"When old Mrs. Spicture comes back"--thus Dave, accepting the offered

formula, somewhat in the spirit of the true ballad writer--"she's

a-going to set in her own chair with cushions, just _here_!" He sat down

with violence on a spot immediately below the proposed centre of gravity

of the chair. "And then oy shall bring her her tea."

"No, you _s'arn't_! Mrs. Spicture shall set in her chair wiv scushions,

and me and dolly shall tite her her tea."

Dave sat on the floor fixing two intelligent blue eyes on dolly junior's

unintelligent violet ones, and holding his toes. "Dorly carn't!" said he

contemptuously. "Her legs gives. Besides, she's no inside, only brand."

This was a new dolly, who had replaced Struvvel Peter, who perished in

the accident. His legs had been wooden, and swung several ways. This

one's calves were wax, and one had come off, like a shoe. But the legs

only bent one way.

Dolly the mother did not reply to Dave's insinuations against his niece,

preferring the refrain of her thesis:--"When Mrs. Spicture comes back

and sets in her chair wiv scushions and an Aunt-Emma-Care-Saw, Mrs. Burr

she'll paw out the tea with only one lump of shoogy, and me and dolly

shall cally it acrost wivout a jop spilt, and me and dolly shall stand

it down on the little mognytoyble, and Mrs. Spicture she'll set in her

chair wiv scushions, and dolly hand her up the stoast."

"Let me kitch her at it!" said Dave, with offensive male assumption. "Oy

shall see to Mrs. Spicture's toast, and see she gets it hot. And Mrs.

Burr she'll give leave to butter it, and say how much, and the soyde

edge trimmed round toydy with a knoyf." All these details, safely based

on items of past experience, were practically historical.

Dolly always accepted Dave's masculine airisomeness with meek

equanimity, but invariably took no notice of it. This is nearly common

form in well-organized households. She went on to refer to other

gratifying revivals that would come about on Mrs. Picture's return. The

sofy should be stood back against the wall, for dolly to be put to sleep

on. And Queen Victoria she should go up on one nail, and Prince Halbert

on the other. These were beautiful coloured prints, smiling fixedly

across a full complement of stars and garters. The red piece of carpet

would go down against the fender, and the blue piece near the window, as

of yore. Dave looked forward with interest to the resurrection of Mrs.

Picture's wroyting toyble with a ployce for her Boyble to lie on, and to

the letters to his Granny Marrowbone in the country which would

certainly be wrote at it, directly or by dictation, in the blessed

revival of the past which was to come. Mrs. Burr's cat, who had

travelled by request in a hamper to her married niece's at Clapham, in

charge of Michael Ragstroar, would return and would then promptly have

kittens in spite of doubtful sex-qualifications suggested by the name of

Tommy; which kittens would belong to Dave and Dolly respectively, choice

being made as soon as ever it was seen what colour they meant to be.

These speculations, which had made pleasant material for

castles-in-the-air in the undisturbed hours when the children were in

sole possession of the apartment, seemed to be within a measurable

distance of realisation when Aunt M'riar, acting on a communication from

Mrs. Burr at Clapham, proceeded to unearth the hidden furniture from the

bedroom where Mr. Bartlett's careful men had interred it, and where it

hadn't been getting any good, you might be sure. At least, so said Mrs.

Ragstroar, who was so obliging as to lend a hand getting the things

back in their places, and giving them a dust over to get the worst of

the mess off. And Uncle Mo he was able to make himself useful, with a

screw here and a tack there, and a glue-pot with quite a professional

smell to it, so that you might easy have took him for a carpenter and

joiner. For Mr. Bartlett's men, while doubtless justifying their

reputation for handling everything with care due to casualties with

compound fractures, had stultified their own efforts by shoving the

heavy goods right atop of the light ones, and lying things down on their

sides that should have been stood upright, and committing other errors

of judgment. It was a singular and unaccountable thing that these men

seemed to share the mantle of their employer and somehow to claim

forgiveness, and get it, on the score of the inner excellence of their

hearts and purity of their motives.

So that within a day or two after her young ladyship's sudden appearance

at the fever-stricken mansion in Cavendish Square, Mrs. Burr put in her

first appearance at Sapps Court since she went away to the Hospital. She

was able to walk upon her foot, while convinced that a more rapid

recovery would have taken place but for the backward state of surgical

knowledge. She was confident they might have given her something at the

Hospital to bring it forward, and make some local application--"put

something on" was the expression. She seemed to have based an

unreasonable faith in bread poultices on their successful employment in

entirely different cases.

"Now what, you, got, to, lay out for, the way I look at it,

ma'am,"--thus Mrs. Ragstroar, departing and bearing away the hand she

had lent, to get supper ready for her own inmates--"is to do no more

than you can 'elp, and eat as much as you can get." The good woman then

vanished, leaving the united company's chorus to her remarks still

unfinished when she reached her own door at the top of the Court. For

Uncle Mo, Mr. Alibone, Aunt M'riar, and Dolly and Dave as _claqueurs_,

were unanimous that Mrs. Burr should lie still for six months or so,

relying on her capital, if any; if none, on manna from Heaven.

However, there was little likelihood of Mrs. Burr being in want of a

crust, which is the theoretical minimum needed to sustain life, so long

as Sapps Court recognised its liabilities when any component portion of

it, considered as a residential district, fell on and crushed one of its

residents' insteps. If Mr. Bartlett's repairs had come down on Mrs. Burr

in the fullest sense of the expression, she would certainly--unless she

outlived the impact of two hundred new stocks and three thousand old

bats and closures, deceptively arranged to seem like a wall--have had

the advantage, whatever it is, of decent burial, even if she had not had

a married niece at Clapham, or any other relative elsewhere. So she was

able to abstain without imprudence from immediate efforts to reinstate

her dressmaking connection; and was able, without overtaxing her instep,

to give substantial assistance to Aunt M'riar, who would have had to

refuse a good deal of work just at that time except for her opportune

assistance.

It was a natural corollary of this that Mrs. Prichard's tenancy should

be utilised as a workshop, as Mrs. Burr was now its only occupant; and

that she herself should take her meals below, with Aunt M'riar and the

family. So the red and the blue carpet were not put down just yet a

while, and Uncle Mo he did what he could with the screw here and the

tack there, while Aunt M'riar and Mrs. Burr exercised mysterious

functions, with tucks and frills and gimpings and pinkings and

gaufferings, which it is beyond the powers of this story to describe

accurately.

One mishap had occurred with the furniture which did not come within the

scope of Uncle Mo's skill to remedy. The treasured mahogany

writing-table that had so faithfully accompanied old Mrs. Picture

through all her misfortunes had lost a leg. A leg, but not a foot. For

the brass foot, which belonged, was found shoved away in the chest of

drawers, which was enough, and more than enough, to contain the whole of

the owner's scanty wardrobe. It was a cabinet-maker's job, and rather a

nice one at that, to provide a new and suitable leg and attach it

securely in the place of the old one. And it would come to

nineteen-and-sixpence to make a job of it. The exactness of this sum

will suggest the facts, that a young man in the trade, an acquaintance

of Uncle Mo at The Sun, he come round to oblige, and undertook to give

in a price as soon as he had the opportunity to mention it to his

governor. The opportunity occurred immediately he went back to the shop.

The sum was for a new leg, involving superhuman ingenuity in connecting

it firmly with the pelvis; but a reg'lar sound job. Of course, there was

another way of doing it, by tonguing on a new limb below the knee, and

inserting a dowell for to stiffen it up. But that would come to every

penny of fifteen shillings, and would be a reg'lar poor job, and would

show. Nothing like doing a thing while you were about it! It saved

expense in the end, and it was a fine old bit of furniture. Bit of old

Gillow's!

But there was a point to be considered. The things must be took out of

the drawers and the attached desk, or the governor he'd never have it at

the shop. He was a person of the most delicate sensibility, who shrank

from making himself responsible for anything whatever. Them drawers must

be emptied out, or nothing could be done. Why--you'd only got to shake

the table to hear there was papers inside!

This was a serious difficulty. It would, of course, be easy enough to

write to Mrs. Prichard for the key; which, said testimony, was very

small and always lived in her purse. But then all the milk would be out

of the cocoanut; that metaphorical fruit being, in this case, the

pleasure of surprising Mrs. Prichard with a writing-table as good as

new. Open it, of course, you could! It was a locksmith's job, but the

governor would send the shop's locksmith, who would do that for you

while you counted half-a-dozen. The counting was optional, and in no

sense necessary, nor even contributory, to the operation.

The real crux of the difficulty was not one of mechanism, but of

responsibility. Who was qualified to decide on opening the desk and

drawers? Who would be answerable for the safety of those papers? The

only person who volunteered was Dolly, and Dolly's idea of taking care

of things was to carry them about with her everywhere, and if they were

in a parcel, to unpack it frequently at short intervals to make sure the

contents were still in evidence. Her offer was declined.

The young man in the trade had numerous and absorbing engagements to

plead as a reason for his inability to 'ang about all day for parties to

make up their minds--the usurper's plea, by-the-by, for a _coup

d'etat_--so perhaps some emissary might be found, to drop round to the

shop to leave word. This young man was anxious to oblige, but altruism

had its limits. Just then a knock at the door below led to Dave

receiving instructions to sift it and make sure it wasn't a mistake,

before a senior should descend to take it up seriously. It was not a

mistake, but a lady, reported by Dave, returning out of breath, to be

"one of Our Ladies,"--making the Church of Rome seem ill-off by

comparison. He was seeking for an intelligent distinction between Sister

Nora and Gwen, in reply to the question "Which?", when the dazzling

appearance of the latter answered it for him.

"I thought I might come up without waiting to ask," said the

vision--which is what she seemed, for a moment, to Sapps Court. "So I

didn't ask. Is that Mrs. Picture's writing-table where Dave gets his

letters written?"

Never was a more unhesitating plunge made _in medias res_. It had a

magical effect in setting Sapps Court at its ease, and everyone saw a

way to contribute to an answer, the substance of which was that the

table was Mrs. Prichard's, _but_ had lost its leg. The exact force of

the _but_ was not so clear as it might have been; this, however, was

unimportant. Gwen was immediately interested in the repair of the table.

Why shouldn't it be done while Mrs. Picture was away, before she came

back?

A momentary frenzy of irrelevance seized Sapps Court, and a feverish

desire to fix the exact date when the table-leg was disintegrated. "It

wasn't broke, when it came from Skillicks," said Mrs. Burr. "That's all

I know! And if you was to promise me a guinea I could say no more." Said

Aunt M'riar:--"It's been stood up against the wall ever since I

remembered it, and Mr. Bartlett's men assured me every care was took in

moving." A murmur of testimony to Mr. Bartlett's unvarying sobriety and

that of his men threatened to undermine the coherency of the

conversation, but the position was saved by Uncle Mo, who seemed less

infatuated than others about them. "Bartlett's ain't neither here or

there," said he. "What I look at's like this,--the leg's off, and we've

got to clap on a new un. Here's a young man'll see to that, and it'll

come to nineteen-and-sixpence. Only who's going to take care of the

letters and odd belongings of the old lady the whilst? That's a point to

consider. I'd rather not, myself, if you ask me. Not without she sends

the key, and that won't work, as I see it."

"I see," said Gwen. "You want to make Mrs. Picture a new table-leg, and

you can't do it without opening her desk. And you can't get the key from

her without saying why you want it. Isn't that it?" Universal assent.

"Very well, then! You get the lock opened, and I'll take everything out

with my own hands, and keep it safe for Mrs. Picture when she comes

back."

This proposal was welcomed with only one reservation. None but a real

live locksmith could open a lock, any more than one who is not born a

turncock can release the waters that are under the earth through an

unexplained hole in the road. It was, however, all within the province

of the young man in the trade, who had not vanished when the vision

appeared, in spite of those pressing appointments. He would go back to

the shop, and send, or bring, a properly qualified operative.

Pending which, an adjournment to the little parlour below, out of all

this mess, seemed desirable. Dave and Dolly were, of course, part of

this, but Mrs. Burr remained upstairs after answering inquiries about

her own health, and Mr. Alibone went away with the young man in search

of the locksmith.

Gwen had to account for her sudden appearance. "I'm sorry to have bad

news to tell you about my cousin, Miss Grahame," said she, so seriously

that both her grown-up hearers spoke under their breaths to begin

asking:--"She's not...?"--the rest being easily understood. Gwen

replied:--"Oh no, she's not _dead_. But she's in the doctor's hands."

Uncle Mo looked as though he thought this was nearly as bad, and Aunt

M'riar was so expressive in sympathy without words that both the

children became appalled, and Dolly looked inclined to cry. Gwen

continued:--"She has caught a horrible fever in a dreadful place where

she went to see poor people, and nobody can say yet a while what will

happen. It _is_ Typhus Fever, I'm afraid."

As Gwen uttered the deadly syllables, Uncle Mo turned away to the

window, leaving some exclamation truncated. Aunt M'riar's voice became

tremulous on the beginning of an unfinished sentence, and Dolly

concealed a disposition to weep, because she was afraid of what Dave

would say after. That young man remained stoical, but did not speak.

Presently Uncle Mo turned from the window, and said, somewhat

huskily:--"I wish some of these here _poor people_, as they call

themselves, would either go away to Aymericay, or keep their premises a

bit cleaner; nobody wants 'em here that ever I've heard tell of, only

Phlarnthropists."

Aunt M'riar's unfinished sentence had begun with "Gracious mercy!..."

Its sequel:--"Well now--to think of a lady like that! My word! And

Typhus Fever, too!"--was dependent on it, and contained an element of

resignation to Destiny.

