CHAPTER I.

Produced by Al Haines

[Frontispiece: "But, Hugo dear," she said, "why did you not tell me

long ago?"]

A LAME DOG'S DIARY

S. Macnaughtan

Thomas Nelson and Sons,

London, Edinburgh, and New York

1908

A LAME DOG'S DIARY.

CHAPTER I.

Perhaps curiosity has never been more keen, nor mystery more baffling,

than has been the case during the last few weeks. There have been "a

few friends to tea" at almost every house in the village to see if in

this way any reasonable conclusions can be arrived at, and even

Palestrina is satisfied with the number of people who have taken the

trouble to walk up the hill and chat by my sofa in the afternoons. But

although each lady who has called has remarked that she is in the

secret, but at present is not at liberty to say anything about it, we

are inclined to think that this is vain boasting, or at least selfish

reticence.

The two Miss Traceys have announced to almost every caller at their

little cottage during the last two years that they intend to build.

We have all been naturally a good deal impressed by this statement, and

although it was never plainly said what the structure was to be, we had

had for a long time a notion of a detached house on the Common. And

surely enough the foundation-stone was laid last year by Miss Ruby

Tracey with some ceremony, and the first turf of the garden was cut by

Miss Tracey, and only last month the whole of the Fern Cottage

furniture was removed in a van to Fairview, as the new house is

called--the handsomer pieces placed upon the outside of the van, and

the commoner and least creditable of the bedroom furniture within.

Every one was at his or her window on the day that the Miss Traceys'

furniture, with the best cabinet and the inlaid card-table duly

displayed, was driven in state by the driver of the station omnibus

through the town. A rumour got abroad that even more beautiful things

were concealed from view inside the van, and the Miss Traceys satisfied

their consciences by saying, "We did not spread the rumour, and we

shall not contradict it."

But the mystery concerns the furniture in quite a secondary sort of

way, and it is only important as being the means of giving rise to the

much-discussed rumour in the town. For mark, the drawing-room

furniture was taken at once and stored in a spare bedroom, and the

drawing-room was left unfurnished. This fact might have remained in

obscurity, for in winter time, at least, it is not unusual for ladies

to receive guests in the dining-room with an apology, the drawing-room

being a cold sitting-room during the frost. But Mrs. Lovekin, the lady

who acts as co-hostess at every entertainment in our neighbourhood,

handing about her friends' cakes and tea, and taking, we are inclined

to think, too much upon herself, did, in a moment of expansion, offer

to show the Traceys' house to the Blinds, who happened to call there on

the day when she was paying her respects to Miss Tracey. Mrs. Lovekin

always removes her bonnet and cloak in every house, and this helps the

suggestion that she is in some sort a hostess everywhere.

Palestrina, who was also calling on the Miss Traceys, gave me a full,

true, and particular account of the affair the same evening.

"Mind the wet paint," Mrs. Lovekin called from the dining-room window

to the Miss Blinds as they came in at the gate, "and I'll open the

door," she remarked, as she sailed out into the passage to greet the

sisters. Miss Ruby Tracey would rather have done this politeness

herself, in order that she might hear the flattering remarks which

people were wont to make about the hall paper. It is so well known

that she and her sister keep three servants that they never have any

hesitation in going to the door themselves. Whereas the Miss Blinds,

who have only one domestic, would seem hardly to know where their front

door is situated.

"What an elegant paper!" exclaimed Miss Lydia Blind, stopping awestruck

in the little hall. Miss Lydia would, one knows, have something kind

to say if she went to pay a call at a Kaffir hut.

"Yes," said Mrs. Lovekin in a proprietary sort of way; "it is one of

Moseley's which Smithson got down in his book of patterns. The blue

paint is what they call 'eggshell'--quite a new shade. Come this way

and have a cup of tea."

"I am sure it is all very simple," said Miss Tracey, in a disparaging

manner that showed her good breeding, as they sat down in the

dining-room. "How do you like the new carpet, Miss Belinda?"

"Glory, glory, glory!" said Miss Belinda; "glory, glory, glory!"

"Show Miss Lydia the new footstools, Ruby dear," said Miss Tracey; "I

am sure she would like to see them." For we all believe--or like to

believe--that to praise our property must be Miss Lydia's highest

pleasure.

