He folded the paper out, and read through every line carefully. A few

minutes after his arrival home he re-issued from the house in a bowler

hat and a long, loose overcoat. He took the Metropolitan and an omnibus

to Stepney, and read the paragraph through again. Soon he found himself

opposite the address given.

He recognized it with a little start. It had once been a mission hall,

then a furniture shop, and later on had been empty for years. It was

brilliantly lit up, and he pressed forward and peered through the

window. Inside the place was packed. Brooks and a dozen or so others

were sitting on a sort of slightly-raised platform at the end of the

room, with a desk in front of each of them. Lord Arranmore pulled his

hat over his eyes and forced his way just inside. Almost as he entered

Brooks rose to his feet.

"Look here," he said, "you all come up asking the same question and

wasting my time answering you all severally. You want to know what this

place means. Well, if you'll stay just where you are for a minute, I'll

tell you all together, and save time."

"Hear, hear, guv'nor," said a bibulous old costermonger, encouragingly.

"Let's hear all about it."

"So you shall," Brooks said. "Now listen. I dare say there are a good

many of you who go up in the West End sometimes, and see those big

houses and the way people spend their money there, who come back to your

own houses here, and think that things aren't exactly dealt out square.

Isn't that so?"

There was a hearty and unanimous assent.

"Well," Brooks continued, "it may surprise you to hear that a few of us

who have a little money up there have come to the same conclusion. We'd

like to do our little bit towards squaring things up. It may not be

much, but lots more may come of it."

A modified but a fairly cordial assent.

"We haven't money to give away--not much of it, at any rate," Brooks

continued.

"More bloomin' tracks," the costermonger interrupted, and spat upon the

floor. "Fair sickens me, it does."

"As for tracts," Brooks continued, calmly, "I don't think I've ever read

one in my life, and I don't want to. We haven't such a thing in the

place, and I shouldn't know where to go for them, and though that

gentleman down there with a herring sticking out of his pocket seems to

have done himself pretty well already, I'd rather stand him a glass of

beer than offer him such a thing."

A roar of laughter, during which a wag in the crowd quietly picked the

costermonger's pocket of the fish with a deftness born of much practice,

and sent it flying over the room. It was promptly returned, and found a

devious way back to its owner in a somewhat dusty and mauled condition.

"There is just one thing we have to ask for and insist upon," Brooks

continued. "When you come to us for help, tell us the truth. If you've

been drunk all the week and haven't earned any money, well, we may help

you out with a Sunday dinner. If you've been in prison and won't mind

owning up to it, we shan't send you away for that reason. We want your

women to come and bring us your children, that we can have a look at

them, tell us how much you all make a week between you, and what you

need most to make you a bit more comfortable. And we want your husbands

to come and tell us where they work, and what rent they pay, and if

they haven't any work, and can't get it, we'll see what we can do. I

tell you I don't care to start with whether you're sober and

industrious, or idle, or drunkards. We'll give any one a leg-up if we

can. I don't say we shall keep that up always, because of course we

shan't. But we'll give any one a fair chance. Now do you want to ask

any questions?"

A pallid but truculent-looking young man pushed himself to the front.

"'Ere, guv'nor!" he said. "Supposing yer was to stand me a coat--I

ain't 'ad one for two months--should I 'ave to come 'ere on a Sunday and

sing bloomin' hymns?"

"If you did," Brooks answered him, "you'd do it by yourself, and you'd

stand a fair chance of being run out. There's going to be no preaching

or hymn-singing here. Those sorts of things are very well in their way,

but they've nothing to do with this show. I'm not sure whether we shall

open on Sundays or not. If we do it will be only for the ordinary

business. Now let's get to work."

"Sounds a bit of orl right, and no mistake," the young man remarked,

turning round to the crowd. "I'm going to stop and 'ave a go for that

coat."

A young man in a bright scarlet jersey pushed himself to the front,

followed by a little volley of chaff, more or less good-natured.

"There's Salvation Joe wants a new trombone."

"Christian Sall's blown a hole in the old one, eh, Joe?"

Breathless he reached Brooks' side. The sweat stood out in beads upon

his forehead. He seemed not to hear a word that was said amongst the

crowd. Brooks smiled at him good-humouredly. "Well, sir," he said,

"what can I do for you?"

"I happened in, sir, out of curiosity," the young man said, in a strange

nasal twang, the heritage of years of outdoor preaching; "I hoped to

hear of one more good work begun in this den of iniquity and to clasp

hands with another brother in God."

"Glad to see you," Brooks said. "You'll remember we're busy."

"The message of God," the young man answered, "must be spoken at all

times."

"Oh, chuck 'im out!" cried the disgusted costermonger, spitting upon

the floor. "That sort o' stuff fair sickens me."

The young man continued as though he had not heard.

"Such charity as you are offering," he cried, "is corruption. You are

going to dispense things for their carnal welfare, and you do nothing

for their immortal souls. You will not let them even shout their thanks

to God. You will fill their stomachs and leave their souls hungry."

The costermonger waved a wonderful red handkerchief, and spat once more

on the floor. Brooks laid his hand upon the young man's shoulder.

"Look here, my young friend," he said, "you're talking rot. Men and

women who live down here in wretchedness, and who are fighting every

moment of their time to hang on to life, don't want to be talked to

about their souls. They need a leg-up in the world, and we've come to

try and give it to them. We're here as friends, not preachers. We'll

leave you to look after their souls. You people who've tried to make

your religion the pill to go with your charity have done more harm in

the world than you know of."

The young man was on fire to speak, but he had no chance. They hustled

him out good-naturedly except that the costermonger, running him down

the room, took his cap from his head and sent it spinning across the

road. Lord Arranmore left the hall at the same time, and turned

homewards, walking like a man in a dream.

CHAPTER VII

BROOKS AND HIS MISSIONS

"Now then, please," Brooks said, dipping his pen in the ink.

A lady of ample proportions, who had been standing since the

commencement of the proceedings with her hand tightly grasping the leg

of Brooks' table, gave a final shove of discomfiture to a meek-faced

girl whom she had suspected of an attempt to supersede her, and

presented herself before the desk.

"I'm first," she declared, firmly; "been 'ere for four mortal hours."

"What is your name, please?" Brooks asked.

"Mrs. Robert Jones, No. 4, St. Mary's Court, down Fennell

Street--leastways you go that way from 'ere. I'm a widow woman with

four children, and lost me husband on the railway. What I wants is a

suit of clothes for my Tommy, he's five-and-'arf, and stout for his

years, and a pair of boots for Selina Ann. And I'm not a saying," she

continued, blandly, "as me having waited 'ere so long, and this being a

sort of opening ceremony, as a pound of tea for myself wouldn't be a

welcome and reasonable gift. And if the suit," she concluded,

breathlessly, "has double-seated breeches so much the better."

Brooks maintained the most perfect composure, although conscious of a

suppressed titter from behind. He commenced to write rapidly in his

book, and Mrs. Jones, drawing her shawl about her, looked around

complacently. Suddenly she caught the ripple of mirth, which some of

Brooks' helpers were powerless to control. Her face darkened.

"Which is little enough to ask for," she declared, truculently,

"considering as it's four mortal hours since I first laid hold of the

leg of that table, and neither bite nor sup have I had since, it not

being my habit," she continued, slowly, and staring intently at the hang

of her neighbour's skirt, "to carry bottles in my pocket."

Brooks looked up.

"Thank you, Mrs. Jones," he said. "I have entered your name and

address, and I hope we shall see you again soon. This young lady," he

indicated Mary, "will take you over to our clothes department, and if we

haven't anything to fit Tommy you must come again on Wednesday, when we

shall have a larger supply."

"I'll take the nearest you've got to-day," she decided, promptly. "Wot

about the tea?"

"We shall be glad to ask you to accept a small packet," Brooks answered.

"By the bye, have you a pension from the railway company?"

"Not a penny, sir," she declared, "and a burning shame it is."

"We must see into it," Brooks said. "You see that gentleman behind me?"

"Him with the squint?" she asked, doubtfully.

Brooks bent over his book.

"Mr. Fellows, his name is," he said. "He is one of our helpers here,

and he is a lawyer. You can tell him all about it, and if we think you

have a claim we will try and see what we can do for you. Now, if you

please, we must get on. Come in any time, Mrs. Jones, and talk to us.

Some one is, always here. What is your name, please?"

"Amy Hardinge!"

There was a howl of derision from the rear. The girl, pallid, with

large dark eyes, a somewhat tawdry hat and torn skirt, turned angrily

around.

"Who yer shouting at, eh? There ain't so many of yer as knows yer own

names, I dir say, and 'Ardinge's as good as any other. Leave a body be,

won't yer?"

She turned round to Brooks, and disclosed a most alarming rent in her

gown.

"Look 'ere, guv'nor," she said, "that's my name, and I 'as a back room

behind old Connel's fish-shop next door but one to 'ere. If yer want to

give away things to them as wants 'em, wot price a new skirt 'ere, eh?"

A woman from the rear leaned over to Brooks.

"The 'ussy," she said. "Don't you take no notice of 'er, sir. We all

knows 'er--and precious little good there is ter know."

Miss Hardinge was not unreasonably annoyed. She turned round with

flashing eyes and belligerent attitude.

"Who the 'ell asked you anything?" she exclaimed. "Can't yer keep your

bloomin' mouths closed?"

A pale-faced little man pushed his way through the throng. He was

dressed in a semi-clerical garb, and he tapped Brooks on the shoulder.

"Can you favour me with one moment's private conversation, sir?" he

said. "My name is John Deeling, and I am a minister of the Gospel. The

Mission House in Fennell Street is my special charge."

"Glad to know you, Mr. Deeling," Brooks answered, "but I can't spare

any time for private conversation now. Can't you speak to me here?"

Mr. Deeling looked doubtfully at the girl who stood still before the

desk, silent, but breathing hard. A sullen shade had fallen upon her

face. She looked like a creature at bay.

"It is concerning-this unfortunate young person."

"I can assure you," Brooks said, dipping his pen in the ink, "that no

recommendation is necessary. I shall do what I can for her."