Dave struck in with irrelevant matter; as he frequently did, to throw

side-lights on obscurities. "The boy at the School had fever, and came

out sported all over with sports he was. You couldn't have told him from

any other boy." That the other boy would be similarly spotted was, of

course, understood.

Having broken the news, Gwen went on to minimise its seriousness; a

time-honoured method, perhaps the best one. "Dr. Dalrymple is cheerful

enough about her at present, so we mustn't be frightened. He says only

very old persons never recover, and that a young woman like my cousin is

quite as likely to live as to die...."

Uncle Mo caught her up with sudden shrewdness. "Then she's quite as

likely to die as to live?" said he.

"Oh, Mo--Mo--don't ye say the word! Please God, Sister Nora may live

for many a long day yet!" Thus Aunt M'riar, true to the traditional

attitude of Life towards Death--denial of the Arch-fear to the very

threshold of the tomb.

"So she may, M'riar, and many another on to that. But there's a good

plenty o' things would please us that don't please God, and He's got it

all His own way."

Uncle Mo, after moving about the room in an unsettled fashion, as though

weighed upon by the news he had just heard, had come to an anchor at the

table opposite Gwen--obsessed by Dolly, but acquiescent. As he sat

there, she saw in his grizzled head against the light; in the strong

hand resting on the table, moving now and then as though keeping time to

some slow tune; in the other, motionless upon his knee, an image that

made her ask herself the question:--"What would Samuel Johnson have been

as a prizefighter?" She was not properly shocked, but perhaps that was

because she was quick-witted enough to perceive that Uncle Mo had only

said, in the blunt tongue of the secular world, what would have sounded

an impressive utterance, in another form, from the lips of the sage of

whom he had reminded her. She felt she _ought_ to say that the Lord

would assuredly--a solemn word that!--do what He liked with His own,

supplying capitals. She gave it up as out of her line, and went on to

business.

"Any of us may die, at any minute, Mr. Wardle," said she. "But my cousin

is twenty times as likely to die as you or I, because she's got Typhus

Fever, and half the cases are fatal, more or less.... They told me how

many; I've forgotten.... What's that?--is it the locksmith man?" For a

knock had come at the street-door, and the sound was as the sound of an

operative who had to be back in half an hour or his Governor would cut

up rough. He was therefore directed to go upstairs and cast his eye on

the job, and the lady would come up in five minutes to see the things

took out of the drawer.

"Stop a minute, Aunt M'riar," said the lady. "He mustn't make a mistake

and open it, till I come. Please tell him, to make sure!" And Aunt

M'riar would have started on her errand if she had not been stopped by

what followed. "Or--look here! Let Dave go. You go up, Dave, and say he

mustn't touch the lock till I come. Run along, and stop there to see

that he does as you tell him." Whereupon, off went Dave, shouting his

instructions as soon as he got to the second landing. He felt like a

Police-Inspector, or a Warden of the Marches.

As soon as Dave had left tranquillity behind, Gwen set herself to

anticipate an anxiety she saw Aunt M'riar wanted to express, but was

hanging fire over. "You needn't be afraid about this chick, Aunt

M'riar," she said. "It isn't really infectious, only contagious. You can

only get it from the patient. Dr. Dalrymple says so. Like the thing you

can only buy of the maker. Besides, I've hardly been in the room; they

make such a fuss, and won't allow me. And I'm not living in the house at

all, but at my father's in Park Lane. And I've been there to-day since

Cavendish Square, so anyhow, if I give it to Dolly, my father and mother

will have it too.... Oh no--she's not rumpling me at all! I like it." It

was satisfactory to know that an Earl and Countess were pledged to have

Typhus if Dolly caught it. Dolly evidently thought the combination of

circumstances as good as a play, and a sprightly one.

Gwen was not sorry when the young ambassador came rushing back,

shouting:--"The Man says--the Man says--the Man says it wouldn't take

above half a minute to do, and is the loydy a-coming up?

Because--because--because if the loydy _oyn't_ a-coming up

_he_--_has_--_to_--get back to the shop." This last was so draconically

delivered that Gwen exclaimed:--"Come along, Dolly, we've got our

orders!" And she actually carried that great child up all those stairs,

and she going to be four next birthday!

Upstairs, the lock-expert was apologetic. "Ye see, miss," he explained,

"our governor he's the sort of man it don't do to disappynt him, not

however small the job may be. I don't reckon he can wait above a half an

hour for anything, 'cos it gets on his narves. So we studies not puttin'

of him out, at our shop." At which Gwen interrupted him, sacrificing her

own interest in the well-marked character of this governor, to the

business in hand; and the prospect, for him, of an early release from

his anxiety.

As for the achievement which had been postponed, it really seemed a'most

ridiculous when you come to think of it. Such a fuss, and those two men

standing about the best part of an hour! At least, so Mrs. Burr said

afterwards.

For the operation, all told, was merely this--that the young man

inserted a bent wire into the lock, thereby becoming aware of its

vitals. Withdrawing it, he slightly modified the prejudices of its tip;

after which its reinsertion caused the lock to spring open as by magic.

He wished to know, on receipt of a consideration from Gwen, whether she

hadn't anything smaller, because it only came to eighteenpence for his

time and his mate's, and he had no change in his pocket. Gwen explained

that none was needed owing to the proximity of Christmas, and obtained

thereby the good opinion of both. They expressed their feelings and

departed.

And then--there was old Mrs. Picture's writing-table drawer, stood open!

But only a little way, to show. For the lady's hands alone were to open

it clear out, to remove the contents. Gwen felt that perhaps she had

undertaken this responsibility rashly. It is rather a ticklish matter to

tamper unbidden with locks.

So confident was she that old Mrs. Picture would forgive her anything,

that she made no scruple of examining and reading whatever was visible.

There was little beyond pens and writing-paper in the drawer, but in a

desk which formed part of the table were some warrants held by the old

lady as a life-annuitant, and two or three packets of letters, one

carefully tied and apparently of considerable age. There was also a

packet marked "Hair," and a small cardboard box. Little enough to take

charge of, and soon made into a neat parcel by Mrs. Burr for Gwen to

carry away in her reticule, a receptacle which in those days was almost

invariably a portion of every lady's paraphernalia, high and low, rich

and poor.

The desk opened with the drawer--or rather unrolled itself--a flexible

wood-flap running back when it was opened, and releasing a lid that made

one-half of the writing-pad when turned back. The letters were under the

other half, the old packet being in a small drawer with the parcel

marked "Hair." These were evidently precious. Never mind! Gwen would

keep them safe.

Dave and Dolly were so delighted with the performance of opening and

shutting the drawer, and seeing the cylindrical sheath slip backwards

and forwards in its grooves, that they could scarcely drag themselves

away to accompany their Lady to the carriage that, it appeared, was

waiting for her in the beyond, outside Sapps Court.

CHAPTER XI

AN INTERVIEW AT THE TOP OF A HOUSE IN PARK LANE. THE COLOSSEUM.

PACTOLUS. KENSINGTON, AS NINEVEH. DERRY'S. TOMS'S. HELEN OF TROY.

THE PELLEWS. RECONSIDERATION, AND JILTING. GWEN'S LOVE OF METHOD,

AND HOW SHE WOULD GO TO VIENNA. A STARTLING LETTER. HOW HER FATHER

READ IT ALOUD. MRS. THRALE'S REPORT OF A BRAIN CASE. HER DOG. HOW

REASON REELED BEFORE THE OLD LADY'S ACCURACIES. GWEN'S GREAT-AUNT

EILEEN AND THE LORD CHANCELLOR. HOW THE EARL STRUCK THE SCENT. HIS

BIG EBONY CABINET. MR. NORBURY'S STORY. HOW AN EARL CAN DO A MEAN

ACTION, WITH A GOOD MOTIVE. THE FORGED LETTER SEES THE LIGHT. HOW

THE COUNTESS WOKE UP, AND THE EARL GOT TO BED AT LAST

When the Earl and Countess came to Park Lane, especially if their visit

was a short one, and unless it was supposed to be known to themselves

and their Maker only, they were on their _P_'s and _Q_'s. Why the new

identity that came over them on those occasions was so described by her

ladyship remained a secret; and, so far as we know, remains a secret

still. But that was the expression she made use of more than once in

conversation with her daughter.

If her statements about herself were worthy of credence, her tastes were

Arcadian, and the satisfactions incidental to her position as a

Countess--wealth and position, with all the world at her feet, and a

most docile husband, ready to make any reasonable, and many

unreasonable, sacrifices to idols of her selection--were the merest

drops on the surface of Life's crucible. What her soul really longed for

was a modest competence of two or three thousand a year, with a not too

ostentatious house in town, say in Portland Place; or even in one of

those terraces near the Colosseum in Regent's Park, with a sweet little

place in Devonshire to go to and get away from the noise, concocted from

specifications from the poets, with a special clause about clotted cream

and new-laid eggs. Something of that sort! Then she would be able to

turn her mind to some elevating employment which it would be premature

to dwell on in detail to furnish a mere castle-in-the-air, but of which

particulars would be forthcoming in due course. Or rather, would have

been forthcoming. For now the die was cast, and a soul that could have

been pastorally satisfied with a lot of the humble type indicated, had

been caught in a whirl, or entangled in a mesh, or involved in a

complication--whichever you like--of Extravagance, or Worldliness, or

Society, or Mammon-worship, or Plutocracy, or Pactolus--or all the

lot--and there was an end of the matter!

"All I can say is that I wonder you do it. I do indeed, mamma!" Thus

Gwen, a week later in the story, in her bedroom at the very top of the

house, which had once been a smoking-room and which it was her young

ladyship's caprice to inhabit, because it looked straight over the Park

towards the Palace, which still in those days was close to Kensington,

its godmother. The Palace is there still, but Kensington is gone. Look

about for it in the neighbourhood, if you have the heart to do so, and

see if this is a lie. You will find residential flats, and you will find

Barker's, and you will find Derry's, and you will find Toms's. But you

will _not_ find Kensington.

"You may wonder, Gwen! But if ever you are a married woman with an

unmarried grown-up daughter in England and a married one at Vienna, and

a position to keep up--I suppose that is the right expression--you will

find how impossible everything is, and you will find something else to

wonder about. Why--only look at that dress you are trying on!" The

grown-up daughter was Gwen's elder sister, Lady Philippa, the wife of

Sir Theseus Brandon, the English Ambassador at the Court of Austria.

Otherwise, her ladyship was rather enigmatical.

Gwen seemed to attach a meaning to her words. "I don't think we shall

ever have a daughter married to an Ambassador at Vienna. It would be too

odd a coincidence for anything." This was said in the most unconcerned

way, as a natural chat-sequel. What a mirror was saying about the dress,

a wonderful Oriental fabric that gleamed like green diamonds, was

absorbing the speaker's attention. The _modiste_ who was fitting it had

left the room to seek for pins, of which she had run dry. A low-class

dressmaker would have been able to produce them from her mouth.

The Countess assumed a freezing import. It appeared to await explanation

of something that had shocked and surprised her. "_We!_" said her

ladyship, picking out the gravamen of this something. "Who are 'We' in

this case?... Perhaps I did not understand what you said?..." And went

on awaiting explanation, which any correct-minded British Matron will

see was imperatively called for. Young ladies are expected not to refer

too freely to Human Nature at any time, and to talk of "having a

daughter" was sailing near the wind.

"Who are the 'We'? Why--me and Adrian, of course! At least, Adrian and

I!--because of grammar. Whom did you suppose?"

The Countess underwent a sort of well-bred collapse. Her daughter did

not observe it, as she was glancing at what she mentioned to herself as

"The usual tight armhole, I suppose!" beneath an outstretched arm Helen

might have stabbed her for in Troy. Neither did she notice the

shoulder-shrug that came with the rally from this collapse, conveying an

intimation to Space that one could be surprised at nothing nowadays. But

the thing she ought not to have been surprised at was past discussion.

Decent interment was the only course. "Who? I? _I_ supposed nothing. No

doubt it's all right!"

Gwen turned a puzzled face to her mother; then, after a moment came

illumination. "Oh--I see-ee!" said she. "It's the children--_our_

children! Dear me--one has such innocent parents, it's really quite

embarrassing! Of course I shouldn't talk about them to papa, because

he's supposed to know nothing about such things. But really--one's own

mother!"

"Well--at least don't talk so before the person.... She's coming

back--_sh!_"

"My dear mamma, she's got six children of her own, so how could it

matter? Besides, she's French." That is to say, an Anglo-Grundy would

have no jurisdiction.

The dazzling ball-dress, which the Countess had professedly climbed all

those stairs to see tried on, having been disposed of satisfactorily,

and carried away for finishing touches, her ladyship showed a

disposition to remain and talk to her daughter. These two were on very

good terms, in spite of the occasional strain which was put upon their

relations by the audacity of the daughter's flights in the face of her

old-fashioned mother's code of proprieties.

As soon as normal conditions had been re-established, and Miss Lutwyche,

an essential to the trying on, had died respectfully away, her ladyship

settled down to a chat.

"I've really hardly seen you, child, since you came tearing up from

Rocester in that frantic way in the middle of the night. It's always the

same in town, an absolute rush. And the way one has to mind one's _P_'s

and _Q_'s is trying to the last degree. If it was only Society, one

could see one's way. One can deal with Society, because there are rules.

But People are quite another thing.... Well, my dear, you may say they

are not, but look at Clotilda--there's a case in point! I assure you,

hardly a minute of the day passes but I feel I ought to do something.

But what? One may say it's her own fault, and so it no doubt is, in a

sense. No one is under any sort of obligation to go into these horrible

places, which the Authorities ought not to allow to exist. There ought

to be proper people to do this kind of thing, inoculated or something,

to be safe from infection.... But she _is_ going on all right?"