Mrs. Lovekin seized the opportunity to act as tea-maker to the party.

She poured cream and sugar into the cups with the remark that there was

no one in Stowel whose tastes in these respects she did not know, and

she handed a plate of cake to Miss Belinda, saying,--

"There, my dear, you sit comfortable and eat that."

"Glory, glory, glory!" said Miss Belinda.

The Miss Traceys had tea dispensed to them by the same hand, and

accepted it with that slight sense of bewilderment which Mrs. Lovekin

sometimes makes us feel when she looks after us in our own houses; and

Miss Lydia Blind distributed her thanks equally between her and the

Miss Traceys.

Nothing was talked of that afternoon but the new house--its sunny

aspect and its roomy cupboards in particular commanding the heartiest

commendation. Presently the ladies were taken to see all over it, with

the exception of one of the spare bedrooms and the drawing-room. They

knew these rooms existed, because Miss Tracey paused at the door of

each, and said lightly, "This is the drawing-room," and "This is

another spare bedroom;" and although, as my sister confided to me, they

would have given much to see the interior of the rooms, they could not

do so, of course, uninvited.

They paused to admire something at every turn, even saying generously,

but playfully, that there were many of Miss Tracey's possessions which

they positively coveted for themselves. The Miss Traceys smilingly

repudiated their felicitations, while Mrs. Lovekin accepted them and

announced the price of everything. She became quite breathless,

hurrying upstairs, while she exhibited stair-rods and carpets, and with

shortened breath apostrophized them as being "real brass" or "the best

Brussels at five-and-threepence." No one is vulgar in Stowel, but Mrs.

Lovekin is, we fear, not genteel.

At the close of the visit, Mrs. Lovekin again ushered the visitors into

the hall, and opening, "by the merest accident," as she afterwards

said--without, however, gaining any credence for her statement--opening

by the merest accident the door of the drawing-room, she peeped in.

The drawing-room was void of furniture. The wild thought came into

Mrs. Lovekin's mind--had the Traceys overbuilt themselves, and had the

furniture, which had been carried so proudly through the town on the

top of the furniture-van, been sold to pay expenses? The suggestion

was immediately put aside. The Miss Traceys' comfortable means were so

well known that such an explanation could not be seriously contemplated

for a moment. No; putting two and two together, a closed spare bedroom

and an empty drawing-room, and bringing a woman's instinct to bear upon

the question, it all pointed to one thing--the Miss Traceys were going

to give a party, probably an evening party, in honour of the new house,

and the drawing-room furniture was being stored for safety in the spare

bedroom until the rout was over. Doubtless the first rumour of the

Miss Traceys' party was meanly come by, but it was none the less

engrossing, all the same. Miss Lydia hoped that no one would believe

for a moment that she was in any way connected with the fraudulent

intrusion that had been made into Miss Tracey's secret, and Miss Tracey

said,--

"I have known Mary Anne Lovekin for thirty years"--this was

understating the case, but numbers are not exactly stated as we grow

older--"but I never would have believed that she could have done such a

thing."

"Bad butter," said Miss Belinda, shaking her head in an emphatic

fashion; "bad butter, bad butter!"

"I do not want to judge people," said Miss Tracey; "but there was a

want of delicacy about opening a closed door which I for one cannot

forgive." The Miss Traceys' good-breeding is proverbial in Stowel, and

it was felt that her uncompromising attitude could not but be excused

when it was a matter of her most honourable sensibilities having been

outraged.

"_I_ shall not say what I think," said Miss Ruby.

We often find that when Miss Ruby cannot transcend what her sister has

said, she has a way of hinting darkly at a possible brilliance of

utterance which for some reason she refrains from making.

"Bad butter!" said Miss Belinda; "bad, bad butter!"

Many years ago Miss Belinda Blind, who was then a beautiful young

woman, was thrown from a pony carriage. The result of the fall was an

injury to the spine, and she was smitten with a paralytic stroke which

deprived her of all power of speech. She was dumb for some years, and

then two phrases came back to her stammering tongue, "glory," and "bad

butter." She understands perfectly what is said to her, but she has no

means of replying, save in this very limited vocabulary. And,

strangely enough, these words can only be made to correspond with Miss

Belinda's feelings. However polite her intentions may be, if at heart

she disapproves she can only utter her two words of opprobrium. When a

sermon displeases her she sits in her pew muttering softly, and her

lips show by their movement the words she is repeating; while a

particularly good cup of tea will evoke from her the extravagant

phrase, "Glory, glory, glory!"