"You misapprehend me, sir," Mr. Deeling said, with some solemnity. "I

regret to say that no recommendation is possible. That young person is

outside the pale of all Christian help. I regret to speak so plainly

before ladies, sir, but she is a notorious character, a hardened and

incurable prostitute."

Brooks looked at him for a moment fixedly.

"Did I understand you to say, sir, that you were a minister of the

Gospel?" he asked.

"Certainly! I am well known in the neighbourhood."

"Then if you take my advice," Brooks said, sternly, "you will take off

those garments and break stones upon the street. It is to help such

unfortunate and cruelly ill-used young women as this that I and my

friends have come here. Be off, sir. Miss Hardinge, this young lady

will take you to our clothes store in the inner room there. I hope you

will permit us to be of some further use to you later on."

The girl, half dazed, passed away. Mr. Deeling, his face red with

anger, turned towards the door.

"You may call it a Christian deed, sir," he exclaimed, angrily, "to

encourage vice of the worst description. We shall see what the bishop,

what the Press, have to say about it."

"I don't care a snap of the fingers what you, or the bishop, or time

Press have to say," Brooks rejoined, equably; "but lest there should be

those here who agree with your point of view, let them hear this from me

at once, to prevent misunderstanding. We are here to help to the best

of our ability all who need help, whatsoever their characters. They are

equally welcome to what we have to offer, whether they be thieves, or

prostitutes, or drunkards, or respectable men and women. But if I were

asked what really brought me here, for what class of people in the world

my sympathy and the sympathies of my friends have been most warmly

kindled, I should say, for such as that young woman who has just

presented herself here. If she asks for them, she will have from us

food and clothes and the use of our baths and reading-rooms whenever she

chooses, and I will guarantee that not one of my women friends here who

come in contact with her will ask a single question as to her mode of

life, until she invites their confidence. If you think that she is

responsible for her present state, you and I differ--if you think that

one shadow of blame rests upon her, we differ again. And if there are

any more like her in the room, let them come out, and they shall have

all that they ask for, that it is within our power to give."

"Hear, hear, guv'nor!"

"That's ginger for 'im."

"Out of this, old white choker. There's beans for you."

They let him pass through. On the threshold he turned and faced Brooks

again.

"At least," he said, "I can promise you this. God's blessing will never

be upon your work. I doubt whether you will be allowed to continue it

in this Christian country."

Brooks rose to his feet.

"Mr. Deeling," he said, "you and your mission system of work amongst

the poor have been fighting a losing battle in this country for fifty

years and more. A Christian country you call it. Go outside in the

streets. Look north and south, east and west, look at the people, look

at their children, look at their homes. Is there one shadow of

improvement in this labyrinth of horrors year by year, decade by decade?

You know in your heart that there is none. Therefore if new means be

chosen, do not condemn them too rashly. Your mission houses, many of

them, have been nothing but breeding-places for hypocrisy. It is time

the old order was changed. Now, sir, you are next. What can we do for

you?"

A weary-looking man with hollow eyes and nervously-twitching fingers

found himself pushed before the desk. He seemed at first embarrassed

and half dazed. Brooks waited without any sign of impatience. When at

last he spoke, it was without the slightest trace of any Cockney accent.

"I--I beg your pardon, sir! I ought not perhaps to intrude here, but I

don't know who needs help more than I do."

"He's orl right, sir," sung out the costermonger. "He is a bit queer in

the 'ead, but he's a scholar, and fair on his uppers. Speak up, Joe."

"You see, my friends are willing to give me a character, sir," the man

remarked, with a ghost of a smile. "My name is Edward Owston. I was

clerk at a large drapery firm, Messrs. Appleby, Sons, and Dawson, in

St. Paul's Churchyard, for fourteen years. I have a verified character

from them. They were obliged to cult down their staff, owing to foreign

competition, and--I have never succeeded--in obtaining another

situation. There is nothing against me, sir. I would have worked for

fifteen shillings a week. I walked the streets till my boots were worn

through and my clothes hung around me like rags. It was bad luck at

first--afterwards it was my clothes. I have been selling matches for a

month it has brought me in two shillings a week."

"How old are you?" Brooks asked. "Thirty-four, sir." Brooks nearly

dropped his pen.

"What?" he exclaimed.

"Thirty-four, sir. It is four years since I lost my situation."

The man's hair was grey, a little stubbly grey beard was jutting out

from his chin. His eyes were almost lost in deep hollows. Brooks felt

a lump in his throat, and for a moment pretended to be writing busily.

Then he looked up.

"We shall give you a fresh start in life, Edward Owston," he said.

"Follow this gentleman at my left. He will find you clothes and food.

To-morrow you will go to a cottage which belongs to us at Hastings for

one month. Afterwards, if your story is true, we shall find you a

suitable situation--if it is partially true, we shall still find you

something to do. If it is altogether false we cannot help you, for

absolute truth in answering our questions is the only condition we

impose." The man never uttered a word. He went out leaning upon the arm

of one of Brooks' assistants. Another, who was a doctor, after a glance

into the man's face, followed them. When he returned, after about

twenty minutes' absence, he leaned forward and whispered in Brooks' ear

"You'll never have to find a situation for that poor fellow. A month's

about all he's good for." Brooks looked round shocked. "What is

it--drink?" he asked. The doctor shook his head.

"Not a trace of it. Starvation and exhaustion. If I hadn't been with

him just now he'd have been dead before this. He fainted away."

Brooks half closed his eyes.

"It is horrible!" he murmured.

The costermonger was next. Brooks looked around the room and at the

clock.

"Look here," he said. "If I sit here till tomorrow I can't possibly

attend to all of you. I tell you what I'll do. If you others will give

place to those whose cases are really urgent, I'll be here at seven

to-morrow morning till seven at night, and the next day too, if

necessary. It's no good deputing any one else to tell me, because

however many branches we open--and I hope we shall open a great many--I

mean to manage this one myself, and I must know you all personally.

Now are you all agreeable?"

"I am for one," declared the costermonger, moving away from before the

desk. "I ain't in no 'urry. I've 'ad a bit o' bad luck wi' my barrer,

all owing to a plaguing drunken old omnibus-driver, and horl I want is a

bit o' help towards the security. Josh Auk wants it before he'll let me

out a new one. Tomorrow's horl right for me."

"Well, I expect we'll manage that," Brooks remarked. "Now where are the

urgent cases?"

One by one they were elbowed forward. Brooks' pen flew across the

paper. It was midnight even then before they had finished. Brooks and

Mary Scott left together. They were both too exhausted for words.

As they crossed the street Mary suddenly touched his arm.

"Look!" she whispered.

A girl was leaning up against the wall, her face buried in her hands,

sobbing bitterly. They both watched her for a moment. It was Amy

Hardinge.

"I will go and speak to her," Mary whispered.

Brooks drew her away.

"Not one word, even of advice," he said. "Let us keep to our

principles. The end will be surer."

They turned the corner of the street. Above the shouting of an angry

woman and the crazy song of a drunken man the girl's sobs still lingered

in their ears.

CHAPTER VIII

MR. BULLSOM IS STAGGERED

Mr. Bullsom looked up from his letters With an air of satisfaction.

"Company to dinner, Mrs. Bullsom!" he declared. "Some more of your

silly old directors, I suppose," said Selina, discontentedly. "What a

nuisance they are."

Mr. Bullsom frowned.

"My silly old directors, as you call 'em," he answered, "may not be

exactly up to your idea of refinement, but I wouldn't call 'em names if

I were you. They've made me one of the richest men in Medchester."

"A lot we get out of it," Louise grunted, discontentedly.

"You get as much as you deserve," Mr. Bullsom retorted. "Besides,

you're so plaguing impatient. You don't hear your mother talk like

that."

Selina whispered something under her breath which Mr. Bullsom, if he

heard, chose to ignore.

"I've explained to you all before," he continued, "that up to the end of

last year we've been holding the entire property--over a million pounds'

worth, between five of us. Our time's come now. Now, look here--I'll

listen to what you've got to say--all of you. Supposing I've made up my

mind to launch out. How do you want to do it? You first, mother."

Mrs. Bullsom looked worried.

"My dear Peter," she said, "I think we're very comfortable as we are. A

larger household means more care, and a man-servant about the place is a

thing I could never abide. If you felt like taking sittings at Mr.

Thompson's as well as our own chapel, so that we could go there when we

felt we needed a change, I think I should like it sometimes. But it

seems a waste of good money with Sundays only coming once in seven

days."

Mr. Bullsom shook with good-humoured laughter.

"Mother, mother," he said, "we shall never smarten you up, shall we,

girls? Now, what do you say, Selina?"

"I should like a country house quite ten on fifteen miles away from

here, lots of horses and carriages, and a house in town for the season,"

Selina declared, boldly.

"And you, Louise?"

"I should like what Selina has said."

Mr. Bullsom looked a little grave.

"The house in London," he said, "you shall have, whether I buy it or

only hire it for a few months at a time. If we haven't friends up

there, there are always the theatres and music-halls, and lots going on.

But a country house is a bit different. I thought of building a place

up at Nicholson's Corner, where the trains stop. The land belongs to

me, and there's room for the biggest house in Medchester."

Selina tossed her head.

"Of course," she said, "if we have to spend all our lives in this

hateful suburb it doesn't much matter whether you stay here on build

another house, no one will come to see us. We shall never get to know

anybody."

"And supposing you go out into the country," Mr. Bullsom argued. "How

do you know that you will make friends there?"

"People must call," Selina answered, "if you subscribe to the hounds,

and you must get made a magistrate."

"We have lived here for a good many years," Mr. Bullsom said, "and

there are very superior people living almost at our doors whom even you

girls don't know to bow to."

Selina tossed her head.

"Superior, you call them, do you? A silly stuck-up lot, I think. They

form themselves into little sets, and if you don't belong, they treat

you as though you had small-pox."

"The men are all pleasant enough," Mr. Bullsom remarked. "I meet them

in the trains and in business, and they're always glad enough to pass

the time o' day."

"Oh, the men are all right," Selina answered. "It's easy enough to know

them. Mr. Wensome trod on my dress the other day, and apologized as

though he'd torn it off my back, and the next day he gave me his seat in

the car. I always acknowledge him, and he's glad enough to come and

talk, but if his wife's with him, she looks straight ahead as though

every one else in the car were mummies."

