he committed suicide. A man

there was kind to me, asked me to his house--I persuaded his wife to run

away with me. These are amongst the slightest of my delinquencies. I

steeped myself in sin. I revelled in it. I seemed to myself in some

way to be showing my defiance for the hidden powers of life which I had

cursed. I played a match with evil by day and by night until I was

glutted. And then I stole away from the city, leaving behind a hideous

reputation and not a single friend. Then a new mood came to me. I

wanted to get to a place where I should see no human beings at all, and

escape in that way from the memories which were still like a clot upon

my brain. So I set my face westwards. I travelled till at last

civilization lay behind. Still I pushed onward. I had stores in

plenty, an Indian servant who chanced to be faithful, and whom I saw

but twice a day. At last I reached Lake Ono. Here between us we built

a hut. I sent my Indian away then, and when he fawned at my feet to

stay I kicked him. This was my third phase of living, and it was true

that some measure of sanity came back to me. Oh, the blessed relief of

seeing the face of neither man nor woman. It was the unpeopled world of

Nature--uncorrupted, fresh, magnificent, alive by day and by night with

everlasting music of Nature. The solitudes of those great forests were

like a wonderful balm. So the fevers were purged out of me, and I

became once more an ordinary human being. I was content, I think, to

die there, for I had plenty to eat and drink, and the animals and birds

who came to me morning and evening kept me from even the thought of

loneliness. The rest is obvious. I lost two cousins in South Africa,

an uncle in the hunting-field. A man in Montreal had recognized me. I

was discovered. But before I returned I killed Brooks, the police-court

missionary. This girl has forced me to bring him to life again."

It was a strange silence which followed. Brooks sat back in his chair,

pale, bewildered, striving to focus this story properly, to attain a

proper comprehension of these new strange things. And behind all there

smouldered the slow burning anger of the child who has looked into the

face of a deserted mother. Lady Caroom was white to the lips, and in

her eyes the horror of that story so pitilessly told seemed still to

linger.

Lord Arranmore spoke again. Still he sat back in his high-backed

chair, and still he spoke in measured, monotonous tones. But this time,

if only their ears had been quick enough to notice it, there lay behind

an emotion, held in check indeed, but every now and then quivering for

expression. He had turned to Lady Caroom.

"Chance," he said, "has brought together here at the moment when the

telling of these things has become a necessity, the two people who have

in a sense some right to hear them, for from each I have much to ask.

Sybil is your daughter, and from her there need be no secrets. So,

Catherine, I ask you again, now that you know everything, are you brave

enough to be my wife?"

She raised her eyes, and he saw the horror there. But he made no sign.

She rose and held out her hand for Sybil.

"Arranmore," she said, "I am afraid."

He looked down upon his plate.

"So let it be, then," he said. "It would need a brave woman indeed to

join her lot with mine after the things which I have told you. At

heart, Catherine, I am almost a dead man. Believe me, you are wise."

He rose, and the two women passed from the room. Then he resumed his

former seat, and attitude, and Brooks, though he tried to speak, felt

his tongue cleave to the roof of his mouth, a dry and nerveless thing.

For in these doings there was tragedy.

"There remains to me you, Philip Kingston, my son," Lord Arranmore said,

in the same measured tone. "You also have before you the story of my

life, you are able from it to form some sort of idea as to what my

future is likely to be. I do not wish to deceive you. My early

enthusiasms are extinct. I look upon the ten or twenty years or so

which may be left to me of life as merely a space of time to be filled

with as many amusements and new sensations as may be procurable without

undue effort. I have no wish to convert, or perhaps pervert you, to my

way of thinking. You live still in Utopia, and to me Utopia does not

exist. So make your choice deliberately. Do you care to come to me?"

Then Brooks found words of a sort.

"Lord Arranmore," he said, "forgive me if what I must say sounds

undutiful. I know that you have suffered. I can realize something of

what you have been through. But your desertion of my mother and me was

a brutality. What you call your creed of life sounds to me hideous.

You and I are far apart, and so far as I am concerned, God grant that we

may remain so."

For the first time Lord Arranmore smiled. He poured out with steady

hand yet another glass of wine, and he nodded towards the door.

"I am obliged to you," he said, "for your candour. I have met with

enough hypocrisy in life to be able to appreciate it. Be so good as to

humour my whim--and to leave me alone."

Brooks rose from his seat, hesitated for a single moment, and left the

room. Lord Arranmore leaned back in his high-backed chair and looked

round at the empty places. The cigarette burned out between his

fingers, his wine remained untasted. The evening's entertainment was

over.

PART II

CHAPTER I

LORD ARRANMORE'S AMUSEMENTS

"The domestic virtues," Lord Arranmore said softly to himself, "being

denied to me, the question remains how to pass one's time."

He rose wearily from his seat, and walking to the window looked out upon

St. James's Square. A soft rain hung about the lamp-posts, the

pavements were thick with umbrellas. He returned to his chair with a

shrug of the shoulders.

"The only elucidation from outside seems to be a change of climate," he

mused. "I should prefer to think of something more original. In the

meantime I will write to that misguided young man in Medchester."

He drew paper and pen towards him and began to write. Even his

handwriting seemed a part of the man--cold, shapely, and deliberate.

"My DEAR BROOKS,

"I have been made acquainted through Mr. Ascough with your desire to

leave the new firm of Morrison and Brooks, and while I congratulate you

very much upon the fact itself, I regret equally the course of reasoning

which I presume led to your decision. You will probably have heard from

Mr. Ascough by this time on a matter of business. You are, by birth,

Lord Kingston of Ross, and the possessor of the Kingston income, which

amounts to a little over two thousand a year. Please remember that

this comes to you not through any grace or favour of mine, but by your

own unalienable right as the eldest son of the Marquis of Arranmore.

I cannot give it to you. I cannot withhold it from you. If you refuse

to take it the amount must accumulate for your heirs, or in due time

find its way to the Crown. Leave the tithe alone by all means, if you

like, but do not carry quixotism to the borders of insanity by

declining to spend your own money, and thereby cramp your life.

"I trust to hear from Mr. Ascough of your more reasonable frame of

mind, and while personally I agree with you that we are better apart,

you can always rely upon me if I can be of any service to you.

"Yours sincerely,

"ARRANMORE."

He read the letter through thoughtfully and folded it up.

"I really don't see what the young fool can kick about in that," he

said, throwing it into the basket. "Well, Hennibul, how are you?"

Mr. Hennibul, duly ushered in by a sedate butler, pronounced himself

both in words and appearance fit and well. He took a chair and a

cigarette, and looked about him approvingly.

"Nice house, yours, Arranmore. Nice old-fashioned situation, too. Why

don't you entertain?"

"No friends, no inclination, no womankind!"

Mr. Hennibul smiled incredulously.

"Your card plate is chock-full," he said, "and there are a dozen women

in town at least of your connections who'd do the polite things by you.

As to inclination--well, one must do something."

"That's about the most sensible thing you have said, Hennibul,"

Arranmore remarked. "I've just evoked the same fact out of my own

consciousness. One must do something. It's tiresome, but it's quite

true." Politics?

"Hate 'em! Not worth while anyway."

"Travel."

"Done all I want for a bit, but I keep that in reserve.

"Hunt."

"Bad leg, but I do a bit at it."

"Society."

"Sooner go on the County Council."

"City."

"Too much money already."

"Write a book." "No one would read it."

"Start a magazine."

"Too hard work."

Mr. Hennibul sighed.

"You're rather a difficult case," he admitted. "You'd better come

round to the club and play bridge."

"I never played whist--and I'm bad-tempered."

"Bit of everything then."

Lord Arranmore smiled.

"That's what it'll end in, I suppose."

"Pleasant times we had down at Enton," Mr. Hennibul remarked. "How's

the nice young lawyer--Brooks his name was, I think?"

"All right, I believe."

"And the ladies?

"I believe that they are quite well. They were in Scotland last time

I heard of them."

Mr. Hennibul found conversation difficult.

"I saw that you were in Paris the other week," he remarked.

"I went over to see Bernhardt's new play," Arranmore continued.

"Good?"

"It disappointed me. Very likely though the fault was with myself."

Mr. Hennibul looked across at his host shrewdly.

"What did you see me for?" he asked, suddenly. "You're bored to death

trying to keep up a conversation."

Lord Arranmore laughed.

"Upon my word, I don't know, Hennibul," he answered. "For the same old

reason, I suppose. One must see some one, do something. I thought that

you might amuse me."