"They wouldn't let me see her this morning. But Dr. Dalrymple said there

was no complication, so far...."

"Oh, well, so long as there's no complication, that's all we can

expect." The Countess jumped at an excuse to breathe freely. But there

were other formidable contingencies. How about Constance and Cousin

Percy? "Yes--they've got to be got married, somehow," said her ladyship.

"It's impossible to shut one's eyes to it. I've been talking to

Constance about it, and what she says is certainly true. When one's

father has chronic gout, and one's stepmother severe nervous depression,

one knows without further particulars how difficult it would be to be

married from home. She says she simply won't be married from her

Porchhammer sister's, because she gushes, and it isn't fair to Percy.

Her other sister--the one with a name like Rattrap--doesn't gush, but

her husband's going to stand for Stockport."

"I suppose," said Gwen, "those are both good reasons. Anyhow, you'll

have to accommodate the happy couple. I see that. I suppose papa will

have to give her away. If she allows Madame Pontet to groom her, she'll

look eighteen. I wonder whether they couldn't manage to...."

"Couldn't manage to...?"

"Oh no, I see it would be out of the question, because of the time. I

was going to say--wait for _us_. And then we could all have been married

together." Gwen had remembered the Self-denying Ordinance, which was to

last six months, and was not even inaugurated. She looked up at her

mother. "Come, dear mother of mine, there's nothing to be shocked at in

that!"

The Countess had risen from her seat, as though to depart. She stood

looking across the wintry expanse of Hyde Park, seen through a

bow-window across a balcony, with shrubs in boxes getting the full

benefit of a seasonable nor'easter; and when at length she spoke, gave

no direct reply. "I came up here to talk to you about it," she said.

"But I see it would not be of any use. I may as well go. Did Dr.

Dalrymple say when Clotilda would be out of danger? Supposing that all

goes well, I mean."

"How can he tell? I'm glad I'm not a doctor with a critical case, and

everyone trying to make me prophesy favourable results. It's worse for

him than it is for us, anyhow, poor man!"

"Why? He's not a relation, is he?"

"No. Oh no! Perhaps if he were one.... Well--perhaps if he were, he

wouldn't look so miserable.... No--they are only very old friends." The

Countess had not asked; this was all brain-wave, helped by shades of

expression. "I'm not supposed to _know_ anything, you know," added Gwen,

to adjust matters.

"Well--I suppose we must hope for the best," said her mother, with an

implied recognition of Providence in the background; a mere civility!

"Now I'm going."

"Very well then--go!" was what Gwen did _not_ say in reply. She only

thought that, if she _had_ said it, it would have served mamma right.

What she did say was:--"I know what you meant to say when you came

upstairs, and you had better say it. Only I shall do nothing of the

sort."

"I wish, my dear, you would be less positive. How can you know what I

meant to say? Of _what_ sort?"

"Reconsidering Adrian. Jilting him, in fact!"

"How can you know that?"

"Because you said it would not be any use talking to me about it. Just

before you stopped looking out of the window, and said you might as well

go."

Driven to bay, the Countess had a sudden _acces_ of argumentative power.

"Is there nothing it would be no use to talk to you about except this

mad love-affair of yours?"

"Nothing so big. This is the big one. Besides, you know you did mean

Adrian." As her ladyship did, she held her tongue.

Presently, having in the meantime resumed her seat, thereby admitting

that her daughter was substantially right, she went on to what might be

considered official publication.

"Your father and I, my dear, have had a good deal of talk about this

unfortunate affair...."

"What unfortunate affair?"

"This unfortunate ... love-affair."

"Cousin Percy and Aunt Constance?"

"My dear! How can you be so ridiculous? Of course I am referring to you

and Mr. Torrens."

"To me and Adrian. Precisely what I said, mamma dear! So now we can go

on." The young lady managed somehow to express, by seating herself

negligently on a chair with its back to her mother, that she meant to

pay no attention whatever to any maternal precept. She could look at her

over it, to comply with her duties as a respectful listener. But not to

overdo them, she could play the treble of Haydn's Gipsy Rondo on the

chair back with fingers that would have put a finishing touch on the

exasperation of Helen of Troy.

Her ladyship continued:--"We are speaking of the same thing. Your father

and I have had several conversations about it. As I was saying when you

interrupted me--pray do not do so again!--he agrees with me _entirely_.

In fact, he told me of his own accord that he wished you to come away

with me for six months.... Yes--six! Three's ridiculous.... And that it

should be quite distinctly understood that no binding engagement exists

between Mr. Torrens and yourself."

"All right. I've no objection to anything being distinctly understood,

so long as it is also distinctly understood that it doesn't make a

particle of difference to either of us.... Yes--come in! Put them on the

writing-table." This was to Miss Lutwyche, who came in, bearing letters.

"To either of you! You answer for Mr. Torrens, my dear, with a good deal

of confidence. Now, do consider that the circumstances are peculiar.

Suppose he were to recover his eyesight!"

"You mean he wouldn't be able to bear the shock of finding out what he'd

got to marry...." She was interrupted by her mother exhibiting

consciousness of the presence of Lutwyche, whose exit was overdue. A

very trustworthy young woman, no doubt; but a line had to be drawn.

"What are you fiddling with my letters for, Lutwyche?" said Gwen. "Do

please get done and go!"

"Yes, my lady." Discreet retirement of Miss Lutwyche.

"She didn't hear, mamma. You needn't fuss."

"I was not fussing, my dear, but it's as well to.... Yes, go on with

what you were saying." Because Lutwyche, being extinct, might be

forgotten.

Gwen was looking round at the mirror. If Helen of Troy had seen herself

in a mirror, all else being alike, what would her verdict have been?

Gwen seemed fairly satisfied. "You meant Adrian might be disgusted?"

said she.

The mother could not resist the pleasure of a satisfied glance at her

daughter's reflection, which was not looking at _her_. "I meant nothing

of the sort," she said. "But your father agreed with me--indeed, I am

repeating his own words--that Mr. Torrens may have a false impression,

having only really seen you once, under very peculiar circumstances. It

is only human nature, and one has to make allowance for human nature.

Now all that I am saying, and all that your father is saying, is that

the circumstances _are_ peculiar. Without some sort of reasonable

guarantee that Mr. Torrens cannot recover his eyesight, I do contend

that it would be in the highest degree rash to take an irrevocable step,

and to condemn one--perhaps both, for I assure you I am thinking of Mr.

Torrens's welfare as well as your own--to a lifetime of repentance."

"Mamma dear, don't be a humbug! You are only putting in Adrian's welfare

for the sake of appearances. Much better let it alone!"

"My dear, it is not the point. If you choose to think me inhumane, you

must do so. Only I must say this, that apart from the fact that I have

nothing whatever against Mr. Torrens personally--except his religious

views, which are lamentable--that his parents...."

"I thought you said you never knew his mother."

"No--perhaps not his mother." Her ladyship intensified the parenthetical

character of this lady by putting her into smaller type and omitting

punctuation:--"I can't say I ever really knew his mother and indeed

hardly anything about her except that she was a Miss Abercrombie and

goes plaguing on about negroes. But"--here she became normal again--"as

for his father...."

"As for his father?"

"He was a constant visitor at my mother's, and I remember him very well.

So there is no feeling on my part against him or his family." Her

ladyship felt she had come very cleverly out of a bramble-bush she had

got entangled in unawares, but she wanted to leave it behind on the

road, and pushed on, speaking more earnestly:--"Indeed, my dearest

child, it is of you and your happiness that I am thinking--although I

know you won't believe me, and it's no use my saying anything...." At

this point feelings were threatened; and Gwen, between whom and her

mother there was plenty of affection, of a sort, hastened to allay--or

perhaps avert--them. She shifted her seat to the sofa beside her mother,

which made daughterliness more possible. A short episode of mutual

extenuations followed; for had not a flavour of battle--not tigerish,

but contentious--pervaded the interview?

"Very well, then, dear mother of mine," said Gwen, when this episode

had come to an end. "Suppose we consider it settled that way! I'm to be

tractability itself, on the distinct understanding that it commits me to

nothing whatever. As for the six months' penal servitude, you and papa

shall have it your own way. Only play fair--make a fair start, I mean! I

like method. You have only to say when--any time after Christmas--and

Adrian and I will tear ourselves asunder for six months. And then I'll

accompany my mamma to Vienna, because I know that's what she wants. Only

mind--honour bright!--as soon as I have dutifully forgotten Adrian for

six whole months, there's to be an end of the nonsense, and I'm to marry

Adrian ... and _vice versa_, of course! Oh no--he shan't be a cipher--I

won't allow it...."

"My dear Gwendolen, I wish I could persuade you to be more serious." But

her ladyship, as she rose to depart, was congratulating herself on

having scored. The idea of any young lady's love-fancies surviving six

months of Viennese life! She knew that fascinating capital well, and she

knew also what a powerful ally she would find in her elder daughter, the

Ambassadress, who was glittering there all this while as a distinct

constellation.

She might just as well have retired satisfied with this brilliant

prospect; only that she had, like so many of us, the postscript vice.

This is the one that never will allow a conversation to be at an end.

She turned to Gwen, who was already opening a letter to read, to

say:--"You used the expressions 'reconsidering' and 'jilting' just now,

my dear, as if they were synonymous. I think you were forgetting that it

is impossible to 'jilt'--if I understand that term rightly--any man

until after you have become formally engaged to him, and therefore....

However, if your letter is so very important, I can go. We can talk

another time." This rather stiffly, Gwen having opened the letter, and

been caught and held, apparently, by something in a legible handwriting.

Whatever it was, Gwen put it down with reluctance, that she might show

her sense of the importance of her mother's departure, whom she kissed

and olive-branched, beyond what she accounted her lawful claims, in

order to wind her up. She went with her as far as the landing, where

cramped stairs ended and gradients became indulgent, and then got back

as fast as she could to the reading of that letter.

It _was_ an important letter, there could be no doubt of that, as a

thick one from Irene--practically from Adrian--lay unopened on the table

while she read through something on many pages that made her face go

paler at each new paragraph. On its late envelope, lying opened by

Irene's, was the postmark "Chorlton-under-Bradbury." But it was in a

handwriting Gwen was unfamiliar with. It was _not_ old Mrs. Picture's,

which she knew quite well. For which reasons the thought had crossed her

mind, when she first saw the envelope, that the old lady was seriously

ill--perhaps suddenly dead. It was so very possible. Think of those

delicate transparent hands, that frame whose old tenant had outstayed so

many a notice to quit. Gwen's cousin, Percy Pellew, had said to her when

he carried it upstairs in Cavendish Square, that it weighed absolutely

nothing.

But this letter said nothing of death, nor of illness with danger of

death. And yet Gwen was so disturbed by it that there was scarcely a

brilliant visitor to her mother's that afternoon but said to some other

brilliant visitor:--"What can be the matter with Gwen? She's not

herself!" And then each corrected the other's false impression that it

was the dangerous condition of her most intimate cousin and friend, Miss

Clotilda Grahame; or screws loose and jammed bearings in the machinery

of her love-affair, already the property of Rumour. And as each

brilliant visitor was fain to seem better informed than his or her

neighbour, a very large allowance of inaccuracy and misapprehension was

added to the usual stock-in-trade of tittle-tattle on both these points.

There was only a short interregnum between the last departures of this

brilliant throng, and the arrival of a quiet half-dozen to dinner; not a

party, only a soothing half-dozen after all that noise and turmoil. So

that Gwen got no chance of a talk with her father, which was what she

felt very much in need of. That interregnum was only just enough to

allow of a few minutes' rest before dressing for dinner. But the quiet

half-dozen came, dined, and went away early; perhaps the earlier that

their hostess's confessions of fatigue amounted to an appeal _ad

misericordiam_; and Gwen was reserved and silent. When the last of the

half-dozen had departed, Gwen got her opportunity. "Don't keep your

father up too long, child," said the Countess, over the stair-rail. "It

makes him sleep in the day, and it's bad for him." And vanished, with a

well-bred yawn-noise, a trochee, the short syllable being the apology

for the long one.

The Earl had allowed the quiet three, who remained with him at the

dinner-table after their three quiet better-halves had retired with his

wife and daughter, to do all the smoking, and had saved up for his own

cigar by himself. It was his way. So Gwen knew she need not hurry

through preliminaries. Of course he wanted to know about the Typhus

patient, and she gave a good report, without stint. "_That's_ all

right," said he, in the tone of rejoicing which implies a double

satisfaction, one for the patient's sake, one for one's own, as it is no

longer a duty to be anxious.

"Why are you glaring at me so, papa darling?" said his daughter. It was

a most placid glare. She should have said "looking."

"Your mamma tells me," said he, without modifying the glare, "that she

has persuaded you to go with her to Vienna for six months."

"She said you wished me to go."

"She wishes you to go herself, and I wish what she wishes." This was not

mere submissiveness. It was just as much loyalty and chivalry. "Is it a

very terrible trial, the Self-denying Ordinance?"

Gwen answered rather stonily. "It isn't pleasant, but if you and my

mother think it necessary--why, what must be, must! I'm ready to go any

time. Only I must go and wind up with Adrian first ... just to console

him a little! It's worse for him than for me! Just fancy him left alone

for six months and never seeing me!... Oh dear!--you know what I mean."

For she had made the slip that was so usual. She brushed it aside as a

thing that could not be helped, and would even be sure to happen again,

and continued:--"Irene has just written to me. I got her letter to-day."

"Well?"

"She makes what I think a very good suggestion--for me to go to Pensham

to stay a week after Christmas, and then go in for.... What do you call

it?... the Self-denying Ordinance in earnest afterwards. You don't

mind?"

"Not in the least, as long as your mother agrees. Is that Miss

Torrens's--Irene's--letter?"

"No. It's another one I want to speak to you about. Wait with

patience!... I was going to say what exasperating parents I have

inherited ... from somewhere!"

"From your grandparents, I suppose! But why?"

"Because when I say, may I do this or may I say that, you always say,

'Yes if your mother,' etcetera, and then mamma quotes you to squash me.

I don't think it's playing the game."

"I think I gather from your statement, which is a little obscure, that

your mamma and I are like the two proctors in Dickens's novel.

Well!--it's a time-honoured arrangement as between parents, though I

admit it may be exasperating to their young. What's the other letter?"

"I want to tell you about it first," said Gwen. She then told, without

obscurity this time, the events which had followed the Earl's departure

from the Towers a week since. "And then comes this letter," she

concluded. "Isn't it terrible?"

"Let's see the letter," said the Earl. She handed it to him; and then,

going behind his high chair, looked over him as he read. No one ever

waits really patiently for another to read what he or she has already

read. So Gwen did not. She changed the elbow she leaned on, restlessly;

bit her lips, turn and turn about; pulled her bracelets round and round,

and watched keenly for any chance of interposing an abbreviated _precis_

of the text, to expedite the reading. Her father preferred to understand

the letter, rather than to get through it in a hurry and try back; so he

went deliberately on with it, reading it half aloud, with comments:

"AT STRIDES COTTAGE,

"CHORLTON-UNDER-BRADBURY,

"_November 22, 1854_.

"MY LADY,

"I have followed your instructions, and brought the old Mrs.

Prichard here to stay until you may please to make another

arrangement. My mother will gladly remain at my daughter's at her

husband's farm, near Dessington, till such time as may be suitable

for Mrs. Prichard to return. This I do not wish to say because I

want to lose this old lady, for if your ladyship will pardon the

liberty I take in saying so, she is a dear old person, and I do in

truth love her, and am glad to have charge of her."

"She seems always to make conquests," said the Earl. "I acknowledge to

having been _epris_ myself."

"Yes, she really is an old darling. But go on and don't talk. It's what

comes next." She pointed out the place over his shoulder, and he took

the opportunity to rub his cheek against her arm, which she requited by

kissing the top of his head. He read on:

"Nor yet would my mother's return make any difference, for we could

accommodate, and I would take no other children just yet a while.

Toby goes home to-morrow. But I will tell you there is something,

and it is this, only your ladyship may be aware of it, that the old

lady has delusions and a strange turn to them, in which Dr. Nash

agrees with me it is more than old age, and recommends my mother,

being old too, not to come back till she goes, for it would not be

good for her, for anything of this sort is most trying to the

nerves, and my mother is eighty-one this Christmas, just old Mrs.

Prichard's own age."

"I think that's the end of the sentence," said the Earl. "I take it that

Nash, who's a very sharp fellow in his own line, is quite alive to the

influence of insanity on some temperaments, and knows old Mrs. Marrable

well enough to say she ought not to be in the way of a lunatic....

What's that?"

"A lunatic!" For Gwen had started and shuddered at the word.

"I see no use in mincing matters. That's what the good woman is driving

at. What comes next?" He read on:

"I will tell all what happened, my lady, from when she first

entered the house, asking pardon for my length. It began when I was

showing the toy water-mill on our mantel-shelf, which your ladyship

saw with Miss Grahame. I noticed she was very agitated, but did not

put it down to the sight of this toy till she said how ever could

it have been _my_ grandfather's mill, and then I only took it for

so many words, and got her away to bed, and would have thought it

only an upset, but for next morning, when I found her out of bed

before six, no one else being up but me, measuring over the toy

with her hands where it stood on the shelf, and I should not have

seen her only for our dog calling attention, though a dumb animal,

being as I was in the yard outside."

"I think I follow that," said the Earl. "The dog pulled her skirts, and

had a lot to say and couldn't say it."

"That was it," said Gwen. "Just like Adrian's Achilles. I don't mean

he's like Achilles personally. The most awful bulldog, to look at, with

turn-up tusks and a nose like a cup. But go on and you'll see. 'Yard

outside.'"

"I would have thought her sleep-walking, but she saw me and spoke

clear, saying she could not sleep for thinking of a model of her

father's mill in Essex as like this as two peas, and thought it

must be the same model, only now she had laid her hands on it again

she could see how small it was. She seemed so reasonable that I was

in a fright directly, particularly it frightened me she should say

Essex, because my grandfather's mill was in Essex, showing it was

all an idea of her own...."

"I can't exactly follow that," said the Earl, and re-read the words

deliberately.

"Oh, can't you see?" said Gwen. "_I_ see. If she had said the other mill

was in Lancashire, it would have seemed _possible_. But--both in

Essex!"

"I suppose that's it. Two models of mills exactly alike, and both in

Essex, is too great a tax on human credulity. On we go again! Where are

we? Oh--'idea of her own.'"

"But I got her back to bed, and got her some breakfast an hour

later, begging she would not talk, and she was very good and said

no more. After this I moved the model out of the way, that nothing

might remind her, and she was quiet and happy. So I did not send

for Dr. Nash then. But when it came to afternoon, I saw it coming

back. She got restless to see the model I had put by out of sight,

saying she could not make out this and that, particular the two

little girls. And then it was she gave me a great fright, for when

I told her the two little girls was my mother and my aunt, being

children under ten, over seventy years ago, and twins, she had

quite a bad attack, such as I have never seen, shaking all over,

and crying out, 'What is it?--What is it?' So then I sent Elizabeth

next door for Dr. Nash, who came and was most kind, and Mrs. Nash

after. He gave her a sedative, and said not to let her talk. He

said, too, not to write to you just yet, for she might get quite

right in a little while, and then he would tell you himself."

"Poor darling old Mrs. Picture!" said Gwen. "Fancy her going off like

this! But I think I can see what has done it. You know, she has told me

how she was one of twins, and how her father had a flour-mill in Essex."

"Did she say the name?"

"No--she's very odd about that. She never tells any names, except that

her sister was Phoebe. She told me _that_.... Oh yes--she told me her

little girl's name was Ruth." Gwen did not know the christened name of

either Granny Marrable or Widow Thrale, when she said this.

"Phoebe and Ruth," said the Earl. "Pretty names! But _what_ has done it?

What can you see?... You said just now?..."

"Oh, I understand. Of course, it's the twins and the flour-mill in

Essex. Such a coincidence! Enough to upset anybody's reason, let alone

an old woman of eighty! Poor dear old Mrs. Picture!--she's as sane as

you or I."

"Suppose we finish the letter. Where were we? 'Tell you himself'--is

that it? All right!"

"Then she was quiet again, quite a long time. But when we was

sitting together in the firelight after supper, she had it come on

again, and I fear by my own fault, for Dr. Nash says I was in the

wrong to say a word to her of any bygones. And yet it was but to

clear her mind of the mixing together of Darenth Mill and this

mill she remembers. For I had but just said the name of ours, and

that my grandfather's name was Isaac Runciman when I saw it was

coming on, she shaking and trembling and crying out like before,

'Oh, what is it? Only tell me what it _is_!' And then 'Our mill was

Darenth Mill,' and 'Isaac Runciman was my father.' And other things

she could not have known that had been no word of mine, only Dr.

Nash found out why, all these things having been told to little

Dave Wardle last year, and doubtless repeated childlike. And yet,

my lady, though I know well where the dear old soul has gotten all

these histories, seeing there is no other way possible, it is I do

assure you enough to turn my own reason to hear her go on telling

and telling of one thing and another all what our little boy we had

here has made into tales for his amusement, such-like as Mr. Pitt

and Mr. Fox our horses, and she had just remembered the foreman's

name Muggeridge when she saw the model; it makes my head fairly

spin to hear. Only I take this for my comfort, that I can see

behind her words to know the tale is not of her making, but only

Dave, like when she said Dave must have meant Muggeridge in his

last letter, and would I find it to show her, only I could not. And

like when she talked of her old piano at her father's, there I

could see was our old piano my mother bought at a sale, now stood

in a corner here where I had talked of it the evening I had the old

lady here first. I am naming all these things that your ladyship

may see I do right to keep my mother away from Strides till Mrs.

Prichard goes. But I do wish to say again that that day when it

comes will be a sad one for me, for I do love her dearly and that

is the truth, though it is but a week and a day, and Dr. Nash does

not wonder at this."

"If I remember right," said the Earl, stopping, "Nash has made some

study of Insanity--written about it. He knows how very charming lunatics

can be. You know your Great-Aunt Eileen fairly bewitched the Lord

Chancellor when he interviewed her...."

"Did he see the lunatics himself?..."

"When they were fascinating and female--yes!... Well, what happened was

that she waited to be sure he had refused to issue the Commission, and

then went straight for Lady Lostwithiel's throat--her sister-in-law, you

know...."

"Did that show she was mad?"

"Let us keep to the point. What does 'Muggeridge' mean?"

"I was thinking. 'Muggeridge'! But _I've_ got Dave's last letter. I'll

get it." And she was off before the Earl could say that to-morrow would

do as well.

He went on smoking the bitter--and bitten--end of his cigar, which had

gone slowly, owing to the reading. Instead of finishing up the letter,

he went back, carefully re-reading the whole with absorbed attention. So

absorbed, that Gwen, coming in quietly with a fresh handful of letters,

was behind his chair unobserved, and had said:--"Well, and what do you

make of it?" before he looked up at her.

"Verdict in accordance with the medical opinion, I _think_. But let's

see Dave's letter." He took and read to himself. "_I_ see," said he.

"The cross stood for Dolly's love. A mere proxy. But _he_ sends the real

article. I like the 'homliburst,' too. Why did Dolly's lady want to

_towel_ Mrs. Spicture?... Oh, I see, it's the name of our house ...

h'm--h'm--h'm!... Now where do we come to Muggeridge?... Oh, here we

are! I've got it. Well--that's plain enough. Muggeridge. M, U, one G, E,

R, I, J for D, G, E. That's quite plain. Can't see what you want more."

"Oh yes, it's all very easy for you, now you've been told. _I_ couldn't

make head or tail of it. And I don't wonder dear old Mrs. Picture

couldn't...."

The Earl looked up suddenly. "Stop a bit!" said he. "Now where was it in

Mrs. Thrale's letter. I had it just now ... here it is! 'The old lady

had just remembered the foreman's name when she saw the model.' Got

_that_?"

"Yes--but I don't see...."

"No--but listen! Dr. Nash found out that all these particulars were of

Dave's communicating. Got that?"

"Yes--but still I don't see...."

"Don't chatterbox! Listen to your father. Keep those two points in mind,

and then consider that when you read her Dave's letter she could not

identify his misspelt name, which seems perfectly obvious and easy to

me, now I know it. How _could_ she forget it so as not to be reminded of

it by a misspelt version? Can you conceive that she should fail, if she

had heard the name from the child so clearly as to have it on the tip of

her tongue the moment she saw the mill she only knew from Dave's

description?"

"No--it certainly does seem very funny!"

"Very funny. Now let's see what the rest of the letter says." He went on

reading:

"I know your ladyship will pardon the liberty I take to write at

such length, seeing the cause of it, and also if I may suggest that

your ladyship might send for Mrs. Bird, who lives with Mrs.

Prichard, or for the parents of the little Dave Wardle, to inquire

of them has she been subject to attacks or is this new. I should

tell you that she has now been free from any aberration of mind, so

Dr. Nash says, for nearly two days, mostly knitting quietly to

herself, without talk, and sometimes laying down the needles like

to think. Dr. Nash says to talk to her when she talks, but to keep

her off of bygones, and the like. She has asked for things to write

you a letter herself, and I have promised as soon as this is done.

But I will not wait for hers to post this, as Dr. Nash says the

sooner you know the better. I will now stop, again asking pardon

for so long a letter, and remain, my lady, your obedient and

faithful servant.

"R. THRALE"

"How very like what everyone else does!" said the Earl. "This good woman

writes so close to economize paper that she leaves no room for her

signature and goes in for her initial. I was wanting to know her

Christian name. Do you know it? And see--she has to take more paper

after all! Here's a postscript."

"P.S.--There is another reason why it is better not to have my

mother back till Mrs. Prichard goes, she herself having been much

upset by a man who said he was Mrs. Prichard's son, and was looking

for his mother. My son-in-law, John Costrell, came over to tell me.

This man had startled and alarmed my mother _very much_. I should

be sorry he should come here to make Mrs. Prichard worse, but my

mother is no doubt best away. I am not afraid of him myself,

because of our dog."

"That dog is a treasure," said the Earl, re-enveloping the letter. "What

are those other letters? Irene's?... And what?"

"I was trying to think of Mrs. Thrale's Christian name. I don't think I

know it.... Yes--Irene's, and some papers I want you to lock up, for

me." Gwen went on to tell of the inroad on Mrs. Prichard's _secretaire_,

and explained that she was absolutely certain of forgiveness. "Only you

will keep them safer than I shall, in your big ebony cabinet. I think I

can trust you to give them back." She laid them on the table, gave her

father an affectionate double-barrelled kiss, and went away to bed. It

was very late indeed.

Mr. Norbury, in London, always outlived everyone else at night. The Earl

rather found a satisfaction, at the Towers, in being the last to leave

port, on a voyage over the Ocean of Sleep. In London it was otherwise,

but not explicably. The genesis of usage in households is a very

interesting subject, but the mere chronicler can only accept facts, not

inquire into causes. Mr. Norbury always _did_ give the Earl a send-off

towards Dreamland, and saw the house deserted, before he vanished to a

secret den in the basement.

"Norbury," said the Earl, sending the pilot off, metaphorically. "You

know the two widows, mother and daughter, at Chorlton-under-Bradbury?

Strides Cottage."

"Yes, indeed, my lord! All my life. I knew the old lady when she came

from Darenth, in Essex, to marry her second husband, Marrable." Norbury

gave other particulars which the story knows.

"Then Widow Thrale is not Granny Marrable's daughter, though she calls

her mother?"

"That is the case, my lord. She was a pretty little girl--maybe eleven

years old--and was her mother's bridesmaid.... I should say her aunt's."

"Who was her mother?"

"I have understood it was a twin sister."

"Who was her father?"

Mr. Norbury hesitated. "If your lordship would excuse, I would prefer

not to say. The story came to me through two persons. My own informant

had it from Thrale. But it's near twenty years ago, and I could not

charge my memory, to a certainty."

"Something you don't like to tell?"

"Not except I could speak to a certainty." Mr. Norbury, evidently

embarrassed, wavered respectfully.

"Was there a convict in it, certain or uncertain?"

"There was, my lord. Certain, I fear. But I am uncertain about his name.

Peverell, or Deverell."

"What was he convicted of? What offence?"

"I rather think it was forgery, my lord, but I may be wrong about that.

The story said his wife followed him to Van Diemen's Land, and died

there?"

"That was Thrale's story?"

"Thrale's story."

"He must have known."

"Oh, he knew!"

"What is old Mrs. Marrable's Christian name?"

"I believe she was always called Phoebe. Her first married name was a

very unusual one, Cropredy."

"And Widow Thrale's?"

"Ruth--Keziah Solmes calls her, I think."

His lordship made no reply; and, indeed, said never a word until he

released Mr. Norbury in his dressing-room ten minutes later, being then

as it were wound up for a good night's rest, and safe to go till

morning. Even then the current of serious thought into which he seemed

to have plunged seemed too engrossing to allow of his making a start. He

remained sitting in the easy-chair before the fire, with intently

knitted brows and a gaze divided between the vigorous flare to which Mr.

Norbury's final benediction had incited it, and the packet of letters

Gwen had given him, which he had placed on the table beside him. Behind

him was what Gwen had spoken of as his big ebony cabinet. If a ghost

that could not speak was then and there haunting that chamber, its

tongue must have itched to remind his lordship what a satisfaction it

would be to a disembodied bystander to get a peep into the cinquecento

recesses of that complicated storehouse of ancient documents, which was

never opened in the presence of anyone but its owner.

Gradually Gwen's packet absorbed more than its fair share of the Earl's

attention; finally, seemed to engross it completely. He ended by cutting

the outer string, taking the contents out, and placing them before him

on the table, assorting them in groups, like with like.

There were the printed formal warrants, variously signed and attested,

of some assignments or transfers--things of no interest or moment. Put

them by! There were one or two new sheets covered with a child's printed

efforts towards a handwriting manifestly the same as the one recently

under discussion, even without the signature, "dAve wARdLe." There was a

substantial accumulation of folded missives in an educated man's hand,

and another in a woman's; of which last the outermost--being a folded

sheet that made its own envelope--showed a receipt postmark "Macquarie.

June 24, 1807," and a less visible despatch-stamp "Darenth. Nov. 30,

1806," telling its tale of over six months on the road. Then one,

directed in another hand, a man's, but with the same postmarks, both of

1808, with the months undecipherable. This last seemed the most

important, being tied with tape. It was the elder Daverill's successful

forgery, treasured by old Maisie as the last letter from her family in

England, telling of her sister Phoebe's death. All the letters were

addressed to "Mrs. Thornton Daverill," the directions being only partly

visible, owing to the folding.

Lest the reader should be inclined to blame the accidental possessor of

these letters for doing what this story must perforce put on record, and

to say that his action disgraced the Earldom of Ancester, let it remind

him what the facts were that were already in his lordship's possession,

and ask him whether he himself, so circumstanced, might not have felt

as the Earl did--that the case was one for a sacrifice of punctilios in

the face of the issues that turned upon their maintenance. Had he any

right to connive at the procrastination of some wicked secret--for he

had the clue--when a trivial sacrifice of self-respect might bring it to

light? He could see that Mrs. Prichard _must_ be the twin sister,

somehow. But he did not see how, as yet; and he wanted confirmation and

elucidation. These letters would contain both, or correction and

guidance. Was he to bewilder Gwen with his own partial insights, or take

on himself to sift the grist clean before he milled it for her

consumption? He was not long in deciding.

Two or three slippered turns up and down the room, very cautious lest

they should wake her ladyship in the adjoining one, were all the case

required. Then he resumed his seat, and, deliberately taking up the

taped letter, opened it and read:

"MY DEAR DAUGHTER MAISIE,

"It is with great pain that I take up my pen to acquaint you of the

fatal calamity which has befallen your sister Phoebe and her

husband, as well as I grieve to say of your own child Ruth, my

granddaughter, all three of whom there is every reason to fear have

lost their lives at sea on the sailing-packet _Scheldt_, from

Antwerp to London, which is believed to have gone down with every

soul on board in the great gale of September 30, now nearly two

months since.

"You will be surprised that your sister and little girl should be

on the seas, but that this should be so was doubtless the Will of

God, and in compliance with His ordinances, though directly

contrary to my own advice. Had due attention been paid to my wishes

this might have been avoided. Here is the account of how it

happened, from which you may judge for yourself:

"Your brother-in-law Cropredy's imprudence is no doubt to answer

for it, he having run the risk of travelling abroad to put himself

in personal communication with a house of business at Malines, a

most unwholesome place for an Englishman, though no doubt healthy

for foreigners. As I had forewarned him, he contracted fever in the

heat of August, when ill-fed on a foreign diet, which, however

suitable to them, is fatal to an English stomach, and little better

than in France. The news of this illness coming to your sister, she

would not be resigned to the Will of Providence, to which we should

all bow rather than rashly endanger our lives, but took upon

herself to decide, contrary to my remonstrance, to cross the

Channel with the little girl, of whom I could have taken charge

here at my own home. Merciful to say, the fever left him, having a

good constitution from English living, and all was promise of a

safe return, seeing the weather was favourable when the ship left

the quay, and a fair wind. But of that ship no further is known,

only she has not been heard of since, and doubtless is gone to the

bottom in the great gale which sprung up in mid-channel, for so

many have done the like. Even as the ships of Jehosaphat were

broken that they were not able to go to Tarshish (Chron. II. xx.

37).

"There is, I fear, no room for hope that, short of a miracle, for

the sea will not give up its dead (Rev. xx. 13), any remains should

be recovered, but you may rest assured that if any come to the

surface and are identified they shall be interred in the family

grave where your sainted mother was laid, and reposes in the Lord,

in a sure and certain hope of a joyful resurrection (Acts xxiii.

6).

"Believe me, my dear daughter, to remain your affectionate father

"ISAAC RUNCIMAN.

"I have no message for my son-in-law, nor do I retain any

resentment towards him, forgiving him as I wish to be forgiven

(Luke vi. 37).

"DARENTH MILL,

_Oct. 16, 1807_."

The Earl read this letter through twice--three times--and apparently his

bewilderment only increased as he re-read it. At last he refolded it, as

though no more light could come from more reading, and sat a moment

still, thinking intently. Then he suddenly exclaimed aloud:--"Amazing,"

adding under his voice:--"But perfectly inexplicable!" Then, going on

even less audibly:--"I must see what Hawtrey can make of this...." At

which point he was taken aback by a voice through the door from the next

room:--"What _are_ you talking to yourself so for? Can't you get to

bed?" Palpably the voice of an awakened Countess! He replied in a

conciliatory spirit, and accepted the suggestion, first putting the

letters safely away in the ebony cabinet.

* * * * *

Anyone who reads this forged letter with a full knowledge of all the

circumstances will see that it was at best, from the literary and

dramatic point of view, a bungling composition. But style was not called

for so long as the statements were coherent. For what did the forger's

wife know of what her father's style would be under these or any

abnormal circumstances? Had she ever had a letter at all from him

before? Even that is doubtful. The shock, moreover, was enough to

unbalance the most critical judgment.

Two things are very noticeable in the letter. One that it fights shy of

strong expressions of feeling, as though its fabricator had felt that

danger lay that way; the other that he manifestly enjoyed his Scripture

references, familiar to him by his long experience of gaol-chaplains,

and warranted by his knowledge of his father-in-law. We--who write

this--have referred to the passages indicated, and found the connection

of ideas to be about an average sample, as coherency goes when quotation

from Scripture is afoot. No doubt Maisie's husband found their selection

entertaining.

CHAPTER XII

THE LEGAL ACUMEN OF THOTHMES. OF COURSE IT WAS ISAAC RUNCIMAN'S

SIGNATURE. THE ANTIPODEAN INK. HOW LINCOLN'S INN FIELDS WAS MADE OF

WOOD. HOW GWEN AND HER FATHER CAME OFF THEIR P'S AND Q'S. THE

RIDDLE AS GOOD AS SOLVED. HOW GWEN GOT A LIFT TO CAVENDISH SQUARE

AND HER MOTHER WENT ON TO HELP TO ABOLISH SOUTH CAROLINA. ANOTHER

LIFT, IN A PILL-BOX. SAPPS COURT'S VIEWS OF THE WAR. MICHAEL

RAGSTROAR'S HALF-SISTER'S BROTHER-IN-LAW. LIVE EELS. BALL'S POND.

MRS. RILEY'S ELEVEN RELATIVES. MRS. TAPPING'S NAVAL CONNECTIONS.

OLD BILLY. RUM SHRUB. LOUIS NAPOLEON AND KING SOLOMON. A PARTY IN

THE BAR. WHICH WAY DID HE GO?

Said his lordship next morning to Mr. Norbury, bringing him preliminary

tea at eight o'clock:--"I want to catch Mr. Hawtrey before he goes to

Lincoln's Inn. Send round to say.... No--give me one of my cards and a

pencil.... There!--send that round at once, because he goes early."

The result was that Mr. Hawtrey was announced while the Earl was having

real breakfast with Gwen and her mother at ten, and was shown into the

library. Also that the real breakfast was hurried and frustrated, that

Mr. Hawtrey should not be kept waiting. For the Earl counter-ordered his

last cup of tea, and went away with his fast half broken. So her

ladyship sent the cup after him to the library. He sent a message back

to Gwen. Would her ladyship be sure not to go out without seeing him?

She would.

Mr. Hawtrey was known to Gwen as the Earl's solicitor, a man of

perfectly incredible weight and importance. He was deep in the Lord

Chancellor's confidence, and had boxes in tiers in his office, to read

the names on which was a Whig and Tory education. If all the acres of

land that had made Mr. Hawtrey's acquaintance, somehow or other, had

been totalled on condition that it was fair to count twice over, the

total total would have been as large as Asia, at a rough guess. His

clerks--or his firm's, Humphrey and Hawtrey's--had witnessed leases,

wills, transfers, and powers of attorney, numerous enough to fill the

Rolls Office, but so far as was known none of them had ever been called

on to attest his own signature. Personally, Mr. Hawtrey had always

seemed to Gwen very like an Egyptian God or King, and she would speak of

him as Thothmes and Rameses freely. Her father admitted the likeness,

but protested against her levity, as this gentleman was his most trusted

adviser, inherited with his title and estates. The Earldom of Ancester

had always been in the habit of consulting Mr. Hawtrey about all sorts

of things, not necessarily legal.

So when Gwen was sent for to her father's sanctum, and went, she was not

surprised to hear that he had given Mr. Hawtrey all the particulars she

had told him of Mrs. Prichard's history, and a clear outline of the

incidents up to that date, ending with the seeming insanity of the old

lady. "But," said the Earl, who appeared very serious, "I have given no

names. I have sent for you now, Gwen, to get your consent to my making

no reserves with Mr. Hawtrey, in whose advice I have great confidence."

Mr. Hawtrey acknowledged this testimony, and Gwen acknowledged that

gentleman's desert; each by a bow, but Gwen's was the more flexible

performance.

She just hung back perceptibly over giving the _carte blanche_ asked

for. "I suppose no harm can come of it--to anybody?" said she. None

whatever, apparently; so she assented.

"Very good," said the Earl. "And now, my dear, I want you, before I show

it to Mr. Hawtrey, to read this letter, which I have opened on my own

responsibility--nobody to blame but me! I found it among your old lady's

letters you gave me to take care of."

"Oh dear!" said Gwen.

"I shall not show it to Mr. Hawtrey, unless you like. Take it and read

it. No hurry." Gwen was conscious that the solicitor sat as still as his

prototype Thothmes at the British Museum, and with as immovable a

countenance.

She took the letter, glancing at the cover. "Who is Mrs. Thornton

Daverill?" said she, quite in the dark.

"Go on and read," said the Earl.

Gwen read half to herself:--"'My dear daughter Maisie,'" and then said

aloud:--"But that is Mrs. Prichard's name!"

"Read through to the end," said the Earl. And Gwen, with a painful

feeling of bewilderment, obeyed orders, puzzling over phrases and

sentences to find the thing she was to read for, and staggered a moment

by the name "Cropredy," which she thought she must have misread. There

was no clue in the letter itself, as she did not know who "Phoebe" and

"Ruth" were.

Her father's observation of her face quickened as she visibly neared the

end. She was quite taken aback by the signature, the moment it caught

her eye. "Isaac Runciman!" she exclaimed. "Why--that's--that's ..."

"That's the name of Mrs. Marrable's father that old Mrs. Prichard lays

claim to for hers," said the Earl quietly. "And this letter is written

to his daughter, Mrs. Thornton Daverill, whose name is Maisie.... And

old Mrs. Prichard's name is Maisie.... And this letter is in the keeping

of old Mrs. Prichard." He left gaps, for his hearer to understand.

"Good God!" exclaimed Gwen. "Then old Mrs. Prichard is _not_ mad." She

could only see that much for the moment--no details. "Oh, be quiet a

moment and let me think." She dropped the letter, and sat with her face

in her hands, as though to shut thought in and work the puzzle out. Her

father remained silent, watching her.

Presently he said, quietly still, as though to help her:--"Norbury told

me last night what we did not know, that old Mrs. Marrable's name is

Phoebe, and that Widow Thrale's is Ruth...."

"That old Mrs. Marrable is Phoebe and her daughter is Ruth." Gwen

repeated his words, as though learning a lesson, still with her fingers

crushing her eyes.

"And that Ruth is not really Phoebe's daughter but her niece. And,

according to Norbury, she is the daughter of a twin sister, whose

husband was transported for forgery, and who followed him to Van

Diemen's Land, and died there." He raised his voice slightly to say

this.

A more amazed face than Gwen's when she withdrew her fingers to fix her

startled eyes upon her father, would have been almost as hard to find as

a more beautiful one.

"But that _is_ Mrs. Prichard, papa dear," she gasped. "Don't you _know_?

The story I told you!"

"Exactly!" said the Earl.

"But the letter--the letter! Phoebe and Ruth in the letter _cannot_ be

drowned, if they are Granny Marrable and Widow Thrale." A rapid

phantasmagoria of possibilities and impossibilities shot through her

mind. How could order come of such a chaos?

"Excuse me," said Thothmes, speaking for the first time. "Do I

understand--I assume I am admitted to confidence--do I understand that

the letter states that these two women were drowned?"

"Crossing from Antwerp. Yes!"

"Then the letter is a falsehood, probably written with a bad motive."

"But by their father--their father! Impossible!"

"How does your ladyship know it was written by their father?"

"It is signed by their father--at Darenth Mill in Essex. Both say Isaac

Runciman was their father."

"It is signed with Isaac Runciman's name--so I understand. Is it certain

that it was signed by Isaac Runciman? May I now see the letter? _And_

the envelope, please!--oh, the direction is on the back, of course." He

held the letter in front of him, but apparently took very little notice

of it. "As if," thought Gwen to herself, "he was thinking about his

Dynasty."

"What do you make of it, Hawtrey?" said the Earl, but, getting no

answer, waited. Silence ensued.

"_Yes_," said the lawyer, breaking it suddenly. He seemed to have seen

his way. "Now may I ask whether we have any means of knowing what the

forgery was for which this man was transported?"

"Oh yes!" said Gwen. "Old Mrs. Prichard told me what he was accused of,

at least. Forging an acceptance--if that's right? I think that was it."

"But whose signature? Did she say?"

"Oh yes--I made her tell me, her father's." Then Gwen fitted the name,

just heard, into its place in old Mrs. Prichard's tale, and was

illuminated. "I see what you think, Mr. Hawtrey," said she, interrupting

herself. The lawyer was examining the direction on the letter-sheet.

"I think I did right to pry into the letter, Gwennie," said her father;

seeking, nevertheless, a salve for conscience.

"Of course you did, you darling old thing!... What, Mr. Hawtrey? You

were going to say?..."

"I was going to say had you seen an odd thing in the direction. Have you

noticed that the word _Hobart_ has kept black, and all the rest has

faded to the colour of the writing inside?" So it had, without a doubt,

inexplicably. Mr. Hawtrey's impression was that the word was written in

a different hand, perhaps filled in by someone who had been able to

supply the name correctly, having been entrusted the letter to forward.

"But," said he, "the person who wrote Hobart must have been in England,

and the forger of the letter was certainly in Van Diemen's Land."

"Why 'must have been in England'?"

"Bless the girl!" said the girl's father. "Why--_I_ can see that! Of

course, an Australian convict, who could do such a fine piece of

forgery, would never ask another person to spell the name of an

Australian town. Do you suppose he sent it to England to get an

accomplice to spell 'Hobart' right for him? No--no, Hawtrey, your theory

won't hold water."

"That is the case," said Thothmes, more immovably than ever. "I see I

was mistaken. That point must wait. Or ... stop one minute!... may we

examine the other letters?"

"I had thought," said the Earl, "of leaving them unopened. We have got

what we want."

"Very proper. But I only wish to read the directions." No harm in this,

anyhow. A second packet was opened. It was the one in the woman's hand,

all postmarked "Darenth Mill" and "Macquarie." Then it was that

Thothmes, with impassive shrewdness, made up for his blunder, with

interest. He saw why the ink of one word of the forged direction was

black. It was the same ink as the English directions, and, on close

examination, the same hand. This had not been clear at first, as the

word was mixed with the English postmark, "Darenth Mill"--so much so as

not to clash with the pale hand of the forgery. "That word," said

Thothmes, "was never written in Van Diemen's Land. The English stamp is

on the top of it."

Gwen took it from him, and saw that this was true. "But then the rest of

the direction was written in Australia," said she, "if this man wrote it

at all! Oh dear, I am so puzzled." And indeed she was at her wit's end.

"I won't say another word," said Mr. Hawtrey. "I have made one blunder,

and won't run any further risks. I must think about this. If you will

trust me with the letter, you shall have it back to-morrow morning. I

dare say your lordship will now excuse me. I have an appointment at the

High Court at eleven, and it's now a quarter past.... Oh no--it's not a

hanging matter.... I shall make my man drive fast.... So I will wish

your ladyship a very good morning. I wish those two old ladies could

have known this earlier. But better late than never!"

The Earl accompanied his legal adviser to the head of the stairs to give

him a civil send off, while his daughter, white with tension of

excitement and impatience, awaited his return. Coming back, he was not

the least surprised that she should fall into his arms with a tempest of

tears, crying out:--"Oh, papa dearest--fifty years!--think of it! All

their lives! Oh, my darling old Mrs. Prichard! and Granny Marrable

too--it's the same for both! Oh, think, that they were girls--yes,

nearly girls, only a few years older than me, when they parted! And the

_horrible_ wickedness of the trick--the horrible, horrible wickedness!

And then the dear old darling's own daughter, who has almost never seen

her, thinks her _mad_!... No, papa dear, don't shish me down, because

cry I _must_! Let me have a good cry over it, and I shall be better. Sit

down by me, and don't let go--there!--here on the sofa, like that.... Oh

dear, I wish I was made of wood, like some people, and could say better

late than never!" This was the wind-up of a good deal more, and similar,

expression of feeling. For tears and speech come easily to a generous

impulsive nature like Gwen's, when strong sympathy and sorrow for others

bid them come, though its own affliction might have made it stupefied

and dumb.

Her father soothed and calmed her as he would a child; for was she not a

child to him--in the nursery only the other day? "I'm not made of wood,

darling, am I?" said he. And Gwen replied, refitting spars in calmer

water:--"No, dear, that you are not, but Lincoln's Inn Fields is.

Sitting there like an Egyptian God, with his hands on his knees!" She

repacked a stray flood of gold that had escaped from its restraints--the

most conspicuous record of the recent gale--and reassured her father

with a liberal kiss. Then she thawed towards the legal mind. "I'm sure

he's very good and kind and all that--Lincoln's Inn Fields, I mean,

is--because people _are_. Only it's at heart they are, and I want it to

come out like a rash." No doubt an interview with Dr. Dalrymple

yesterday was answerable for this, having reference to the Typhus Fever

patient. The eruption, he said, was subsiding favourably, and he was

hourly expecting a fall in the temperature. But he had made a stand

against her seeing the patient.

"If Hawtrey came out in a rash over all his clients' botherations," said

the Earl, "he would very soon be in a state of confluent smallpox. What

he's wanted for now is his brains. You'll see we shall have a letter

from him, clearing it all up...."

"And you know what he'll say, I suppose? That is, if he's as clever as

you think him!"

"I can't say that I feel absolutely certain. What do you suppose?"

Then Gwen gave a very fair conjectural review of the facts as this story

knows them; saying, whenever she felt the ground insecure beneath her

feet, that of course it was this way and not the other. A blessed

expression that, to reinforce one's convictions!

However, she was not far wrong on any point, if the letter her father

received next day from "Lincoln's Inn Fields" was right. It came by

messenger, just as the family were sitting down to lunch with two or

three friends, and his lordship said, "Will you excuse me?" without

waiting for an answer, though one of his guests was a Rajah. Then he

read the letter through, intently, while his Countess looked

thunderclouds at him. "'Fore God, they are both of a tale!" said he,

quoting. Then he sent it to Gwen by Norbury, who was embarrassed by her

ladyship the Countess saying stiffly:--"Surely afterwards would do." But

Gwen cut in with:--"No--I can't wait. Give it to me, Norbury!" And took

it and read it as intently as her father had done. Having finished, she

telegraphed to him, all the length of the table:--"Isn't that just what

I said?" And then things went on as before. Only the Earl and his

daughter had come off their _P_'s and _Q_'s, most lawlessly.

Here is the letter each had read, when off them:

"My dear Lord Ancester,

"I have thoroughly considered the letter, and return it herewith. I am

satisfied that it is a forgery by the hand of the convict Daverill, but

it is difficult to see what his object can have been, malice apart. It

is clear, however, that it was to influence his wife, to what end it is

impossible to say.

"The only theory I can have about the black ink is far-fetched. It is

that a letter from England of that date was erased to make way for the

forgery, these few black letters having been allowed to remain, not to

disturb the English postmark, which partly-obscures them. You may notice

some compromise or accommodation in the handwriting of the direction,

evidently to slur over the difference. I suggest that the letter should

be referred to some specialist in palimpsests, who may be able to detect

some of the underlying original, which is absolutely invisible to me.

"If you meet with any other letter written by this ingenious penman, I

suspect it will be in the pale ink of the forgery, which no doubt was as

black as the English ink, when new.

"Believe me, my lord, your very faithful and obedient servant,

"JAMES HAWTREY."

"There can't be another letter of the ingenious penman's in the lot we

left tied up, because he and his wife were living together, and not

writing each other letters." So said Gwen afterwards, deprecating a

suggestion of her father's that the packet should be opened and

examined. But he replied:--"It is only to look at the colour of the ink.

We won't read old Mrs. Prichard's love-letters." However, nothing was

found, all these letters having been written in England except the one

from Sydney inviting her to come out, which was referred to early in

this story. The Sydney ink had been different--that was all.

So all the letters were tied up again and placed _pro tem_. in the

cinquecento cabinet, to be quite safe. They had been just about to

vanish therein when the Earl made his suggestion. Nothing having come of

it, the documents were put away, honourably unread, and Gwen hurried off

to be given a lift to Cavendish Square by her mother. Her father exacted

a promise from her that she would not force her way past Dr. Dalrymple

into the patient's presence, come what might! She accompanied her mother

in the carriage as far as her own destination. The Countess was on a

card-leaving mission in Harley Street, and devoutly hoped that Lady

Blank would not be at home. In that case she might take advantage of her

liberty to go to a meeting at the Duchess of Sutherland's to abolish

this horrible negro slavery in America, so as not to be exceptional,

which was odious; and your father--Gwen's to wit--never would exert

himself about anything, and was simply wrapped up in old violins and

majolica. Of course it was right to put an end to slavery, and people

_ought_ to exert themselves. Her ladyship waited in the carriage at the

door till Gwen could supply an intensely authentic report--not what the

servants were told to say to everybody; that was no use--of the precise

condition of the patient, including the figures of the pulse and

temperature, and whether she had had a good night. Gwen came back with a

report from the nurse, to find Dr. Dalrymple conversing with her mother

at the carriage door, and to be exhorted by him to follow her maternal

example in matters of prudence. For the good lady had furnished herself

with a smelling-bottle and was inhaling it religiously, as a

prophylactic.

When she had departed, leaving Gwen wondering why on earth she was

seized with such a desire just now to abolish negro slavery, Gwen

returned into the house to await the doctor's last word about her

friend. Waiting for him in the sitting-room, she read the _Times_, and

naturally turned to the news from the Seat of War--it was then at its

height--and became engrossed in the details of the Balaklava charge, a

month since. The tragedy of the Crimea--every war is a tragedy--was at

this time the all-engrossing topic in London and Paris, and men hung

eagerly on every word that passed current as news. The reason it has so

little place in this story is obvious--none of the essential events

intersect. All our narrative has to tell relates to occurrences

predetermined by a past that was forgotten long before Sebastopol was

anticipated.

Gwen read the story of the great historical charge with a breathless

interest certainly, but only as part of the playbill of a terrible

drama, where the curtain was to fall on fireworks and a triumph for her

own nationality; and, of course, its ally--_ca se vit_. Dr. Dalrymple

reappeared, looking hopeful, with a good report, but too engrossed in

his ease to be moved even by the Charge of the Light Brigade, or the

state of the hospitals at Scutari. Where was Gwen going? To Sapps

Court--where was that? Oh yes, just beyond his own destination, so he

could give her a lift. And the carriage could take her on to hers and

wait for her, just as easily as go home and come back for him. He might

be detained a long time at the Hospital. Gwen accepted his offer

gratefully, as a private brougham and a coachman made a sort of convoy.

In those days young ladies were not so much at their ease without an

escort, as they have been of late years. According to some authorities,

the new regime is entirely due to the bicycle.

* * * * *

Sapps Court had not been itself since the exciting event of the

accident; at least, so said Aunt M'riar, referring to the disappearance

of Mrs. Prichard chiefly. For the identity of Sapps depended a good deal

on the identity of its inhabitants, and its interests penetrated very

little into the great world without. It was very little affected even by

the news of the War, favourable or the reverse: its patriotism was too

great for that. This must be taken to mean that its confidence in its

country's power of routing its foes was so deep-seated that an equally

firm belief that its armies were starving and stricken with epidemics,

and armed with guns that would not go off, and commanded by the lame,

halt, and blind in their second childhood, did not in the least

interfere with its stability. Whatever happened, the indomitable courage

of Tommy Atkins and Jack would triumph over foes, who, when all was said

and done, were only foreigners. Sapps Court's faith in Jack was so great

that his position was even above Tommy's. When Jack was reported to have

gone ashore at Balaklava to help Tommy to get his effete and useless

artillery to bear on the walls of Sebastopol, Sapps Court drew a long

breath of relief. Misgivings were germinating in its bosom as to whether

cholera patients _could_ take fortresses on an empty stomach. But it

would be all right now!

No doubt the Court's philosophical endurance of its share of the anxiety

about the War was partly due to the fact that it hadn't got no relations

there; or, at least, none to speak of. Michael Ragstroar's 'arf-sister's

brother-in-law had certainly took the shilling, but Michael's father had

expressed the opinion that this young man wouldn't do no good

soldiering, and would only be in the way. Which had led Michael to say

that this connection of his by marriage would ultimately get himself

cashiered by Court Martial, for 'inderin'. Much better have stuck to

chopping up live heels and makin' of 'em into pies at Ball's Pond, than

go seeking glory at the cannon's mouth! Michael had not reflected on the

comparative freedom of his own life, contrasted with the monotonous lot

of this ill-starred young man; if, indeed, we may safely accept Micky's

description of it as accurate. Sapps Court did so, and went on in the

belief that the Ball's Pond recruit would prove a _gene_ upon the

movements of the allied troops in the Crimea.

The interest of the Court, therefore, in the contemporary events which

were thrilling the remainder of Europe, was ethical or strategical, and

one had to go outside its limits to be brought into touch with personal

connecting links. But they were to be met with near at hand, for Mrs.

Riley had ilivin relatives at the Sate of War, sivin of her own name,

thray Donnigans, and one O'Rourke, a swate boy, though indade only a

fosther-brother of her nayce Kathleen McDermott. Mrs. Tapping was unable

to enumerate any near relations serving Her Majesty, but laid claim to

consanguinity with distinguished officers, Generals of Division and

Captains of three-deckers, all of whom had an exalted opinion of her own

branch of the Family.

In the main, Sapps regarded the War as a mere Thing in the Newspapers,

of which Uncle Mo heard more accurate details, at The Sun. There is

nothing more unaccountable than the alacrity with which the human mind

receives any statement in print, unless it is its readiness to surrender

its belief on hearing a positive contradiction from a person who cannot

possibly know anything about the matter. One sometimes feels forced to

the conclusion that an absolute disqualification to speak on any subject

is a condition precedent of procuring belief. Certainly a claim to

inspiration enlists disciples quicker than the most subtle argument;

acts, so to speak, as an aperient to the mind--a sort of intellectual

Epsom Salts. Uncle Mo, in the simplicity of his heart, went every day

for an hour to The Sun parlour, taking with him a profound belief in the

latest news from the Seat of War, to have it shattered for him by the

positive statements of persons who had probably not read the papers at

all, and sometimes couldn't. For in those happy days there were still

people who were unable to read or write.

Perhaps the only other customer in the parlour at The Sun, when Uncle Mo

was smoking his pipe there, on the afternoon which saw the Countess

interest herself in negro slavery, _was_ able to read and write, unknown

to his friends, who had never seen him do either. They, however, knew,

or professed to feel assured, that old Billy--for that was his only

ascertainable name--knew everything. This may have been their vulgar

fun; but if it was, old Billy's own convictions of his omniscience were

not shaken by it, any more than a creed he professed, that small doses

of rum shrub, took reg'lar, kept off old age. In a certain sense he took

them regularly, counting the same number in every bar, with nearly the

same pauses between each dose. Whether they were really helping him

against Time and Decay or not, they were making him pink and dropsical,

and had not prevented, if they had not helped to produce, a baldness as

of an eggshell. This he would cover in, to counteract the draughty

character which he ascribed to all bar parlours alike, with a cloth cap

having ear-flaps, as soon as ever he had hung up a beaver hat which he

might have inherited from a coaching ancestor.

This afternoon he was eloquent on foreign policy. Closing one eye to

accentuate the shrewd vision of the other, and shaking his head

continuously to express the steadiness and persistency of his

convictions, he indicted Louis Napoleon as the _bete noire_ of European

politics. "Don't you let yourself be took in, Mr. Moses," he said, "by

any of these here noospapers. They're a bad lot. This here Nicholas,

he's a Rooshian--so him I say nothin' about. Nor yet these here

Turkeys--them and their Constant Eye No Pulls!"--this with great scorn.

"None of 'em no better, I lay, than Goard A'mighty see fit to make 'em,

so it ain't, so as you might say, their own fault, not in a manner of

speaking. But this Louis Sneapoleum, _he's_ your sly customer. He's as

bad as the whole lot, all boiled up together in a stoo! Don't you be

took in by him, Mr. Moses. Calls hisself a Coodytar! _I_ call him ..."

etcetera _de rigueur_, as some of old Billy's comparisons were

unsavoury.

"Can't foller you all the way down the lane, Willy-um," said Uncle Mo,

who could hardly be expected to identify Billy's variant of _Coup

d'Etat_. "Ain't he our ally?"

"That's the p'int, Mr. Moses, the very p'int to not lose sight on, or

where are we? He's got hisself made our ally for to get between him and

the Rooshians. What he's a-drivin' at is to get us to fight his battles

for him, and him to sit snug and accoomulate cucumbers like King

Solomons."

Uncle Moses felt he ought to interpose on this revision of the

Authorised Version of Scripture. "You haven't hit the word in the

middle, mate," said he, and supplied it, correctly enough. "You can keep

it in mind by thinking of them spiky beggars at the So-logical

Gardens--porky pines--them as get their backs up when wexed and

bristle."

"Well--corkupines, then! Have it your own way, old Mo! My back'd get up

and bristle, if I was some of them! Only when it's womankind, the likes

of us can't jedge, especially when French. All I can say is, him and

them's got to settle it between 'em, and if _they_ can stand his

blooming moostarsh, why, it's no affair of mine." Which was so obviously

true that old Billy need not have gone on muttering to himself to the

same effect. One would have thought that the Tuileries had applied to

him to accept an appointment as _Censor Morum_.

"What's old Billy grizzlin' on about?" said Mr. Jeffcoat, the host of

The Sun, bringing in another go of the shrub, and a modest small pewter

of mild for Uncle Mo, who was welcome at this hostelry even when, as

sometimes happened, he drank nothing; so powerful was his moral

influence on its status. In fact, the Sporting World, which drank

freely, frequented its parlour merely to touch the hand of the great

heavyweight of other days, however much he was faded and all his glories

past. Then would Uncle Mo give a sketch of his celebrated scrap with Bob

Brettle, which ended in neither coming to Time, simultaneously. Mo would

complain of an absurd newspaper report of the fight, which said the

Umpires stopped the fight. "No such a thing!" said Uncle Mo. "I stopped

Bob and he stopped me, fair and square. And there we was, come to grass,

and stopping there." Perhaps the old boy was dreaming back on something

of this sort, rather than listening to boozy old Billy's reflections on

Imperial Morality, that Mr. Jeffcoat should have repeated

again:--"What's old Billy grizzling about? You pay for both, Mr. Moses?

Fourpence halfpenny, thank you!"

"He's letting out at the Emperor of the French, is Billy. He'd do his

dags for him, Billy would, if he could get at him. Wouldn't you, Billy?

I say, Tim, whose voice was that I heard in the Bar just now, naming me

by name?"

"Ah, I was just on telling you. He walks in and he says to me, when does

Moses Wardle come in here, he says, and how long does he stop, mostly?

And I says to him ..."

"What sort of a feller to look at?" said Uncle Mo, interrupting. "Old or

young? Long? Short? Anything about him to go by?"

This called for consideration. "Not what you would call an average

party. His gills was too much slewed to one side." This was illustrated

by a finger hooking down the corner of the mouth. "Looked as if his best

clothes was being took care of for him."

"What did he want o' me?" Uncle Mo's interest seemed roused.

"I was telling of you. When did you come and how long did you stop? Best

part of an hour, I says, and you was here now. You'll find him in the

parlour, I says. Go in and see, I says. And I thought to find him in

here, having took my eyes off him for the moment."

"He's not been in here," said Uncle Mo, emptying his pipe prematurely,

and apparently hurrying off without taking his half of mild. "Which way

did he go?"

"Which way did the party go, Soozann?" said the host to his wife in the

bar. Who replied:--"Couldn't say. Said he'd be back in half an hour, and

went. Fancy he went to the right, but couldn't say."

"_He_ won't be back in half an hour," said Uncle Mo. "Not if he's the

man I take him for. You see, he's one of these here chaps that tells

lies. You've heard o' them; seen one, p'r'aps?" Mr. Jeffcoat testified

that he had, in his youth, and that rumours of their existence still

reached him at odd times. Those who listen about in the byways of London

will hear endless conversation on this model, always conducted with the

most solemn gravity, with a perfect understanding of its inversions and

perversions.

Uncle Mo hurried away, leaving instructions that his half-pint should be

bestowed on any person whose tastes lay in that direction. Mr. Jeffcoat

might meet with such a one. You never could tell. He hastened home as

fast as his enemy Gout permitted, and saw when he turned into the short

street at the end of which Sapps lay hidden, that something abnormal was

afoot. There stood Dr. Dalrymple's pill-box, wondering, no doubt, why it

had carried a segment of an upper circle to such a Court as this. If it

had been the Doctor himself, it would not have given a thought to the

matter, for it used to bear its owner to all sorts of places, from St.

James's Palace to Seven Dials.

CHAPTER XIII

HOW UNCLE MO WAS JUST TOO LATE. THE SHINY LADY. THE TURN THE MAN

HAD GIVEN AUNT M'RIAR, AND HER APOLOGIES. DOLLY'S INTENDED

HOSPITALITY TO MRS. PRICHARD ON HER RETURN. DOLLY'S DOLLY'S NEW

NAME. AN ARRANGEMENT, COMMITTING NEITHER PARTY. GUINEVERE,

LANCELOT, AND THE CAKE. MRS. PRICHARD INSANE?--THE IDEA! HOW GWEN

READ THE LETTER ALL BUT THE POSTSCRIPT. NOTHING FOR IT BUT TO TELL!

BUT HOW? FUN, TELLING THE CHILDREN. ANOTHER RECHRISTENING OF DOLLY.

GWEN'S LAST EXIT FROM MRS. PRICHARD'S APARTMENTS. JOAN OF ARC'S

SWORD'S SOUL. THE POSTSCRIPT. WIDOW THRALE'S DOG. WHAT THE CONVICT

HAD SAID. HOW LONG DOES BONA-FIDE OMNIPOTENCE TAKE OVER A JOB?

Gwen, leaving her convoy to wait for her in the antechamber of Sapps

Court, and approach No. 7 alone, heard as she knocked at the door an

altercation within; Aunt M'riar's voice and a strange one, with terror

in the former and threat in the latter. Had all sounded peaceful, she

might have held back, to allow the interview to terminate. But catching

the sound of fear in the woman's voice, and having none in her own

composition, she immediately delivered a double-knock of the most

unflinching sort, and followed it by pushing open the door.

She could hear Dave above, at the top window, recognising her as "The

Lady." As she entered, a man who was coming out flinched before her

meanly for a moment, then brushed past brutally. Aunt M'riar's face was

visible where she stood back near the staircase; it was white with

terror. She gasped out:--"Let him go; I'll come directly!" and ran

upstairs. Gwen heard her call to the children, more collectedly, to come

down, as the lady was there, and then apparently retreat into her room,

shutting the door. Thereon the children came rushing down, and before

she could get attention to her inquiry as to who that hideous man was,

Uncle Mo had pushed the door open. He had not asked that pill-box to

explain itself, but had gone straight on to No. 7. Dave met him on the

threshold, in a tempest of excitement, exclaiming: --"Oy say, Uncle

Mo!--the lady's here. The shoyny one. And oy say, Uncle Mo, the Man's

been." The last words were in a tone to themselves, quite unlike what

came before. It was as though Dave had said:--"The millennium has come,

but the crops are spoiled." He added:--"Oy saw the Man, out of the top

window, going away."

Uncle Mo let the millennium stand over. "Which man, old Peppermint

Drops?" said he, improvising a name to express an aroma he had detected

in his nephew, when he stooped to make sure he was getting his last

words right.

"Whoy, the Man," Dave continued, in an undertone that might have related

to the Man with the Iron Mask, "the Man me and Micky we sore in Hoyde

Park, and said he was a-going to rip Micky up, and Micky he said he

should call the Police-Orficers, and the gentleman said...."

"That'll do prime!" said Uncle Mo. For Dave's torrent of identification

was superfluous. "I would have laid a guinea I knew his game," added he

to himself. Then to Gwen, inside the house with Dolly on her

knee:--"You'll excuse me, miss, my lady, these young customers they do

insert theirselves--it's none so easy to find a way round 'em, as I say

to M'riar.... M'riar gone out?" For it was a surprise to find the

children alone entertaining company--and such company!

"There, Dolly, you hear?" said Gwen. "You're not to insert yourself

between me and your uncle. Suppose we sit quiet for five minutes!" Dolly

subsided. "How do you do, Mr. Wardle!... No, Aunt Maria isn't here, and

I'm afraid that man coming worried her. Dave's man.... Oh yes--I saw

him. He came out as I came in, three minutes ago. What _is_ the man?

