Chapter VII

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TRISTRAM of BLENT

_BY THE SAME AUTHOR_

A MAN OF MARK

MR WITT'S WIDOW

FATHER STAFFORD

A CHANGE OF AIR

HALF A HERO

THE PRISONER OF ZENDA

THE GOD IN THE CAR

THE DOLLY DIALOGUES

COMEDIES OF COURTSHIP

THE CHRONICLES OF COUNT ANTONIO

THE HEART OF PRINCESS OSRA

PHROSO

SIMON DALE

RUPERT OF HENTZAU

THE KING'S MIRROR

QUISANTE

TRISTRAM of BLENT

_An Episode in the Story of an Ancient House_

_By_ ANTHONY HOPE

_New York_

MCCLURE, PHILLIPS & CO.

MCMI

_Copyright, 1900 and 1901, by_ ANTHONY HOPE HAWKINS

_THIRD EDITION_

Trow Directory

Printing & Bookbinding Company

New York

A TABLE _of the_ CONTENTS _Page_

I. A SUPPRESSED PASSAGE 1

II. MR CHOLDERTON'S IMP 10

III. ON GUARD 22

IV. SHE COULD AN' SHE WOULD 34

V. THE FIRST ROUND 48

VI. THE ATTRACTION OF IT 61

VII. THE MOMENT DRAWS NEAR 74

VIII. DUTY AND MR NEELD 88

IX. THE MAN IN POSSESSION 101

X. BEHOLD THE HEIR! 114

XI. A PHANTOM BY THE POOL 129

XII. FIGHTERS AND DOUBTERS 143

XIII. IN THE LONG GALLERY 158

XIV. THE VERY SAME DAY 173

XV. AN INQUISITION INTERRUPTED 190

XVI. THE NEW LIFE 205

XVII. RIVER SCENES AND BRIC-À-BRAC 220

XVIII. CONSPIRATORS AND A CRUX 233

XIX. IN THE MATTER OF BLINKHAMPTON 248

XX. THE TRISTRAM WAY--A SPECIMEN 264

XXI. THE PERSISTENCE OF BLENT 279

XXII. AN INSULT TO THE BLOOD 296

XXIII. A DECREE OF BANISHMENT 312

XXIV. AFTER THE END OF ALL 328

XXV. THERE'S THE LADY TOO! 342

XXVI. A BUSINESS CALL 358

XXVII. BEFORE TRANSLATION 375

XXVIII. THE CAT AND THE BELL 391

XXIX. THE CURMUDGEON 407

XXX. TILL THE NEXT GENERATION 420

I

A SUPPRESSED PASSAGE

Mr Jenkinson Neeld was an elderly man of comfortable private means; he

had chambers in Pall Mall, close to the Imperium Club, and his short

stoutish figure, topped by a chubby spectacled face, might be seen

entering that dignified establishment every day at lunch time, and also

at the hour of dinner on the evenings when he had no invitation

elsewhere. He had once practised at the Bar, and liked to explain that

he had deserted his profession for the pursuit of literature. He did

not, however, write on his own account; he edited. He would edit

anything provided there was no great public demand for an edition of it.

Regardless of present favor, he appealed to posterity--as gentlemen with

private means are quite entitled to do. Perhaps he made rather high

demands on posterity; but that was his business--and its. At any rate

his taste was curious and his conscience acute. He was very minute and

very scrupulous, very painstaking and very discreet, in the exercise of

his duties. Posterity may perhaps like these qualities in an editor of

memoirs and diaries; for such were Mr Neeld's favorite subjects.

Sometimes he fell into a sore struggle between curiosity and discretion,

having impulses in himself which he forbore to attribute to posterity.

He was in just such a fix now--so he thought to himself--as he perused

the manuscript before him. It was the Journal of his deceased friend

Josiah Cholderton, sometime Member of Parliament (in the Liberal

interest) for the borough of Baxton in Yorkshire, Commercial Delegate to

the Congress of Munich in '64, and Inventor of the Hygroxeric Method of

Dressing Wool. No wonder posterity was to be interested in Cholderton!

Yet at times--and especially during his visits to the Continent--the

diarist indulged himself in digressions about people he encountered; and

these assumed now and then a character so personal, or divulged episodes

so private, that the editor had recourse to his blue pencil and drew it

with a sigh through pages which he had himself found no small relief

from the severer record of Cholderton's services to the commerce of his

country. Mr Neeld sat now with blue pencil judicially poised,

considering the following passage in his friend's recollections. The

entry bore date Heidelberg, 1875.

"At the widow's" (Mr Cholderton is speaking of a certain Madame de

Kries) "pleasant villa I became acquainted with a lady who made

something of a sensation in her day, and whom I remember both for

her own sake and because of a curious occurrence connected with

her. A year and a half before (or thereabouts) society had been

startled by the elopement of Miss T. with Sir R. E. They were

married, went to France, and lived together a month or two.

Suddenly Sir R. went off alone; whose the fault was nobody knew, or

at least it never came to my ears. The lady was not long left in

solitude, and, when I met her, she passed as Mrs F., wife of

Captain F. The Captain seemed to me an ordinary good-looking

reckless young fellow; but Mrs F. was a more striking person. She

was tall, graceful, and very fair, a beautiful woman (I might

rather say girl) beyond question. Talk revealed her as an absolute

child in a moral sense, with a child's infinite candor, a child's

infinite deceit, a child's love of praise, a child's defiance of

censure where approval would be too dearly earned. She was hardly a

reasonable being, as we men of the world understand the term; she

was however an exceedingly attractive creature. The natural

feelings of a woman, at least, were strong in her, and she was

fretting over the prospects of the baby who was soon to be born to

her. Captain F. shared her anxiety. I understood their feelings

even more fully (in any case the situation was distressing) when I

learnt from Madame de Kries that in certain events (which happened

later) the lady and her child after her would become persons of

rank and importance.

Now comes the scene which has stamped itself on my memory. I was

sitting in Madame de Kries' parlor with her and her daughter--an

odd dark little thing, five or six years old. Suddenly Mrs F. came

in. She was in a state of agitation and excitement by no means

healthy (I should suppose) for one in her condition. She held a

letter in her hand and waved it in the air, crying, 'Sir R.'s dead,

Sir R.'s dead! We can be married! Oh, we're in time, in time, in

time!' Extraordinary as such exclamations may appear when the

circumstances and my own presence are considered, I have repeated

them _verbatim_. Then she sank down on the sofa, Madame de Kries

kneeling by her, while the Imp (as I called the child, whom I

disliked) stared at her open-eyed, wondering no doubt what the fuss

was about. Directly after F. came in, almost as upset as Mrs F.,

and the pair between them managed to explain to us that she had

received a letter from Sir R.'s servant (with whom she had

apparently maintained some communication), announcing that his

master had, after two days' illness, died of heart complaint on the

6th June. 'Think of the difference it makes, the enormous

difference!' she gasped, jumping up again and standing in the

middle of the room. She was so full of this idea that she did not

spare a thought to the dead man or to anything which might strike

us as peculiar or distasteful in her own attitude and the way in

which she received the news. 'We shall be married directly,' she

continued with that strange absence of shame or pretence which

always marked her, 'and then it'll be all right, and nobody'll be

able to say a word in the future.' She went on in this strain for a

long while, until Madame de Kries at last insisted on her calming

herself, and proposed to accompany her to her own house. At this

point I made my excuses and retired, the Imp following me to the

door and asking me, as I went out, why people had to be married

again when other people died; she was a child who needed wiser and

firmer bringing-up than her mother gave her.

I did not myself see Captain and Mrs F. again, as I left Heidelberg

the next day, 22nd June. I learnt however from Madame de Kries that

the wedding was hurried on and took place on the day following my

departure; after this the pair went to Baden, and there, a

fortnight later, the child--a boy--was born. I must confess that I

was glad the young couple had avoided the calamity they were in

dread of, although I am not sure that I had a right to wish that

they should escape the full consequences of their fault.

My feelings were abruptly changed when, on paying a flying visit to

Madame de Kries a few months later, I heard the sequel of the

story, told to me in the strictest confidence, and in violation, I

fear, of the old lady's pledge of secrecy. (She was a sad gossip, a

failing with which I have no sympathy.) Sir R. E. did not, in fact,

die on the date reported. He fell into a collapse, mistaken for

death by those about him, and even by his medical attendant; after

lying in this state for twenty-four hours he revived and lived

nearly a week longer. A second letter, apprising Mrs F. of this

fact, and announcing the correct date of his death as June 12th,

reached her at Baden on the 28th. By this time she was married, but

the validity of her new union (solemnized on the 23rd) did not

appear to be affected. Nothing more was done, and the boy was born,

as I have stated, early in July. Only after this event, which

naturally engrossed the parents' attention, did the mistake into

which they had fallen come to be discovered. As a matter of form,

and to avoid doubts in the future, Captain F. wrote for the

official certificate of Sir R.'s death. When it came, it came as a

thunderbolt. Sir R. had been residing in a small Russian town near

the frontier; he was interested, I understood, in some business

there. The servant to whom I have referred was an uneducated man

and could not write; he had picked up a little French but spoke no

Russian. Wishing to inform Mrs F. of what had occurred, he had

recourse to a professional letter-writer, who perhaps knew as

little French, or almost as little, as himself, and was entirely

ignorant of English. The servant gave the dates I have set

down--June 6th in the first letter, the 12th in the second. The

letter-writer put them down; and Mrs F. read and immediately

accepted them. It did not cross her mind or Captain F.'s that the

dates used were the ordinary Russian dates--were in fact 'Old

Style,' and consequently twelve days behind the reckoning of

Germany or of England. They might have been put on inquiry by the

long interval between the date of the death as it was given and the

receipt of the news; in their excitement they paid no heed to it,

and it did not occur either to Madame de Kries or to myself to

raise the question. Indeed who thinks of the 'Old Style' at this

period of the world's history? Besides, I did not know at that

time, and I do not think that Madame de Kries did, where the first

letter came from; Mrs F. said nothing about it. But when the

certificate arrived--about the middle of July, as I understood--the

mistake was clear; for a note in the official's hand translated the

dates into New Style for the benefit of the foreigners to whom he

was supplying the document. Sir R. E., first reported dead on June

6th Old Style, otherwise June 18th New Style, had actually died on

the 12th Old Style, or 24th New Style.