"And I've failed," Hennibul declared, smiling. "Come to supper at the

Savoy to-night. The two new American girls from the Lyric and St. John

Lyttleton are to be there. Moderately respectable, I believe, but a bit

noisy perhaps."

Arranmore shook his head.

"You're a good fellow, Hennibul," he said, "but I'm too old for that

sort of thing."

Hennibul rose to his feet.

"Well," he said, "I've kept the best piece of advice till last because I

want you to think of it. Marry!"

Lord Arranmore did not smile. He did not immediately reply.

"You are a bachelor!" he remarked.

"I am a man of a different disposition," Hennibul answered. "I find

pleasure in everything--everything amuses me. My work is fascinating,

my playtime is never big enough. I really don't know where a wife

would come in. However, if ever I did get a bit hipped, find myself

in your position, for instance, I can promise you that I'd take my own

medicine. I've thought of it more than once lately."

"Perhaps by that time," Lord Arranmore said, "the woman whom you wanted

to marry wouldn't have you."

Hennibul looked serious for a moment. A new idea had occurred to him.

"One must take one's chances!" he said.

"You are a philosopher," Arranmore declared. "Will you have some

tea--or a whisky-and-soda?"

"Neither, thanks. In an abortive attempt to preserve my youth I neither

take tea nor drinks between meals. I will have one of your excellent

cigarettes and get round to the club. Why, this is Enton over again,

for here comes Molyneux."

The Hon. Sydney Molyneux shook hands with both of them in somewhat

dreary fashion, and embarked upon a few disjointed remarks. Hennibul

took his leave, and Arranmore yawned openly.

"What is the matter with you, Sydney?" he asked. "You are duller than

ever. I am positively not going to sit here and mumble about the

weather. How are the Carooms? Have you heard from them lately?"

"They are up in Yorkshire," Molyneux announced, "staying with the

Pryce-Powells. I believe they're all right. I'm beastly fit myself,

but I had a bit of a facer last week. I--er--I wanted to ask you a

question.

"Well?"

"About that fellow Brooks I met at your place down at Enton. Lawyer at

Medchester, isn't he? I thought that he and Sybil seemed a bit thick

somehow. Don't suppose there could have been anything in it, eh? He's

no one in particular, I suppose. Lady Caroom wouldn't be likely to

listen to anything between Sybil and him?"

Arranmore raised his eyebrows.

"Brooks is a very intelligent young man," he said, "and some girls are

attracted by brains, you know. I don't know anything about his

relations with Sybil Caroom, but he has ample private means, and I

believe that he is well-born."

"Fellow's a gentleman, of course," Molyneux declared, "but Lady Caroom

is a little ambitious, isn't she? I always seemed to be in the running

all right lately. I spent last Sunday with them at Chelsom Castle.

Awful long way to go, but I'm fond of Sybil. I thought she was a bit

cool to me, but, like a fool, I blundered on, and in the end--I got a

facer."

"Very sorry for you," Arranmore yawned.

"What made me think about Brooks was that she was awfully decent to me

before Enton," Molyneux continued. "I don't mind telling you that I'm

hard hit. I want to know who Brooks is. If he's only a country lawyer,

he's got no earthly chance with Lady Caroom, and Sybil'd never go

against her mother. They're too great pals for that. Never saw them so

thick."

"Was Lady Caroom--quite well?" Arranmore asked, irrelevantly.

"Well, now you mention it," Molyneux said, "I don't think she was quite

in her usual form. She was much quieter, and it struck me that she was

aging a bit. Wonderful woman, though. She and Sybil were quite

inseparable at Chelsom--more like sisters than anything, 'pon my word."

Lord Arranmore looked into the fire, and was silent for several minutes.

"So far as regards Brooks," he said, "I do not think that he would be an

acceptable son-in-law to Lady Caroom, but I am not in the least sure.

He is by no means an insignificant person. If he were really anxious to

marry Sybil Caroom, he would be a rival worth consideration. I cannot

tell you anything more."

"Much obliged to you I'm sure. I shall try again when they come to

town, of course."

Arranmore rose up.

"I am going down to Christie's to see some old French manuscripts," he

said. "Is that on your way?"

Molyneux shook his head.

"Going down to the House, thanks," he answered. "I'll look you up again

some time, if I may."

They walked out into the street together. Arranmore stepped into his

brougham and was driven off. At the top of St. James's Street he

pulled the check-string and jumped out. He had caught a glimpse of a

girl's face looking into a shop window. He hastily crossed the pavement

and accosted her, hat in hand.

"Miss Scott, will you permit me the opportunity of saying a few words to

you?"

Mary turned round, speechless for more than a minute or two.

"I will not detain you for more than a minute or two. I hope that you

will not refuse me."

"I will listen to anything you have to say, Lord Arranmore," she said,

"but let me tell you that I have been to see Mr. Ascough. He told me

that he had your permission to explain to me fully the reasons of your

coming to Montreal and the story of your life before."

"Well?"

She hesitated. He stood before her, palpably anxiously waiting for her

decision.

"I was perhaps wrong to judge so hastily, Lord Arranmore," she said,

"and I am inclined to regret my visit to Enton. If you care to know it,

I do not harbour any animosity towards you. But I cannot possibly

accept this sum of money. I told Mr. Ascough so finally."

"It is only justice, Miss Scott," he said, in a low tone. "I won the

money from your father fairly in one sense, but unfairly in another, for

I was a good player and he was a very poor one. You will do me a great,

an immeasurable kindness, if you will allow me to make this

restitution."

She shook her head.

"If my forgiveness is of any value to you, Lord Arranmore," she said,

"you may have it. But I cannot accept the money."

"You have consulted no one?"

"No one."

You have a guardian or friends?

"I have been living with my uncle, Mr. Bullsom. He has been very kind

to me, and I have--"

"Mary!"

They both turned round. Selina and Mr. Bullsom had issued from the

shop before which they stood, Both were looking at Lord Arranmore with

curiosity, in Selina's case mixed with suspicion.

"Is this your uncle?" he asked. "Will you introduce me?"

Mary bit her lip.

"Uncle, this is Lord Arranmore," she said. "Mr. Bullsom, my cousin,

Miss Bullsom."

Mr. Bullsom retained presence of mind enough to remove a new and very

shiny silk hat, and to extend a yellow, dog-skinned gloved hand.

"Very proud to meet your lordship," he declared. "I--I wasn't aware--"

Lord Arranmore extricated his hand from a somewhat close grasp, and

bowed to Selina.

"We are neighbours, you know, Mr. Bullsom," he said, "at Medchester. I

met your niece there, and recognized her at once, though she was a

little slip of a girl when I knew her last. Her father and I were in

Montreal together."

"God bless my soul," Mr. Bullsom exclaimed, in much excitement. "It's

your lawyers, then, who have been advertising for Mary?"

Lord Arranmore bowed.

"That is so," he admitted. "I am sorry to say that I cannot induce your

niece to look upon a certain transaction between her father and myself

from a business-like point of view. I think that you and I, Mr.

Bullsom, might come to a better understanding. Will you give me an

appointment? I should like to discuss the matter with you."

"With the utmost pleasure, my lord," Mr. Bullsom declared heartily.

"Can't expect these young ladies to see through a business matter, eh?

I will come to your lordship's house whenever you like."

"It would be quite useless, uncle," Mary interposed, firmly. "Lord

Arranmore has already my final answer."

Mr. Bullsom was a little excited.

"Tut, tut, child!" he exclaimed. "Don't talk nonsense. I should be

proud to talk this matter over with Lord Arranmore. We are staying at

the Metropole, and if your lordship would call there to-morrow and take

a bit of lunch, eh, about one o'clock--if it isn't too great a liberty."

Selina had never loved her father more sincerely. Lord Arranmore smiled

faintly, but good-humoredly.

"You are exceedingly kind," he said. "For our business talk, perhaps,

it would be better if you would come to St. James's House at, say,

10:30, if that is convenient. I will send a carriage."

"I'll be ready prompt," Mr. Bullsom declared. "Now, girls, we will say

good-afternoon to his lordship and get a four-wheeler."

Selina raised her eyes and dropped them again in the most approved

fashion. Mr. Bullsom shook hands as though it were a sacrament; Mary,

who was annoyed, did not smile at all.

"This is all quite unnecessary, Lord Arranmore," she said, while her

uncle was signalling for a cab. I shall not change my mind, and I am

sorry that you spoke to uncle about it at all."

"It is a serious matter to me, Miss Scott," Lord Arranmore said,

gravely. "And there is still another point of view from which I might

urge it."

"It is wasted time," she declared, firmly.

Selina detached herself from her father, and stood by Lord Arranmore's

side.