"Certainly," I said to Miss Lydia on the day succeeding the famous

visit to the Traceys, "Mrs. Lovekin's information, if so it may be

called, has been wrongly come by, and yet so frail is human nature one

cannot help speculating upon it."

"That is what is so sad," said Miss Lydia; "one almost feels as though

sharing in Mrs. Lovekin's deceit by dwelling upon her information, and

yet one's mind seems incapable of even partially forgetting such an

announcement."

Perhaps some suggestion of what was forming the topic of conversation

in the town may have reached the Miss Traceys, and hastened their

disclosure of the mystery. For very shortly afterwards, one morning

when a flood of April sunshine had called us out of doors to wander on

the damp paths of the garden, and watch bursting buds and listen to the

song of birds in a very rural and delightful fashion, we were informed

by a servant who tripped out in a white cap and apron, quite dazzling

in the sunshine, that the Miss Traceys were within.

I appealed to my sister to furnish me with a means of escape. But she

replied: "I am afraid they have seen you. Besides, you know I like you

to see people." We went indoors, and Miss Ruby apologized for the

untimely hour at which she and her sister had come, but explained it by

saying, "We wanted to find you alone." And then we knew that the

mystery was about to be solved.

"You are the first to hear about it," said Miss Tracey in a manner

which was distinctly flattering. The Miss Traceys sit very erect on

their chairs, and when they come to call I always apologize for having

my leg up on the sofa.

"The fact is," Miss Tracey went on, "that we knew that we could rely

upon your good sense and judgment in a matter which is exercising us

very seriously at present."

"It is a delicate subject, of course," said Miss Ruby, "but one which

we feel certain we may confide to you."

"We always look upon Mr. Hugo as a man of the world," said Miss Tracey,

"although he is such an invalid, and we rely upon the sound judgment of

you both."

Well, to state the subject without further preamble--but of course it

must be understood that everything spoken this morning was to be in

strict confidence--would we consider that they, the Miss Traceys, were

sufficiently chaperoned if their brother the Vicar were present at the

dance, and promised not to leave until the last gentleman had quitted

the house?

I do not like to overstate a lady's age, and it is with the utmost

diffidence that I suggest that Miss Ruby Tracey, the younger of the two

sisters, may be on the other side of forty.

"You see, we have not only our own good name to consider," said Miss

Tracey, "but the memory of our dear and ever-respected father must, we

feel, be our guide in this matter, and we cannot decide how he would

have wished us to act. If our brother were married it would simplify

matters very much."

"You would have had your invitation before now," said Miss Ruby, "if we

had been able to come to a decision, but without advice we felt that

was impossible. I am sure," she went on, giving her mantle a little

nervous composing touch, and glancing aside as though hardly liking to

face any eye directly--"I am sure the things one hears of unmarried

women doing nowadays ... but of course one would not like to be classed

with that sort of person."

Palestrina was the first of us who spoke.

"I think," she said gravely, "that as you are so well known here,

nothing could be said."

"You really think so?" said Miss Ruby.

But Miss Tracey still demurred. She said: "But it is the fact of our

being so well known here that really constitutes my chief uneasiness.

We often feel," she added with a sigh, "that in another place we could

have more liberty."

"I assure you," said Miss Ruby, in a tone of playful confession, "that

when we go to visit our cousins in London we are really quite

shockingly frivolous. I do not know what it is about London; one

always seems to throw off all restraint."

"I think you are giving a wrong impression, dear," said Miss Tracey.

"There was nothing in the whole of our conduct in London which would

not bear repetition in Stowel. Only, in a place like this, one feels

one must often explain one's actions, lest they should give rise to

misrepresentations; whereas in London, although behaving, I hope, in a

manner just as circumspect, one feels that no apology or explanation is

needed."

"There is a sort of cheerful privacy about London," said the other

sister, "which I find it hard to explain, but which is nevertheless

enjoyable."

To say that there is a dull publicity about the country, was too

obvious a retort.

"I think we went out every evening when we were in West Kensington,"

said Miss Tracey.

"Counting church in the evening," said Miss Ruby.

"Still, those evening services in London almost count as going out,"

said Miss Tracey; "I mean, they are so lively. I often blame myself

for not being able to look upon them more in the light of a religious

exercise. I find it as difficult to worship in a strange pew as to

sleep comfortably in a strange bed."

The Miss Traceys' morning call lasted until one o'clock, and even then,

as they themselves said, rising and shaking out their poplin skirts,

there was much left undiscussed which they would still have liked to

talk over with us. The ball supper, as they called it, was to be

cooked at home, and to consist of nothing which could not be "eaten in

the hand."

Claret-cup was, to use Miss Tracey's own figure of speech, to be

"flowing" the whole evening, both in the dining-room with the

sandwiches and cakes, and on a tray placed in a recess behind the hall

door.

"Gentlemen always seem so thirsty," said Miss Tracey, making the remark

as though speaking of some animal of strange habits which she had

considered with the bars of its cage securely fixed between herself and

it at the Zoo.

"We have bought six bottles of Essence of Claret-cup," said the younger

sister, "which we have seen very highly recommended in advertisements;

and although it says that three tablespoonfuls will make a quart of the

cup, we thought of putting four, and so having it good."

"As regards the music," went on Miss Tracey, "we have come, I think, to

a very happy decision. A friend of ours knows a blind man who plays

the piano for dances, and by employing him we feel that we shall be

giving remunerative work to a very deserving person, as well as

ensuring for ourselves a really choice selection of the most

fashionable waltzes. Ruby pronounces the floor perfect," said Miss

Tracey, glancing admiringly at her younger sister's still neat figure

and nimble feet; "she has been practising upon it several times----"

"With the blinds down, dear," amended Miss Ruby, simpering a little.

"We understand," she continued, "that some chalk sprinkled over the

boards before dancing begins is beneficial. You should have known

Stowel in the old days, when there was a county ball every winter at

the Three Jolly Postboys--such a name!" continued Miss Ruby, who was in

that curiously excited state when smiles and even giggles come easily.

"Now remember," said Miss Tracey to Palestrina, as she took leave of

her, "you must come and help with the decorations on the morning of the

dance. You can rest in the afternoon, so as to look your best and

rosiest in the evening."

In Stowel it is ingenuously admitted that a young lady should try and

look her best when gentlemen are to be present, and rosy cheeks are

still in vogue.

The Miss Traceys' drawing-room is not a very large room, even when

empty of furniture, but it certainly had a most festive appearance when

we drove up to the famous house-warming. Every curtain was looped with

evergreens, and every fireplace was piled with ivy, while two large

flags, which were referred to several times as "a display of bunting,"

festooned the little staircase. Several friends in the village had

lent their white-capped maids for the occasion, and these ran against

each other in the little linoleum passage in a state of great

excitement, and called each other "dear" in an exuberance of affection

which relieved their fluttered feelings.

A palm had been ordered from London and placed triumphantly in a

corner--the palm had been kept as a surprise for us all. In the course

of the evening it was quite a common thing to hear some girl ask her

partner if he had seen The Palm; and if the reply was in the negative,

the couple made a journey to the hall to look at it.

And here I must note a curious trait in the conversation prevalent in

our select circle at Stowel. We all speak in capitals. The definite

article is generally preferred to the "a" or "an" which points out a

common noun; and so infectious is the habit, that when writing, for

instance, of the Jamiesons, I find myself referring to The Family, with

a capital, quite in a royal way, so perspicuously are capital letters

suggested by their manner of speech. In the same way, the Taylors'

uncle is never referred to by any of us except as The Uncle, and I feel

sure that I should be doing the Traceys' plant an injustice if I did

not write it down The Palm.

This, however, is a digression.

The calmness of the Miss Traceys was almost overdone. They stood at

the door of their drawing-room, each holding a small bouquet in her

hand, and they greeted their guests as though nothing could be more

natural than to give a dance, or to stand beneath a doorway draped with

white lace curtains, and with a background of dissipated-looking

polished boards and evergreens. The elder Miss Tracey, who is tall,

was statuesque and dignified; the younger lady was conversational and

natural almost to the point of artificiality--so determined was Miss

Ruby to repudiate any hint of arrogance this evening. And it may be

said of both sisters that they were strikingly well-bred and

unembarrassed. Those who had seen them in all the flutter of

preparations during the day--washing china and glass, issuing packets

of candles from their store cupboard below the stairs, and jingling

large bunches of keys--could admire these outward symbols of ease, and

appreciate the self-restraint that they involved.

I do not remember before, at any dance, seeing so many old young

ladies, or so few and such very juvenile young men. The elderly young

ladies smiled the whole time, while their boy partners looked

preternaturally grave and solemn. They appeared to be shyly conscious

of their shirt collars, and these, I fancy, must have been made after

some exaggerated pattern which I cannot now recall; I only remember

that they appeared to be uncomfortably high and somewhat conspicuous,

and that they gave one the idea of being the wearers' first high

collars.

The Vicar, who had promised to come at eight o'clock so that there

should be no mistake about his being in the house from first to last of

the dance, and who had been sent for in a panic at a quarter past

eight, acted conscientiously throughout the entire entertainment. He

began by inviting Mrs. Fielden to dance, and afterwards he asked every

lady in turn according to her rank, and I do not think that during the

entire evening his feet can have failed to respond to a single bar of

the music. The blind musician was a little late in arriving, and we

all sat round the drawing-room with our backs to the new blue wallpaper

and longed for home. No one dared to offer to play a waltz, in case it

should be considered an affront at a party where etiquette was so

conspicuous, and where the peculiar Stowel air of mystery pervaded

everything.

The Jamiesons arrived, a party of nine, in the station omnibus, and

chatted in the hearty, unaffected manner peculiar to themselves, waving

little fans to and fro in the chilly air of the new drawing-room, and

putting an end to the solemn silence which had distinguished the first

half-hour of the party. Each of the sisters wore a black dress

relieved by a touch of colour, and carried a fan. Their bright eyes

shone benignly behind their several pairs of pince-nez; and as they

shook hands with an air of delight with every single person in the room

when they entered, their arrival caused quite a pleasant stir.

Mrs. Lovekin had already, in her character of co-hostess, begun to

distribute the Essence of Claret-cup that, diluted with water, formed

the staple beverage of the evening and was placed on a small table

behind the hall-door. There was rather a curious sediment left at the

bottom of the glasses, and the flavour of cucumber suggested vaguely to

one that the refreshment might be claret-cup. Very young men in split

white kid gloves drank a good deal of it.

At last the blind musician was led solemnly across the room, and took

up his position at the piano. He always left off playing before a

figure of a quadrille or lancers was finished, and then the dancers

clapped their hands to make him continue, and the elderly young ladies

smiled more than ever. At the second or third waltz my sister was in

the proud position of being claimed in turn by the Vicar as his

partner; and the position, besides being prominent, was such an

enviable one that Palestrina, who is not more given to humility than

other good-looking young women of her age, was carried away by popular

feeling so far as to remark in a tone of gratitude that this was very

kind of him.

He replied, "I have made up my mind to sacrifice myself for the night;"

and one realized that a lofty position and a prominent place in the

world may carry with them sufficient humiliations to keep one meek.

The conscientious Vicar did not allow his partner to sit down once

throughout the entire waltz, and I think the blind musician played at

greater length than usual. I began to wonder if her partner regarded

my excellent Palestrina as a sort of Sandow exerciser, and whether he

was trying to get some healthy gymnastics, if not amusement, out of

their dance together.

"There!" he said at last, placing her on a chair beside me as a

fulfilled duty; and feeling that she was expected to say "Thank you,"

Palestrina meekly said it.

"I have only danced once in the last twenty years," said the Vicar,

"and that was with some choir boys." And the next moment the blind man

began to play again, and he was footing it with conscientious energy

with Miss Lydia Blind.

Young ladies who had sat long with their empty programmes in their

hands now began to dance with each other with an air of overdone

merriment, protesting that they did not know how to act gentleman, but

declaring with emphasis that it was just as amusing to dance with a

girl-friend as with a man.

The music, as usual, failed before the end of each figure of the dance,

and the curate, who wore a pair of very smart shoe-buckles, remarked to

me that the lancers was a dance that created much diversion, and I

replied that they were too amusing for anything.

The Jamiesons' youngest brother, who is in a shipping-office in London,

had come down to Stowel especially for this occasion. Once, some years

ago, Kennie, as he is called, made a voyage in one of the shipping

company's large steamers to South America. He landed at Buenos Ayres

armed to the teeth, and walked about the pavement of that

highly-civilized town, with its wooden pavements and plate-glass shop

windows, in a sombrero and poncho, and with terrible weapons stuck in

his belt. At the end of a week he returned in the same ship in which

he had made the outward voyage, and since then he has had tales to tell

of those wild regions with which any of the stories in the _Boys' Own

Paper_ are tame in comparison. In his dress and general appearance he

even now suggests a pirate king. His tales of adventure are always

accompanied by explanatory gestures and demonstrations, and it is not

unusual to see Kennie stand up in the midst of an admiring circle of

friends and make some fierce sabre-cuts in the air. He was dressed

with a red cummerbund round his waist, and he drew attention to it by

an apology to every one of his partners for having it on. "One gets

into the habit of dressing like this out there," he said in a tone of

excuse. The Pirate Boy was in great demand at the dance.

Pretty Mrs. Fielden, who had driven over from Stanby, beautifully

dressed as usual, and slightly amused, ordered her carriage early, and

had merely come to oblige those quaint old dears, the Miss Traceys.

Even at the house-warming Mrs. Fielden would have considered it quite

impossible to sit out a dance. She brought an elderly Colonel with

her, and she conducted him into a corner behind The Palm, and talked to

him there till it was her turn to dance with the Vicar. Had it not

been Mrs. Fielden, whose position placed her above criticism, the

breath of envy might have whispered that it was hardly fair that one

couple should occupy the favourite sitting-out place--two drawing-room

chairs beneath The Palm--to the exclusion of others. But Mrs. Fielden

being whom she was, the young ladies of Stowel were content to pass and

repass the coveted chairs and to whisper admiringly, "How exquisite she

is looking to-night!"

"Is there anything of me left?" she said to me, looking cool and

unruffled when her dance with the Vicar was over. She had only made

one short turn of the room with him, and her beautiful dress and her

hair were quite undisturbed.

"You haven't danced half so conscientiously as his other partners

have," I said.

"I wanted to talk about the parish," said Mrs. Fielden, "so I stopped.

I think I should like to go and get cool somewhere."

"I will take you to sit under The Palm again, as Colonel Jardine did,"

I replied, "and you shall laugh at all the broad backs and flat feet of

our country neighbours, and hear everybody say as they pass how

beautiful you are."

Mrs. Fielden turned her head towards me as if to speak, and I had a

sudden vivid conviction that she would have told me I was rude had I

not been a cripple with one leg.

We sat under The Palm. Mrs. Fielden never rushes into a conversation.

Presently she said,--

"Why do you come to this sort of thing? It can't amuse you."

"You told me the other day," I said, "that I ought to cultivate a small

mind and small interests."

"Did I?" said Mrs. Fielden lightly. "If I think one thing one day, I

generally think quite differently a day or two after. To-night, for

instance, I think it is a mistake for you to lean against the Miss

Traceys' new blue walls and watch us dance."

"I'm not sure that it isn't better than sitting at home and reading how

well my old regiment is doing in South Africa. Besides, you know, I am

writing a diary."

"Are you?" said Mrs. Fielden.

"You advised it," I said.

"Did I?"

When Mrs. Fielden is provoking she always looks ten times prettier than

she does at other times.

"A good many people in this little place," I said, "have made up their

minds to 'do the work that's nearest' and to help 'a lame dog over

stiles.' I think I should be rather a brute if I didn't respond to

their good intentions."

"I don't think they need invent stiles, though!" said Mrs. Fielden

quickly; "wood-carving, and beating brass, and playing the zither----"

"I do not play the zither," I said.

"--are not stiles. They are making a sort of obstacle race of your

life."

"Since I have begun to write the diary," I said, "I've been able to

excuse myself attempting these things, even when tools are kindly

brought to me. And, so far, no one has so absolutely forgotten that

there is a lingering spark of manhood in me as to suggest that I should

crochet or do cross-stitch."

"You know I am going to help to write the diary," said Mrs. Fielden,

"only I'm afraid I shall have to go to all their tea-parties, shan't I,

to get copy?"

"You will certainly have to go," I said.

"I'm dreadfully bored to-night; aren't you?" she said confidentially,

and in a certain radiant fashion as distant as the Poles from boredom.

"No one can really enjoy this sort of thing, do you think? It's like

being poor, or anything disagreeable of that sort. People think they

ought to pretend to like it, but they don't."

"I wish I could entertain you better," I said sulkily; "but I'm afraid

I never was the least bit amusing."

Mrs. Fielden relapsed into one of her odd little silences, and I

determined I would not ask her what she was thinking about.

Presently Colonel Jardine joined us, and she said to him: "Please see

if you can get my carriage; it must be five o'clock in the morning at

least." And the next moment I was made to feel the egotism of

imagining I had been punished, when she bade me a charming

"good-night." She smiled congratulations on her hostesses on the

success of the party, and pleaded the long drive to Stanby as an excuse

for leaving early. The Colonel wrapped her in a long, beautiful cloak

of some pale coloured velvet and fur--a sumptuous garment at which

young ladies in shawls looked admiringly--and Mrs. Fielden slipped it

on negligently, and got into her brougham.

"Oh, how tired I am!" she said.

"It was pretty deadly," said the Colonel. "Did you taste the

claret-cup?" he added, making a grimace in the dark.

"Oh, I found it excellent," said Mrs. Fielden quickly.

Margaret Jamieson now took her place at the piano, to enable the blind

man to go and have some supper; but, having had it, he slept so

peacefully that no one could bear to disturb him, so between them the

young ladies shared his duties till the close of the evening.

Palestrina had suggested, as a little occupation for me, that I should

write out programmes for the dance, and I had done so. Surely

programmes were never so little needed before! Every grown man had

left the assembly long before twelve o'clock struck, the feebleness of

the excuses for departing thus early being only equalled by the gravity

with which they were made. Even the lawyer, who we thought would have

remained faithful to the end, pleaded that since he ricked his knee he

is obliged to have plenty of rest. The Pirate Boy had had some bitter

words with the lawyer at a previous stage in the evening about the way

in which the lancers should be danced, and had muttered darkly, "I

won't make a disturbance in a lady's house, but I have seen a fellow

called out for less." He considered that the lawyer was running away,

unable to bear his cold, keen eye upon him during the next lancers, and

he watched him depart, standing at the head of the tiny staircase,

beneath the display of bunting, with his arms folded in a Napoleonic

attitude.

All good things come to an end, and even the Vicar of Stowel must have

felt that there are limits to the most conscientious energy. And

girls, dancing with each other, learn perhaps that the merriment caused

by acting as a man is not altogether lasting; while elderly young

ladies, although agreed in smiling to the very end, must be aware how

fixed in expression such a smile may become towards the end of a long

evening.

Good-nights were said, and carriages were called up with a good deal of

unnecessary shouting, while the Pirate Boy insisted upon going to the

heads of the least restive horses and soothing them in a way which he

said he had learned from those Gaucho fellows out there.

I have never been able to tell what the Miss Traceys thought about

their dance. If they were disappointed, the world was not allowed to

probe that tender spot. Possibly they were satisfied with its success;

the proprietary instinct of admiration applies to entertainments as

well as to tangible possessions. But that satisfaction, if it existed,

was modestly veiled--the house-warming was less discussed by them than

by any one else. Miss Ruby spoke rather wistfully one day about simple

pleasures being the best and safest after all, and she alluded with a

sigh to the time which must come some day when she would be no longer

young. Miss Tracey drew herself up and said: "A woman is only as old

as she looks, my dear," and glanced admiringly at her sister.

The diluted Essence of Claret-cup was bottled, and formed a nice light

luncheon wine at the Miss Tracey's for many weeks afterwards. The

furniture was brought down from the spare bedroom by the maids, who

walked the heavier pieces in front of them with a curious tip-toeing

movement of the castors of the several easy-chairs. The art tiles in

the grate were cleared of their faded burden of evergreens, and The

Palm was carried into the bay-window, where it could be seen from the

road.

I drove over to see Mrs. Fielden and to ask her if she thought I had

been a sulky brute at the dance.

"Were you?" said Mrs. Fielden, lifting her pretty dark eyebrows; "I

forget."