Mr. Bullsom cut the end of a cigar thoughtfully, and motioned Louise to

get him a light.

"You see, your mother and I are getting on in life," he said, "and it's

a great thing to ask us to settle down in a place where there's no

slipping off down to the club in the evening, and no chance of a friend

dropping in for a chat. We've got to an age when we need some one to

talk to. I ain't going to say that a big house in the country isn't a

nice thing to have, and the gardens and that would be first-class. But

it's a big move, and it ain't to be decided about all in a hurry."

"Why, father, there's the shooting," Selina exclaimed. "You're fond of

that, and men will go anywhere for really good shooting, and make their

wives go, too. If you could get a place with plenty of it, and a

fox-covert or two on the estate, I'm perfectly certain we should be all

right."

Mr. Bullsom looked still a little doubtful.

"That's all very well," he said, "but I don't want to bribe people into

my house with shooting and good cooking, and nursing their blooming

foxes. That ain't my idea of making friends."

"It's only breaking the ice-just at first," Selina argued. "Afterwards

I'm sure you'd find them friendly enough."

"I tell you what I shall do," Mr. Bullsom said, deliberately; "I shall

consult the friend I've got coming to dinner to-night."

Selina smiled contemptuously.

"Pshaw!" she exclaimed. "What do any of them know about such things?"

"You don't know who it is," Mr. Bullsom replied, mysteriously.

The girls turned towards him almost simultaneously.

"Is it Mr. Brooks?"

Mr. Bullsom nodded. Selina flushed with pleasure and tried to look

unconscious.

"Only the day before yesterday," Mr. Bullsom said, "as chairman of the

committee, I had the pleasure of forwarding to Brooks a formal

invitation to become the parliamentary candidate for the borough. He

writes to me by return to say that he will be here this afternoon, as he

wishes to see me personally."

"I must say he hasn't lost much time," Louise remarked, smiling across

at Selina.

Mr. Bullsom grunted.

"I don't see how he could do much less," he said. "After all, though

every one admits that he's a clever young chap and uncommonly

conscientious, he's not well known generally, and he hasn't the position

in the town or anywhere which people generally look for in a

parliamentary candidate. I may tell you, girls, and you, mother, that

he was selected solely on my unqualified support and my casting vote."

"I hope," Mrs. Bullsom said, "that he will be properly grateful."

"I'm sure it's very good of you, pa," Selina declared, affably. She

liked the idea of Brooks owing so much to her father.

"There's no young man," Mr. Bullsom said, "whom I like so much or think

so much of as Mr. Brooks. If I'd a son like that I'd be a proud man.

And as we're here all alone, just the family, as it were, I'll go on to

say this," Mr. Bullsom continued, his right thumb finding its way to

the armhole of his waistcoat. "I'm going to drop a hint at the first

opportunity I get, quite casually, that whichever of you girls gets

married first gets a cheque from me for one hundred thousand pounds."

Even Selina was staggered. Mrs. Bullsom was positively frightened.

"Mr. Bullsom!" she said. "Peter, you ain't got as much as that? Don't

tell me!"

"I am worth to-day," Mr. Bullsom said, solemnly, "at least five hundred

thousand pounds."

"Peter," Mrs. Bullsom gasped, "has it been come by honest?"

Mr. Bullsom smiled in a superior way.

"I made it," he answered, "by locking up forty thousand, more than half

of what I was worth, for five years. But I knew what I was about, and

so did the others. Mason made nearly as much as I did."

Selina looked at her father with a new respect. He rose and brushed the

ashes of his cigar from his waistcoat.

"Now I'm off," he declared. "Brooks and I will be back about seven, and

I shall try and get him to sleep here. Fix yourselves up quiet and

ladylike, you girls. Good-bye, mother."

* * * * *

"We have about an hour before dinner," Mr. Bullsom remarked, sinking

into his most comfortable chair and lighting a cigar. "Just time for a

comfortable chat. You'll smoke, Brooks, won't you?"

Brooks excused himself, and remained standing upon the hearthrug, his

elbow upon the mantelpiece. He hated this explanation he had to make.

However, it was no good in beating about the bush.

"I am going to surprise you very much, Mr. Bullsom," he began.

Mr. Bullsom took the cigar from his mouth and looked up with wide-open

eyes. He had been preparing graciously to wave away a torrent of

thanks.

"I am going to surprise you very much," Brooks repeated. "I cannot

accept this magnificent offer of yours. I cannot express my gratitude

sufficiently to you, or to the committee. Nothing would have made me

happier than to have been able to accept it. But I am absolutely

powerless."

"You don't funk it?" Mr. Bullsom asked.

"Not I. The fact is, there are circumstances connected with myself which

make it inadvisable for me to seek any public position at present."

Mr. Bullsom's first sensations of astonishment were augmented into

stupefaction. He was scarcely capable of speech. He found himself

wondering idly how heinous a crime a man must commit to be branded

ineligible.

"To explain this to you," Brooks continued, "I am bound to tell you

something which is only known to two people in the country. The Marquis

of Arranmore is my father."

Mr. Bullsom dropped his cigar from between his fingers, and it lay for

a moment smouldering upon the carpet. His face was a picture of blank

and hopeless astonishment.

"God bless my soul!" he exclaimed, faintly. "You mean that you--you,

Kingston Brooks, the lawyer, are Lord Arranmore's son?"

Brooks nodded.

"Yes! It's not a pleasant story. My father deserted my mother when I

was a child, and she died in his absence. A few months ago, Lord

Arranmore, in a leisurely sort of way, thought well to find me out, and

after treating me as an acquaintance for some time--a sort of

probationary period, I suppose--he told me the truth. That is the

reason of my resigning from the firm of Morrison and Brooks almost as

soon as the partnership deed was signed. I went to see Mr. Ascough and

told him about your offer, and he, of course, explained the position to

me."

"But,"--Mr. Bullsom paused as though striving to straighten out the

matter in his own mind, "but if you are Lord Arranmore's son there is no

secret about it, is there? Why do you still call yourself Mr. Brooks?"

Mr. Bullsom, whose powers of observation were not remarkably acute,

looking steadily into his visitor's face, saw there some signs of a

certain change which others had noticed and commented upon during the

last few months--a hardening of expression and a slight contraction of

the mouth. For Brooks had spent many sleepless nights pondering upon

this new problem which had come into his life.

"I do not feel inclined," he said, quietly, "for many reasons, to accept

the olive-branch which it has pleased my father to hold out to me after

all these years. I have still some faint recollections of the close of

my mother's life--hastened, I am sure, by anxiety and sorrow on his

account. I remember my own bringing up, the loneliness of it. I

remember many things which Lord Arranmore would like me now to forget.

Then, too, my father and I are as far apart as the poles. He has not

the least sympathy with my pursuits or the things which I find worth

doing in life. There are other reasons which I need not trouble you

with. It is sufficient that for the present I prefer to remain Mr.

Brooks, and to lead my own life."

"But--you won't be offended, but I want to understand. The thing seems

such a muddle to me. You've given up your practice--how do you mean to

live?"

"There is an income which comes to me from the Manor of Kingston,"

Brooks answered, "settled on the eldest sons of the Arranmore peerage,

with which my father has nothing to do. This alone is comparative

wealth, and there are accumulations also."

"It don't seem natural," Mr. Bullsom said. "If you'll excuse my saying

so, it don't sound like common-sense. You can live on what terms you

please with your father, but you ought to let people know who you are.

Great Scott," he added, with a little chuckle, "what will Julia and the

girls say?

"You will understand, Mr. Bullsom," Brooks said, hastily, "that I trust

you to preserve my confidence in this matter. I have told you because

I wanted you to understand why I could not accept this invitation to

contest the borough, also because you were one of my best friends when I

was here. But you are the only person to whom I have told my secret."

Mr. Bullsom sighed. It would have been such a delightful disclosure.

"As you wish, of course," he said. "But my it don't seem possible!

Lord Arranmore's son--the Marquis of Arranmore! Gee whiz!"

"Some day, of course," Brooks said, "it must come out. But I don't want

it to be yet awhile. If that clock is right hadn't I better be going

up-stairs?"

Mr. Bullsom nodded.

"If you'll come with me," he said, "I'll show you your room."

CHAPTER IX

GHOSTS

Brooks, relieved that his explanation with Mr. Bullsom was over, was

sufficiently entertaining at dinner-time. He sat between Selina and

Louise, and made himself agreeable to both. Mr. Bullsom for half the

time was curiously abstracted, and for the remainder almost boisterous.

Every now and then he found himself staring at Brooks as though at some

natural curiosity. His behaviour was so singular that Selina commented

upon it.

"One would think, papa, that you and Mr. Brooks had been quarrelling,"

she remarked, tartly. "You seem quite odd to-night."

Mr. Bullsom raised his glass. He had lately improved his cellar.

"Drink your health, Brooks," he said, looking towards him. "We had an

interesting chat, but we didn't get quarrelling, did we?"

"Nor are we ever likely to," Brooks answered, smiling. "You know, Miss

Bullsom, your father was my first client of any importance, and I shan't

forget how glad I was to get his cheque."

"I'm very pleased that he was useful to you," Selina answered,

impressively. "Will you tell me something that we want to know very

much?"

"Certainly!"

"Are you really not coming back to Medchester to live?"

Brooks shook his head.

"No. I am settling down in London. I have found some work there I

like."

"Then are you the Mr. Brooks who has started what the Daily Courier

calls a 'Whiteby's Charity Scheme' in the East End?"

"Quite true, Miss Bullsom. And your cousin is helping me."

Selina raised her eyebrows.

"Dear me," she said, "I had no idea that Many had time to spare for that

sort of thing, had you, father?

"Many can look after herself, and uncommonly well too," Mr. Bullsom

answered.

"She comes mostly in the evening," Brooks explained, "but she is one of

my most useful helpers."

"It must be so interesting to do good," Louise said, artlessly. "After

dinner, Mr. Brooks, will you tell us all about it?"

"It seems so odd that you should care so much for that sort of thing,"

Selina remarked. "As a rule it is the frumpy and uninteresting people

who go in for visiting the poor and doing good, isn't it? You seem so

young, and so--oh, I don't think I'd better go on."