"I suppose you are often in London, Lord Arranmore?" she asked shyly.

"A great deal too often," he answered.

"We read about your beautiful parties at Enton," she said, with a sigh.

"It is such a lovely place."

"I am glad you like it," he answered, absently. "I see your uncle

cannot find a four-wheeler. You must take my carriage. I am only going

a few steps."

Mary's eager protest was drowned in Selina's shrill torrent of thanks.

Lord Arranmore beckoned to his coachman, and the brougham, with its pair

of strong horses, drew up against the pavement. The footman threw open

the door. Selina entered in a fever for fear a cab which her father was

signalling should, after all, respond to his summons. Mr. Bullsom

found his breath taken away.

"We couldn't possibly take your lordship's carriage," he protested.

"I have only a few steps to go, Mr. Bullsom, and it would be a

kindness, for my horses are never more than half exercised. At 10:30

to-morrow then."

He stood bareheaded upon the pavement for a moment, and Selina's eyes

and smile had never worked harder. Mary leaned back, too angry to

speak. Selina and Mr. Bullsom sat well forward, and pulled both

windows down.

CHAPTER II

THE HECKLING OF HENSLOW

"The long and short of it is, then, Mr. Henslow, that you decline to

fulfil your pledges given at the last election?" Brooks asked, coldly.

"Nothing of the sort," Mr. Henslow declared, testily. "You have no

right to suggest anything of the sort."

"No right!"

"Certainly not. You are my agent, and you ought to work with me instead--"

"I have already told you," Brooks interrupted, '"that I am nothing of the

sort. I should not dream of acting for you again, and if you think a

formal resignation necessary, I will post you one to-morrow. I am one

of your constituents, nothing more or less. But as I am in some measure

responsible for your presence here, I consider myself within my rights

in asking you these questions."

"I'm not going to be hectored!" Mr. Henslow declared.

"Nobody wants to hector you! You gave certain pledges to us, and you

have not fulfilled one of them."

"They won't let me. I'm not here as an independent Member. I'm here as

a Liberal, and Sir Henry himself struck out my proposed question and

motion. I must go with the Party."

"You know quite well," Brooks said, "that you are within your rights in

keeping the pledges you made to the mass meeting at Medchester."

Henslow shook his head.

"It would be no good," he declared. "I've sounded lots of men about it.

I myself have not changed. I believe in some measure of protection. I

am a firm believer in it. But the House wouldn't listen to me. The

times are not ripe for anything of the sort yet."

"How do you know until you try?" Brooks protested. "Your promise was to

bring the question before Parliament in connection with the vast and

increasing number of unemployed. You are within your rights in doing

so, and to speak frankly we insist upon it, or we ask for your

resignation."

"Are you speaking with authority, young man?" Mr. Henslow asked.

"Of course I am. I am the representative of the Liberal Parliamentary

Committee, and I am empowered to say these things to you, and more.

"Well, I'll do the best I can to get a date," Mr. Henslow said,

grumblingly, "but you fellows are always in such a hurry, and you don't

understand that it don't go up here. We have to wait our time month

after month sometimes."

"I don't see any motion down in your name at all yet," Brooks remarked.

"I told you that Sir Henry struck it through."

"Then I shall call upon him and point out that he is throwing away a

Liberal seat at the next election," Brooks replied. "He isn't the sort

of man to encourage a Member to break his election pledges."

"You'll make a mess of the whole thing if you do anything of the sort,"

Henslow declared. "Look here, come and have a bit of dinner with me,

and talk things over a bit more pleasantly, eh? There's no use in

getting our rags out."

"Please excuse me," Brooks said. "I have arranged to dine elsewhere. I

do not wish to seem dictatorial or unreasonable, but I have just come

from Medchester, where the distress is, if anything, worse than ever.

It makes one's heart sick to walk the streets, and when I look into the

people's faces I seem to always hear that great shout of hope and

enthusiasm which your speech in the market-place evoked. You see, there

is only one real hope for these people, and that is legislation, and you

are the man directly responsible to them for that."

"I'll tell you what I'll do!" Mr. Henslow said, in a burst of

generosity. "I'll send another ten guineas to the Unemployed Fund."

"Take my advice and don't," Brooks answered, dryly. "They might be

reminded of the people who clamoured for bread and were offered a stone.

Do your duty here. Keep your pledges. Speak in the House with the same

passion and the same eloquence as when you sowed hope in the heart of

those suffering thousands. Some one must break away from this musty

routine of Party politics. The people will be heard, Mr. Henslow.

Their voice has dominated the fate of every nation in time, and it will

be so with ours."

Mr. Henslow was silent for a few minutes. This young man who would

not drink champagne, or be hail-fellow-well-met, and who was in such

deadly earnest, was a nuisance.

"I tell you what I'll do," he said at last. "I'll have a few words with

Sir Henry, and see you tomorrow at what time you like."

"Certainly," Brooks answered, rising. "If you will allow me to make a

suggestion, Mr. Henslow, I would ask you to run through in your memory

all your speeches and go through your pledges one by one. Let Sir Henry

understand that your constituents will not be trifled with, for it is

not a question of another candidate, it is a question of another party.

You have set the ball rolling, and I can assure you that the next Member

whom Medchester sends here, whether it be you or any one else, will come

fully pledged to a certain measure of Protection."

Mr. Henslow nodded.

"Very well," he said, gloomily. "Where are you staying?

"At the Metropole. Mr. Bullsom is there also."

"I will call," Mr. Henslow promised, "at three o'clock, if that is

convenient."

Brooks passed out across the great courtyard and through the gates. He

had gone to his interview with Henslow in a somewhat depressed state of

mind, and its result had not been enlivening. Were all politics like

this? Was the greatest of causes, the cause of the people, to be tossed

about from one to the other, a joke with some, a juggling ball with

others, never to be dealt with firmly and wisely by the brains and

generosity of the Empire? He looked back at the Houses of Parliament,

with their myriad lights, their dark, impressive outline. And for a

moment the depression passed away. He thought of the freedom which had

been won within those walls, of the gigantic struggles, the endless,

restless journeying onward towards the truths, the great truths of the

world. All politicians were not as this man Henslow. There were

others, more strenuous, more single-hearted. He himself--and his heart

beat at the thought--why should he not take his place there? The thought

fascinated him,--every word of Lord Arranmore's letter which he had

recently received, seemed to stand out before him. His feet fell more

blithely upon the pavement, he carried himself with a different air.

Here were ample means to fill his life,--means by which he could crush

out that sweet but unhappy tangle of memories which somehow or other had

stolen the flavour out of life for the last few weeks.

At the hotel he glanced at the clock. It was just eight, and he was to

accompany the Bullsoms to the theatre. He met them in the hall, and

Selina looked with reproach at his morning clothes. She was wearing a

new swansdown theatre cloak, with a collar which she had turned up round

her face like a frame. She was convinced that she had never looked so

well in her life.

"Mr. Brooks, how naughty of you," she exclaimed, shaking her head in

mock reproach. "Why, the play begins at 8:15, and it is eight o'clock

already. Have you had dinner?"

"Oh, I can manage with something in my room while I change," he answered

cheerily. "I'm going to take you all out to supper after the theatre,

you know. Don't wait for me--I'll come on. His Majesty's, isn't it?"

"I'll keep your seat," Selina promised him, lowering her voice. "That

is, if you are very good and come before it is half over. Do you know

that we met a friend of yours, and he lent us his carriage, and I think

he's charming."

Brooks looked surprised. He glanced at Mary, and saw a look in her face

which came as a revelation to him.

"You don't mean--"

"Lord Arranmore!" Selina declared, triumphantly. "He was so nice, he

wouldn't let us come home in a cab. He positively made us take his own

carriage."

Mr. Bullsom came hurrying up.

"Cab waiting," he announced. "Come on, girls."

"See you later, then, Brooks."

Brooks changed his clothes leisurely, and went into the smoking-room for

some sandwiches and a glass of wine. A small boy shouting his number

attracted his attention. He called him, and was handed a card.

"Lord Arranmore!"

"You can show the gentleman here," Brooks directed.

Arranmore came in, and nodded a little wearily to Brooks, whom he had

not seen since the latter had left Enton.

"I won't keep you," he remarked. "I just wanted a word with you about

that obstinate young person Miss--er--Scott."

Brooks wheeled an easy-chair towards him.

"I am in no great hurry," he remarked.

Arranmore glanced at the clock.

"More am I," he said, "but I find I am dining with the Prime Minister at

nine o'clock. It occurs to me that you may have some influence with

her."

"We are on fairly friendly terms," Brooks admitted.

"Just so. Well, she may have told you that my solicitors approached

her, as the daughter of Martin Scott, with the offer of a certain sum of

money, which is only a fair and reasonable item, which I won from her

father at a time when we were not playing on equal terms. It was

through that she found me out."

"Yes, I knew as much as that."

"So I imagined. But the hot-headed young woman has up to now steadily

refused to accept anything whatever from me. Quite ridiculous of her.

There's no doubt that I broke up the happy home, and all that sort of

thing, and I really can't see why she shouldn't permit me the

opportunity of making some restitution."

"You want her to afford you the luxury of salving your conscience,"

Brooks remarked, dryly.

Lord Arranmore laughed hardly.

"Conscience," he repeated. "You ought to know me better, Brooks, than

to suppose me possessed of such a thing. No; I have a sense of justice,

that is all--a sort of weakness for seeing the scales held fairly. Now,

don't you think it is reasonable that she should accept this money from

me?"

"It depends entirely upon how she feels," Brooks answered. "You have no

right to press it upon her if she has scruples. Nor have you any right

to try and enlist her family on your side, as you seem to be doing."

Will you discuss it with her?

"I should not attempt to influence her," Brooks answered.

"Be reasonable, Brooks. The money can make no earthly difference to

me, and it secures for her independence. The obligation, if only a

moral one, is real enough. There is no question of charity. Use your

influence with her."

Brooks shook his head.

"I have great confidence in Miss Scott's own judgment," he said. "I

prefer not to interfere."

Arranmore sat quite still for a moment. Then he rose slowly to his

feet.

"I am sorry to have troubled you," he said. "The world seems to have

grown more quixotic since I knew it better. I am almost afraid to ask

you whether my last letter has yet received the favour of your

consideration."

Brooks flushed a little at the biting sarcasm in Arranmore's tone, but

he restrained himself.

"I have considered--the matter fully," he said; "and I have talked it

over with Mr. Ascough. There seems to be no reason why I should refuse

the income to which I seem to be entitled."

Lord Arranmore nodded and lit a cigarette.

"I am thankful," he said, dryly, "for so much common-sense. Mr.

Ascough will put you in possession of a banking account at any moment.

Should you consider it--well--intrusive on my part if I were to inquire

as to your plans?"

Brooks hesitated.

"They are as yet not wholly formed," he said, "but I am thinking of

studying social politics for some time here in London with the intention

of entering public life."

"A very laudable ambition," Lord Arranmore answered. "If I can be of

any assistance to you, I trust that you will not fail to let me know."

"I thank you," Brooks answered. "I shall not require any assistance

from you."

Lord Arranmore winced perceptibly. Brooks, who would not have believed

him capable of such a thing, for a moment doubted his eyes.

"I am much obliged for your candour," Lord Arranmore said, coldly, and

with complete self-recovery. "Don't trouble to come to the door.

Good-evening."

Brooks was alone. He sat down in one of the big easy-chairs, and for a

moment forgot that empty stall next to Selina. He had seen the first

sign of weakness in a man whom he had judged to be wholly and entirely

heartless.

CHAPTER III

MARY SCOTT'S TWO VISITORS

"I AM sure," he said, "that Selina would consider this most improper."

"You are quite right," Mary assured him, laughing. "It was one of the

first things she mentioned. When I told her that I should ask any one

to tea I liked she was positively indignant."

"It is hard to believe that you are cousins," he remarked.

"We were brought up very differently."

He looked around him. He was in a tiny sitting-room of a tiny flat high

up in a great building. Out of the window he seemed to look down upon

the Ferris wheel. Inside everything was cramped but cosy. Mary Scott

sat behind the tea-tray, and laughed at his expression.

"I will read your thoughts," she exclaimed. "You are wondering how you

will get out of this room without knocking anything over."

"On the contrary," he answered, "I was wondering how I ever got in."

"You were really very clever. Now do have some more tea, and tell me

all the news."

"I will have the tea, if you please," he answered, "and you shall have

the news, such as it is."

"First of all then," she said, "I hear that you are leaving Medchester,

giving up your business and coming to live in London, and that you have

had some money left you. Do you know that all this sounds very

mysterious?"

"I admit it," he answered, slowly stirring his tea. "Yet in the

main--it is true."

"How nice to hear all about it," she sighed, contentedly. "You know I

have scarcely had a word with you while my uncle and cousins were up.

Selina monopolized you most disgracefully."

He looked at her with twinkling eyes.

"Selina was very amusing," he said.

"You seemed to find her so," she answered. "But Selina isn't here now,

and you have to entertain me. You are really going to live in London?"

He nodded.

"I have taken rooms!"

"Delightful. Whereabouts?" "In Jermyn Street!"

"And are you going to practise?"

He shook his head.

"No, I shall have enough to live on. I am going to study social

subjects and politics generally."

"You are going into Parliament?" she exclaimed, breathlessly.

"Some day, perhaps," he answered, hesitatingly. "If I can find a

constituency."

She was silent for a moment.

"Do you know, I think I rather dislike you," she said. "I envy you most

hideously."

He laughed.

"What an evil nature!"

"Well, I've never denied it. I'm dreadfully envious of people who have

the chance of doing things, whose limitations are not chalked out on the

blackboard before them."

"Oh, well, you yourself are not at Medchester now," he reminded her.

"You have kicked your own limitation away. Literature is as wide a

field as politics."

"That is true enough," she answered. "I must not grumble. After

Medchester this is elysium. But literature is a big name to give my

little efforts. I'm just a helper on a lady's threepenny paper, and

between you and me I don't believe they think much of my work yet."

He laughed.

"Surely they haven't been discouraging you?"

"No, they have been very kind. But they keep on assuring me that I am

bound to improve, and the way they use the blue pencil! However, it's

only the journalist's part they go for. The little stories are all

right still.''

"I should think so," he declared, warmly. "I think they are charming."

"How nice you are," she sighed. "No wonder Selina didn't like going

home."

He looked at her in amused wonder.

"Do you know," he said, "you are getting positively frivolous. I don't

recognize you. I never saw such a change."

She leaned back in her chair, laughing heartily, her eyes bright, her

beautiful white teeth in delightful evidence.

"Oh, I suppose it's the sense of freedom," she exclaimed. "It's

delightful, isn't it? Medchester had got on my nerves. I hated it.

One saw nothing but the ugly side of life, day after day. It was

hideously depressing. Here one can breathe. There's room for every

one."

"The change agrees with you!"

"Why not. I feel years younger. Think how much there is to do, and

see, even for a pauper like myself--picture galleries, the shops, the

people, the theatres."

He looked at her thoughtfully.

"Don't think me a prig, will you?" he said, "but I want to understand

you. In Medchester you used to work for the people--it was the greater

part of your life. You are not giving that up altogether, are you?"

She laughed him to scorn.

"Am I such a butterfly? No, I hope to get some serious work to do, and

I am looking forward to it. I have a letter of introduction to a Mrs.

Capenhurst, whom I am going to see on Sunday. I expect to learn a lot

from her. I was very, very sorry to leave my own girls. It was the

only regret I had in leaving Medchester. By the bye, what is this about

Mr. Henslow?"

"We are thinking of asking him to resign," Brooks answered. "He has

been a terrible disappointment to us."

She nodded.

"I am sorry. From his speeches he seemed such an excellent candidate."

"He was a magnificent candidate," Brooks said ruefully, "but a shocking

Member. I am afraid what I heard in the City the other day must have

some truth in it. They say that he only wanted to be able to write M.P.

after his name for this last session to get on the board of two new

companies. He will never sit for Medchester again."

"He was at the hotel the other day, wasn't he?" Mary asked, "with you

and uncle? What has he to say for himself?"

"Well, he shelters himself behind the old fudge about duty to his

Party," Brooks answered. "You see the Liberals only just scraped in

last election because of the war scandals, and their majority is too

small for them to care about any of the rank and file introducing any

disputative measures. Still that scarcely affects the question. He won

his seat on certain definite pledges, and if he persists in his present

attitude, we shall ask him at once to resign."

You still keep up your interest in Medchester, then?"

"Why, yes!" he answered. "Between ourselves, if I could choose, I would

rather, when the time comes, stand for Medchester than anywhere."

"I am glad! I should like to see you Member for Medchester. Do you

know, even now, although I am so happy, I cannot think about the last

few months there without a shudder. It seemed to me that things were

getting worse and worse. The people's faces haunt me sometimes."

He looked up at her sympathetically.

"If you have once lived with them," he said, "once really understood,

you never can forget. You can travel or amuse yourself in any way, but

their faces are always coming before you, their voices seem always in

your ears. It is the one eternal sadness of life. And the strangest

part of it is, that just as you who have once really understood can

never forget, so it is the most difficult thing in the world to make

those people understand who have not themselves lived and toiled

amongst them. It is a cry which you cannot translate, but if once you

have heard it, it will follow you from the earth to the stars."

"You too, then," she said, "have some of the old aim at heart. You are

not going to immerse yourself wholly in politics?"

"My studies," he said, "will be in life. It is not from books that I

hope to gain experience. I want to get a little nearer to the heart of

the thing. You and I may easily come across one another, even in this

great city."

"You," she said, "are going to watch, to observe, to trace the external

only that you may understand the internal. But I am going to work on my

hands and knees."

"And you think that I am going to play the dilettante?"

"Not altogether. But you will want to pass from one scheme to another

to see the inner workings of all. I shall be content to find occupation

in any one.

"I shall be coming to you," he said, "for information and help."

"I doubt it," she answered, cheerfully. "Never mind! It is pleasant to

build castles, and we may yet find ourselves working side by side."

He suddenly looked at her.

"I have answered all your questions," he said. "There is something

about you which I should like to know."

"I am sure you shall."

"Lord Arranmore came to me when I was staying at the Metropole with your

uncle and cousin. He wished me to use my influence with you to induce

you to accept a certain sum of money which it seemed that you had

already declined."

"Well?"

"Of course I refused. In the first place, as I told him, I was not

aware that I possessed any influence over you. And in the second I had

every confidence in your own judgment."

She was suddenly very thoughtful.

"My own judgment," she repeated. "I am afraid that I have lost a good

deal of faith in that lately."

"Why?"

"I have learned to repent of that impulsive visit of mine to Enton."

"Again why?"

"I was mad with rage against Lord Arranmore. I think that I was wrong.

It was many years ago, and he has repented."

Brooks smiled faintly. The idea of Lord Arranmore repenting of anything

appealed in some measure to his sense of humour.

"Then I am afraid that I did him some great harm in accusing him like

that--openly. He has seemed to me since like an altered man. Tell me,

those others who were there--they believed me?"

"Yes."

"It did him harm--with the lady, the handsome woman who was playing

billiards with him?"

"Yes."

"Was he engaged to her?

"No! He proposed to her afterwards, and she refused him."

Her eyes were suddenly dim.

"I am sorry," she said.

"I think," he said, quietly, "that you need not be. You probably saved

her a good deal of unhappiness."

She looked at him curiously.

"Why are you so bitter against Lord Arranmore?" she asked.

"I?" he laughed. "I am not bitter against him. Only I believe him to

be a man without heart or conscience or principles."

"That is your opinion--really?"

"Really! Decidedly."

"Then I don't agree with you," she answered.

"Why not?"

"Simply that I don't."

"Excellent! But you have reasons as well as convictions?

"Perhaps. Why, for instance, is he so anxious for me to have this

money? That must be a matter of conscience?"

"Not necessarily. An accident might bring his Montreal career to light.

His behaviour towards you would be an excellent defence."

She shook her head.

"He isn't mean enough to think so far ahead for his own advantage.

Villain or paragon, he is on a large scale, your Lord Arranmore."

"He has had the good fortune," Brooks said, with a note of satire in his

tone, "to attract your sympathies."

"Why not? I struck hard enough at him, and he has borne me no ill-will.

He even made friends with Selina and my uncle to induce me to accept his

well, conscience money."

"I need not ask you what the result was," Brooks said. "You declined

it, of course."

She looked at him thoughtfully.

"I refused it at first, as you know," she said. "Since then, well, I

have wavered."

He looked at her blankly.

"You mean--that you have contemplated--accepting it?"

"Why not? There is reason in it. I do not say that I have accepted it,

but at any rate I see nothing which should make you look upon my

possible acceptance as a heinous thing."

He was silent for a moment.

"May I ask you then what the position is?"

"I will tell you. Lord Arranmore is coming to me perhaps this afternoon

for my answer. I asked him for a few days to think it over."

"And your decision--is it ready?"

"No, I don't think it is," she admitted. "To tell you the truth, I

shall not decide until he is actually here--until I have heard just how

he speaks of it."

He got up and stood for a moment looking out of the window. Then he

turned suddenly towards her with outstretched hand.

"I am going--Miss Scott. Good-afternoon." She rose and held out her

hand.

"Aren't you--a little abrupt?" she asked.

"Perhaps I am. I think that it is better that I should go away now.

There are reasons why I do not want to talk about Lord Arranmore, or

discuss this matter with you, and if I stayed I might do both. Will you

dine with me somewhere on Friday night? I will come and fetch you."

"Of course I will. Do be careful how you walk. About 7:30."

"I will be here by then," he answered.

On the last flight of stone steps he came face to face with Lord

Arranmore, who nodded and pointed upwards with his walking-stick.

"How much of this sort of thing?" he asked, dryly.

"Ten storeys," Brooks answered, and passed out into the street.

Lord Arranmore looked after him--watched him until he was out of sight.

Then he stood irresolute for several moments, tapping his boots.

"Damned young fool!" he muttered at last; and began the ascent.

CHAPTER IV

A MARQUIS ON MATRIMONY

"My dear Miss Scott," Lord Arranmore said, settling himself in the most

comfortable of her fragile easy-chairs, and declining tea. "I cannot

fail to perceive that my cause is hopeless. The united efforts of

myself and your worthy relatives appear to be powerless to unearth a

single grain of common-sense in your--er--pardon me--singularly

obstinate disposition."

A subdued smile played at the corners of her mouth.

"I am delighted that you are convinced, Lord Arranmore," she said. "It

will save us both a good deal of time and breath."

"Well--as to that I am not so sure," he answered, deliberately. "You

forget that there is still an important matter to be decided."

She looked at him questioningly.

"The disposal of the money, of course," he said.

"The disposal of it? But that has nothing to do with me!" she declared.

"I refuse to touch it--to have anything to do with it."

He shook his head.

"You see," he explained, "I have placed it, or rather my solicitors

have, in trust. Actually you may decline, as you are doing, to have

anything to do with it--legally you cannot avoid your responsibilities.

That money cannot be touched without your signature."

She laughed a little indignantly.

"Then you had better withdraw it from trust, or whatever you call it, at

once. If it was there until I was eighty I should never touch it."

"I understand that perfectly," Lord Arranmore said. "You have refused

it. Very well! What are we going to do with it?"

"Put it back where it came from, of course," she answered.

"Well," he said, "by signing several papers that might be managed. In

that case I should distribute it amongst the various public-houses in

the East End to provide drinks for the thirstiest of their customers."

"If you think that," she said, scornfully, "a reputable use to make of

your money."

He held out his hand.

"My dear Miss Scott. Our money!"

"The money," she exclaimed. "I repeat, the money. Well, there is

nothing more to be said about it."

"Will you sign the papers which authorize me to distribute the money in

this way?"

She thought for a moment.

"No; I will not."

"Exactly. You would be very foolish and very untrue to your principles

if you did. So you see, this sum is not to be foisted altogether upon

me, for there is no doubt that I should misuse it. Now I believe that

if you were to give the matter a little consideration you could hit upon

a more reasonable manner of laying out this sum. Don't interrupt me,

please. My own views as to charity you know. You however look at the

matter from an altogether different point of view. Let us leave it

where it is for the moment. Something may occur to you within the next

few months. Don't let it be a hospital, if you can help it--something

altogether original would be best. Set your brain to work. I shall be

at your service at any moment."

He rose to his feet and began slowly to collect his belongings. Then

their eyes met, and she burst out laughing--he too smiled.

"You are very ingenious, Lord Arranmore," she said.

"It is my conscience," he assured her. "It is out of gear to the tune

of three thousand."

"I don't believe in the conscience," she answered. 'This is sheer

obstinacy. You have made up your mind that I should be interested in

that money somehow, and you can't bear to suffer defeat."

"I am an old man," he said, "and you are a young woman. Let us leave it

where it is for a while. I have an idea of the sort of life which you

are planning for yourself. Believe me, that before you have lived here

for many months you will be willing to give years of your life, years of

your labour and your youth, to throw yourself into a struggle which

without money is hopeless. Remember that there was a time when I too

was young. I too saw these things as you and Brooks see them to-day. I

do not wish to preach pessimism to you. I fought and was worsted. So

will you be. The whole thing is a vast chimera, a jest of the God you

have made for yourself. But as long as the world lasts the young will

have to buy knowledge--as I have bought it. Don't go into the fray

empty-handed--it will only prolong the suffering."

"You speak," she protested, gently, "as though it were impossible to do

good."

"It is absolutely and entirely impossible to do good by any means which

you and Brooks and the whole army of your fellow-philanthropists have

yet evoked," he answered, with a sudden fierce note in his tone. "Don't

think that I speak to you as a cynic, one who loiters on the edge of the

cauldron and peers in to gratify cravings for sensation. I have been

there, down in the thick of it, there where the mud is as black as

hell--bottomless as eternity. I was young--as you--mad with enthusiasm.

I had faith, strength, belief. I meant to cleanse the world. I

worked till the skin hung on my bones. I gave all that I

had--youth--gifts--money. And, do you know what I was doing? I was

swimming against the tide of natural law, stronger than all mankind,

unconquerable, eternal. There wasn't the smallest corner of the world

the better for my broken life. There wasn't a child, a man, or a woman

content to grasp my hand and climb out. There were plenty who mocked

me. But they fell back again. They fell back always."

"Oh, but you can't tell that," she cried. "You can't be sure."

"You can be as sure of it as of life itself," he answered. "Come, take

my advice. I know. I can save you a broken youth--a broken heart.

Keep away from there."

He pointed out of the window eastwards.

"You can be charitable like the others, subscribe to societies, visit

the sick, read the Bible, play at it as long as you like--but keep away

from the real thing. If you feel the fever in your veins--fly. Go

abroad, study art, literature, music--anything. Only don't listen to

that cry. It will draw you against your will even. But not you nor the

whole world of women, or the world full of gold, will ever stop it. It

is the everlasting legacy to the world of outraged nature."

He went swiftly and silently, leaving her motionless. She saw him far

down on the pavement below step into his brougham, pausing for a moment

to light a cigarette. And half-an-hour later he walked with elastic

tread into Mr. Ascough's office.

Mr. Ascough greeted him with an inquiring smile. Lord Arranmore

nodded and sat down.

"You were quite right," he announced. "The tongues of men or of angels

wouldn't move her. Never mind. She's going to use the money for

charity."

"Well, that's something, at any rate," Mr. Ascough remarked.

"The eloquence," Lord Arranmore said, lazily, "which I have wasted upon

that young woman would entrance the House of Lords. By the bye,

Ascough, I am going to take my seat next week."

"I am delighted to hear it, your lordship."

"Yes, it's good news for the country, isn't it?" Lord Arranmore

remarked. "I have not quite decided what my particular line shall be,

but I have no doubt but that the papers will all be calling me a welcome

addition to that august assembly before long. I believe that's what's

the matter with me. I want to make a speech. Do you remember me at the

Bar, Ascough? Couldn't keep me down, could they?"

Mr. Ascough smiled.

"You were rather fond of being on your feet!" he admitted.

Lord Arranmore sighed regretfully.

"And to think that I might have been Lord High Chancellor by now," he

remarked. "Good-bye, Ascough."

* * * * *

Later, at the reception of a Cabinet Minister, Lord Arranmore came

across Hennibul talking with half-a-dozen other men. He detached himself

at once.

"This is odd," he remarked, with a whimsical smile. "What the dickens

are you doing in this respectable household, Arranmore? You look like a

lost sheep."

Lord Arranmore shrugged his shoulders.

"I've decided to go in for something," he said; "politics or society or

something of that sort. What do you recommend?"

"Supper!" Mr. Hennibul answered, promptly.

"Come on then," Lord Arranmore assented. "One of those little tables in

the far room, eh?"

"The pate here is delicious," Mr. Hennibul said; "but for Heaven's sake

leave the champagne alone." "There's some decent hock. You'll excuse my

pointing out these little things to you, but, of course, you don't know

the runs yet. I'll give you a safe tip while I'm about it. The

Opposition food is beastly, but the wine is all right--Pommery and

Heidsieck, most of it, and the right years. The Government food now is

good, but the wine, especially the champagne, is positively unholy."

"One should eat then with the Government, and drink with the

Opposition," Lord Arranmore remarked.

"Or, better still," Mr. Hennibul said, "do both with the Speaker. By

the bye, did you know that they are going to make me a judge?"

"I heard that your friends wanted to get rid of you!" Arranmore

answered.

"To make yourself obnoxious--thoroughly obnoxious," Mr. Hennibul

murmured, "is the sure road to advancement."

"That's right, give me a few tips," Lord Arranmore begged, sipping his

wine.

"My dear fellow, I don't know what you're going in for yet."

"Neither do I. What about the stage? I used to be rather good at

private theatricals. Elderly Wyndhamy parts, you know."

Mr. Hennibul shook his head.

"Twenty years too late," he declared. "Even the suburbs turn up their

noses at a lord now."

"I must do something," Arranmore declared, meditatively.

"Don't see the necessity," Hennibul remarked.

Lord Arranmore lifted his glass and looked thoughtfully at the wine for

a moment.

"Ah, well," he said, "you were born lazy, and I was born restless. That

is the reason you have done something, and I haven't."

"If you want my advice--my serious advice," the K. C. said, quietly,

"you will make yourself a nuisance to that right woman, whoever she is,

until she marries you--if only to get rid of you."

"All sorts of things in the way," Lord Arranmore declared. "You see, I

was married abroad."

Mr. Hennibul looked up quickly.

"Nonsense!"

"Quite true, I assure you."

"Is she alive?"

"No--but her son is.

"Great Heavens. Why, he's Lord Kingston?"

"Of course he is."

"How old is he?"

"Twenty-eight--or somewhere thereabouts."

"What is he doing? Where is he? Why don't we know him?"

"He doesn't approve of me," Lord Arranmore said. "Fact, really! We are

scarcely on speaking terms."

"Why not?"

"Says I deserted his mother. So I did! Played the blackguard

altogether. Left 'em both to starve, or next door to it!"

Mr. Hennibul fetched out his handkerchief and dabbed his forehead.

"You are serious, Arranmore?"

"Rather! You wouldn't expect me to be frivolous on this hock."

"That young man must be talked to," Mr. Hennibul declared. "He ought

to be filling his proper place in the world. It's no use carrying on a

grudge against his own father. Let me have a try at him."

"No!" Lord Arranmore said, quietly. "I am obliged to you, Hennibul, but

the matter is one which does not admit of outside interference, however

kindly. Besides, the boy is right. I wilfully deserted both him and

his mother, and she died during my absence. My life, whilst away from

them, was the sort one forgets--or tries to--and he knows about it.

Further, when I returned to England I was two years before I took the

trouble to go and see him. I merely alluded to these domestic matters

that you might not wholly misjudge the situation."

Mr. Hennibul went on with his supper in silence. Lord Arranmore.

whose appetite had soon failed him, leaned back in his chair and watched

the people in the further room.

"This rather puts me off politics," he remarked, after a while. "I

don't like the look of the people."

"Oh, you'll get in for the select crushers," Mr. Hennibul said. "This

is a rank and file affair. You mustn't judge by appearances. But why

must you specialize? Take my advice. Don't go in specially for

politics, or society, or sport. Mix them all up. Be cosmopolitan and

commonplace."

"Upon my word, Hennibul, you are a genius," Arranmore declared, "and

yonder goes my good fairy."

He sprang up and disappeared into the further room.

"Lady Caroom," he exclaimed, bending over her shoulder. "I never

suspected it of you."

She started slightly--she was silent perhaps for the fraction of a

second. Then she looked up with a bright smile, meeting him on his own

ground.

"But of you," she cried, "it is incredible. Come at once and explain."

CHAPTER V

BROOKS ENLISTS A RECRUIT

Brooks had found a small restaurant in the heart of fashionable London,

where the appointments and decorations were French, and the waiters were

not disposed to patronize. Of the cooking neither he nor Mary Scott in

those days was a critic. Nevertheless she protested against the length

of the dinner which he ordered.

"I want an excuse," he declared, laying down the carte, "for a good long

chat. We shall be too late for the theatre, so we may as well resign

ourselves to an hour or so of one another's society."

She shook her head.

"A very apt excuse for unwarrantable greediness," she declared. "Surely

we can talk without eating?"

He shook his head.

"You do not smoke, and you do not drink liqueurs," he remarked. "Now I

have noticed that it is simply impossible for one to sit before an empty

table after dinner and not feel that one ought to go. Let the waiter

take your cape. You will find the room warm.

"Do you remember," she asked him, "the first night we dined together?"

He looked at her with twinkling eyes.

"Rather! It was my introduction to your uncle's household. Selina sat

on my left, and Louise on my right. You sat opposite, tired and

disagreeable."

"I was tired--and I am always disagreeable."

"I have noticed it," he agreed, equably. "I hope you like oysters."

"If Selina were to see us now," she remarked, with a sudden humorous

smile, "how shocked she would be."

"What a little far-away world it seems down there," he said

thoughtfully. "After all, I am glad that I have not to live in

Medchester all my life."

"You have been there this afternoon, haven't you?"

"Yes. Henslow is giving us a lot of trouble. I am afraid we shall lose

the seat next election."

"Do you mind?"

"Not much. I am no party politician. I want to see Medchester

represented by a man who will go there with a sense of political

proportion, and I don't care whether he calls himself Liberal, or

Radical, or Conservative, or Unionist."

"Please explain what you mean by that," she begged.

"Why, yes. I mean a man who will understand how enormously more

important is the welfare of our own people, the people of whom we are

making slaves, than this feverish Imperialism and war cant. Mind, I

think our patriotism should be a thing wholly understood. It needn't be

talked about. It makes showy fireworks for the platform, but it's all

unnecessary and to my mind very undignified. If only people would take

that for granted and go on to something worth while."

"Are things any better in Medchester just now?" she asked.

"On the surface, yes, but on the surface only. More factories are

running half-time, but after all what does that mean? It's slow

starvation. A man can't live and keep a family on fifteen shillings a

week, even if his wife earns a little. He can't do it in a dignified

manner, and with cleanliness and health. That is what he has a right

to. That is what the next generation will demand. He should have room

to expand. Cleanliness, air, fresh food. Every man and woman who is

born into the world has a God-given right to these, and there are

millions in Medchester, Manchester, and all the great cities who are

denied all three."

"So all Henslow's great schemes, his Royal Commissions, his Protection

Duties, his great Housing Bill, have come to nothing then?" she

remarked.

"To less than nothing," he answered, gloomily. "The man was a fraud.

He is not worth attempting to bully. He is a puppet politician of a

type that ought to have been dead and buried generations ago. Enoch

Stone is our only hope in the House now. He is a strong man, and he

has hold of the truth."

"Have they decided upon Henslow's successor?" she asked.

"Not yet," he answered.

She looked up at him.

"I heard from uncle this morning," she said, smiling meaningly.

He shook his head.

"Well, it was mentioned," he said, "but I would not hear of it. I am

altogether too young and inexperienced. I want to live with the people

for a year or two first. That is why I am glad to get to London."

"With the people?" she asked, "in Jermyn Street?"

He laughed good-humouredly.

"I have also lodgings in the Bethnal Green Road," he said. "I took

possession of them last week."

"Anywhere near Merry's Corner?" she asked.

"What do you know about Merry's Corner?" he exclaimed, with uplifted

eyebrows. "Yes, my rooms are nearly opposite, at the corner of the next

street."

"I've been down there once or twice lately," she said. "There's a

mission-hall just there, and a girl named Kate Stuart gave me a letter

to go three times a week."

He nodded.

"I know the place. Week-night services and hymn-singing and preaching.

A cold, desolate affair altogether. I'm thankful I went in there,

though, for it's given me an idea."

Yes?

"I'm going to start a mission myself."

"Go on."

"On a new principle. The first thing will be that there will be no

religious services whatever. I won't have a clergyman connected with

it. It will be intended solely for the benefit of the people from a

temporal point of view."

"You are going a long way," she said. "What about Sundays?"

"There will be a very short service for the mission helpers only. No

one will be asked from outside at all. If they come it will be as a

favour. Directly it is over the usual week-day procedure will go on.

"And what is that to be?"

Brooks smiled a little doubtfully.

"Well," he said, "I've got the main idea in my head, but all the details

want thinking out. I want the place to be a sort of help bureau, to

give the people living in a certain street or couple of streets

somewhere to go for advice and help in cases of emergency. There will

be no money given away, under any consideration--only food, clothing,

and, if they are asked for, books. I shall have half-a-dozen bathrooms,

and the people who come regularly for advice and help will have to use

them and to keep their houses clean. There will be no distinction as to

character. We shall help the drunkards and the very worst of them just

the same as the others if they apply. If we get enough helpers there

will be plenty of branches we can open. I should like to have a

children's branch, for instance--one or two women will take the children

of the neighbourhood in hand and bathe them every day. As we get to

know the people better and appreciate their special needs other things

will suggest themselves. But I want them to feel that they have some

place to fail back upon. We shall be frightfully humbugged, robbed,

cheated, and deceived--at first. I fancy that after a time that will

wear itself out."

"It is a fascinating idea," she said, thoughtfully, "but to carry it out

in any way thoroughly you want a great many helpers and a great deal of

money."

"I have enough to start it," he said, "and when it is really going and

improving itself I shall go out and ask for subscriptions-big ones, you

know, from the right sort of people. You can always get money if you

can show that it is to be well spent."

"And what about the helpers?"

"Well, I know of a few," he said, "who I think would come in, and there

is one to whom I would have to pay a small salary."

"I could come in the afternoons," she said.

"Capital! But are you sure," he said, after a moment's hesitation,

"that it is quite fair to yourself?

"Oh, I can manage with my morning's salary," she answered, laughing. "I

shan't starve. Besides, I can always burn a little midnight oil."

A waiter stood at their table for a moment, deftly carving some new

dish, and Brooks, leaning back in his chair, glanced critically at his

companion. In his judgment she represented something in womankind

essentially of the durable type. He appreciated her good looks, the air

with which she wore her simple clothes, her large full eyes, her wide,

gently-humorous mouth, and the hair parted in the middle, and rippling

away towards her ears. A frank companionable woman, whose eyes had

never failed to look into his, in whom he had never at any time seen a

single shadow of embarrassment. It occurred to him just at that moment

that never since he had known her had he seen her interested to the

slightest degree in any man. He looked back at her thoughtfully. She

was young, good-looking, too catholic in her views of life and its

possibilities to refuse in any way to recognize its inevitable

tendencies. Yet he told himself complacently as he sipped his wine and

watched her gazing with amused interest at the little groups of people

about the place, that there must be in her composition a lack of

sentiment. Never for a second in their intercourse had she varied from

her usual good-natured cheerfulness. If there had been a shadow she had

brushed it away ruthlessly. Even on that terrible afternoon at Enton

she had sat in the cab white and silent--she had appealed to him in no

way for sympathy.

The waiter retreated with a bow. She shot a swift glance across at him.

"I object to being scrutinized," she declared. "Is it the plainness of

my hat or the depth of my wrinkles to which you object?"

"Object!" he repeated.

"Yes. You were looking for something which you did not find. You were

distinctly disappointed. Don't deny it. It isn't worth while."

"I won't plead guilty to the disappointment," he answered, "but I'll

tell you the truth. I was thinking what a delightfully companionable

girl you were, and yet how different from any other girl I have ever met

in my life."

"That sounds hackneyed--the latter part of it," she remarked, "but in my

case I see that it is not intended to be a compliment. What do I lack

that other girls have?

"You are putting me in a tight corner," he declared. "It isn't that you

lack anything, but nearly all the girls one meets some time or other

seem to expect from one nice little speeches or compliments, just a

little sentiment now and then. Now you seem so entirely superior to

that sort of thing altogether. It is a ridiculously lame explanation.

The thing's in my head all right, but I can't get it out. I can only

express it when I say that you are the only girl I have ever known, or

known of, in my life with whom sex would never interfere with

companionship."

She stirred her coffee absently. At first he thought that she might be

offended, for she did not look up for several moments.

"I'm afraid I failed altogether to make you understand what I meant," he

said, humbly. "It is the result of an attempt at too great candour."

Then she looked up and smiled at him graciously enough, though it seemed

to him that she was a little pale.

"I am sure you were delightfully lucid," she said. "I quite understood,

and on the whole I think I agree with you. I don't think that the

sentimental side of me has been properly developed. By the bye, you

were going to tell me about that pretty girl I saw at Enton--Lady

Caroom's daughter, wasn't she?"

His face lit up--she saw his thoughts go flitting away, and the corner

of his lips curl in a retrospective smile of pleasure.

"Sybil Caroom," he said, softly. "She is a very charming girl. You

would like her, I am sure. Of course she's been brought up in rather a

frivolous world, but she's quite unspoilt, very sympathetic, and very

intelligent. Isn't that a good character?"

"Very," she answered, with a suspicion of dryness in her tone. "Is this

paragon engaged to be married yet?"

He looked at her, keenly surprised by the infusion of something foreign

in her tone.

"I--I think not," he answered. "I should like you to meet her very

much. She will be coming to London soon, and I know that she will be

interested in our new scheme if it comes to anything. We will take her

down and give her a few practical lessons in philanthropy."

"Will she be interested?" Mary asked.

"Immensely," he answered, with confidence. "Lady Caroom is an awfully

good sort, too."

Mary remembered the well-bred insolence of Lady Caroom's stare, the

contemplative incredulity which found militant expression in her

beautiful eyes and shapely curving lips, and for a moment half closed

her eyes.

"Ah, well," she said, "that afternoon was rather a terrible one to me.

Let us talk of something else."

He was profuse at once in apologies for his own thoughtlessness. But

she checked him almost at the outset.

"It is I who am to blame for an unusual weakness," she said. "Let us

both forget it. And don't you find this place hot? Let us get outside

and walk."

They found a soft misty rain falling. The commissionaire called a

hansom. She moved her skirts to make room for him.

"I am going down to Stepney to see a man who I think will be interested

in my scheme," he said. "When may I come down again and have tea with

you?"

"Any afternoon, if you will drop me a line the night before," she said,

"but I am not very likely to be out, in any case. Thank you so much for

my dinner. My aunt seemed to think that I was coming to London to

starve. I think I feel fairly safe this evening, at any rate."

The cab drove off, skirting the gaily-lit crescent of Regent Street.

The smile almost at once died away from her lips. She leaned forward

and looked at herself in one of the oblong mirrors. Her face was almost

colourless, the skin seemed drawn closely round her eyes, giving her

almost a strained look. For the rest, her hair, smoothly brushed away

from her face, was in perfect order, her prim little hat was at exactly

the right angle, her little white tie alone relieved the sombreness of

her black jacket. She sighed and suddenly felt a moistening of her hot

eyes. She leaned far back into the corner of the cab.

CHAPTER VI

KINGSTON BROOKS, PHILANTHROPIST

"It is my deliberate intention," Lord Arranmore said, leaning over

towards her from his low chair, "to make myself a nuisance to you." Lady

Caroom smiled at him thoughtfully.

"Thank you for the warning," she said, "but I can take care of myself.

I do not feel even obliged to deny myself the pleasure of your society."

"No, you won't do that," he remarked. "You see, so many people bore

you, and I don't."

"It is true," she admitted. "You pay me nothing but unspoken

compliments, and you devote a considerable amount of ingenuity to

conceal the real meaning of everything you say. Now some people might

not like that. I adore it."

"Catherine, will you marry me?"

"Certainly not! I'm much too busy looking after Sybil, and in any case

you've had your answer, my friend."

"You will marry me," he said, deliberately, "in less than two

years--perhaps in less than one. Why can't you make your mind up to

it?"

"You know why, Arranmore," she said, quietly. "If you were the man I

remember many years ago, the man I have wasted many hours of my life

thinking about, I would not hesitate for a moment. I loved that man,

and I have always loved him. But, Arranmore, I cannot recognize him in

you. If these terrible things which you have suffered, these follies

which you have committed, have withered you up so that there remains no

trace of the man I once cared for, do you blame me for refusing you? I

will not marry a stranger, Arranmore, and I not only don't know you, but

I am a little afraid of you."

He sighed.

"Perhaps you are right," he said, softly. "I believe that the only

thing I have carried with me from the beginning, and shall have with me

to the end, is my love for you. Nothing else has survived."

Her eyes filled with tears. She leaned over to him.

"Dear friend," she said, "listen! At least I will promise you this. If

ever I should see the least little impulse or action which seems to me

to come from the Philip I once knew, and not Lord Arranmore, anything

which will convince me that some part, however slight, of the old has

survived, I will come to you."

He sighed.

"You alone," he said, "might work such a miracle."

"Then come and see me often," she said, with a brilliant smile, "and I

will try."

He moved his chair a little nearer to her.

"You encourage me to hope," he said. "I remember that one night in the

conservatory I was presumptuous enough--to take your hand. History

repeats itself, you see, and I claim the prize, for I have fulfilled the

condition."

She drew her hand away firmly, but without undue haste.

"If you are going to be frivolous," she said, "I will have all the

callers shown in. You know very well that that is not what I mean.

There must be some unpremeditated action, some impulse which comes from

your own heart. Frankly, Arranmore, there are times now when I am

afraid of you. You seem to have no heart--to be absolutely devoid of

feeling, to be cold and calculating even in your slightest actions.

There, now I have told you just what I feel sometimes, and it doesn't

sound nice, does it?"

"It sounds very true," he said, wearily. "Will you tell me where I can

buy a new heart and a fresh set of impulses, even a disposition,

perhaps? I'd be a customer. I'm willing enough."

"Never mind that," she said, softly. "After all, I have a certain

amount of faith. A miracle may happen at any moment."

Sybil came in, dressed in a fascinating short skirt and a toque. Her

maid on the threshold was carrying a small green baize box.

"I am going to Prince's, mother, just for an hour, with Mrs.

Huntingdon. How do you do, Lord Arranmore? You'll keep mother from

being dull, won't you?"

"It is your mother," he said, "who is making me dull."

"Poor old mummy," Sybil declared, cheerfully.

"Never mind. Her bark's a good deal worse than her bite. Good-bye,

both of you."

Lord Arranmore rose and closed the door after her.

"Sybil is a remarkably handsome young woman," he said. "Any signs of

her getting married yet?"

Lady Caroom shook her head.

"No! Arranmore, that reminds me, what has become of--Mr. Brooks?" Lord

Arranmore smiled a little bitterly. "He is in London."

"I have never seen him, you must remember, since that evening. Is he

still--unforgiving?

"Yes! He refuses to be acknowledged. He is taking the bare income

which is his by law--it comes from a settlement to the eldest son--and

he is studying practical philanthropy in the slums."

"I am sorry," she said. "I like him, and he would be a companion for

you."

"He's not to be blamed," Lord Arranmore said. "From his point of view I

have been the most scandalous parent upon this earth." Lady Caroom

sighed.

"Do you know," she said, "that he and Sybil were very friendly?

"I noticed it," he answered.

"She has asked about him once or twice since we got back to town, and

when she reads about the starting of this new work of his at Stepney she

will certainly write to him."

"You mean--"

"I mean that she has sent Sydney to the right-about this time in earnest.

She is a queer girl, reticent in a way, although she seems such a

chatterbox, and I am sure she thinks about him."

Lord Arranmore laughed a little hardly.

"Well," he said, "I am the last person to be consulted about anything of

this sort. If he keeps up his present attitude and declines to receive

anything from me, his income until my death will be only two or three

thousand a year. He might marry on that down in Stepney, but not in

this part of the world.''

"Sybil has nine hundred a year," Lady Caroom said, "but it would not be

a matter of money at all. I should not allow Sybil to marry any one

concerning whose position in the world there was the least mystery.

She might marry Lord Kingston of Ross, but never Mr. Kingston Brooks."

"Has--Mr. Brooks given any special signs of devotion?" Lord Arranmore

asked.

"Not since they were at Enton. I dare say he has never even thought of

her since. Still, it was a contingency which occurred to me."

"He is a young man of excellent principles," Lord Arranmore said, dryly,

"taking life as seriously as you please, and I should imagine is too

well balanced to make anything but a very safe husband. If he comes to

me, if he will accept it without coming to me even, he can have another

ten thousand a year and Enton."

"You are generous," she murmured.

"Generous! My houses and my money are a weariness to me. I cannot live

in the former, and I cannot spend the latter. I am a man really of

simple tastes. Besides, there is no glory now in spending money. One

can so easily be outdone by one's grocer, or one of those marvellous

Americans."

"Yet I thought I read of you last week as giving nine hundred pounds for

some unknown tapestry at Christie's."

"But that is not extravagance," he protested. "That is not even

spending money. It is exchanging one investment for another. The

purple colouring of that tapestry is marvellous. The next generation

will esteem it priceless."

"You must go?" she asked, for he had risen.

"I have stayed long enough," he answered. "In another five minutes you

will yawn, and mine would have been a wasted visit. I should like to

time my visits always so that the five minutes which I might have stayed

seem to you the most desirable five minutes of the whole time."

"You are an epicurean and a schemer," she declared. "I am afraid of

you."

* * * * *

He bought an evening paper on his way to St. James's Square, and

leaning back in his brougham, glanced it carelessly through. Just as he

was throwing it aside a small paragraph at the bottom of the page caught

his attention.

A NOVEL PHILANTHROPIC DEPARTURE.

THE FIRST BUREAU OPENED TO-DAY.

INTERVIEW WITH MR. KINGSTON BROOKS.