Didn't I hear Dave telling how Micky said he should give him to the

Police? I wish Micky had, and the Police had found out who he's

murdered. Because he's murdered somebody, that man! I saw it in his

eyes."

"He's a bad character," said Mo. "If he don't get locked up, it won't be

any fault of mine. On'y that'll be after I've squared a little account I

have against him--private affair of my own. If you'll excuse me half a

minute, I'll go up and see what's got M'riar." But Uncle Mo was stopped

at the stair-foot by the reappearance of Aunt M'riar at the stair-top.

As they met halfway up, both paused, and Gwen heard what it was easy to

guess was Aunt M'riar's tale of "the Man's" visit, and Uncle Mo's

indignation. They must have conversed thus in earnest undertones for

full five minutes, before Aunt M'riar said audibly:--"Now we mustn't

keep the lady waiting no longer, Mo"; and both returned, making profuse

apologies. The interval of their absence had been successfully and

profitably filled in by an account of how Mrs. Picture had been taken to

see Jones's Bull, with a rough sketch of the Bull's demeanour in her

company.

Aunt M'riar made amends to the best of her abilities for her desertion.

Perhaps the young lady knew what she meant when she said she had been

giv' rather a turn? The young lady did indeed. Aunt M'riar hoped she had

not been alarmed by her exit. Nor by the person who had gone out?

No--Gwen's nerves had survived both, though certainly the person wasn't

a beauty. She went on to hope that the effects of the turn he had given

Aunt M'riar would not be permanent. These being pooh-poohed by both

Uncle Mo and Aunt M'riar, became negligible and lapsed.

"The children came running down directly after you went, Aunt Maria,"

said Gwen. "So I can assure you I didn't lose my temper at being left

alone. I wasn't alone two minutes!" Then she gave, in reply to a general

inquiry after the fever patient, inaugurated by Dave with:--"Oy say,

how's Sister Nora?"--the very favourable report she had just received

from Dr. Dalrymple.

Then Mrs. Prichard was rushed into the conversation by a sudden

inexplicable statement of Dolly's. "When Mrs. Spicture comes back," said

she, "Granny Marrowbone is to pour out Mrs. Spicture's tea. And real

Cake. And stoast cut in sloyces wiv real butter."

"Don't get excited, Dolly dear," said Gwen, protesting against the

amount of leg-action that accompanied this ukase. "Tell us again! _Why_

is Granny Marrable to make tea? Granny Marrable's at her house in the

country. She's not coming here with Mrs. Spicture."

"There, now, Dolly!" said Aunt M'riar. "Why don't you tell clear, a bit

at a time, and get yourself understood? Granny Marrowbone's the new

name, my lady, she's christened her doll, Dolly. So she should be known

apart, Dolly being, as you might say, Dolly herself. Because her uncle

he pointed out to her, 'Dolly,' he said, 'you're in for thinkin' out

some new name for this here baby of yours, to say which is which. Or 'us

you'll get that mixed up, nobody'll know!'"

"I put my oar in," said Uncle Mo, "for to avoid what they call

coarmplications nowadays." He never lost an opportunity of hinting at

the fallings off of the Age. "So she and Dave they turns to and thinks

one out. I should have felt more like Sally or Sooky or Martilda myself.

Or Queen Wictoria." The last was a gracious concession to Her Majesty;

who, in the eyes of Uncle Mo, had recently come to the throne.

"No!" said Dolly firmly. "Gwanny Mawwowbone!" This was very articulately

delivered, the previous, or slipshod, pronunciation having been more

nearly Granny Mallowbone.

"Certainly!" said Gwen, assenting. "Dolly's dolly Dolly shall be Granny

Marrowbone. Only it makes Dolly out rather old."

Dolly seemed to take exception to this. "I _was_ four on my birfday,"

said she. "I shan't be five not till my _next_ birfday, such a long,

long, long, long time."

"And you'll stop four till you're five," said Gwen. "Won't you, Dolly

dear? What very blue eyes the little person has!" They were fixed on the

speaker with all the solemnity the contemplation of a geological period

of Time inspires. The little person nodded gravely--about the Time, not

about her eyes--and said:--"Ass!"

Dave thrust himself forward as an interpreter of Dolly's secret wishes,

saying, to the astonishment of his aunt and uncle:--"Dorly wants to take

_her_ upstairs to show _her_ where the tea's to be set out when Mrs.

Spicture comes back."

Remonstrance was absolutely necessary, but what form could it take? Aunt

M'riar was forced back on her usual resource, her lack of previous

experience of a similar enormity:--"Well, I'm sure, a big boy like you

to call a lady _her_! I never did, in all my born days!" Uncle Mo meanly

threw the responsibility of the terms of an absolutely necessary

amendment on the culprit himself, saying:--"You're a nice young monkey!

Where's your manners? Is that what they larn you to say at school?

What's a lady's name when you speak to her?" He had no one but himself

to thank for the consequences. Dave, who, jointly with Dolly, was just

then on the most intimate footing with the young lady, responded

point-blank:--"Well--_Gwen_, then! _She_ said so. Sister Gwen."

Her young ladyship's laugh rang out with such musical cordiality that

the two horror-stricken faces relaxed, and Uncle Mo's got so far as the

beginning of a smile. "It's all quite right," said Gwen. "I told Dave I

was Gwen just this minute when you were upstairs. He's made it

'sister'--so we shan't be compromised, either of us." Whereupon Dave,

quite in the dark, assented from sheer courtesy.

Aunt M'riar seemed to think it a reasonable arrangement, and Uncle Mo,

with a twinkle in his eye, said:--"It's better than hollerin' out 'she'

and 'her,' like a porter at a railway-station."

But her ladyship had not come solely to have a symposium with Dave and

Dolly. So she suggested that both should go upstairs and rehearse the

slaughter of the fatted calf; that is to say, distribute the apparatus

of the banquet that was to welcome Mrs. Picture back. Dave demurred at

first, on the score of his maturity, but gave way when an appeal was

made to some equivalent of patriotism whose existence was taken for

granted; and consented, as it were, to act on the Committee.

"Now, don't you come running down to say it's ready, not till I give

leave," said Aunt M'riar, having misgivings that the apparatus might not

be sufficiently--suppose we affect a knowledge of Horace, and say

"Persian"--to keep the Committee employed.

"They'll be quiet enough for a bit," said Uncle Mo. Who showed insight

by adding:--"They won't agree about where the things are to be put, nor

what's to be the cake." For a proxy had to be found, to represent the

cake. Even so Lancelot stood at the altar with Guinevere, as Arthur's

understudy for the part of bridegroom.

"Do please now all sit down and be comfortable," said Gwen, as soon as

tranquillity reigned. "Because I want to talk a great deal....

Yes--about Mrs. Prichard. I really should be comfortabler if you sat

down.... Well--Mr. Wardle can sit on the table if he likes." So that

compromise was made, and Gwen got to business. "I really hardly know how

to begin telling you," she said. "What has happened is so very _odd_....

Oh no--I have seen to _that_. The woman she is with will take every care

of her.... You know--Widow Thrale, Dave's Granny's daughter, who had

charge of Dave--Strides Cottage, of course! I'm sure she'll be all right

as far as that goes. But the whole thing is so _odd_.... Stop a

minute!--perhaps the best way would be for me to read you Mrs. Thrale's

letter that she has written me. She must be very nice." This throwing of

the burden of disclosure on her correspondent seemed to Gwen to be on

the line of least resistance. She was feeling bewildered already as to

how on earth the two old sisters could be revealed to one another, and

her mind was casting about for any and every guidance from any quarter

that could lead her to the revelation naturally. There _was_ no quarter

but Sapps Court. So try it, at least!

She read straight on without interruption, except for expressions of

approval or concurrence from her hearers when they heard the writer's

declaration of how _impressionnee_ she had been by the old lady, until

she came to the first reference to the gist of the letter, her mental

soundness. Then both broke into protest. "Delusions!" they exclaimed at

once. Old Mrs. Prichard subject to delusions? Not she! Never was a saner

woman, of her years, than old Mrs. Prichard!

"I only wish," said Uncle Mo, "that I may never be no madder than Goody

Prichard. Why, it's enough to convince you she's in her senses only to

hear her say good-arternoon!" This meant that Uncle Mo's visits upstairs

had always been late in the day, and that her greeting to him would have

impressed him with her sanity, had it ever been called in question.

"On'y fancy!" said Aunt M'riar indignantly. "To say Mrs. Prichard's

deluded, and her living upstairs with Mrs. Burr this three years past,

and Skillicks for more than that, afore ever she come here!" This only

wanted the addition that Mrs. Burr had seen no sign of insanity in all

these years, to be logical and intelligible.

Gwen found no fault, because she saw what was meant. But there was need

for a caution. "You won't say anything of this till I tell you," said

she. "Not even to Mrs. Burr. It would only make her uncomfortable." For

why should all the old lady's belongings be put on the alert to discover

flaws in her understanding? Uncle Mo and Aunt M'riar gave the pledge

asked for, and Gwen went on reading. They just recognised the water-mill

as an acquaintance of last year--not as a subject of frequent

conversation with Dave. Aunt M'riar seemed greatly impressed with the

old lady's excursion out of bed to get at the mill-model, especially at

its having occurred before six in the morning. Also by the dog.

Uncle Mo was more practically observant. When the reading came to the

two mills in Essex, he turned to Aunt M'riar, saying:--"She said summat

about Essex--you told me." Aunt M'riar said:--"Well, now, I couldn't

say!" in the true manner of a disappointing witness. But when, some

sentences later, the reference came to the two little girl twins, Uncle

Mo suddenly broke in with:--"Hullo!... Never mind!--go on"; as

apologizing for his interruption. Later still, unable to constrain

himself any longer:--"Didn't--you--tell--me, M'riar, that Mrs. P. she

told you her father lived at Darenth in Essex?"

"No, Mo, that's not the name. _Durrant_ was the name she said." Aunt

M'riar was straining at a gnat. However, solemn bigwigs have done that

before now.

"Nigh enough for most folks," said Uncle Mo. "Just you think a bit and

see what she said her father's name was."

"She never said his name, Mo. She never said a single name to me, not

that I can call to mind, not except it was Durrant."

"Very well, then, M'riar! Now I come to my point.

Didn't--you--tell--me--a'most the very first time you did

anything--didn't you tell me Mrs. P. she said she was a _twin_. And Dave

he made enquiries."

"She _was_ a twin."

"I'm stumped," said Uncle Mo. "I was always groggy over the guessing of

co-nundrums. Now, miss--my lady--what does your ladyship make of it?"

"Let me read to the end," said Gwen. "It's not very long now. Then I'll

tell you." She read on and finished the letter, all but the postscript.

She was saying to herself:--"If I stick so over telling these good

people now, what will it be when the crisis comes?" It would be good

practice, anyhow, to drive it home to Aunt M'riar. When she had quite

finished what she meant to read, she went straight on, as she had

promised, ignoring obstacles:--"The explanation is that Mrs. Marrable

and Mrs. Prichard are twin sisters, who parted fifty years ago. About

five years later Mrs. Prichard was deceived by a forged letter, telling

her that her sister was drowned. My father and I found it among her

papers, and read it. This Mrs. Thrale who writes to me is her own

daughter, whom she left in England nearly fifty years since--a baby!...

And now she thinks her mother mad--her own mother!... Oh dear!--how will

they ever know? Who will tell them?"

A low whistle and a gasp respectively were all that Uncle Mo and Aunt

M'riar were good for. A reissue of the gasp might have become "Merciful

Gracious!" or some equivalent, if Uncle Mo had not nipped it in the bud,

thereby to provide a fulcrum for his own speech. "'Arf a minute, M'riar!

Your turn next. I want to be clear, miss--my lady--that I've got the

record ack-rate. These here two ladies have been twins all their lives,

unbeknown...." Uncle Mo was so bewildered that this amount of confusion

was excusable.

Gwen took his meaning, instead of criticizing his form. "Not _all_ their

lives," she said. "Fifty years ago they were thirty, and it's all

happened since then." She went over the ground again, not letting her

hearers off even the most incredible of the facts. She was surprised and

relieved to find that they seemed able to receive them, only noticing

that they appeared to lean on her superior judgment. They were

dumfoundered, of course; but they _could_ believe, with such a helper

for their unbelief. Were not the deep-rooted faiths of maturity, once,

the child's readiness to believe its parents infallible, and would not

any other indoctrination have held as firmly? Even so the rather

childish minds of Dave's guardians made no question of the credibility

of the tale, coming as it did from such an informant--one without a

shadow of interest in the fabrication of it.

Aunt M'riar made no attempt at anything beyond mere exclamation; until,

after the second detailed review of the facts, Gwen was taken aback by

her saying suddenly:--"Won't it be a'most cruel, when you come to think

of it?..."

"Won't what be cruel, Aunt M'riar?"

"For to tell 'em. Two such very elderly parties, and all the time gone

by! _I_ say, let the rest go! I should think twice about it. But it

ain't for me to say." She seemed to have a sudden inspiration towards

decision of opinion, a thing rare with her. It was due, no doubt, to her

own recent experience of an unwelcome resurrection from the Past.

"'Tain't any consarn of ours to choose, M'riar. Just you go over to

their side o' the hedge for a minute. Suppose you was Goody Prichard,

and Goody Prichard was you!"

"Well! Suppose!"

"Which would you like? Her to bottle up, or tell?" Aunt M'riar wavered.

A momentary hope of Gwen's, that perhaps Aunt M'riar's way out of the

difficulty might hold good, died at its birth, killed by Uncle Mo's

question.