"Please do," Brooks begged.

"Well, you won't think I was trying to flatter, will you, but I was

going to say, and too clever for that sort of thing."

Brooks smiled.

"Perhaps," he said, "the reason that social reform is so urgently needed

in so many ways is for that very reason, Miss Bullsom--that the wrong

sort of person has been going in for it. Looking after the poor has

meant for most people handing out bits of charity on the toasting-fork

of religion. And that sort of thing doesn't tend to bridge over the

gulf, does it?"

"Toasting-fork!" Selina giggled. "How funny you are, Mr. Brooks."

"Am I?" he answered, good-humouredly. "Now let me hear what you have

been doing since I saw you in town."

Selina was immediately grave--not to say scornful.

"Doing! What do you suppose there is to do here?" she exclaimed,

reproachfully. "We've been sitting still waiting for something to

happen. But--have you said anything to Mr. Brooks yet, papa?"

Mr. Bullsom shook his head.

"Haven't had time," he answered. "Brooks had so much to say to me. You

knew all about our land company, Brooks, of course? You did a bit of

conveyancing for us.

"Of course I did," Brooks answered, "and I told you from the first that

you were going to make a lot of money by it."

Mr. Bullsom glanced around the room. The two maid-servants were at the

sideboard.

"Guess how much."

Brooks shook his head.

"I never knew your exact share," he said.

"It's half a million," Mr. Bullsom said, pulling down his waistcoat,

and squaring himself to the table. "Not bad, eh, for a country spec?"

"It's wonderful," Brooks admitted. "I congratulate you heartily."

"Thanks," Mr. Bullsom answered.

"We want papa to buy a house in the country, and go to town for the

season," Selina said. "So long as we can afford it I am dying to get

out of Medchester. It is absolutely the most commercial town I have

ever been in.

"Your father should stand for Parliament himself," Brooks suggested.

It is really possible that Mr. Bullsom, being a man governed entirely

by one idea at a time, had never seriously contemplated the possibility

of himself stepping outside the small arena of local politics. It is

certain at any rate that Brooks' words came to him as an inspiration.

He stared for a moment into his glass--then at Brooks. Finally he

banged the table with the flat of his hand.

"It's an idea!" he exclaimed. "Why not?"

"Why not, indeed?" Brooks answered. "You'd be a popular candidate for

the borough."

"I'm chairman of the committee," Mr. Bullsom declared; "I'll propose

myself. I've taken the chair at political dinners and meetings for the

last twenty years. I know the runs, and the people of Medchester know

me. Why not, indeed? Mr. Brooks, sir, you're a genius."

"You 'ave given him something to think about," Mrs. Bullsom murmured,

amiably. "I'd be willing enough but for the late hours. They never did

agree with Peter--did they? He's always been such a one for his rest."

Mr. Bullsom's thumbs made their accustomed pilgrimage.

"In the service of one's country," he said, "one should be prepared to

make sacrifices. The champagne, Amy. Besides, one can always sleep in

the morning."

Selina and Louise exchanged glances, and Selina, as the elder, gave the

project her languid approval.

"It would be nice for us in a way," she remarked. "Of course you would

have a house in London then, papa, and being an M.P. you would get

cards for us to a lot of 'at homes' and things. Only I wish you were a

Conservative."

"A Liberal is much more fashionable than he was," Brooks assured her,

cheerfully.

"Fashionable! I know the son of a Marquis, a Lord himself, who's a

Liberal, and a good one," Mr. Bullsom remarked, with a wink to Brooks.

"Well, my dears," Mrs. Bullsom said, making an effort to rise, and

failing at the first attempt, "shall we leave the gentlemen to talk

about it over their wine?

"Oh, you sit down again, mother," Selina directed.

"That sort of thing's quite old-fashioned, isn't it, Mr. Brooks? We're

going to stay with you. You can smoke. Ann, bring the cigars."

Mrs. Bullsom, who was looking forward to a nap in a quiet corner of

the drawing-room, obeyed with resignation written large on her

good-natured, somewhat flushed face. But Mr. Bullsom, who wanted to

revert to the subject which still fascinated him, grunted.

"Hang these new ideas," he said. "It's you they're after, Mr. Brooks.

As a rule, they're off before I can get near my cigar-box."

Selina affected a little consciousness, which she felt became her.

"Such foolishness, papa. You don't believe it, do you, Mr. Brooks?"

"Am I not to, then?" he asked, looking down upon her with a smile.

Whereupon Selina's consciousness became confusion.

"How stupid you are," she murmured. "You can believe just what you

like. What are you looking at over in the corner of the room?"

"Ghosts," he answered.

Yet very much as those images flitted at that moment through his brain,

so events were really shaping themselves in that bare clean-swept room

into which his eyes had for a moment strayed away. Mary Scott was

there, her long apron damp with soap-suds and her cheeks red with

exertion, for she had just come from bathing twelve youngsters, who,

not being used to the ordeal, had given trouble. There were other of

his helpers too, a dozen of them up to their eyes in work, and a long

string of applicants patiently waiting their turn. The right sort

too--the sort from underneath--pale-faced, hollow-eyed, weary, yet for a

moment stirred from their lethargy of suffering at the prospect of some

passing relief. There was a young woman, hollow-cheeked, thin herself

as a lath, eager for work or chance of work for her husband--that

morning out of hospital, still too delicate to face the night air and

the hot room. He knew shorthand, could keep books, typewrite, a little

slip about his character, but that was all over and done with. A bank

clerk with L90 a year, obliged to wear a silk hat, who marries a

penniless girl on his summer holiday. They must live, both of them,

and the gold passed through his fingers day by day, an endless shower.

The magistrates had declined to sentence him, but the shame--and he was

never strong. Brooks saw the card made out for that little cottage at

Hastings, and enclosed with the railway ticket Owston was picking up

fast there--and smiled faintly. He saw the girl on her breathless way

home with the good news, saw her wet face heaven turned for the first

time for many a month. There were men and women in the world with

hearts then. They were not all puppets of wood and stone, even as those

bank directors. Then, too, she would believe again that there might be

a God.

Ghosts! They were plentiful enough. There was the skin-dresser--his

fingers still yellow with the dye of the pith. Things were bad in

Bermondsey. The master had gone bankrupt, the American had filched away

his trade. No one could find him work. He was sober enough except at

holiday time and an odd Saturday--a good currier--there might be a

chance for him in the country, but how was he to get there? And in any

case now, how could he? His wife had broken down, lay at home with no

disease that a hospital would take her in for, sinking for want of good

food, worn out with hard work, toiling early and late to get food for

the children until her man should get a job. There was the workhouse,

but it meant separation, perhaps for ever, and they were man and wife,

as much needed the one by the other, perhaps more, as their prototype in

the world of plenty. Again Brooks smiled. He must have seen Flitch, a

capital chap Flitch, making up that parcel in the grocery department and

making an appointment for three days' time. And Menton, too, the young

doctor, as keen on the work as Brooks himself, but paid for his evenings

under protest, overhears the address--why, it was only a yard or two.

He would run back with the man and have a look at his wife. He had some

physic--he felt sure it was just what she wanted. So out into the

street together, and no wonder the yellow-stained fingers that grasped

the string of the parcel shook, and the man felt an odd lump in his

throat, and a wave of thankfulness as he passed a flaring public-house

when half-an-hour ago he had almost plunged madly in to find pluck for

the river--devil's pluck. The woman. Nothing the matter with her but

what rest and good food would cure. Another case for that little

cottage. Lucky there were others being made ready.

"What sort of ghosts, Mr. Brooks?" Selina asked, a little more sharply.

He started, and withdrew his eyes at last.

"Ah, Miss Bullsom," he answered, "just the ghosts we all carry with

us, you know, the ghosts of our thoughts, living and dead, good and

evil."

"How funny you are, Mr. Brooks," she exclaimed.

CHAPTER X

A NEW DON QUIXOTE

Brooks reached London the next evening to find himself famous. The

evening papers, one of which he had purchased en route, were one and all

discussing his new charitable schemes. He found himself held up at once

to ridicule and contempt--praised and blamed almost in the same breath.

The Daily Gazette, in an article entitled "The New Utopia," dubbed him

the "Don Quixote of philanthropy" the St. James's made other remarks

scarcely so flattering. He drove at once to Stepney, and found his

headquarters besieged by a crowd which his little staff of helpers was

wholly unable to cope with, and half-a-dozen reporters waiting to snatch

a word with him. Mary watched his entrance with a little sigh of

relief.

"I'm so glad you have come," she exclaimed. "It is hard to send these

people away, but do you know, they have come from all parts of London?

Neither Mr. Flitch nor I can make them understand that we can only deal

with cases in the immediate neighbourhood. You must try."

Brooks stood up at once.

"I am very sorry," he said, "if there has been any misunderstanding, but

I want you all to remember this. It is impossible for us to deal with

any cases to-night unless you are residents of the immediate

neighbourhood. The list of streets is on the front door. Please do not

present yourselves before any of the desks unless you lodge or live in

one of them."

There was a murmur of disappointment, and in the background a few

growls.

"I hope before very long," Brooks continued, "that we shall have a great

many more branches open, and be able to offer help to all of you. But

at present we cannot make any exceptions. Will every one except our

neighbours please help us by leaving the room."

For the most part he was obeyed, and then one of the reporters touched

him on the shoulder.

"Good-evening, Mr. Brooks. I am representing the Evening Courier. We

should be glad to know what your ideas are as to the future of this new

departure of yours, and any other information you might cane to give

us. There are some others here, I see, on the same errand. Any

exclusive information you cared to place at my disposal would be much

valued, and we should take especial pains to put your case fairly before

the public."

Brooks smiled.

"Really," he said, "it seems as though I were on my defence."

The reporter took out his pencil.

"Well, you know," he said, "some of the established charitable

institutions are rather conservative, and they look upon you as an

interloper, and your methods as a little too broad."

"Well," Brooks said, "if it is to be war between us and the other

charitable institutions you name, I am ready for it, but I cannot talk

to you now. As you see, I have an evening's work before me."

"When can you spare me half-an-hour, sir?"

"At midnight--my rooms, in, Jermyn Street."

The reporter closed his book.

"I don't wish to waste your time, sir," he answered. "If you are not

going to say anything to the others before then I will go away."

Brooks nodded. The reporters whispered together.

"May we stay and watch for a few minutes?" one of them asked.

Brooks agreed, and went on with his work. Once more the human flotsam

and jetsam, worthy and unworthy, laid bare the sore places in their

lives, sometimes with the smooth tongue of deceit, sometimes with the

unconscious eloquence of suffering long pent up. One by one they found

their way into Brooks' ledgers as cases to be reckoned out and solved.

And meanwhile nearly all of them found some immediate relief, passing

out into the night with footsteps a little less shuffling, and hearts a

little lighter. The night's work was a long one. It was eleven o'clock

before Brooks left his seat with a little gesture of relief and lit a

cigarette.

"I must go and get something to eat," he said. "Will you come Miss

Scott?"

She shook her head.

"I have to make out a list of things we want for my department," she

said. "Last night they were nearly all women here. Don't bother about

me. Mr. Flitch will put me in an omnibus at London Bridge. You must

see those reporters. You've read the evening papers, haven't you?"

Brooks nodded.

"Yes. I knew we should have opposition. This isn't even the beginning

of it. It won't hurt us."

Nevertheless Brooks was anxious to be properly understood, and he talked

for a long time with the reporter, whom he found awaiting him in Jermyn

Street--a pleasant young fellow just back from the war, with the easy

manner and rattling conversation of his order.

"You ought to call in and have a chat with the chief, Mr. Brooks," he

said. "He'd be delighted to hear your views personally, I'm sure, and

I believe you'd convert him. He's a bit old-fashioned, you know, that

is for a sub--believes in the orthodox societies, and makes a great

point of not encouraging idleness."

"I'd be glad to some time," Brooks answered. "But I can tell you this.

If we can get the money, and I haven't asked for a penny yet, nothing in

the shape of popular opinion is going to stop us. Idleness and

drunkenness, deceit and filthy-mindedness, and all those vices which I

admit are like a pestilence amongst these people, are sins which we are

responsible for, not them, and, of course, we must suffer to some

extent from them. But we've got to grapple with them. We shall be

taken advantage of, and grossly deceived continually. I know of one or

two cases already. We expect it--count upon it. But in the end we

shall come out on the top. If we are consistent the thing will right

itself."

"You are a young man to be so interested in philanthropic work, Mr.

Brooks Every one seems to consider philanthropy the pursuit of the old,"

Brooks answered. "I don't know why, I am sure."

"And may I ask if that is a sample of your daily correspondence?" he

asked, pointing to the table.

Brooks looked at the enormous pile of letters and shook his head.

"I have never had more than twenty letters at a time in my life," he

answered. "There seems to be almost as many thousands there. It is, I

suppose, a result of the Press booming our modest little show. I can

scarcely feel as grateful as I should like to. Have another pipe, will

you--or a cigar? I think unless there's anything else you'd like to

ask I'd better begin on these."

"Nothing more, thanks," the pressman answered; "but if I might I'd like

to stay while you open a few. There might be something interesting. If

you'll forgive my remarking it, there seem to be a good many registered

letters. I understood that you had not appealed to the public for

subscriptions."

"Neither have I," Brooks answered, stretching out his hand. "If there

is money in these it is entirely unsolicited."

He plunged into a correspondence as various as it was voluminous. There

were letters of abuse, of sympathy, of friendship, of remonstrance, of

reproof. There were offers of help, money, advice, suggestions, and

advertisements. There were small sums of money, and a few larger ones.

He was amused to find that a great many people addressed him as an

infidel--the little mission preacher had certainly been busy, and

everywhere it seemed to be understood that his enterprise was an

anti-Christian one. And finally there was a long packet, marked as

having been delivered by hand, and inside--without a word of any sort,

on a single clue as to its sender--a bank-note for one thousand pounds.

Brooks passed it over to his companion, who saw the amount with a little

start.

"A thousand pounds--not even registered--in a plain envelope. And you

have no idea from whom it came?

"None whatever," Brooks answered.

The pressman folded it up silently, and passed it back. He looked at

the huge pile of correspondence and at Brooks--his dark thoughtful face

suddenly lit up with a rare gleam of excitement. In his own mind he was

making a thumb-nail sketch of these things. There was material for

one of those broad, suggestive articles which his editor loved. He

wished Brooks good-night.

"I'm much obliged for all you've told me," he said. "If you don't mind,

I'd like to drop in now and again down at Stepney. I believe that this

is going to be rather a big thing for you."

Brooks smiled.

"So do I," he answered. "Come whenever you like."

Brooks sank into an easy-chair, conscious at last of a more than

ordinary exhaustion. He looked at the pile of newspapers at his feet,

the sea of correspondence on the table--his thoughts travelled back to

the bare, dusty room in Stepney, with its patient, white-faced crowd of

men and women and children. Perhaps, after all, then he had found his

life's work here. If so he need surely regret no longer his lost

political opportunities. Yet in his heart he knew that it had been from

the House of Commons he had meant to force home his schemes. To work

outside had always seemed to him to be labouring under a disadvantage,

to be missing the true and best opportunity of impressing upon the

law-makers of the country their true responsibilities. But of that

there was no longer any hope. Of the House of Lords he thought only

with a cold shiver. No, political life was denied to him. He must do

his best for the furtherance of his work outside.

He fell asleep to awake in the cold grey of the morning, stiff and

cramped, and cold to the bone. Stamping up and down the room in a

vigorous attempt to restore his lost circulation, he noticed as he

passed the corner of the table a still unopened letter addressed to him

in a familiar handwriting. He took it over to the window, and, glancing

at the faintly-sketched coronet on time back, turned it over and broke

the seal.

"ST. JAMES'S HOUSE, LONDON.

"Thursday.

"MY DEAR BROOKS,

"I have read with an amusement which I am sure you will not fail to

share, the shower of condemnation, approval, and remonstrance which by

your doings in Stepney you appear to have brought down upon your head.

The religious element especially, you seem to have set by the ears. I

sat within hearing of our premier bishop last night at dinner, and his

speculations with regard to you and your ultimate aims were so amusing

that I passed without noticing it my favourite entree.

"You will have observed that it is your anonymity which is the weapon of

which your antagonists make most use. Why not dissipate it and confound

them? A Mr. Brooks of unknown antecedents might well be supposed

capable of starting a philanthropic work for his own good; the same

suspicion could never fall on Lord Kingston Ross, a future marquis. You

will notice that I make no appeal to you from any personal motive. I

should suggest that we preserve our present relations without

alteration. But if you care to accept my suggestion I would propose

that you nominate me trustee of your society, and I will give, as a

contribution to its funds, the sum of five thousand pounds."

Brooks looked down the long street, quiet and strangely unfamiliar in

the dawning light, and for a moment he hesitated. The letter he held in

his hand crushed up into a shapeless ball. It would make things very

easy. And then--a rush of memories. He swung round and sat down at his

desk, drawing paper and ink towards him.

"DEAR LORD ARRANMORE," he wrote, "I am much obliged to you for the

suggestion contained in your letter, but I regret that its acceptance

would involve the carrying out on my part of certain obligations which I

am not at present prepared to undertake. We will, therefore, if you

please, allow matters to remain on this footing.

"Yours sincerely,

"KINGSTON BROOKS."

Bareheaded he stole out into the street, and breathed freely only when

he heard it drop into the pillar-box. For only he himself knew what

other things went with the rejection of that offer.

He crept up-stairs to lie down for a while, and 'on the way he laughed

softly to himself.

"What a fool she would think me!" he muttered. "What a fool I am!"

PART III

CHAPTER I

AN ARISTOCRATIC RECRUIT

An early spring came with a rush of warm west wind, sunshine, and the

perfume of blossoming flowers. The chestnuts where out at the Park fully

a week before their time, and already through the great waxy buds the

colour of the coming rhododendrons was to be seen in sheltered corners

of the Park. London put out its window boxes, and remembered that it

had, after all, for two short months a place amongst the beautiful

cities of the world. 'Bus conductors begun to whistle, and hansom cab

drivers to wear a bunch of primroses in their coats. Kingston Brooks,

who had just left his doctor, turned into the Park and mingled idly with

the throng of people.

For the first time for many months he suffered his thoughts to travel

over a wider range than usual. The doctor's words had been sharp and to

the point. He must have instant change--change, if not of scene, at

least of occupation. Scarcely to be wondered at, Brooks thought to

himself, with a faint smile, when he thought of the last twelve months,

full to the brim of strenuous labour, of ceaseless striving within a

herculean task. Well, he was in smoother waters now. He might

withdraw his hand for a while, if necessary. He had gone his way, and

held his own so far against all manner of onslaught. Just then he heard

himself called by name, and, looking up, found himself face to face

with Sybil Caroom.

"Mr. Brooks! Is it really you, then, at last?"

He set his teeth hard, but he could not keep the unusual colour from

his cheeks.

"It is really I, Lady Sybil. How do you do?"

Sybil was charming in a lilac-coloured dress and hat as fresh and dainty

as her own complexion. She looked straight into his eyes, and told him

that he ought to be ashamed of himself.

"Oh, it's not the least use your looking as though you were going to

edge away every moment," she declared, laughing. "I am going to keep

you for quite a long time, and make you tell me about everything."

"In which case, Lady Sybil," her escort remarked, good-humouredly, "you

will perhaps find a better use for me at some future time."

"How sweet of you," she answered, blandly. "Do you know Mr. Brooks?

Mr. Kingston Brooks, Lord Bertram. Mr. Brooks is a very old friend,

and I have so many questions I want to ask him."

Lord Bertram, a slim, aristocratic young man, raised his hat, and

glanced with some interest at the other man.

"The Mr. Kingston Brooks of the East End? Lavvy's friend?" he asked,

politely.

Brooks smiled.

"I am afraid," he said, "that I am the person who is being

exposed--isn't that the word? I warn you, Lady Sybil, that I am a

questionable character."

"I will take the risk," she answered, gaily.