I have always thought this one of the most perverse little

incidents which I have met with in the course of my life, and I

think it such still, when I consider how easily it might have done

no harm, and how serious, and indeed irreparable, its actual

consequences were. The mistake as to the date of death was the

first source of confusion, since it caused Mrs F.'s wedding to take

place while her husband, Sir R., had still a day to live. But this

error would not in itself have proved fatal, since there would

still have been time to repeat the ceremony and make a valid

marriage of it before the birth of the child. Here the

misapprehension about the Old Style came in. Led to believe that,

although Sir R. lived six days longer than was originally reported,

yet none the less he died on June 12th, the F.'s did not have the

ceremony repeated. But he died, in fact, on the 24th as his wife

reckoned time, and her wedding to Captain F. on the 23rd was an

idle and useless form. When the discovery was made, the boy was

born--and born out of lawful wedlock.

What did they do then? I was pardonably interested in the matter,

and inquired of Madame de Kries. She was reticent, but I extracted

from her the information that they were hurriedly married again.

One could laugh if the matter had not been so terribly serious to

them and to their boy. For by now those events had actually

happened, and Mrs F. was not indeed in possession of but next in

succession to a considerable estate and an ancient title. Marrying

again could not mend the matter. What else they did to mend or try

to mend it, Madame de Kries professed not to know. I myself do not

know either. There is only one thing to say. They could not alter

the date of the death; they could not alter the date of the

wedding; perhaps it would seem rather more possible to alter the

date of the birth. At any rate, that is no business of mine. I have

set the story down because it seemed a curious and interesting

episode, but it is nothing to me who succeeds or ought to succeed

to this or that title or estate. For my own part, I am inclined to

hope that the baby's prospects in life will not be wrecked by the

absurd Russian habit of using the Old Style.

To return to serious questions, the customs-barrier between----"

Mr Jenkinson Neeld laid down his friend's Journal and leant back in his

chair.

"Really!" he murmured to himself. "Really, really!"

Frowning in a perplexed fashion, he pushed the manuscript aside and

twiddled the blue pencil between his fingers. The customs-barrier of

which Josiah Cholderton was about to speak had no power to interest him.

The story which he had read interested him a good deal; it was an odd

little bit of human history, a disastrous turn of human fortunes.

Besides, Mr Neeld knew his London. He shook his head at the Journal

reprovingly, rose from his chair, went to his book-case, and took down a

Peerage. A reminiscence was running in his head. He turned to the

letter T (Ah, those hollowly discreet, painfully indiscreet initials of

Josiah Cholderton's! Mysteries perhaps in Baxton, Yorks, but none in

Pall Mall!) and searched the pages. This was the entry at which his

finger stopped--or rather part of the entry, for the volume had more to

say on the family than it is needful either to believe or to repeat:--

"Tristram of Blent--Adelaide Louisa Aimée, in her own right

Baroness--23rd in descent, the barony descending to heirs general.

Born 17th December 1853. Married first Sir Randolph Edge, Bart.--no

issue. Secondly, Captain Henry Vincent Fitzhubert (late Scots

Guards), died 1877. Issue--one son (and heir) Hon. Henry Austen

Fitzhubert Tristram, born 20th July 1875. The name of Tristram was

assumed in lieu of Fitzhubert by Royal Licence 1884. Seat--Blent

Hall, Devon----"

Here Mr Neeld laid down the book. He had seen what he wanted, and had no

further concern with the ancestry, the ramifications, the abodes or

possessions of the Tristrams of Blent. To him who knew, the entry itself

was expressive in what it said and in what it omitted; read in

conjunction with Josiah Cholderton's Journal it was yet more eloquent.

By itself it hinted a scandal--else why no dates for the marriages? With

the Journal it said something more. For the 20th is not "early in July."

Yet Mr Neeld had never heard--! He shut the book hastily and put it back

on the shelf. Returning to his desk, he took up the blue pencil. But on

second thoughts this instrument did not content him. Scissors were to

his hand; with them he carefully cut out from the manuscript the whole

account of Mr Cholderton's visit to Heidelberg (he would run no risks,

and there was nothing important in it), dated it, marked it with the

page to which it belonged in the Journal, and locked it away in a

drawer.

He felt resentful toward his dead friend Josiah Cholderton. If there be

a safe pastime, one warranted to lead a man into no trouble and to

entangle him in no scandals, it would seem to lie in editing the Journal

of a Member of Parliament, a Commercial Delegate, an Inventor of the

Hygroxeric Method of Dressing Wool. Josiah Cholderton had--not quite for

the first time--played him false. But never so badly as this before!

"Good gracious me!" he muttered. "The thing is nothing more nor less

than an imputation on the legitimacy of the son and heir!"

That same afternoon he went over to the Imperium to vote at the election

of members. It struck him as one of the small coincidences of life that

among the candidates who faced the ballot was a Colonel Wilmot Edge,

R.E.

"Any relation, I wonder?" mused Mr Neeld as he dropped in an affirmative

ball. But it may be added, since not even the secrets of club ballots

are to be held sacred, that he bestowed one of a different sort on a

certain Mr William Iver, who was described as a "Contractor," and whose

name was familiar and conspicuous on the hoardings that screened new

buildings in London, and was consequently objectionable to Mr Neeld's

fastidious mind.

"I don't often blackball," he remarked to Lord Southend as they were

sitting down to whist, "but, really, don't you think the Imperium should

maintain--er--a certain level?"

"Iver's a devilish rich fellow and not a bad fellow either," grunted my

lord.

II

MR CHOLDERTON'S IMP

"Yes, madame, an elegant and spacious residence, Filton Park. The photo?

Here it is, madame. And Notts is a very eligible county--socially

speaking, remarkably eligible; I've sent several families to Notts. That

photo, madame? Hatchley Manor, in Sussex. Yes, good position--a trifle

low perhaps--I have heard complaints of--er--effluvium from the

river--I'm anxious to give you perfect satisfaction, madame. It wouldn't

pay me not to. I want you to come back, madame, another summer. I play

for the break, if I may so put it--I beg your pardon! Yes, Birdcup is

really a palatial residence--Hants, yes--a beautiful county. But between

ourselves, madame, his lordship is a little hard to deal with.

Dilapidations I refer to, yes--his lordship is exacting as to

dilapidations. On the whole, I should prefer to recommend

Winterhurst--near Maidstone--a pleasant town, Maidstone, and the clergy,

I'm informed, extremely active and sympathetic."

"It's a very ugly house," remarked Madame Zabriska, throwing away the

photograph of Winterhurst with a gesture of decided refusal.

Mr Sloyd stroked his sleek hair and smiled deprecatingly.

"With residences as with--er--ladies, beauty is only skin deep," said

he. "A thoroughly modern residence, madame--hot and cold--south aspect."

He stopped suddenly, perceiving that the queer dark little woman in the

big chair was laughing at him. "I don't intend to convey," he resumed

with dignity, "that the mansion is hot and cold, but the bath-rooms----"

"Oh, I know," she interrupted, her great black eyes still deriding him,

while her thin face was screwed up into seriousness, as she regarded Mr

Sloyd's blameless garments of springtime gray, his black-and-white tie,

his hair so very sleek, his drooping mustache, and his pink cheeks. She

had taken his measure as perfectly as the tailor himself, and was

enjoying the counterfeit presentment of a real London dandy who came to

her in the shape of a house-agent. "I don't want a big place," she

explained in English, with a foreign touch about it. "There's only

myself and my uncle, Major Duplay--he'll be in directly, I expect--and

we've no more money than we want, Mr Sloyd."

Sloyd's eyes wandered round the large and handsome sitting-room in

Berridge's Hotel, where he found his client established.

"Oh, it doesn't matter for a few days," she added, detecting his idea

and smiling again.

This explanation of her position had the effect of making Sloyd's manner

rather less florid and his language less flowery.

"Among second-class but eminently genteel residences," he began, "I

could confidently recommend----"

"Where's this?" she interrupted, picking up another photograph, and

regarding it with apparent liking. Looking at the foot, she read aloud,

"Merrion Lodge, property of the Right Honorable Baroness Tristram of

Blent." She looked up sharply at Sloyd.

"Ye-es, ye-es," said Sloyd, without much enthusiasm. "A very pretty

neighborhood--a few miles from Blentmouth--rising place, Blentmouth. And

it's a cheap house--small, you see, and old-fashioned."

"Not hot and cold?" she asked with apparent innocence.

Sloyd smiled uncomfortably. "I could ascertain all that for you,

madame."

He waited for her to speak again, but she had turned thoughtful as she

sat fingering the photograph. Presently she smiled again and said, "Yes,

find out about Merrion Lodge for me, Mr Sloyd."

He began to gather up his pictures and papers.

"Is Baron Tristram alive?" she asked suddenly.

Sloyd recovered his air of superiority.

"Her ladyship is a peeress in her own right," he explained.

"She's not married then?"

"A widow, madame."

"And wasn't her husband Baron Tristram?"

"Her husband would not have been Lord--excuse me, madame, we say

Lord--Tristram of Blent. Her son will succeed to the title, of course.

The family reside at Blent Hall, only a few hundred yards from Merrion

Lodge, a picturesque mansion in the valley. The Lodge, you perceive,

stands high."

"I don't understand the family arrangements," remarked Madame Zabriska,

"but I daresay I shall learn it all if I go."

"If you had a 'Peerage,' madame----" he suggested, being himself rather

vague about the mysteries of a barony by writ.

"I'll get one from the waiter presently. Good-morning, Mr Sloyd."

Sloyd was making his bow when the door opened and a man came in. He was

tall, erect, and good-looking. Both air and manner were youthful,

although perhaps with a trace of artifice; he would pass for thirty-five

on a casual glance, but not after a longer one.

"My uncle, Major Duplay," said the little woman. "This is Mr Sloyd,

who's come about the house, uncle."

Duplay greeted the house-agent with grave courtesy, and entered into

conversation with him, while Madame Zabriska, relapsed again into an

alert silence, watched the pair.

The last thing that Madame Zabriska--the style sat oddly on her

child-like face and figure, but Mina Zabriska at the age of twenty-eight

had been a widow three years--desired to do was harm; the thing she best

loved to make was mischief. The essence of mischief lay for her--perhaps

for everybody--in curiosity; it was to put people in the situations in

which they least expected to find themselves, and to observe how they

comported themselves therein. As for hurting their interests or even

their feelings--no; she was certain that she did not want that; was she

not always terribly sorry when that happened, as it sometimes, and quite

unaccountably, did? She would weep then--but for their misfortune, be it

understood, not for any fault of hers. People did not always understand

her; her mother had understood her perfectly, and consequently had never

interfered with her ways. Mina loved a mystification too, and especially

to mystify uncle Duplay, who thought himself so clever--was clever

indeed as men went, she acknowledged generously; but men did not go far.

It would be fun to choose Merrion Lodge for her summer home, first

because her uncle would wonder why in the world she took it, and

secondly because she had guessed that somebody might be surprised to see

her there. So she laid her plan, even as she had played her tricks in

the days when she was an odd little girl, and Mr Cholderton, not liking

her, had with some justice christened her the Imp.

Major Duplay bowed Mr Sloyd to the door with the understanding that full

details of Merrion Lodge were to be furnished in a day or two. Coming

back to the hearth-rug he spoke to his niece in French, as was the

custom with the pair when they were alone.

"And now, dear Mina," said he, "what has made you set your mind on what

seems distinctly the least desirable of these houses?"

"It's the cheapest, I expect, and I want to economize."

"People always do as soon as they've got any money," reflected Duplay in

a puzzled tone. "If you were on half-pay as I am, you'd never want to do

it."

"Well, I've another reason." This was already saying more than she had

meant to say.

"Which you don't mean to tell me?"

"Certainly not."

With a shrug he took out his cigarette-case and handed it to her.

"You and your secrets!" he exclaimed good-humoredly. "Really, Mina, I

more than earn my keep by the pleasure I give you in not telling me

things. And then you go and do it!"

"Shan't this time," said Mr Cholderton's Imp, seeming not a day more

than ten, in spite of her smoking cigarette and her smart costume.

"Luckily I'm not curious--and I can trust you to do nothing wrong."

"Well, I suppose so," she agreed with scornful composure. "Did you ever

hear mother speak of a Mrs Fitzhubert?"

The major smiled under his heavy mustache as he answered, "Never."

"Well, I have," said Mina with a world of significance. "I heard her

first through the door," she added with a candid smile. "I was

listening."

"You often were in those days."

"Oh, I am still--but on the inside of the door now. And she told me

about it afterward of her own accord. But it wouldn't interest you,

uncle."

"Not in its present stage of revelation," he agreed, with a little yawn.

"The funny old Englishman--you never saw him, did you?--Mr

Cholderton--he knew her. He rather admired her too. He was there when

she rushed in and---- Never mind! I was there too--such a guy! I had

corkscrew curls, you know, and a very short frock, and very long--other

things. Oh, those frills!--And I suppose I really was the ugliest child

ever born. Old Cholderton hated me--he'd have liked to box my ears, I

know. But I think he was a little in love with Mrs Fitzhubert. Oh, I've

never asked for that 'Peerage!'"

Major Duplay had resigned himself to a patient endurance of inadequate

hints. His wits were not equal to putting together the pieces or

conducting a sort of "missing word," or missing link, exercise to a

triumphant issue. In time he would know all--supposing, that is, that

there were really anything to know. Meanwhile he was not curious about

other people's affairs; he minded his own business. Keeping young

occupied much of his time; and then there was always the question of how

it might prove possible to supplement the half-pay to which his years of

service in the Swiss Army entitled him; it was scanty, and but for his

niece's hospitality really insufficient. He thought that he was a clever

man, he had remained an honest man, and he saw no reason why Fortune

should not some day make him a comfortable man; she had never done so

yet, having sent him into the world as the fifth child of a Protestant

pastor in a French-speaking canton, and never having given him so much

as a well-to-do relative (even Madame de Kries' villa was on a modest

scale) until Mina married Adolf Zabriska and kept that gentleman's money

although she had the misfortune to lose his company. His death seemed to

Duplay at least no great calamity; that he had died childless did not

appear to have disappointed Mina and was certainly no ground of

complaint on her uncle's part.

Presumably Mr Sloyd's inquiries elicited satisfactory information;

perhaps Mina was not hard to please. At all events, a week later she and

the Major got out at Blentmouth station and found Sloyd himself waiting

to drive with them to Merrion Lodge; he had insisted on seeing them

installed; doubtless he was, as he put it, playing for the break again.

He sat in the landau with his back to the horses and pointed out the

features of interest on the road; his couple of days' stay in the

neighborhood seemed to have made him an old inhabitant.

"Five hundred population five years ago," he observed, waving his hand

over Blentmouth in patronizing encouragement. "Two thousand winter,

three five summer months now--largely due to William Iver, Esquire, of

Fairholme--we shall pass Fairholme directly--a wealthy gentleman who

takes great interest in the development of the town."

It was all Greek to the Major, but he nodded politely. Mina was looking

about her with keen eyes.

"That's Fairholme," Sloyd went on, as they came to a large and rather

new house situated on the skirts of Blentmouth. "Observe the

glass--those houses cost thousands of pounds--grows peaches all the

year, they tell me. At this point, Madame Zabriska, we turn and pursue

the road by the river." And so he ceased not to play guide-book till he

landed them at the door of Merrion Lodge itself, after a slow crawl of

a quarter of a mile uphill. Below them in the valley lay the little

Blent, sparkling in the sunshine of a summer afternoon, and beyond the

river, facing them on the opposite bank, no more perhaps than five

hundred yards away, was Blent Hall. Mina ran to the parapet of the

levelled terrace on which the Lodge stood, and looked down. Blent Hall

made three sides of a square of old red-brick masonry, with a tower in

the centre; it faced the river, and broad gravel-walks and broader lawns

of level close-shaven turf ran down to the water's edge.

"Among the minor seats of the nobility Blent is considered a very

perfect example," she heard Sloyd say to the Major, who was

unobtrusively but steadily urging him in the direction of the landau.

She turned to bid him good-by, and he came up to her, hat in hand.

"Thank you. I like the place," she said. "Do you--do you think we shall

make acquaintance with the people at Blent Hall?"

"Her ladyship's in poor health, I hear, but I should imagine she would

make an effort to call or at least send cards. Good-by, madame."

Duplay succeeded in starting the zealous man on his homeward journey and

then went into the house, Mina remaining still outside, engaged in the

contemplation of her new surroundings, above all of Blent Hall, which

was invested with a special interest for her eyes. It was the abode of

Mrs Fitzhubert.

With a little start she turned to find a young man standing just on the

other side of the parapet; she had not noticed his approach till he had

given a low cough to attract her attention. As he raised his hat her

quick vision took him in as it were in a complete picture--the thin yet

well-made body, the slight stoop in the shoulders, the high forehead

bordered with thick dark hair growing in such a shape that the brow

seemed to rise almost to a peak, a long nose, a sensitive mouth, a

pointed chin, dark eyes with downward lids. The young man--she would

have guessed him at twenty-two or three--had a complete composure of

manner; somehow she felt herself in the presence of the lord of the

soil--an absurd thing to feel, she told herself.

"Madame Zabriska? My mother, Lady Tristram, has sent me to bid you

welcome in her name, but not to disturb you by coming in so soon after

your journey. It is our tradition to welcome guests at the moment of

their arrival."

He spoke rather slowly, in a pleasant voice, but with something in his

air that puzzled Mina. It seemed like a sort of watchfulness--not a

slyness (that would have fitted so badly with the rest of him), but

perhaps one might say a wariness--whether directed against her or

himself it was too soon for her even to conjecture.

Still rather startled, she forgot to express her thanks, and said

simply:

"You're Mr Fitzhubert Tristram?"

"Mr Tristram," he corrected her; and she noticed now for the first time

the slow-moving smile which soon became his leading characteristic in

her thoughts. It took such a time to spread, it seemed to feel its way;

but it was a success when it came. "I use my father's name only as a

Christian name now. Tristram is my surname; that also, if I may repeat

myself, is one of our traditions."

"What, to change your names? The men, I mean?" she asked, laughing a

little.

"For anybody in the direct line to take the name of Tristram--so that,

in spite of the failure of male heirs from time to time, the Tristrams

of Blent should always be Tristrams, you know, and not Fitzhuberts, or

Leighs, or Merrions----"

"Merrion?"

"My great-great--I forget how many greats--grandfather was a Merrion

and----"

"Built this house?"

"Oh, no--a house where this stands. The old house was burnt down in

'95."

"As recently as that?" she exclaimed in surprise.

"1795," he explained, "and this house was run up then."

Mina felt that there was here a touch of pride; with a more complete

mastery of idiomatic English she might have called it "swagger." Nothing

counted that was less than a century old, it seemed, and he spoke of a

house of a hundred years' standing as she might of a wooden shanty.

Decidedly he was conscious of his position--over-conscious.

"I'm glad it was run up in time for us to take it," she said, thinking

she would try the effect of a little chaff.

The effect was nothing; Harry Tristram took no notice of the remark.

"I see," he observed, "from your calling me Fitzhubert that you've been

looking up our recent history."

"Oh, just what there is in the 'Peerage.'" Her look was mischievous now,

but she restrained herself from any hint of special knowledge. "I'll

tell you as much of ours some day."

She broke into a laugh, and then, carried away by the beauty of the

scene, the river and the stately peaceful old house by it, she stretched

out her hands toward Blent Hall, exclaiming:

"But we haven't anything like that in our history!"

He turned to look with her, and stood in silence for a minute or two.

Then he spoke softly.

"Yes, I love it," he said.

She glanced at him; his eyes were tender. Turning, he saw her glance. In

a moment he seemed to veil his eyes and to try to excuse the sentimental

tone of his remark by a matter-of-fact comment:

"But of course a man comes to like a place when he's been accustomed to

think of it as his home for all his life past and to come."

"What would you do if you lost it?" she asked.

"I've no intention of losing it," he answered, laughing, but looking

again from her and toward his home. "We've had it six hundred years; we

shan't lose it now, I think."

"No, I suppose not." He was holding out his hand. "Good-by, Mr Tristram.

May I come and thank your mother?"

"Oh, but she'll come here, if she's well enough."

"I'll save her the journey up the hill."

He bowed in courteous acceptance of her offer as he shook hands.

"You see the foot-bridge over the river there? There's a gate at each

end, but the gates are never locked, so you can reach us from the road

that way if you're walking. If you want to drive, you must go a quarter

of a mile higher up, just below the Pool. Good-by, Madame Zabriska."

Mina watched him all the way down the hill. He had made an impression on

her--an intellectual impression, not a sentimental one. There was

nothing of the boy about him, unless it were in that little flourish

over the antiquity of his house and its surroundings; even that might be

the usual thing--she had not seen enough of his class to judge. There

was too that love of the place which he had shown. Lastly, there was

the odd air of wariness and watching; such it seemed to her, and it

consented to seem nothing else.

"I wonder," she thought, "if he knows anything about Mrs Fitzhubert--and

I wonder if it would make any difference to him!" Memory carried her

back in an instant to the moment when she, Mr Cholderton's Imp, heard

that beautiful woman cry, "Think of the difference it makes, the

enormous difference!" She drew in her breath in a sudden gasp. An idea

had flashed into her mind, showing her for the first time the chance of

a situation which had never yet crossed her thoughts.

"Good gracious, is it possible that he couldn't keep it, or that his

mother couldn't give it to him, all the same?"

III

ON GUARD

Harry Tristram was just on twenty-three; to others, and to himself too

perhaps (if a man himself can attain any clear view), he seemed older.

Even the externals of his youth had differed from the common run. Sent

to school like other boys, he had come home from Harrow one Easter for

the usual short holiday. He had never returned; he had not gone to the

University; he had been abroad a good deal, travelling and studying, but

always in his mother's company. It was known that she was in bad health;

it was assumed that either she was very exacting or he very devoted,

since to separate him from her appeared impossible. Yet those who

observed them together saw no imperiousness on her part and no excess of

sentiment on his. Friendliness based on a thorough sympathy of mind was

his attitude if his demeanor revealed it truly; while Lady Tristram was

to her son as she was to all the world at this time, a creature of

feelings now half cold and of moods that reflected palely the intense

impulses of her youth. But a few years over forty, she grew faded and

faint in mind, it seemed, as well as in body, and was no longer a merry

comrade to the boy who never left her. Yet he did not wish to leave her.

To her, indeed, he was not a boy, and nobody about the place regarded

him as other than a man. He had been actually and effectively master of

the house for years, just as he was master of his own doings, of his

friendships, recreations, and pursuits. And he had managed all well,

except that he was not thought to be very happy or to get much enjoyment

from his life. That was just an idea he gave of himself, and gave

involuntarily--in spite of taking his fair share in the amusements of

the neighborhood, and holding his own well in its sports and athletics.

But he was considered cold and very reserved. Had Mina Zabriska

remembered this use of "reserve," perhaps she would have employed the

word instead of "wariness." Or perhaps, if his acquaintances had looked

more keenly, they would have come over to Mina's side and found her term

the more accurate. She spoke from a fresher and sharper impression of

him.

His childhood at least had been happy, while Lady Tristram was still the

bewilderingly delightful companion who had got into so much hot water

and made so many people eager to get in after her. Joy lasted with her

as long as health did, and her health began to fail only when her son

approached fifteen. Another thing happened about then, which formed the

prelude to the most vivid scene in the boy's life. Lady Tristram was not

habitually a religious woman; that temper of mind was too abstract for

her; she moved among emotions and images, and had small dealings with

meditation or spiritual conceptions. But happening to be in a mood that

laid her open to the influence, she heard in London one day a sermon

preached by a young man famous at the time, a great searcher of

fashionable hearts. She drove straight from the church (it was a Friday

morning) to Paddington and took the first train home. Harry was

there--back from school for his holiday--and she found him in the

smoking-room, weighing a fish which he had caught in the pool that the

Blent forms above the weir. There and then she fell on her knees on the

floor and poured forth to him the story of that Odyssey of hers which

had shocked London society and is touched upon in Mr Cholderton's

Journal. He listened amazed, embarrassed, puzzled up to a point; a boy's

normal awkwardness was raised to its highest pitch; he did not want to

hear his mother call herself a wicked woman; and anyhow it was a long

while ago, and he did not understand it all very well. The woman lifted

her eyes and looked at him; she was caught by the luxury of confession,

of humiliation, of offering her back to the whip. She told him he was

not her heir--that he would not be Tristram of Blent. For a moment she

laid her head on the floor at his feet. She heard no sound from him, and

presently looked up at him again. His embarrassment had gone; he was

standing rigidly still, his eyes gazing out toward the river, his

forehead wrinkled in a frown. He was thinking. She went on kneeling

there, saying no more, staring at her son. It was characteristic of her

that she did not risk diminishing the effectiveness of the scene, or the

tragedy of her avowal, by explaining the perverse accident owing to

which her fault had entailed such an aggravation of evil. Harry learnt

that later.

Later--and in a most different sort of interview. From the first Harry

had no thought of surrender; his mother had none either as soon as she

had forgotten her preacher. The discussion was resumed after a week

(Lady Tristram had spent the interval in bed) on a business footing. She

found in him the same carelessness of the world and its obligations that

there was in herself, but found it carried to the point of scorn and

allied to a tenacity of purpose and a keenness of vision which she had

never owned. Not a reproach escaped him--less, she thought, from

generosity than because he chose to concentrate his mind on something

useful. It was no use lamenting the past; it might be possible to undo

it for all practical purposes. The affair was never again referred to

between them except as a factor recommending or dictating some course of

action; its private side--its revelation of her and its effect (or what

might have been its effect) on his feelings toward her--was never spoken

of. Lady Tristram thought that the effect was nothing, and the

revelation not very surprising to her son. He accepted without argument

her own view--that she had done nothing very strange but had fallen on

very bad luck. But he told her at once that he was not going back to

Harrow. She understood; she agreed to be watched, she abdicated her

rule, she put everything in his hands and obeyed him.

Thus, at fifteen, Harry Tristram took up his burden and seemed to take

up his manhood too. He never wavered; he always assumed that right and

justice were on his side, that he was not merely justified in holding

his place but bound in duty to keep it. Such practical steps as could be

taken were taken. The confederates set no limit to their preparations

against danger and their devices to avoid detection. If lies were

necessary, they would lie; where falsification was wanted, they

falsified. There was no suspicion; not a hint of it had reached their

ears. Things were so quiet that Lady Tristram often forgot the whole

affair; her son watched always, his eyes keen for a sight, his ear down

to the earth for a sound, of danger. No security relaxed his vigilance,

but his vigilance became so habitual, so entered into him, that his

mother ceased to notice it and it became a second nature to himself.

That it might miss nothing, it was universal; the merest stranger came

within its ken. He watched all mankind lest some one among men should be

seeking to take his treasure from him. Mr Cholderton's Imp had not used

her eyes in vain; but Harry's neighbors, content to call him reserved,

had no idea that there was anything in particular that he had to hide.

There was one little point which, except for his persuasion of his own

rectitude, might have seemed to indicate an uneasy conscience, but was

in fact only evidence of a natural dislike to having an unwelcome

subject thrust under his notice. About a year after the disclosure Lady

Tristram had a letter from Mr Gainsborough. This gentleman had married

her cousin, and the cousin, a woman of severe principles, had put an end

to all acquaintance in consequence of the "Odyssey." She was dead, and

her husband proposed to renew friendly relations, saying that his

daughter knew nothing of past differences and was anxious to see her

kinsfolk. The letter was almost gushing, and Lady Tristram, left to

herself, would have answered it in the same kind; for while she had

pleased herself she bore no resentment against folk who had blamed her.

Moreover Gainsborough was poor, and somebody had told her that the girl

was pleasant; she pitied poverty and liked being kind to pleasant

people.

"Shall we invite them to stay for a week or two?" she had asked.

"Never," he said. "They shall never come here. I don't want to know

them, I won't see them." His face was hard, angry, and even outraged at

the notion.

His mother said no more. If the barony and Blent departed from Harry, on

Lady Tristram's death they would go to Cecily Gainsborough. If Harry had

his way, that girl should not even see his darling Blent. If distrust of

his mother entered at all into his decision, if he feared any indiscreet

talk from her, he gave no hint of it. It was enough that the girl had

some odious pretensions which he could and would defeat but could not

ignore--pretensions for his mind, in her own she had none.

The sun had sunk behind the tower, and Lady Tristram sat in a low chair

by the river, enjoying the cool of the evening. The Blent murmured as it

ran; the fishes were feeding; the midges were out to feed, but they did

not bite Lady Tristram; they never did; the fact had always been a

comfort to her, and may perhaps be allowed here to assume a mildly

allegorical meaning. If the cool of the evening may do the same, it will

serve very well to express the stage of life and of feeling to which no

more than the beginning of middle age had brought her. It was rather

absurd, but she did not want to do or feel very much more; and it seemed

as though her wishes were to be respected. A certain distance from

things marked her now; only Harry was near to her, only Harry's triumph

was very important. She had outrun her vital income and mortgaged future

years; if foreclosure threatened, she maintained her old power of taking

no heed of disagreeable things, however imminent. She was still very

handsome and wished to go on being that to the end; fortunately

fragility had always been her style and always suited her.

Harry leant his elbow on a great stone vase which stood on a pedestal

and held a miniature wilderness of flowers.

"I lunched at Fairholme," he was saying. "The paint's all wet still, of

course, and the doors stick a bit, but I liked the family. He's genuine,

she's homely, and Janie's a good girl. They were very civil."

"I suppose so."

"Not overwhelmed," he added, as though wishing to correct a wrong

impression which yet might reasonably have arisen.

"I didn't mean that. I've met Mr Iver, and he wasn't at all

overwhelmed. Mrs Iver was--out--when I called, and I was--out--when she

called." Lady Tristram was visibly, although not ostentatiously,

allowing for the prejudices of a moral middle-class.

"Young Bob Broadley was there--you know who I mean? At Mingham Farm, up

above the Pool."

"I know--a handsome young man."

"I forgot he was handsome. Of course you know him then! What a pity I'm

not handsome, mother!"

"Oh, you've the air, though," she observed contentedly. "Is he after

Janie Iver?"

"So I imagine. I'm not sure that I'm not too. Have I any chance against

Bob Broadley?"

She did not seem to take him seriously.

"They wouldn't look at Mr Broadley." (She was pleasantly punctilious

about all titles and courteous methods of reference or address.) "Janie

Iver's a great heiress."

"And what about me?" he insisted, as he lit his pipe and sat down

opposite her.

"You mean it, Harry?"

"There's no reason why I shouldn't marry, is there?"

"Why, you must marry, of course. But----"

"We can do the blue blood business enough for both."

"Yes, I didn't mean that."

"You mean--am I at all in love with her?"

"No, not quite. Oh, my dear Harry, I mean wouldn't you like to be in

love a little with somebody? You could do it after you marry, of course,

and you certainly will if you marry now, but it's not so--so

comfortable." She looked at him with a sort of pity: her feeling was

that he gave himself no holidays.

He sat silent a moment seeming to consider some picture which her

suggestion conjured up.

"No good waiting for that," was his conclusion. "Somehow if I married

and had children, it would seem to make everything more settled." His

great pre-occupation was on him again. "We could do with some more money

too," he added, "and, as I say, I'm inclined to like the girl."

"What's she like?"

"What you call a fine girl--tall--well made----"

"She'll be fat some day, I expect."

"Straight features, broadish face, dark, rather heavy brows--you know

the sort of thing."

"Oh, Harry, I hate all that!"

"I don't; I rather like it." He was smoking meditatively, and jerked out

what he had to say between the puffs. "I shouldn't like to mortgage

Blent," he went on a moment later.

"Mortgage Blent? What for?"

He raised a hand to ask to be heard out. "But I should like to feel that

I could at any moment lay my hand on a big lump of ready money--say

fifty, or even a hundred, thousand pounds. I should like to be able to

pull it out of my breeches' pocket and say, 'Take that and hold your

tongue!'" He looked at her to see if she followed what was in his mind.

"I think they'd take it," he ended. "I mean if things got as far as

that, you know."

"You mean the Gainsboroughs?"

"Yes. Oh, anybody else would be cheaper than that. Fifty thousand would

be better than a very doubtful case. But it would have to be done

directly--before a word was heard about it. I should like to live with

the check by me."

He spoke very simply, as another man might speak of being ready to meet

an improvement-rate or an application from an impecunious brother.

"Don't you think it would be a good precaution?" he asked. Whether he

meant the marriage, the check, or the lady, was immaterial; it came to

the same thing.

"It's all very troublesome," Lady Tristram complained. "It really half

spoils our lives, doesn't it, Harry? One always has to be worrying."

The smile whose movements had excited Mina Zabriska's interest made its

appearance on Harry's face. He had never been annoyed by his mother's

external attitude toward the result of her own doings, but he was often

amused at it.

"Why do you smile?" she asked innocently.

"Well, worrying's a mild term," he explained evasively. "It's my work in

the world, you know--or it seems as if it was going to be."

"You'd better think about it," Lady Tristram concluded, not wishing to

think about it any more herself. "You wouldn't tell Mr Iver anything

about the difficulty, would you?" "The difficulty" had become her usual

way of referring to their secret.

"Not a word. I'm not called upon to justify my position to Iver." No

shadow of doubt softened the clearness of Harry's conviction on this

point.

He rose, filled his pipe again, and began to walk up and down. He was at

his old game, counting chances, one by one, every chance, trying to

eliminate risks, one by one, every risk, so that at last he might take

his ease and say without fear of contradiction, "Here sits Tristram of

Blent." To be thus was--something; but to be safely thus was so much

more that it did not seem to him a great thing to carry out the plan

which he had suggested to Lady Tristram. To be sure, he was not in love

with anybody else, which makes a difference, though it is doubtful

whether it would have made any to him. Had the question arisen at that

moment he would have said that nothing could make any difference.

"Did you go up to the Lodge, Harry?" his mother called to him as one of

his turns brought him near her.

"Oh, yes; I forgot to tell you. I did, and I found Madame Zabriska

having a look at us from the terrace, so I had a little talk with her. I

didn't see the uncle."

"What's she like?" This was a favorite question of Lady Tristram's.

Harry paused a moment, looking for a description.

"Well, if you can imagine one needle with two very large eyes, you'd get

some idea of her. She's sharp, mother--mind and body. Pleasant enough

though. She's coming to see you, so you needn't bother to go up." He

added with an air of impatience, "She's been hunting in the Peerage."

"Of course she would; there's nothing in that."

"No, I suppose not," he admitted almost reluctantly.

"I can't help thinking I've heard the name before--not Zabriska, but the

uncle's."

"Duplay, isn't it? I never heard it."

"Well, I can't remember anything about it, but it sounds familiar. I'm

confusing it with something else, I suppose. They look like being

endurable, do they?"

"Oh, yes, as people go," he answered, resuming his walk.

If a determination to keep for yourself what according to your own

conviction belongs by law to another makes a criminal intent--and that

irrespective of the merits of the law--it would be hard to avoid

classing Lady Tristram and her son as criminals in contemplation, if not

yet in action. And so considered they afforded excellent specimens of

two kinds of criminals which a study of assize courts reveals--the

criminal who drifts and the criminal who plans; the former usually

termed by counsel and judge "unhappy," the latter more sternly dubbed

"dangerous." Lady Tristram had always drifted and was drifting still;

Harry had begun to plan at fifteen and still was busy planning. One

result of this difference was that whereas she was hardly touched or

affected in character he had been immensely influenced. In her and to

her the whole thing seemed almost accidental, a worry, as she put it,

and not much more; with him it was the governing fact in life, and had

been the force most potent in moulding him. The trouble came into her

head when something from outside put it there; it never left his brain.

And she had no adequate conception of what it was to him. Even his

scheme of marrying Janie Iver and his vivid little phrase about living

with the check by him failed to bring it home to her. This very evening,

as soon as he was out of sight, both he and his great question were out

of the mind of the woman who had brought both him and it into existence.

There are people who carry the doctrine of free-will so far in their own

persons as to take the liberty of declining to allow causes to work on

and in them, what are logically, morally, and on every other ground

conceivable, their necessary effects; reasoning from what they have done

to what they must be, from what they have been responsible for to what

they must feel, breaks down; they are arbitrary, unconditioned,

themselves as it were accidental. With this comes a sort of innocence,

sometimes attractive, sometimes uncommonly exasperating to the normal

man.

So Lady Tristram went back to her novel, and Harry walked by the river,

moodily meditating and busily scheming. Meanwhile Mina Zabriska had

flown to the library at Merrion Lodge, and, finding books that had

belonged to a legal member of the family in days gone by, was engaged

in studying the law relating to the succession to lands and titles in

England. She did not make quick progress. Nevertheless in a day or two

she had reached a point when she was bubbling over with curiosity and

excitement; she felt that she could not go on sitting opposite Major

Duplay at meals without giving him at least a hint or two of the

wonderful state of things on which she had hit, and without asking him

to consider the facts and to have a look at the books which were so

puzzling and exercising her brain. Yet Harry Tristram, wary sentinel as

he was, did not dream of any attack or scent any danger from the needle

with two very large eyes, as he had called the lady at Merrion Lodge.

IV

SHE COULD AN' SHE WOULD

In spite of Mrs Iver's secret opinion that people with strange names

were likely to be strange themselves, and that, for all she saw,

foreigners were--not fools, as Dr Johnson's friend thought--but

generally knaves, an acquaintance was soon made between Fairholme and

Merrion Lodge. Her family was against Mrs Iver; her husband was

boundlessly hospitable, Janie was very sociable. The friendship grew and

prospered. Mr Iver began to teach the Major to play golf. Janie took

Mina Zabriska out driving in the highest dog-cart on the countryside:

they would go along the road by the river, and get out perhaps for a

wander by the Pool, or even drive higher up the valley and demand tea

from Bob Broadley at his pleasant little place--half farm, half

manor-house--at Mingham, three miles above the Pool. Matters moved so

quick that Mina understood in a week why Janie found it pleasant to have

a companion under whose ægis she could drop in at Mingham; in little

more than a fortnight she began to understand why her youthful uncle

(the Major was very young now) grunted unsympathetically when she

observed that the road to Mingham was the prettiest in the neighborhood.

The Imp was accumulating other people's secrets, and was accordingly in

a state of high satisfaction.

The situation developed fast, and for the time at least Janie Iver was

heroine and held the centre of the stage. A chance of that state of

comfort which was his remaining and modest ambition had opened before

the Major--and the possibility of sharing it with a congenial partner:

the Major wasted no time in starting his campaign. Overtures from Blent,

more stately but none the less prompt, showed that Harry Tristram had

not spoken idly to his mother. And what about Bob Broadley? He seemed to

be out of the running, and indeed to have little inclination, or not

enough courage, to press forward. Yet the drives to Mingham went on.

Mina was puzzled. She began to observe the currents in the Fairholme

household. Iver was for Harry, she thought, though he maintained a

dignified show of indifference; Mrs Iver--the miraculous occurring in a

fortnight, as it often does--was at least very much taken with the

Major. Bob Broadley had no friend, unless in Janie herself. And Janie

was inscrutable by virtue of an open pleasure in the attention of all

three gentlemen and an obvious disinclination to devote herself

exclusively to any one of them. She could not flirt with Harry Tristram,

because he had no knowledge of the art, but she accepted his significant

civilities. She did flirt with the Major, who had many years' experience

of the pastime. And she was kind to Bob Broadley, going to see him, as

has been said, sending him invitations, and seeming in some way to be

fighting against his own readiness to give up the battle before it was

well begun. But it is hard to help a man who will not help himself; on

the other hand, it is said to be amusing sometimes.

They all met at Fairholme one afternoon, Harry appearing unexpectedly as

the rest were at tea on the lawn. This was his first meeting with the

Major. As he greeted that gentleman, even more when he shook hands with

Bob, there was a touch of regality in his manner; the reserve was

prominent, and his prerogative was claimed. Very soon he carried Janie

off for a solitary walk in the shrubberies. Mina enjoyed her uncle's

frown and chafed at Bob's self-effacement; he had been talking to Janie

when Harry calmly took her away. The pair were gone half an hour, and

conversation flagged. They reappeared, Janie looking rather excited,

Harry almost insolently calm, and sat down side by side. The Major

walked across and took a vacant seat on the other side of Janie. The

slightest look of surprise showed on Harry Tristram's face. A duel

began. Duplay had readiness, suavity, volubility, a trick of flattering

deference; on Harry's side were a stronger suggestion of power and an

assumption, rather attractive, that he must be listened to. Janie liked

this air of his, even while she resented it; here, in his own county at

least, a Tristram of Blent was somebody. Bob Broadley was listening to

Iver's views on local affairs; he was not in the fight at all, but he

was covertly watching it. Perhaps Iver watched too, but it was not easy

to penetrate the thoughts of that astute man of business. The fortune of

battle seemed to incline to Harry's side; the Major was left out of the

talk for minutes together. More for fun than from any loyalty to her

kinsman, Mina rose and walked over to Harry.

"Do take me to see the greenhouses, Mr Tristram," she begged. "You're

all right with uncle, aren't you, Janie?"

Janie nodded rather nervously. After a pause of a full half-minute,

Harry Tristram rose without a word and began to walk off; it was left

for Mina to join him in a hurried little run.

"Oh, wait for me, anyhow," she cried, with a laugh.

They walked on some way in silence.

"You're not very conversational, Mr Tristram, I suppose you're angry

with me?"

He turned and looked at her. Presently he began to smile, even more

slowly, it seemed, than usual.

"I must see that my poor uncle has fair play--what do you call it?--a

fair show--mustn't I?"

"Oh, that's what you meant, Madame Zabriska? It wasn't the pleasure of

my company?"

"Do you know, I think you rather exaggerate the pleasure--no, not the

pleasure, I mean the honor--of your company? You were looking as if you

couldn't understand how anybody could want to talk to uncle when you

were there. But he's better-looking than you are, and much more

amusing."

"I don't set up for a beauty or a wit either," Harry observed, not at

all put out by the Imp's premeditated candor.

"No--and still she ought to want to talk to you! Why? Because you're Mr

Tristram, I suppose?" Mina indulged in a very scornful demeanor.

"It's very friendly of you to resent my behavior on Miss Iver's behalf."

"There you are again! That means she doesn't resent it! I think you give

yourself airs, Mr Tristram, and I should like----"

"To take me down a peg?" he asked, in a tone of rather contemptuous

amusement.

She paused a minute, and then nodded significantly.

"Exactly; and to make you feel a little uncomfortable--not quite so sure

of yourself and everything about you." Again she waited a minute, her

eyes set on his face and watching it keenly. "I wonder if I could," she

ended slowly.

"Upon my word, I don't see how it's to be done." He was openly chaffing

her now.

"Oh, I don't know that you're invulnerable," she said, with a toss of

her head. "Don't defy me, Mr Tristram. I don't mind telling you that it

would be very good for you if you weren't----"

"Appreciated?" he suggested ironically.

"No; I was going to say if you weren't Mr Tristram, or the future Lord

Tristram of Blent."

If she had hoped to catch him off his guard, she was mistaken. Not a

quiver passed over his face as he remarked:

"I'm afraid Providence can hardly manage that now, either for my good or

for your amusement, Madame Zabriska, much as it might conduce to both."

The Imp loved fighting, and her blood was getting up. He was a good foe,

but he did not know her power. He must not either--not yet, anyhow. If

he patronized her much more, she began to feel that he would have to

know it some day--not to his hurt, of course; merely for the reformation

of his manners.

"Meanwhile," he continued, as he lit a cigarette, "I'm not seriously

disappointed that attentions paid to one lady fail to please another.

That's not uncommon, you know. By the way, we're not on the path to the

greenhouses; but you don't mind that? They were a pretext, no doubt? Oh,

I don't want to hurry back. Your uncle shall have his fair show. How

well you're mastering English!"

At this moment Mina hated him heartily; she swore to humble him--before

herself, not before the world, of course; she would give him a fright

anyhow--not now, but some day; if her temper could not stand the strain

better, it would be some day soon, though.

"You see," Harry's calm exasperating voice went on, "it's just possible

that you're better placed at present as an observer of our manners than

as a critic of them. I hope I don't exceed the limits of candor which

you yourself indicated as allowable in this pleasant conversation of

ours?"

"Oh well, we shall see," she declared, with another nod. The vague

threat (for it seemed that or nothing) elicited a low laugh from Harry

Tristram.

"We shall," he said. "And in the meantime a little sparring is amusing

enough. I don't confess to a hit at present; do you, Madame Zabriska?"

Mina did not confess, but she felt the hit all the same; if she were to

fight him, she must bring her reserves into action.

"By the way, I'm so sorry you couldn't see my mother when you called the

other day. She's not at all well, unhappily. She really wants to see

you."

"How very kind of Lady Tristram!" There was kept for the mother a little

of the sarcastic humility which was more appropriate when directed

against the son. Harry smiled still as he turned round and began to

escort her back to the lawn. The smile annoyed Mina; it was a smile of

victory. Well, the victory should not be altogether his.

"I want to see Lady Tristram very much," she went on, in innocent tones

and with a face devoid of malice, "because I can't help thinking I must

have seen her before--when I was quite a little girl."

"You've seen my mother before? When and where?"

"She was Mrs Fitzhubert, wasn't she?"

"Yes, of course she was--before she came into the title."

"Well, a Mrs Fitzhubert used to come and see my mother long ago at

Heidelberg. Do you know if your mother was ever at Heidelberg?"

"I fancy she was--I'm not sure."

Still the Imp was very innocent, although the form of Harry's reply

caused her inward amusement and triumph.

"My mother was Madame de Kries. Ask Lady Tristram if she remembers the

name."

It was a hit for her at last, though Harry took it well. He turned

quickly toward her, opened his lips to speak, repented, and did no more

than give her a rather long and rather intense look. Then he nodded

carelessly. "All right, I'll ask her," said he. The next moment he put a

question. "Did you know about having met her before you came to

Merrion?"

"Oh well, I looked in the 'Peerage,' but it really didn't strike me till

a day or two ago that it might be the same Mrs Fitzhubert. The name's

pretty common, isn't it?"

"No, it's very uncommon."

"Oh, I didn't know," murmured Mina apologetically; but the glance which

followed him as he turned away was not apologetic; it was triumphant.

She got back in time to witness--to her regret (let it be confessed) she

could not overhear--Janie's farewell to Bob Broadley. They had been

friends from youth; he was "Bob" to her, she was now to him "Miss

Janie."

"You haven't said a word to me, Bob."

"I haven't had a chance; you're always with the swells now."

"How can I help it, if--if nobody else comes?"

"I really shouldn't have the cheek. Harry Tristram was savage enough

with the Major--what would he have been with me?"

"Why should it matter what he was?"

"Do you really think that, Miss Janie?" Bob was almost at the point of

an advance.

"I mean--why should it matter to you?"

The explanation checked the advance.

"Oh, I--I see. I don't know, I'm sure. Well then, I don't know how to

deal with him."

"Well, good-by."

"Good-by, Miss Janie."

"Are you coming to see us again, ever?"

"If you ask me, I----"

"And am I coming again to Mingham? Although you don't ask me."

"Will you really?"

"Oh, you do ask me? When I ask you to ask me!"

"Any day you'll----"

"No, I'll surprise you. Good-by. Good-by really."

The conversation, it must be admitted, sounds commonplace when verbally

recorded. Yet he would be a despondent man who considered it altogether

discouraging; Mina did not think Janie's glances discouraging either.

But Bob Broadley, a literal man, found no warrant for fresh hope in any

of the not very significant words which he repeated to himself as he

rode home up the valley of the Blent. He suffered under modesty; it

needed more than coquetry to convince him that he exercised any

attraction over the rich and brilliant (brilliance also is a matter of

comparison) Miss Iver, on whose favor Mr Tristram waited and at whose

side Major Duplay danced attendance.

"You're a dreadful flirt, Janie," said Mina, as she kissed her friend.

Janie was not a raw girl; she was a capable young woman of

two-and-twenty.

"Nonsense," she said rather crossly. "It's not flirting to take time to

make up your mind."

"It looks like it, though."

"And I've no reason to suppose they've any one of them made up their

minds."

"I should think you could do that for them pretty soon. Besides, uncle

has, anyhow."

"I'm to be your aunt, am I?"

"Oh, he's only an uncle by accident."

"Yes, I think that's true. Shall we have a drive soon?"

"To Mingham? Or to Blent Hall?"

"Not Blent. I wait my lord's pleasure to see me."

"Yes, that's just how I feel about him," cried Mina eagerly.

"But all the same----"

"No, I won't hear a word of good about him. I hate him!"

Janie smiled in an indulgent but rather troubled way. Her problem was

serious; she could not afford the Imp's pettish treatment of the world

and the people in it. Janie had responsibilities--banks and buildings

full of them--and a heart to please into the bargain. Singularly

complicated questions are rather cruelly put before young women, who

must solve them on peril of---- It would sound like exaggeration to say

what.

There was Mrs Iver to be said good-by to--plump, peaceful, proper Mrs

Iver, whom nothing had great power to stir save an unkindness and an

unconventionality; before either of these she bristled surprisingly.

"I hope you've all enjoyed this lovely afternoon," she said to Mina.

"Oh, yes, we have, Mrs Iver--not quite equally perhaps, but still----"

Mrs Iver sighed and kissed her.

"Men are always the difficulty, aren't they?" said the Imp.

"Poor child, and you've lost yours!"

"Yes, poor Adolf!" There was a touch of duty in Mina's sigh. She had

been fond of Adolf, but his memory was not a constant presence. The

world for the living was Madame Zabriska's view.

"I'm so glad Janie's found a friend in you--and a wise one, I'm sure."

Mina did her best to look the part thus charitably assigned to her; her

glance at Janie was matronly, almost maternal.

"Not that I know anything about it," Mrs Iver pursued, following a train

of thought obvious enough. "I hope she'll act for her happiness, that's

all. There's the dear Major looking for you--don't keep him waiting,

dear. How lucky he's your uncle--he can always be with you."

"Until he settles and makes a home for himself," smiled Mina

irrepressibly; the rejuvenescence--nay, the unbroken youth--of her

relative appeared to her quaintly humorous, and it was her fancy to

refer to him as she might to a younger brother.

There was Mr Iver to be said good-by to.

"Come again soon--you're always welcome; you wake us up, Madame

Zabriska."

"You promised to say Mina!"

"So I did, but my tongue's out of practice with young ladies' Christian

names. Why, I call my wife 'Mother'--only Janie says I mustn't. Yes,

come and cheer us up. I shall make the uncle a crack player before long.

Mustn't let him get lazy and spend half the day over five o'clock tea,

though."

This was hardly a hint, but it was an indication of the trend of Mr

Iver's thoughts. So it was a dangerous ball, and that clever little

cricketer, the Imp, kept her bat away from it. She laughed; that

committed her to nothing--and left Iver to bowl again.

"It's quite a change to find Harry Tristram at a tea-party, though!

Making himself pleasant too!"

"Not to me," observed Mina decisively.

"You chaffed him, I expect. He stands a bit on his dignity. Ah well,

he's young, you see."

"No, he chaffed me. Oh, I think I--I left off even, you know."

"They get a bit spoilt." He seemed to be referring to the aristocracy.

"But there's plenty of stuff in him, or I'm much mistaken. He's a born

fighter, I think."

"I wonder!" said Mina, her eyes twinkling again.

Finally there was the Major to be walked home with--not a youthful

triumphant Major, but a rather careworn, undisguisedly irritated one. If

Mina wanted somebody to agree with her present mood about Harry

Tristram, her longing was abundantly gratified. The Major roundly termed

him an overbearing young cub, and professed a desire--almost an

intention--to teach him better manners. This coincidence of views was a

sore temptation to the Imp; to resist it altogether would seem

superhuman.

"I should like to cut his comb for him," growled Duplay.

Whatever the metaphor adopted, Mina was in essential agreement. She

launched on an account of how Harry had treated her: they fanned one

another's fires, and the flames burnt merrily.

Mina's stock of discretion was threatened with complete consumption.

From open denunciations she turned to mysterious hintings.

"I could bring him to reason if I liked," she said.

"What, make him fall in love with you?" cried Duplay, with a surprise

not very complimentary.

"Oh no," she laughed; "better than that--by a great deal."

He eyed her closely: probably this was only another of her whimsical

tricks, with which he was very familiar; if he showed too much interest

she would laugh at him for being taken in. But she had hinted before

to-day's annoyances; she was hinting again. He had yawned at her hints

till he became Harry Tristram's rival; he was ready to be eager now, if

only he could be sure that they pointed to anything more than folly or

delusion.

"Oh, my dear child," he exclaimed, "you mustn't talk nonsense. We mayn't

like him, but what in the world could you do to him?"

"I don't want to hurt him, but I should like to make him sing small."

They had just reached the foot of the hill. Duplay waved his arm across

the river toward the hall. Blent looked strong and stately.

"That's a big task, my dear," he said, recovering some of his good-humor

at the sight of Mina's waspish little face. "I fancy it'll need a bigger

man than you to make Tristram of Blent sing small." He laughed at her

indulgently. "Or than me either, I'm afraid," he added, with a

ruefulness that was not ill-tempered. "We must fight him in fair fight,

that's all."

"He doesn't fight fair," she cried angrily. The next instant she broke

into her most malicious smile. "Tristram of Blent!" she repeated. "Oh

well----"

"Mina, dear, do you know you rather bore me? If you mean anything at

all----"

"I may mean what I like without telling you, I suppose?"

"Certainly--but don't ask me to listen."

"You think it's all nonsense?"

"I do, my dear," confessed the Major.

How far he spoke sincerely he himself could hardly tell. Perhaps he had

an alternative in his mind: if she meant nothing, she would hold her

peace and cease to weary him; if she meant anything real, his challenge

would bring it out. But for the moment she had fallen into thought.

"No, he doesn't fight fair," she repeated, as though to herself. She

glanced at her uncle in a hesitating, undecided way. "And he's

abominably rude," she went on, with a sudden return of pettishness.

The Major's shrug expressed an utter exhaustion of patience, a scornful

irritation, almost a contempt for her. She could not endure it; she must

justify herself, revenge herself at a blow on Harry for his rudeness and

on her uncle for his scepticism. The triumph would be sweet; she could

not for the moment think of any seriousness in what she did. She could

not keep her victory to herself; somebody else now must look on at

Harry's humiliation, at least must see that she had power to bring it

about. With the height of malicious exultation she looked up at Duplay

and said:

"Suppose he wasn't Tristram of Blent at all?"

Duplay stopped short where he stood--on the slope of the hill above

Blent itself.

"What? Is this more nonsense?"

"No, it isn't nonsense."

He looked at her steadily, almost severely. Under his regard her smile

disappeared; she grew uncomfortable.

"Then I must know more about it. Come, Mina, this is no trifle, you

know."

"I shan't tell you any more," she flashed out, in a last effort of

petulance.

"You must," he said calmly. "All you know, all you think. Come, we'll

have it out now at once."

She followed like a naughty child. She could have bitten her tongue out,

as the old phrase goes. Her feelings went round like a weather-cock; she

was ashamed of herself, sorry for Harry--yes, and afraid of Harry. And

she was afraid of Duplay too. She had run herself into something

serious--that she saw; something serious in which two resolute men were

involved. She did not know where it would end. But now she could not

resist. The youthful uncle seemed youthful no more; he was old, strong,

authoritative. He made her follow him, and he bade her speak.

She followed, like the naughty child she now seemed even to herself; and

presently, in the library, beside those wretched books of hers, her old

law-books and her Peerages, reluctantly, stumblingly, sullenly, still

like the naughty child who would revolt but dare not, she spoke. And

when at last he let her go with her secret told, she ran up to her own

room and threw herself on the bed, sobbing. She had let herself in for

something dreadful. It was all her own fault--and she was very sorry.

Those were her two main conclusions.

Her whole behavior was probably just what the gentleman to whom she owed

her nickname would have expected and prophesied.

V

THE FIRST ROUND

Within the last few days there were ominous rumors afloat as to Lady

Tristram's health. It was known that she could see nobody and kept her

room; it was reported that the doctors (a specialist had been down from

town) were looking very grave; it was agreed that her constitution had

not the strength to support a prolonged strain. There was sympathy--the

neighborhood was proud in its way of Lady Tristram--and there was the

usual interest to which the prospect of a death and a succession gives

rise. They canvassed Harry's probable merits and demerits, asking how he

would fill the vacant throne, and, more particularly, whether he would

be likely to entertain freely. Lavish hospitality at Blent would mean

much to their neighborhood, and if it were indeed the case (as was now

prophesied in whispers) that Miss Iver of Fairholme was to be mistress

at the Hall, there would be nothing to prevent the hospitalities from

being as splendid as the mind of woman could conceive. There were

spinster ladies in small villas at Blentmouth who watched the illness

and the courtship as keenly as though they were to succeed the sick Lady

Tristram and to marry the new Lord. Yet a single garden-party in the

year would represent pretty accurately their personal stake in the

matter. If you live on crumbs, a good big crumb is not to be despised.

Harry Tristram was sorry that his mother must die and that he must lose

her; the confederates had become close friends, and nobody who knew her

intimately could help feeling that his life and even the world would be

poorer by the loss of a real, if not striking, individuality. But

neither he nor she thought of her death as the main thing; it no more

than ushered in the great event for which they had spent years

preparing. And he was downright glad that she could see no visitors;

that fact saved him added anxieties, and spared her the need of being

told about Mina Zabriska and warned to bear herself warily toward the

daughter of Madame de Kries. Harry did not ask his mother whether she

remembered the name--the question was unnecessary; nor did he tell his

mother that one who had borne the name was at Merrion Lodge. He waited,

vaguely expecting that trouble would come from Merrion, but entirely

confident in his ability to fight, and worst, the tricky little woman

whom he had not feared to snub; and in his heart he thought well of her,

and believed she had as little inclination to hurt him as she seemed to

have power. His only active step was to pursue his attentions to Janie

Iver.

Yet he was not happy about his attentions. He meant to marry the girl,

and thought she would marry him. He did not believe that she was

inclined to fall in love with him. He had no right to expect it, since

he was not falling in love with her. But it hurt that terrible pride of

his; he was in a way disgusted with the part he had chosen, and

humiliated to think that he might not be accepted for himself. A refusal

would have hurt him incalculably; such an assent as he counted upon

would wound him somewhat too. He had keen eyes, and he had formed his

own opinion about Bob Broadley. None the less, he held straight on his

course; and the spinster ladies were a little shocked to observe that

Lady Tristram's illness did not interfere at all with her son's

courtship; people in that position of life were certainly curious.

A new vexation had come upon him, the work of his pet aversions, the

Gainsboroughs. He had seen Mr Gainsborough once, and retained a picture

of a small ineffectual man with a ragged tawny-brown beard and a big

soft felt hat, who had an air of being very timid, rather pressed for

money, and endowed with a kind heart. Now, it seemed, Mr Gainsborough

was again overflowing with family affection (a disposition not always

welcomed by its objects), and wanted to shake poor Lady Tristram's hand,

and wanted poor Lady Tristram to kiss his daughter--wanted, in fact, a

thorough-going burying of hatchets and a touching reconciliation. With

that justice of judgment of which neither youth nor prejudice quite

deprived him, Harry liked the letter; but he was certain that the writer

would be immensely tiresome. And again--in the end as in the

beginning--he did not want the Gainsboroughs at Blent; above all not

just at the time when Blent was about to pass into his hands. It looked,

however, as though it would be extremely difficult to keep them away. Mr

Gainsborough was obviously a man who would not waste his chance of a

funeral; he might be fenced with till then, but it would need startling

measures to keep him from a funeral.

"I hate hearsey people," grumbled Harry, as he threw the letter down.

But the Gainsboroughs were soon to be driven out of his head by

something more immediate and threatening.

Blent Pool is a round basin, some fifty or sixty feet in diameter; the

banks are steep and the depth great: on the Blent Hall side there is no

approach to it, except through a thick wood overhanging the water; on

the other side the road up the valley runs close by, leaving a few yards

of turf between itself and the brink. The scene is gloomy except in

sunshine, and the place little frequented. It was a favorite haunt of

Harry Tristram's, and he lay on the grass one evening, smoking and

looking down on the black water; for the clouds were heavy above and

rain threatened. His own mood was in harmony, gloomy and dark, in

rebellion against the burden he carried, yet with no thought of laying

it down. He did not notice a man who came up the road and took his stand

just behind him, waiting there for a moment in silence and apparent

irresolution.

"Mr Tristram."

Harry turned his head and saw Major Duplay; the Major was grave, almost

solemn, as he raised his hat a trifle in formal salute.

"Do I interrupt you?"

"You couldn't have found a man more at leisure." Harry did not rise, but

gathered his knees up, clasping his hands round them and looking up in

Duplay's face. "You want to speak to me?"

"Yes, on a difficult matter." A visible embarrassment hung about the

Major; he seemed to have little liking for his task. "I'm aware," he

went on, "that I may lay myself open to some misunderstanding in what

I'm about to say. I shall beg you to remember that I am in a difficult

position, and that I am a gentleman and a soldier."

Harry said nothing; he waited with unmoved face and no sign of

perturbation.

"It's best to be plain," Duplay proceeded. "It's best to be open with

you. I have taken the liberty of following you here for that purpose."

He came a step nearer, and stood over Harry. "Certain facts have come to

my knowledge which concern you very intimately."

A polite curiosity and a slight scepticism were expressed in Harry's

"Indeed!"

"And not only you, or--I need hardly say--I shouldn't feel it necessary

to occupy myself with the matter. A word about my own position you will

perhaps forgive."

Harry frowned a little; certainly Duplay was inclined to prolixity; he

seemed to be rolling the situation round his tongue and making the most

of its flavor.

"Since we came here we have made many acquaintances, your own among the

number; we are in a sense your guests."

"Not in a sense that puts you under any obligation," observed Harry.

"I'm sincerely glad to hear you say that; it relieves my position to

some extent. But we have made friends too. In one house I myself (I may

leave my niece out of the question) have been received with a hearty,

cordial, warm friendship that seems already an old friendship. Now that

does put me under an obligation, Mr Tristram."

"You refer to our friends the Ivers? Yes?"

"In my view, under a heavy obligation. I am, I say, in my judgment bound

to serve them in all ways in my power, and to deal with them as I should

wish and expect them to deal with me in a similar case."

Harry nodded a careless assent, and turned his eyes away toward the

Pool; even already he seemed to know what was coming, or something of

it.

"Facts have come to my knowledge of which it might be--indeed I must say

of which it is--of vital importance that Mr Iver should be informed."

"I thought the facts concerned me?" asked Harry, with brows a little

raised.

"Yes, and as matters now stand they concern him too for that very

reason." Duplay had gathered confidence; his tone was calm and assured

as he came step by step near his mark, as he established position after

position in his attack.

"You are paying attentions to Miss Iver--with a view to marriage, I

presume?"

Harry made no sign. Duplay proceeded, slowly and with careful

deliberation.

"Those attentions are offered and received as from Mr Tristram--as from

the future Lord Tristram of Blent. I can't believe that you're ignorant

of what I'm about to say. If you are, I must beg forgiveness for the

pain I shall inflict on you. You, sir, are not the future Lord Tristram

of Blent."

A silence followed: a slight drizzle had begun to fall, speckling the

waters of the Pool; neither man heeded it.

"It would be impertinent in me," the Major resumed, "to offer you any

sympathy on the score of that misfortune; believe me, however, that my

knowledge--my full knowledge--of the circumstances can incline me to

nothing but a deep regret. But facts are facts, however hardly they may

bear on individuals." He paused. "I have asserted what I know. You are

entitled to ask me for proofs, Mr Tristram."

Harry was silent a moment, thinking very hard. Many modes of defence

came into his busy brain and were rejected. