XIX

Outside in the churchyard, there was a general little flutter of

local excitement. Maryllia lingered there for several minutes,

pointing out the various beauties in the architecture of the church

to her guests, not that these individuals were very much interested

in such matters, for they were of that particular social type which

considers that the highest form of good breeding is to show a polite

nullity of feeling concerning everything and everybody. They were

eminently 'cultured,' which nowadays means pre-eminently dull. Had

they been asked, they would have said that it is dangerous to

express any opinion on any subject,--even on the architecture of a

church. Because the architect himself might be somewhere near,--or

the architect's father, or his mother or his great-grandam--one

never knows! And by a hasty remark in the wrong place and at the

wrong moment, one might make an unnecessary enemy. It is so much

nicer--so much safer to say nothing at all! Of course they looked at

the church,--it would have been uncivil to their hostess not to look

at it, as she was taking the trouble to call their attention to its

various points, and they assumed the usual conventional air of

appreciative admiration. But none of, them understood anything about

it,--and none of them cared to understand. They had not even noticed

the ancient sarcophagus in front of the altar except as 'some odd

kind of sculptured ornament.' When they wore told what it was, they

smiled vacuously, and said: 'How curious!' But further than this

mild and non-aggressive exclamation they did not venture. The

villagers hung about shyly, loth to lose sight of the 'quality';--

two or three 'county' people lingered also, to stare at, and comment

upon, the notorious 'beauty,' Lady Beaulyon, whose physical charms,

having been freely advertised for some years in the society columns

of the press, were naturally 'on show' for the criticism of Tom,

Dick and Harry,--Mrs. Mandeville Poreham, marshalling her five

marriageable daughters together, stalked magisterially to her

private 'bus, very much en evidence, and considerably put out by the

supercilious gaze and smile of the perfectly costumed Mrs. Bludlip

Courtenay,--Julian Adderley, coming up in response to the beckoning

finger of Cicely Bourne, was kindly greeted by Maryllia, introduced

to one or two of her friends, and asked then and there to luncheon,

an invitation he accepted with alacrity, and, after this, all the

Manor party started with their hostess to walk home, leaving the

village and villagers behind them, and discussing as they went, the

morning's service and sermon in the usual brief and desultory style

common to fashionable church-goers. The principal impression they

appeared to have on their minds was one of vague amusement. The

notion that any clergyman should have the 'impudence'--(this was the

word used by Mrs. Bludlip Courtenay)--to pause in the service

because people came in late, touched the very apex of absurdity.

"So against his own interests too,"--said Lady Beaulyon, carelessly-

-"Because where would all the parsons be if they offended their

patrons?"

Mr. Bludlip Courtenay, a thin gentleman with a monocle--assented to

this proposition with a "Where indeed!" He considered that clergymen

should not forget themselves,--they should show proper respect

towards those on whom they depended for support.

"Mr. Walden depends on God for support, I believe,"--said Cicely

Bourne suddenly.

Mr. Bludlip Courtenay fixed his monocle firmly in his left eye and

stared at her.

"Really!" he drawled dubiously--"You surprise me!"

"It IS funny, isn't it?" pursued Cicely--"So unlike the Apostles!"

Maryllia smiled. Lady Beaulyon laughed outright.

"Are you trying to be satirical, you droll child?" she enquired

languidly.

"Oh no, I'm not trying,"--replied Cicely, with a quick flash of her

dark eyes--"It comes quite easy! You were talking about clergymen

offending their patrons. Now Mr. Walden hasn't got any patron to

offend. He's his own patron." "Has he purchased the advowson,

then?" enquired Mr. Courtenay--"Or, to put it more conventionally,

has he obtained it through a friend at court?"

"I don't know anything about the how or the why or the when,"--said

Cicely--"But I know he owns the living and the church. So of course

if he chooses to show people what he thinks of them when they come

in to service late, he can do it. If they don't like it, he doesn't

care. He doesn't ask anybody for anything,--he doesn't even send

round a collection plate."

"No--_I_ noticed that!--awfully jolly!"--said a good-natured looking

man who had been walking beside Julian Adderley,--a certain Lord

Charlemont whose one joy in life was motoring--"Awfully game! Ought

to make him quite famous!"

"It ought,--it ought indeed!" agreed Adderley--"I do not suppose

there is another clergyman in England who obliterates the plate from

the worship of the Almighty! It is so remote--so very remote!"

"I think he's a funny sort of parson altogether,"--said Cicely

meditatively--"He doesn't beg, borrow or steal,--he isn't a toady,

he isn't a hypocrite, and he speaks his mind. Queer, isn't it?"

"Very!" laughed Lord Charlemont--"I don't know another like him,

give you my word!"

"Well, he can't preach,"--said Lady Beaulyon, decisively--"I never

heard quite such a stupid sermon."

All the members of the house-party glanced at one another to see if

this verdict were generally endorsed. Apparently some differed in

opinion.

"Didn't you like it, Eva?" asked Maryllia.

"My dear child! Who COULD like it! Such transcendental stuff! And

all that nonsense about the Soul! In these scientific days too!"

"Ah science, science!" sighed Mr. Bludlip Courtenay, dropping his

monocle with a sharp click against his top waistcoat button--"Where

will it end?"

Nobody volunteered a reply to this profound proposition.

"'Souls' are noted for something else than being saved for heaven

nowadays, aren't they, Lady Beaulyon?" queried Lord Charlemont, with

a knowing smile.

Lady Beaulyon's small, rather hard mouth tightened into a thin line.

"I really don't know!"--she said carelessly--"If you mean the social

'Souls,' they are rather unconventional certainly, and not always

discreet. But they are generally interesting--much more so, I should

think, than such 'Souls' as the parson preached about just now."

"Indeed, yes!" agreed Mrs. Bludlip Courtenay--"I can imagine nothing

more tiresome than to be a Soul without a Body, climbing from height

to height of a heaven where there is no night, no sleep, no rest for

ever and ever. Simply dreadful! But there!--one only goes to church

for form's sake--just as an example to one's servants--and when it's

done, don't you think it's best to forget it as soon as possible?"

She raised her baby eyes appealingly as she put the question.

Everybody laughed, or rather sniggered. Real honest laughter is not

considered 'good form' by certain sections of society. A gentle

imitation of the nanny-goat's bleat is the most seemly way for

cultured persons to give vent to the expression of mirth. Maryllia

alone was grave and preoccupied. The conversation of her guests

annoyed her, though in London she had been quite well accustomed to

hear people talk lightly and callously of religion and all religious

subjects. Yet here, in the quiet country, things were different,

somehow. God seemed nearer,--it was more difficult to blaspheme and

ignore Him. And there was a greater sense of regret and humiliation

in one's self for one's own lack of faith. Though, at the same time,

it has to be reluctantly conceded that in no quarter of the world is

religious hypocrisy and sham so openly manifested as in the English

provinces, and especially in the small towns, where, notwithstanding

the fact that all the Sundays are passed in persistent church and

chapel going, the result of this strenuous sham piety is seen in the

most unchristian back-biting and mischief-making on every week-day.

But St. Rest was not a town. It was a tiny village apart,--utterly

free from the petty pretensions of its nearest neighbour,

Riversford, which considered itself almost 'metropolitan' on account

of its modern red-brick and stucco villas into which its trades-

people 'retired' as soon as they had made enough money to be able to

pretend that they had never stood behind a counter in their lives.

St. Rest, on the contrary, was simple in its tastes,--so simple as

to be almost primitive, particularly in its religious sentiments,

which the ministry of John Walden had, so far, kept faithful and

pure. Its atmosphere was therefore utterly at variance with the

cheap atheism of the modern world, and it was this discordancy which

struck so sharply on Maryllia's emotional nature and gave her such a

sense of unaccustomed pain.

At the Manor there were a few other visitors who had not attended

church,--none of them important, except to themselves and the

society paragraphist,--none of them distinguished as ever having

done anything particularly good, or useful in the world,--and none

of them possessing any very unconventional characteristics, with the

exception of two very quaint old ladies, who were known somewhat

irreverently among their acquaintances as the 'Sisters Gemini.' They

were of good birth and connection, but, being cast adrift as wrecks

on the shores of Time,--the one as a widow, the other as a

spinster,--had sworn eternal friendship on the altar of their

several disillusioned and immolated affections. In the present day

we are not overtroubled by any scruples of reverence for either old

widowhood or old spinsterhood; and the 'Sisters Gemini' had become a

standing joke with the self-styled 'wise and witty' of London

restaurants and late suppers. Lady Wicketts and Miss Fosby were

their actual names, and they were happily unconscious of the

unfeeling sobriquet bestowed upon them when they were out of

hearing. Lady Wicketts had once been a reigning 'beauty,' and she

lived on the reputation of that glorious past. Miss Fosby aided and

abetted her in this harmless self-deception. Lady Wicketts had been

painted by all the famous artists of her era, from the time of her

seventeeth birthday to her thirtieth. She had been represented as a

'Shepherdess,' a 'Madonna,' a 'Girl with Lilies,' a 'Lady with a

Greyhound,' a 'Nymph Sleeping,' and more briefly and to the

purpose, as 'Portrait of Lady Wicketts,' in every exhibition of

pictures that had been held during her youth and prime. Miss Fosby

carried prints and photographs of these works of art everywhere

about with her. She would surprise people by casually taking one of

them out of her album and saying softly "Isn't that beautiful?"

And then, if the beholders fell into the trap and uttered

exclamations of rapture at the 'Shepherdess' or the 'Madonna,' or

whatever allegorical subject it happened to be, she would smile

triumphantly and say-'Lady Wicketts!'--to all appearance enjoying

the violent shock of incredulous amazement which her announcement

invariably inflicted on all those who received it.

"Not possible!" they would murmur--"Lady Wicketts---!"

"Yes,--Lady Wicketts when she was young,"--Miss Fosby would say

mildly--"She was very beautiful when she was twenty. She is sixty-

seven now. But she is still beautiful,--don't you think so? She has

such an angelic expression! And she is so good--ah!--so very goodl

There is no one like Lady Wicketts!"

All this was very sweet and touching on the part of Miss Fosby, so

far as Miss Fosby alone was concerned. To her there was but one

woman in the world, and that was Lady Wicketts. But the majority of

people saw Lady Wicketts in quite another light. They knew she had

been, in her time, as unprincipled as beautiful, and that she had

'gone the pace' more openly than most of her class. They beheld her

now without spectacles,--an enormously fat woman, with a large round

flaccid face, scarred all over by Time's ploughshare with such deep

furrows that one might have sown seed in them and expected it to

grow.

But Miss Fosby still recognised the 'Shepherdess,' the 'Madonna' and

the 'Girl with Lilies,' in the decaying composition of her friend,

and Miss Fosby was something of a bore in consequence, though the

constancy of her devotion to a totally unworthy object was quaintly

pathetic in its way. The poor soul herself was nearer seventy than

sixty, and she was quite as lean as her idol was fat,--she had never

been loved by anyone in all her life, but,--in her palmy days,--she

had loved. And the necessity of loving had apparently remained a

part of her nature, otherwise it would have been a sheer

impossibility for her to have selected so strange a fetish as Lady

Wicketts for her adoration. Lady Wicketts did not, in any marked

way, respond to Miss Fosby's tenderness,--she merely allowed herself

to be worshipped, just as in her youth she had allowed scores of

young bloods to kiss her hand and murmur soft nothings in her then

'shell-like' ear. The young bloods were gone, but Miss Fosby

remained. Better the worship of Miss Fosby than no worship at all.

Maryllia had met these two old ladies frequently at various

Continental resorts, when she had travelled about with her aunt,--

and she had found something amusing and interesting in them both,

especially in Miss Fosby, who was really a good creature,--and when

in consultation with Cicely as to who, among the various people she

knew, should be asked down to the Manor and who should not, she had

selected them as a set-off to the younger, more flippant and casual

of her list, and also because they were likely to be convenient

personages to play chaperones if necessary.

For the rest, the people were of the usual type one has got

accustomed to in what is termed 'smart' society nowadays,--listless,

lazy, more or less hypocritical and malicious,--apathetic and

indifferent to most things and most persons, save and except those

with whom unsavoury intrigues might or would be possible,--sneering

and salacious in conversation, bitter and carping of criticism,

generally blase, and suffering from the incurable ennui of utter

selfishness,--the men concentrating their thoughts chiefly on

racing, gaining, and Other Men's Wives,--the women dividing all

their stock of emotions between Bridge, Dress, and Other Women's

Husbands. And when Julian Adderley, as an author in embryo, found

himself seated at luncheon with this particular set of persons, all

of whom were more or less well known in the small orbit wherein they

moved, he felt considerably enlivened and exhilarated. Life was

worth living, he said to himself, when one might study at leisure

the little tell-tale lines of vice and animalism on the exquisite

features of Lady Beaulyon, and at the same time note admiringly how

completely the united forces of massage and self-complacency had

eradicated every wrinkle from the expressionless countenance of Mrs.

Bludlip Courtenay. These two women were, in a way, notorious as

'leaders' of their own special coteries of social scandalmongers and

political brokers; Lady Beaulyon was known best among Jew

financiers; Mrs. Courtenay among American 'Kings' of oil and steel.

Each was in her own line a 'power,'--each could coax large advances

of money out of the pockets of millionaires to further certain

'schemes' which were vaguely talked about, but which never came to

fruition,--each had a little bevy of young journalists in

attendance,--press boys whom they petted and flattered, and

persuaded to write paragraphs concerning their wit, wisdom and

beauty, and how they 'looked radiant in pink' or 'dazzling in pea

green.' Contemplating first one and then the other of these ladies,

Julian almost resolved to compose a poem about them, entitled 'The

Sirens' and, dividing it into Two Cantos, to dedicate the First

Canto to Lady Beaulyon and the Second to Mrs. Courtenay.

"It would be so new--so fresh!" he mused, with a bland anticipation

of the flutter such a work might possibly cause among society dove-

cots--"And if ALL the truth were told, so much more risque than 'Don

Juan'!"

Glancing up and down, and across the hospitable board, exquisitely

arranged with the loveliest flowers and fruit, and the most

priceless old silver, he noticed that every woman of the party was

painted and powdered except Maryllia, and her young protegee,

Cicely. The dining-room of Abbot's Manor was not a light apartment,-

-its oak-panelled walls and raftered ceiling created shadow rather

than luminance,--and though the windows were large and lofty, rising

from the floor to the cornice, their topmost panes were of very old

stained glass, so that the brightest sunshine only filtered, as it

were, through the deeply-encrusted hues of rose and amber and

amethyst squares, painted with the arms of the Vancourts, and

heraldic emblems of bygone days. Grateful and beautiful indeed was

this mysteriously softened light to the ladies round the table,--and

for a brief space they almost LOVED Maryllia. For HER face was

flushed, and quite uncooled by powder--'like a dairymaid's--she will

get so coarse if she lives in the country always!' Mrs. Bludlip

Courtenay confided softly to Lord Charlemont, who vaguely murmured--

'Ah! Yes! I daresay!' quite without any idea of what the woman was

talking about. Maryllia's pretty hair too was ruffled, she having

merely taken off her hat in the hall on her return from church,

without troubling to go up to her room and 'touch up' her appearance

as all the other ladies who had suffered from walking exercise had

done,--and her eyes looked just a trifle tired. Adderley found her

charming with this shade of fatigue and listlessness upon her,--more

charming than in her most radiant phases of vivacity. Her peach-like

skin, warmed as it was by the sun, was tinted with Nature's own

exquisite colouring, and compared most favourably with the cosmetic

art so freely displayed by her female friends on either side of her.

Julian began to con verses in his head, and he recalled the lines of

seventeeth-century Eichard Crashaw:--

"A Face that's best

By its own beauty drest,

And can alone command the rest."

And he caught himself wondering why,--whenever he came near the Lady

of the Manor,--he was anxious to seem less artificial, less

affected, and more of a man than his particular 'Omar Kayyam' set

had taught him to be. The same praiseworthy desire moved him in the

company of John Walden, therefore sex could have nothing to do with

it. Was it 'Soul'?--that 'breath of God' which had been spoken of in

the pulpit that morning?

He could not, however, dwell upon this rather serious proposition at

luncheon, his thoughts being distracted by the conversation, if

conversation it could be called, that was buzzing on either side of

the table, amidst the clattering of plates and the popping of

champagne corks. It was neither brilliant, witty nor impersonal,--

brilliant, witty and impersonal talk is never generated in modem

society nowadays. "I would much rather listen to the conversation of

lunatics in the common room of an asylum, than to the inane gabble

of modern society in a modern drawing-room"--said a late

distinguished politician to the present writer--"For the lunatics

always have the glimmering of an idea somewhere in their troubled

brains, but modern society has neither brains nor ideas."

Fragmentary sentences, often slangy, and occasionally ungrammatical,

seemed most in favour with the Manor 'house-party,'--and for a time

splinters of language flew about like the chips from dry timber

under a woodman's axe, without shape, or use, or meaning. It was a

mere confused and senseless jabber--a jabber in which Maryllia took

no part. She sat very quietly looking from one face to the other at

table with a critical interest. These were the people she had met

every day more or less in London,--some of them had visited her aunt

constantly, and had invited her out to dinners and luncheons, 'at

homes,' balls and race parties, and all were considered to be 'very

select' in every form that is commended by an up-to-date

civilisation. Down here, in the stately old-world surroundings of

Abbot's Manor, they looked very strange to her,--nay, even more than

strange. Clowns, columbines and harlequins with all their 'make-up'

on, could not have seemed more out of place than these socially

popular persons in the historic house of her ancestors. Lady

Beaulyon was perhaps the most remarkable 'revelation' of the whole

company. Maryllia had always admired Eva Beaulyon with quite an

extravagant admiration, on account of her physical charm and grace,-

-and had also liked her sufficiently well to entirely discredit the

stories that were rife about the number of her unlawful amours. That

she was an open flirt could not be denied,--but that she ever

carried a flirtation beyond bounds, Maryllia would never have

believed. Now, however, a new light seemed thrown upon her--there

was a touch of something base in her beauty--a flash of cruelty in

her smile--a hardness in her eyes. Maryllia looked at her wistfully

now and then, and was half sorry she had invited her, the

disillusion was so complete.

The luncheon went on, and was soon over, and coffee and cigarettes

were served. All the women smoked with the exception of Maryllia,

Cicely and old Miss Fosby. The rings of pale blue vapour circled

before Maryllia's eyes in a dim cloud,--she had seen the same kind

of mixed smoking going on before, scores of times, and yet now--why

was it that she felt vaguely annoyed by a sense of discrepancy and

vulgarity She could not tell. Cicely watched her lovingly,--and

every now and again Julian Adderley, waving away the smoke of his

own cigar with one hand, studied her face and tried to fathom its

expression. She spoke but little, and that chiefly to Lord

Charlemont who was on her left-hand side.

"And how long are you going to stay in this jolly old place, Miss

Vancourt?" he asked.

"All my life, I hope,"--she said with a little smile--"It is my own

home, you know."

"Oh yes!--I know!--but--" he hesitated for a moment; "But your aunt-

--"

"Aunt Emily and I don't quite agree,"--said Maryllia, quietly--"She

has been very kind to me in the past,--but since Uncle Fred's death,

things have not been just as pleasant. You see, I speak frankly.

Besides I'm getting on towards thirty,--it's time I lived my own

life, and tried to do something useful."

Charlemont laughed.

"You look more like eighteen than thirty,"--he said--"Why give

yourself away?"

"Is that giving myself away?" and she raised her eyebrows

quizzically--"I'm not thirty yet--I'm twenty-seven,--but that's old

enough to begin to take things seriously. I've made up my mind to

live here at Abbot's Manor and do all I can for the tenantry and the

village generally--I'm sure I shall be perfectly happy." "How about

getting married?" he queried.

Her blue eyes darkened with a shade of offence.

"The old story!" she said--"Men always think a woman must be married

to be happy. It doesn't at all follow. I know heaps and heaps of

married women, and they are in anything but an enviable state. I

would not change with one of them!"

"Would you like to be another Miss Fosby?" he suggested in a

mirthful undertone.

She smiled.

"Well--no! But I would rather be Miss Fosby than Lady Wicketts!"

Here she rose, giving the signal for general adjournment to the

drawing-room. The windows of this apartment were set open, and a

charming garden vista of lawn and terraee and rose-walk opened out

before the eyes.

"Now for Bridge!" said Lady Beaulyon--"I'm simply dying for a game!"

"So am I!" declared Mrs. Bludlip Courtenay--"Lord Charlemont, you'll

play?"

"Charmed, I'm sure!" was the ready response. "Where shall we put the

card tables? Near the window? Such an enjoyable prospect!"

"We'll have two tables, or even three,"--said Lady Beaulyon; "I

suppose most of us will play?"

"Oh yes!" "Why of course!" "I should think so!" "Just what we're all

longing for!" Such were the expressions of general delight and

acceptance chorussed by the whole party.

"You'll join, Lady Wicketts?"

"With pleasure!" and Lady Wicketts' sunken old eyes gleamed with an

anxious light over the furrows of flesh which encircled them, as she

promptly deserted Miss Fosby, who had been sitting next to her, for

the purpose of livelier entertainment;--and in a moment there was a

general gathering together in the wide embrasure of the window nook,

and an animated discussion as to who should play Bridge and who

should not. Maryllia watched the group silently. There were varying

shades of expression on her mobile features. She held Cicely's hand

in her own,--and was listening to some of Adderley's observations on

quite ordinary topics, when suddenly, with, an impulsive movement,

she let Cicely go, and with an 'Excuse me!' to Julian, went towards

her guests. She had made a resolve;--it would be an attempt to swim

against the social current, and it was fraught with difficulty and

unpleasantness,--yet she was determined to do it. "If I am a coward

now," she thought--"I shall never be brave!" Her heart beat

uncomfortably, and she could feel the blood throbbing nervously in

her veins, as she bent her mind to the attitude she was about to

take up, regardless of mockery or censure. Scraps of the window

conversation fell on her ears--"I won forty pounds last Wednesday,--

it just paid my boot-bill!" said one young woman, laughing

carelessly.

"Luckier than me!" retorted a man next to her--"I had to pay a

girl's losses to the tune of a hundred. It's all right though!" And

he grinned suggestively.

"Is she pretty?"

"Ripping!"

"I want to make up five hundred pounds this week," observed Mrs.

Bludlip Courtenay, in the most serious and matter-of-fact way--"I've

won it all but a hundred and fifty."

"Good for you!"

"Rather!" said Lord Charlemont, nodding approval--"I'd like to get

you for a partner!"

"I AM considered lucky,"--smiled Mrs. Courtenay, with an air of

virtuous pride--"I always win SOMETHING!"

"Well, let's begin at once,--we'll play all the afternoon." said

Lady Beaulyon.

"Where are the tables?" "AND the cards?"

"Ask Maryllia---"

But at that moment Maryllia stepped gently into their midst, her

eyes shining, her face very pale.

"Not on Sunday, please!" she said.

A stillness fell upon them all. They gazed upon each other in sheer

stupefaction. Lady Beaulyon smiled disdainfully.

"Not on Sunday? What are you talking about, Maryllia? Not WHAT on

Sunday?"

"Not Bridge,"--replied Maryllia, in her clear soft voice--"I do not

allow it."

Fresh glances of wonderment were exchanged. The men hummed and hawed

and turned themselves about on their heels--the women simply stared.

Lady Beaulyon burst out laughing.

"Ridiculous!" she exclaimed,--then flushed, and bit her lip, knowing

that such an ejaculation was scarcely civil to her hostess. But

Maryllia took no offence.

"Pray do not think me discourteous,"--she said, very sweetly. "I

would not interfere with your pleasure in any way if I could

possibly help it. But in this instance I really must do so."

"Oh certainly, Miss Vancourt!" "We would not think of playing if you

do not wish it!" These, and similar expressions came from Lord

Charlemont, and one or two others.

"My dear Maryllia," said Mrs. Courtenay, reproachfully--"You are

really VERY odd! I have myself seen you playing Bridge, Sunday after

Sunday at your aunt's house in London. Why should you now suddenly

object to your friends doing what you have so often done yourself?"

Maryllia flushed a pretty rose-red.

"In my aunt's house I had to do as my aunt wished, Mrs. Courtenay,"

she said--"In my own house I do as _I_ wish!"

Here her face relaxed into a bright smile, as she raised her candid

blue eyes to the men standing about her--"I'm sure you won't mind

amusing yourselves with something else than cards, just for one day,

will you? Come into the garden,--it's such a perfect afternoon! The

rose-walk just opposite leads down to the bank of the river,--would

some of you like to go on the water? There are two boats ready there

if you would. And do forgive me for stopping your intended game!--

you can play Bridge every day in the week if you like, but spare the

Sunday!"

There was a brief awkward pause. Then Eva Beaulyon turned her back

indifferently on the whole party and stepped out on the lawn. She

was followed by Mrs. Bludlip Courtenay, and both ladies gave vent to

small smothered bleats of mocking laughter as they sauntered across

the grass side by side. But Maryllia did not care. She had carried

her point, and was satisfied. The Sunday's observance in Abbot's

Manor, always rigorously insisted upon by her father, would not be

desecrated by card-playing and gambling under his daughter's sway.

That was enough for her. A serene content dwelt in her eyes as she

watched her guests disperse and scatter themselves in sections of

twos and threes all over the garden and grounds--and she said the

pleasantest and kindest things when any of them passed her on their

way, telling them just where to find the prettiest nooks, and where

to pick the choicest fruit and flowers. Lord Charlemont watched her

with a sense of admiration for her 'pluck.'

"By Jove!" he thought--"I'd rather have fronted the guns in a

pitched battle than have forbidden my own guests to play Bridge on

Sunday! Wants nerve,--upon my soul it does!--and the little woman's

got it--you bet she has!" Aloud he said--

"I'm awfully glad to be let off Bridge, Miss Vancourt! A day's

respite is a positive boon!"

"Do you play it so often, then?" she asked gently. He flushed

slightly.

"Too often, I'm afraid! But how can I help it? One must do something

to kill time!"

"Poor Time!" said Maryllia, with a smile--"Why should he be killed?

I would rather make much of him while I have him!"

Charlemont did not answer. He lit a cigar and strolled away by

himself to meditate.

Mrs. Bludlip Courtenay just then re-entered the drawing-room from

the garden, fanning herself vigorously with her handkerchief.

"It is so frightfully warm!" she complained--"Such a burning sun! So

bad for the skin! They are picking strawberries and eating them off

the plants--very nice, I daresay--but quite messy. Eva Beaulyon and

two of the men have taken a boat and gone on the water. If you don't

mind, Maryllia, I shall rest and massage till dinner."

"Pray do so!" returned Maryllia, kindly, smiling, despite herself;

Mrs. Bludlip Courtenay's life was well-nigh, spent in 'massage' and

various other processes for effacing the prints of Time from her

carefully guarded epidermis--"But I was just going to ask Cicely to

play us something. Won't you wait five minutes and hear her?"

Mrs. Courtenay sighed and sank into a chair. Nothing bored her so

utterly as music,--but as it was only for 'five minutes,' she

resigned herself to destiny. And Cicely, at a sign from Maryllia,

went to the piano and played divinely,--wild snatches of Polish and

Hungarian folk-songs, nocturnes and romances, making the instrument

speak a thousand things of love and laughter, of sorrow and death,--

till the glorious rush of melody captivated some of the wanderers in

the garden and brought them near the open window to listen. When she

ceased, there was a little outbreak of applause, and Mrs. Bludlip

Courtenay rose languidly.

"Yes, very nice!" she said--"Very nice indeed! But you know,

Maryllia, if you would only get one of those wonderful box things

one sees advertised so much in the papers, the pianista or mutuscope

or gramophone--no, I THINK it's pianola, but I'm not quite sure--you

would save such a lot of study and brain-work for this poor child!

And it sounds quite as well! I'm sure she could manage a gramophone

thing--I mean pianista--pianola--quite nicely for you when you want

any music. Couldn't you, my dear?"

And she gazed at Cicely with a bland kindliness as she put the

question. Cicely's eyes sparkled with fun and satire.

"I'm sure I could!" she declared, with the utmost seriousness--"It

would be delightful! Just like organ-grinding, only much more so! I

should enjoy it of all things! Of course one ought NEVER to use the

brain in music!"

"Not nowadays,"--said Mrs. Courtenay, with conviction--"Things have

improved so much. Mechanism does everything so well. And it is SUCH

a pity to use up one's vital energy in doing what one of those box-

things can do better. And do you too play music?"

And she addressed herself to Adderley who happened to be standing

near her. He made one of his fantastic salutes.

"Not I, madam! I am merely a writer,--one who makes rhymes and

verses---"

Mrs. Bludlip Courtenay waved him away with a hand on which at least

five diamond rings sparkled gorgeously.

"Oh dear! Don't come near me!" she said, with a little affected

laugh--"I simply HATE poetry! I'm so sorry you write it! I can't

think why you do. Do you like it?--or are you doing it for somebody

because you must?"

Julian smiled, and ran his fingers through his hair, sticking it up

rather on end, much to Mrs. Courtenay's abhorrence.

"I like it more than anything else in the world!" he said. "I'm

doing it quite for myself, and for nobody else."

"Really!"--and Mrs. Courtenay gave him a glance of displeased

surprise--"How dreadful!" Here she turned to Maryllia. "Au revoir,

my dear, for the present! As you won't allow any Bridge, I'm going

to sleep. Then I shall do massage for an hour. May I have tea in my

own room?"

"Certainly!" said Maryllia.

"Thanks!" She glided out, with a frou-frou of her silken skirts and

a trail of perfume floating after her.

The three she left behind her exchanged amused glances.

"Wonderful woman!" said Adderley,--"And, no doubt, a perfectly happy

one!"

"Why of course! I don't suppose she has ever shed a tear, lest it

should make a wrinkle!" And Cicely, as she made these remarks,

patted her own thin, sallow cheeks consolingly. "Look at my poor

face and hers! Mine is all lined and puckered with tears and sad

thoughts--SHE hasn't a wrinkle! And I'm fourteen, and she's forty!

Oh dear! Why did I cry so much over all the sorrow and beauty of

life when I was young!"

"Ah--and why didn't you have a pianista-pianola!" said Adderley.

They all laughed,--and then at Maryllia's suggestion, joined the

rest of the guests in the garden.

That same evening when Maryllia was dressing for dinner, there came

a tap at her bedroom door, and in response to her 'Come in!' Eva

Beaulyon entered.

"May I speak to you alone for a minute?" she said.

Maryllia assented, giving a sign to her maid to leave the room.

"Well, what is it, Eva?" said Maryllia, when the girl had gone--

"Anything wrong?"

Eva Beaulyon sank into a chair somewhat wearily, and her beautiful

violet eyes, despite artistic 'touching up' looked hard and tired.

"Not so far as I am concerned,"--she said, with a little mirthless

laugh--"Only I think you behaved very oddly this afternoon. Do you

really mean that you object to Bridge on Sundays, or was it only a

put on?"

"It was a put off!" responded Maryllia, gaily--"It stopped the

intended game! Seriously, Eva, I meant it and I do mean it. There's

too much Bridge everywhere--and I don't think it necessary,--I don't

think it even decent--to keep it going on Sundays."

"I suppose the parson of your parish has told you that!" said Lady

Beaulyon, suddenly.

Maryllia's eyes met hers with a smile.

"The parson of the parish has not presumed to dictate to me on my

actions,"--she said--"I should deeply resent it if he did."

"Well, he had no eyes for anyone but you in the church this morning.

A mole could have seen that in the dark. He was preaching AT us and

FOR you all the while!"

A slight flush swept over Maryllia's cheeks,--then she laughed.

"My dear Eva! I never thought you were imaginative! The parson has

nothing whatever to do with me,--why, this is the first Sunday I

have ever been to his church,--you know I never go to church."

Lady Beaulyon looked at her narrowly, unconvinced.

"What have you left your aunt for?" she asked.

"Simply because she wants me to marry Roxmouth, and I won't!" said

Maryllia, emphatically.

"Why not?"

"First, because I don't love him,--second, because he has slandered

me by telling people that I am running after his title, to excuse

himself for running after Aunt Emily's millions; and lastly, but by

no means leastly, because he is--unclean."

"All men are;" said Eva Beaulyon, drily--"It's no use objecting to

that!"

Maryllia made no remark. She was standing before her dressing-table,

singing softly to herself, while she dexterously fastened a tiny

diamond arrow in her hair.

"I suppose you're going to try and 'live good' down here!"--went on

Lady Beaulyon, after a pause--"It's a mistake,--no one born of human

flesh and blood can do it. You can't 'live good' and enjoy

yourself!"

"No?" said Maryllia, tentatively.

"No, certainly not! For if you never do anything out of the humdrum

line, and never compromise yourself in any way, Society will be so

furious with your superiority to itself that it will invent a

thousand calumnies and hang them all on your name. And you will

never know how they arise, and never be able to disprove them."

"Does it matter?"--and Maryllia smiled--"If one's conscience is

clear, need one care what people say?"

"Conscience!" exclaimed Lady Beaulyon--"What an old-fashioned

expression! Surely it's better to do something people can lay hold

of and talk about, than have them invent something you have never

done! They will give you no credit for virtue or honesty in this

world, Maryllia, unless you grow ugly and deformed. Then perhaps

they will admit you may be good, and they will add--'She has no

temptation to be otherwise.'"

"I do not like your code of morality, Eva," said Maryllia, quietly.

"Perhaps not, but it's the only one that works in OUR day!" replied

Eva, with some heat, "Surely you know that?"

"I try to forget it as much as possible,"--and Maryllia's eyes were

full of a sweet wistfulness as she spoke--"Especially here--in my

father's home!"

"Oh well!" said Lady Beaulyon, with a touch of impatience--"You are

a strange girl--you always were! You can 'live good,' or try to, if

you like; and stay down here all alone with the doldrums and the

humdrums. But you'll be sick of it in six months. I'm sure you will!

Not a man will come near you,--they hate virtuous women nowadays,--

and scarce a woman will come either, save old and ugly ones! You

will kill yourself socially altogether by the effort. Life's too

short to lose all the fun out of it for the sake of an ideal or a

theory!"

Here the gong sounded for dinner. Maryllia turned away from her

dressing-table, and confronted her friend. Her face was grave and

earnest in its expression, and her eyes were very steadfast and

clear.

"I don't want what you call 'fun,' Eva,"--she said--"I want love!

Love seems to me the only good thing in life. Do you understand? You

ask me why I left my aunt--it was to escape a loveless marriage,--a

marriage that would be a positive hell to me for which neither

wealth nor position could atone. As for 'living good,' I am not

trying that way. I only want to understand myself, and find out my

own possibilities and limitations. And if I never do win the love I

want,--if no one ever cares for me at all, then I shall be perfectly

content to live and die unmarried."

"What a fate!" laughed Lady Beaulyon, shrugging her white shoulders.

"A better one than the usual divorce court result of some 'society'

marriages,"--said Maryllia, calmly--"Anyhow, I'd rather risk single

blessedness than united 'cussedness'! Let us go down to dinner, Eva!

On all questions pertaining to 'Souls' and modern social ethics, we

must agree to differ!"