"I think you may safely do so," Lord Bertram answered, raising his hat.

"Good-morning, Lady Sybil--morning, Mr. Brooks!"

She led him towards the chairs.

"I am going to take the risk of your being in an extravagant frame of

mind," she said, "and make you pay for two chains--up here, on the back

now. Now, first of all, do you know that you look shockingly ill?"

"I have just come from-n my doctor," Brooks answered. "He agrees with

you."

"I am glad that you have had the sense to go to him," she said. "Tell

me, are you just run down, on is there anything more serious the matter?

"Nothing serious at all," he answered. "I have had a great deal to do,

and no holiday during the past year, so I suppose I am a little tired."

"You look like a ghost," she said. "You have been overworking yourself

ridiculously. Now, will you be so good as to tell me why you have

never been to see us?"

"I have been nowhere," he answered. "My work has claimed my

undivided attention."

"Nonsense," she answered. "You have been living for a year within a

shilling cab ride of us, and you have not once even called. I really

wonder that I am sitting here with you, as though prepared to forgive

you. Do you know that I have written you three times asking you to come

to tea?"

He turned a very white face upon her.

"Won't you understand," he said, "that I have been engrossed in a work

which would admit of no distractions?

"You could find time to go down to Medchester, and make speeches for

your friend Mr. Bullsom," she answered.

"That was different. I was deeply indebted to Mr. Bullsom, and anxious

to see him returned. That, too, was work. It is only pleasures which I

have denied myself."

"That," she remarked, "is the nicest--in fact, the only nice thing you

have said. You have changed since Enton."

"I have been through a good deal," he said, wearily.

She shuddered a little.

"Don't look like that," she exclaimed. "Forgive me, but you made me

think--do you remember that night at Enton, when Lord Arranmore spoke

of his work amongst the poor, how the hopelessness of it began to haunt

him and weigh upon him till he reached the verge of madness. You had

something of that look just now."

He smiled faintly.

"Believe me, it was fancy," he answered, earnestly. "Remember, I am a

little out of sorts to-day. I am not discouraged; I have no cause to be

discouraged. A good many of the outside public misunderstand my work,

and Mr. Lavilette thinks I make money out of it. Then, of course, all

the organized charities are against me. But in spite of all I am able

to go on and increase day by day."

"It is wonderful," she declared. "I read everything in the papers about

you--and I get the monthly reports, for of course I am a subscriber--so

is mother. But--that brings your shameful neglect of us back into my

mind. I wrote to you begging to be allowed to inspect one of your

branches, and all I got back was a polite reply from your secretary to

the effect that the general public--even subscribers--were never allowed

in any of the branches as sightseers, and that all I could see was the

stores and general arrangements, for which he enclosed a view-card."

"Well," Brooks said, "you don't think that poor people who come to you

for help should be exposed to the casual inspection of visitors who want

to see how it is done, do you? I have always been very particular about

that. We should not allow the Prince of Wales in the room whilst we

were dealing with applicants."

"Well, you might have written yourself, or come and seen us," Sybil

declared, a little irrelevantly. "Why couldn't I be an occasional

helper?"

"There is not the slightest reason why you should not," he answered.

"We have seventeen hundred on the books, but we could always do with

more, especially now we are opening so many more branches. But, you

know, we should expect you to come sometimes, and how would Lady Caroom

like that?" She laughed.

"You know how much mother and I interfere with one another," she

answered. "Besides, I have several friends who are on your list, and

who are sent for now and then--Edie Gresham and Mary Forbrooke." "It is

rough work," he said; "but, of course, if you like, my secretary shall

put your name down, and you will get a card then telling you what week

to come. It will be every afternoon for a week, you know. Then you are

qualified, and we might send for you at any time if we were short."

"I should come," she said.

A coach passed by, with its brilliant load of women in bright gowns and

picture hats, and two or three immaculate men. They both looked up, and

followed it with their eyes.

"Lord Arranmore," Sybil exclaimed, "and that is the Duchess of

Eversleigh with him on the box. It doesn't seem--the same man, does

it?"

Brooks smiled a little bitterly.

"The same man," he repeated. "No!"

They were silent for a few moments. Then Sybil turned towards him with

a little impetuous movement.

"Come," she said, "let us talk about yourself now. What are you going

to do?"

"To do?" he repeated, vaguely. "Why--"

"About your health, of course. You admitted a few minutes ago that you

had been to see your doctor."

"Why--I suppose I must ease up a little."

"Of course you must. When will you come and dine quietly with us in

Berkeley Square, and go to the theatre?"

He shook his head.

"It is kind of you," he said, "but--"

"When will you come and have tea with me, then?"

He set his teeth. He had done his best.

"Whenever you choose to ask me," he answered, with a sort of dogged

resignation.

She looked at him half curiously, half tenderly.

"You are so much changed," she murmured, "since those days at Enton.

You were a boy then, although you were a thoughtful one--now you are a

man, and when you speak like that, an old man. Come, I want the other

Mr. Brooks."

He sat quite still. Perhaps at that moment of detachment he realized

more keenly than ever the withering nature of this battle through which

he had passed. Indeed, he felt older. Those days at Enton lay very far

back, yet the girl by his side made him feel as though they had been but

yesterday. He glanced at her covertly. Gracious, fresh, and as

beautiful as the spring itself. What demon of mischief had possessed

her that she should, with all her army of admirers, her gay life, her

host of pleasures, still single him out in this way and bring back to

his memory days which he had told himself he had wholly forgotten? She

was not of the world of his adoption, she belonged to the things which

he had forsworn.

"The other Mr. Brooks," he murmured, "is dead. He has been burned in

the furnace of this last wonderful year. That is why I think--I fear it

is no use your looking for him--and you would not wish to have a

stranger to tea with you."

"That," she said, "is ingenious, but not convincing. So you will please

come to-morrow at four o'clock. I shall stay in for you.

"At four o'clock," he repeated, helplessly.

Lady Caroom waved to them from the path.

"Sybil, come here at once," she exclaimed, "and bring Mr. Brooks with

you. Dear me, what troublesome people you have been to find. I am very

glad indeed to see you again."

She looked Brooks in the face as she held his hand, and With a little

start he realized that she knew.

"You most quixotic of young men," she exclaimed, "come home with us at

once, and explain how you dared to avoid us all this time. What a ghost

you look. I hope it is your conscience. Don't pretend you can't sit

with your back to the horse, but get in there, sir, and--James, the

little seat--and make yourself as comfortable as you can. Home, James!

Upon my word, Mr. Brooks, you look like one of those poor people whom

you have been working for in the slums. If starvation was catching, I

should think that you had caught it. You must try my muffins."

Sybil caught his eye, and laughed.

"Mother hasn't altered much, has she?" she asked.

CHAPTER II

MR. LAVILETTE INTERFERES

"What is this Kingston Brooks' affair that Lavilette has hold of now?"

yawned a man over his evening papers. "That fellow will get into

trouble if he doesn't mind."

"Some new sort of charity down in the East End," one of the little group

of club members replied. "Fellow has a lot of branches, and tries to

make 'em a sort of family affair. He gets a pile of subscriptions, and

declines to publish a balance-sheet. Lavilette seems to think there's

something wrong somewhere."

"Lavilette's such a suspicious beggar," another man remarked. "The

thing seems all right. I know people who are interested in it, who say

it's the most comprehensive and common-sense charity scheme of the day."

"Why doesn't he pitch into Lavilette, then? Lavilette's awfully

insulting. Brooks the other day inserted an acknowledgment in the

papers of the receipt of one thousand pounds anonymous. You saw what

Lavilette said about it?"

"No. What?"

"Oh, he had a little sarcastic paragraph--declined to believe that Brooks

had ever received a thousand pounds anonymously--challenged him to give

the number of the note, and said plainly that he considered it a fraud.

There's been no reply from Brooks."

"How do you know?"

"This week's Verity. Here it is!"

"We have received no reply from Mr. Kingston Brooks up to going to

press with respect to our remark concerning the thousand pounds alleged

to have been received by him from an anonymous giver. We may add that

we scarcely expected it. Yet there is another long list of

acknowledgments of sums received by Mr. Brooks this morning. We are

either the most credulous nation in the world, or there are a good many

people who don't know what to do with their money. We should like to

direct their attention to half-a-dozen excellent and most deserving

charities which we can personally recommend, and whose accounts will

always stand the most vigorous examination."

"H'm! That's pretty strong," the first speaker remarked. "I should

think that that ought to stay the flow of subscriptions."

Lord Arranmore, who was standing on the hearthrug smoking a cigarette,

joined languidly in the conversation.

You think that Brooks ought to take some notice of Lavilette's

impudence, then?"

"Well, I'm afraid his not doing so looks rather fishy," the first

speaker remarked. "That thousand pounds note must have been a sort of a

myth."

"I think not," Lord Arranmore remarked, quietly. "I ought to know, for

I sent it myself,"

Every man straightened himself in his easy-chair. There was a little

thrill of interest.

"You're joking, Arranmore."

"Not I! I've sent him three amounts--anonymously."

"Well, I'd no idea that sort of thing was in your line," one of the men

exclaimed.

"More it is," Arranmore answered. "Personally, I don't believe in

charity--in any modern application of it at any rate. But this man

Brooks is a decent sort."

"You know who Brooks is, then?"

"Certainly. He was my agent for a short time in Medchester."

Mr. Hennibul, who was one of the men sitting round, doubled his copy of

Verity up and beat the air with it.

"I knew I'd heard the name," he exclaimed. "Why, I've met him down at

Enton. Nice-looking young fellow."

Arranmore nodded.

"Yes. That was Brooks."

Mr. Hennibul's face beamed.

"Great Scott, what a haul!" he exclaimed. "Why, you've got old

Lavilette on toast--you've got him for suing damages too. If this is

why Brooks has been hanging back--just to let him go far enough--by

Jove, he's a smart chap."

"I don't fancy Brooks has any idea of the sort," Lord Arranmore

answered. "All the same I think that Lavilette must be stopped and made

to climb down."

Curiously enough he met Brooks the same afternoon in Lady Caroom's

drawing-room.

"This is fortunate," he remarked. "I wished for a few minutes'

conversation with you."

"I am at your service," Brooks answered, quietly.

The room was fairly full, so they moved a little on one side. Lord

Arranmore for a moment or two studied his son's face in silence.

"You show signs of the struggle," he remarked.

"I have been overworked," Brooks answered. "A week or two's holiday is

all I require--and that I am having. As for the rest," he answered,

looking Lord Arranmore in the face, "I am not discouraged. I am not

even depressed."

"I congratulate you--upon your zeal."

"You are very good."

"I was going to speak to you," Lord Arranmore continued, "concerning the

paragraph in this week's Verity, and these other attacks which you seem

to have provoked."

Brooks smiled.

"You too!" he exclaimed.

"I also!" Lord Arranmore admitted, coolly. "You scarcely see how it

concerns me, of course, but in a remote sense it does."

"I am afraid that I am a little dense," Brooks remarked.

"I will not embarrass you with any explanation," Lord Arranmore

remarked. "But all the same I am going to surprise you. Do you know

that I am very much interested in your experiment?"

Brooks raised his eyebrows.

"Indeed!"

"Yes, I am very much interested," Lord Arranmore repeated. "I should

like you to understand that my views as to charity and charitable

matters remain absolutely unaltered. But at the same time I am anxious

that you should test your schemes properly and unhampered by any

pressure from outside. You are all the sooner likely to grow out of

conceit with them. Therefore let me offer you a word of advice.

Publish your accounts, and sue Lavvy for a thousand pounds."

Brooks was silent for a moment.

"My own idea," he said, slowly, "was to take no notice of these attacks.

The offices where the financial part of our concern is managed are open

to our subscribers at any time, and the books are there for their

inspection. It is only at the branches where we do not admit visitors."

"You must remember," Lord Arranmore said, "that these attacks have been

growing steadily during the last few months. It is, of course, no

concern of mine, but if they are left unanswered surely your funds must

suffer."

"There have been no signs of it up to the present," Brooks answered.

"We have large sums of money come in every day."

"This worst attack," Lord Arranmore remarked, "only appeared in this

week's Verity. It is bound to have some effect."

Brooks shrugged his shoulders.

"I do not fear it," he answered, calmly. "As a matter of fact, however,

I am going to form a council to take the management of the financial

organization. It is getting too large a thing for me with all my other

work. Is there anything else you wished to say to me?"

The eyes of the two men met for a moment both unflinchingly. Perhaps

they were each searching for something they could not find.

"There is nothing else. Don't let me detain you."

Brooks, who was the leaving guest, stepped quietly away, and Lord

Arranmore calmly outstayed all the other callers.

"Your manners," Lady Caroom told him, as the last of her guests

departed, "are simply hoydenish. Who told you that you might sit out

all my visitors in this bare-faced way?"

"You, dear lady, or rather your manner," he answered, imperturbably.

"It seemed to me that you were saying all the time, 'Do not desert me!

Do not desert me!' And so I sat tight."

"An imagination like yours," she declared, "is positively unhealthy.

Arranmore, what an idiot you are.

"Well?"

"Oh, you know all about it--and one hears! Are you tired of your life?"

"Very, very tired of it!" he answered. "Isn't everybody?"

"Of course not. Neither are you really. It is only a mood. Some day

you will succeed in what you seem trying so hard to do, and then you

will be sorry--and perhaps some others!"

"If one could believe that," he murmured.

"Two months ago," she continued, "every one was saying that you had made

up your mind to end your days in the hunting-field. All Melton was

talking about your reckless riding, and your hairbreadth escapes."

"Both shockingly exaggerated," he said, under his breath.

Perhaps; but apart from the papers I have seen people who were out and

who have told me that you rode with absolute recklessness, simply and

purely for a fall, and that you deserved to break your neck a dozen

times over. Then there was your week in Paris with Prince Comfrere, and

now your supper-parties are the talk of London."

"They are justly famed," he answered, gravely, "for you know I brought

home the chef from Voillard's. I am sorry that I cannot ask you to one.

"Don't be ridiculous, Arranmore. Why do you do these things? Does it

amuse you, give you any satisfaction?

"Upon my word I don't know," he answered.

"Then why do you do it?"

"Because," he said slowly, "there is a shadow which dogs me. I am

always trying to escape--and it is always hard on my heels. You are a

woman, Catherine, and you don't know the suffering of the most

intolerable form of ennui--loneliness."

"And do you?" she asked, looking at him with softening eyes.

"Always. It rode with me in the turnkey frill--and sometimes perhaps it

lifted my spurs--why not? And at these suppers you speak of, well, they

are all very gay--it is I only who have bidden them, who reap no profit.

For whosoever may sit there the chair at my side is always empty."

"You speak sadly," she said, "and yet--"

"Yet what?"

"To hear you talk, Arranmore, with any real feeling about anything is

always a relief," she said. "Sometimes you speak and act as though

every emotion which had ever filled your life were dead, as though you

were indeed but the shadow of your former self. Even to know that you

feel pain is better than to believe you void of any feeling whatever."

"Then you may rest content," he told her quietly, "for I can assure you

that pain and I are old friends and close companions."

"You have so much, too, which should make you happy--which should keep

you employed and amused," she said, softly.

"'Employed and amused.'" His eyes flashed upon her with a gleam of

something very much like anger. "It pleases you to mock me!"

"Indeed no!" she protested. "You must not say such things to me."

"Then remember," he said, bitterly, "that sympathy from you comes always

very near to mockery. It is you and you alone who can unlock the door

for me. You show me the key--but you will not use it."

A belated caller straggled in, and Arranmore took his leave. Lady

Caroom for the rest of the afternoon was a little absent. She gave her

visitors cold tea, and seriously imperiled her reputation as a charming

and sympathetic hostess.

CHAPTER III

THE SINGULAR BEHAVIOUR OF MARY SCOTT

The looking-glass was, perhaps, a little merciless in that clear north

light, but Mary's sigh as she looked away from it was certainly

unwarranted. For, as a matter of fact, she had improved wonderfully

since her coming to London. A certain angularity of figure had

vanished--the fashionable clothes which Mr. Bullsom had insisted upon

ordering for her did ample justice to her graceful curves and lithe

buoyant figure. The pallor of her cheeks, too, which she had eyed just

now with so much dissatisfaction, was far removed from the pallor of

ill-health; her mouth, which had lost its discontented droop, was full

of pleasant suggestions of humour. She was distinctly a very charming

and attractive young woman--and yet she turned away with a sigh. She

was twenty-seven years old, and she had been unconsciously comparing

herself with a girl of eighteen.

She drew down one of the blinds and set the tea-tray where she could sit

in the shadow. She was conscious of having dressed with unusual

care--she had pinned a great bunch of fragrant violets in her bosom.

She acknowledged to herself frankly that she was anxious to appear at

her best. For there had come to her, in the midst of her busy life--a

life of strenuous endeavour mingled with many small self-denials--a

certain sense of loneliness--of insufficiency--a new thing to her and

hard to cope with in this great city where friends were few. And last

night, whilst she had been thinking of it, came this note from Brooks

asking if he might come to tea. She had been ashamed of herself ever

since. It was maddening that she should sit waiting for his coming like

a blushing schoolgirl--the colour ready enough to stream into her face

at the sound of his footstep.

He came at last--a surprise in more ways than one. For he had abandoned

the blue serge and low hat of his daily life, and was attired in frock

coat and silk hat--his tie and collar of a new fashion, even his bearing

altered--at least so it seemed to her jealous observation. He was

certainly looking better. There was colour in his pale cheeks, and his

eyes were bright once more with the joy of life. Her dark eyes took

merciless note of these things, and then found seeing at all a little

difficult.

"My dear Mary," he exclaimed, cheerfully--he had fallen into the way of

calling her Mary lately "this is delightful of you to be in. Do you

know that I am really holiday-making?"

"Well," she answered, smiling, "I imagined that you were not on your way

eastwards."

"Where can I sit? May I move these?" He swept aside a little pile of

newspapers and books, and took possession of the seat which she had

purposely appropriated. "The other chairs are so far off, and you seem

to have chosen a dark corner. Eastwards, no. I have been at the

office all the morning, and we have bought the property in Poplar Grove

and the house in Bermondsey. Now I have finished for the day. Doctor's

orders."

"If any one has earned a holiday," she said, quietly, "you have. There

is some cake on the table there."

"Thanks. Well, it was hard work at first. How we stuck at it down at

Stepney, didn't we? Six in the morning till twelve at night. And then

how we rushed ahead. It seems to me that we have been doing nothing but

open branches lately."

"I wonder," she said, "that you have stood it so well. Why don't you go

away altogether for a time? You have such splendid helpers now.

"Oh, I'm enjoying myself," he answered, lightly, "and I don't care to be

out of touch with it all."

"You enjoy contrasts," she remarked. "I saw your name in the paper this

morning as one of Lady Caroom's guests last night."

He nodded.

"Yes, Lady Caroom has been awfully good to me, and I seem to have got to

know a lot of pleasant people in an incredulously short time."

"You are a curious mixture," she said, looking at him thoughtfully.

"Of what?" he asked, passing his cup for some more tea.

"Of wonderful self-devotion," she answered, "and a genuine and natural

love of enjoyment. After all, you are only a boy."

"I fancy," he remarked, smiling, "that my years exceed yours.

"As a matter of fact they don't," she answered, "but I was not thinking

of years, I was thinking of disposition. You have set going the

greatest charitable scheme of the generation, and yet you are so young,

so very young."

He laughed a little uneasily. In some vague way he felt that he had

displeased her.

"I never pretended," he said, "that I did not enjoy life, that I was not

fond of its pleasures. It was only while my work was insecure that I

made a recluse of myself. You, too," he said, "it is time that you

slackened a little. Come, take an evening off and we will dine

somewhere and go to the theatre." How delightful it sounded. She felt

a warm rush of pleasure at the thought. They would want her badly at

Stepney, but "This evening?" she asked.

"Yes. No, hang it, it can't be this evening. I'm dining with the

Carooms--nor to-morrow evening. Say Thursday evening, will you?"

Something seemed suddenly to chill her momentary gush of happiness.

"Well," she said, "I think not just yet. We have several fresh girls,

you know--it is a bad time to be away. Perhaps you will ask me later

on."

He laughed softly.

"What a funny girl you are, Mary. You'd really rather stew in that hot

room, I believe, than go anywhere to enjoy yourself. Such women as you

ought to be canonized. You are saints even in this life. What can be

done for you in the next?"

Mary bit her lip hard, and she bent low over the tea-cups. In another

moment she felt that her self-control must go. Fortunately he drifted

away from the subject.

"Very soon," he said, "we must all have a serious talk about the future.

The management is getting too big for me. I think there should be a

council elected--something of the sort must be done, and soon."

"That," she remarked, "is what Mr. Lavilette says, isn't it?"

He looked at her with twinkling eyes.

"Oh, you needn't think I'm being scared into it," he answered. "All the

same, Lavvy's right enough. No one man has the right to accept large

subscriptions and not let the public into his confidence."

"Lavilette doesn't believe in our anonymous subscriptions, does he?" she

asked.

"No! He's rather impudent about that, isn't he? I suppose I ought

really to set him right. I should have done so before, but he went

about it in such an offensive manner. Well, to go on with what I was

saying. You will come on the council, Mary?"

"I? Oh, surely not!"

"You will! And, what is more, I am going to split all the branches up

into divisions, and appoint superintendents and manageresses, at a

reasonable salary. And you," he concluded, "are going to be one of the

latter."

She shook her head firmly.

"No! I must remain my own mistress."

"Why not? I want to allot to you the work where you can do most good.

You know more about it than any one. There is no one half so suitable.

I want you to throw up your other work come into this altogether, be my

right hand, and let me feel that I have one person on the council whom I

can rely upon."

She was silent for a moment. She leaned back in her chair, but even in

the semi-obscurity the extreme pallor of her face troubled him.

"You must remember, too," he said, "that the work will not be so hard as

now. Lately you have given us too much of your time. Indeed, I am not

sure that it is not you who need a holiday more than I."

She raised her eyes.

"This is--what you came to say to me?"

"Yes. I was anxious to get your promise."

There was another short silence. Then she spoke in dull even tones.

"I must think it over. You want my whole time, and you want to pay me

for it."

"Yes. It is only reasonable, and we can afford it. I should draw a

salary myself if I had not a little of my own."

She raised her eyes once more to his mercilessly, and drew a quick

little breath. Yes, it was there written in his face--the blank utter

indifference of good-fellowship. It was all that he had come to ask

her, it was all that he would ever ask her. Suddenly she felt her heart

throbbing in quick short beats-her cheeks burned. They were alone--even

her little maid had gone out. Why was he so miserably indifferent? She

stumbled to her feet, and suddenly stooping down laid her burning cheeks

against his.

"Kingston," she said, "you are so cruel--and I am so lonely. Can't you

see that I am miserable? Kiss me!"

Brooks sat petrified, utterly amazed at this self-yielding on the part of

the last woman in this world whom he would ever have thought capable of

anything of the sort.

"Kiss me--at once."

He touched her lips timorously. Then she sprang away from him, her

cheeks aflame, her eyes on fire, her hair strangely ruffled. She

pointed to the door.

"Please go--quickly."

He picked up his hat.

"But, Mary! I--"

"Please!"

She stamped her foot.

"But--"

"I will write. You shall hear from me to-morrow. But if you have any

pity for me at all you will go now--this moment."

He rose and went. She heard him turn the handle of the door, heard his

footsteps upon the stone stairs outside.

She counted them idly. One, two, three, four now he was on the next

landing. She heard them again, less distinctly, always less distinctly.

Then silence. She ran to the window. There he was upon the pavement,

now he was crossing the road on his way to the underground station. She

tore at her handkerchief, waved it wildly for a moment--and then

stopped. He was gone--and she. The hot colour came rushing painfully

into her cheeks. She threw herself face downwards upon the sofa.

CHAPTER IV

LORD ARRANMORE IN A NEW ROLE

"The epoch-making nights of one's life," Mr. Hennibul remarked, "are

few. Let us sit down and consider what has happened."

"A seat," Lady Caroom sighed. "What luxury! But where?"

"My knowledge of the geography of this house," Mr. Hennibul answered,

"has more than once been of the utmost service to me, but I have never

appreciated it more than at this moment. Accept my arm, Lady Caroom."

They made a slow circuit of the room, passed through an ante-chamber and

came out in a sort of winter-garden looking over the Park. Lady Caroom

exclaimed with delight.

"You dear man," she exclaimed. "Of course I knew of this place--isn't

it charming?--but I had no idea that we could reach it from the

reception-rooms. Let us move our chairs over there. We can sit and

watch the hansoms turn into Piccadilly."

"It shall be as you say," he answered. "I wonder if all London is as

excited to-night as the crowd we have just left."

"To me," she murmured, "London seems always imperturbable, stonily

indifferent to good or evil. I believe that on the eve of a revolution

we should dine and go to the theatre, choose our houses at which to

spend the evening, and avoid sweet champagne with the same care. You

and I may know that to-night England has thrown overboard a national

policy. Yet I doubt whether either of us will sleep the less soundly."

"Not only that," he said, "but the Government have to-day shown

themselves possessed of a penetration and appreciation of mind for which

I for one scarcely gave them credit. They have made me a peer."

She looked at him with an amused smile.

"They make judges and peers for two reasons" she remarked.

"That, Lady Caroom, is unkind," he said. "I can assure you that

throughout my career I have never made a nuisance of myself to any one.

In the House I have been a model member, and I have always obeyed my

whip in fear and trembling. At the Bar I have been mildness itself.

The /St. James's Gazette/ speaks of my urbanity, and the courtesy with

which I have always conducted the most arduous cross-examination. You

should read the /St. James's Gazette/, Lady Caroom. I do not know the

biographical editor, but it is easy to predict a future for him. He has

common-sense and insight. The paragraph about myself touched me. I

have cut it out, and I mean to keep it always with me."

"The Press," she said, "have all those things cut and dried. No doubt

if you made friends with that young man he would let you read your

obituary notice. I have a friend who has corrected the proofs of his

already."

Hennibul smiled.

"My cousin Avenal, the police magistrate," he said, "actually read his

in the Times. He was bathing at Jersey and was carried away by

currents, and picked up by a Sark fishing-smack. They took him to Sark,

and he was so charmed with his surroundings and the hospitality of the

people that he quite forgot to let anybody know where he was. When he

read his obituary notice he almost decided to remain dead. He declared

that it was quite impossible to live up to it."

"Our charity now-a-days," she remarked, "always begins with the dead."

"Let me try and awaken yours towards the living!" he said.

She laughed.

"Are you smitten with the Brooks' fever?" she asked.

"Mine is a fever," he answered, "but it has nothing to do with Brooks.

I would try to awaken your charity on behalf of a perfectly worthy

object, myself--/vide/ the /St. James's Gazette/."

"And what do you need from me more than you have?" she asked. "Haven't

you the sole possession of my society, the right to bore me or make me

happy, perhaps presently the right to feed me?"

"For a few minutes," he answered.

"Don't be so sure. It may be an hour."

"I want it," he said, "for longer."

Something in his tone suddenly broke through the easy lightness of their

conversation. She stole a swift side-glance at him, and understood.

"Come," she said, "you and I are setting every one here a bad example.

This is not an occasion for /tete-a-tetes/. We should be doing our duty

and talking a little to every one. Let us go back and make up for lost

time."

She rose to her feet, but found him standing in the way. For once the

long humorous mouth was set fast, his eyes were no longer full of the

shadow of laughter, his tone had a new note in it, the note which a

woman never fails to understand.

"Dear Lady Caroom," he said, "I was not altogether jesting."

She looked him in the eyes.

"Dear friend," she answered, "I know that you were not, and so I think

that we had better go back."

He detained her very gently.

"It is the dearest hope I have in life," he said, softly. "Do not let

me run the risk of being misunderstood. Will you be my wife?"

She shook her head. There were tears in her eyes, but her gesture was

significant enough.

"It is impossible," she said. "I have loved another man all my life."

He offered her his arm at once.

"Then I believe," he said, in a low tone, "in the old saying--that a

glimpse of paradise is sufficient to blind the strongest man...."

They passed into the reception-room, and came face to face with Brooks.

She held out her hand.

"Come, you have no right here," she declared. "You are not even a

Member of Parliament." He laughed.

"What about you?"

"Oh, I am an inspiration!"

"I don't believe," he said, "that you realize in the least what is going

to happen."

"I do!" she answered. "I am going to make you relieve Lord Hennibul,

and take me to have an ice."

They moved off together. Hennibul stood looking after them for a

moment. Then he sighed and turned slowly away.

"If it's Arranmore," he said to himself, "why on earth doesn't he marry

her?"

Lady Caroom was more silent than usual. She complained of a headache,

and Brooks persuaded her to take champagne instead of the ice.

"What is the matter with you to-night?" she asked, looking at him

thoughtfully. "You look like a boy--with a dash of the bridegroom."

He laughed joyously.

"You should read the evening papers--you would understand a little the

practical effect of our new Tariff Bill. Mills in Yorkshire and

Lancashire are being opened that have been shut down for years; in

Medchester, Northampton, and the boot-centres the unemployed are being

swept into the factories. Manufacturers who have been struggling to

keep their places open at all are planning extensions already. The

wages bill throughout the country will be the largest next week that has

been paid for years. Travellers are off to the Colonies with cases of

samples--every manufacturing centre is suddenly alive once more. The

terrible struggle for existence is lightened. Next week," Brooks

continued, with an almost boyish twinkle in his eyes, "I shall go down

to Medchester and walk through the streets where it used to make our

hearts ache to see the unemployed waiting about like dumb suffering

cattle. It will be a holiday--a glorious holiday."

"And yet behind it all," she remarked, watching him closely, "there is

something on your mind. What is it?"

He looked at her quickly.

"What an observation."

"Won't you tell me?"

He shook his head.

"It is only one of the smallest cupboards," he said. "The ghost will

very soon be stifled."

She sighed.

"Did you see Lord Arranmore this evening?"

"Yes. He was talking to the duke just now. What of him?"

"I have been watching him. Did you ever see a man look so ill?",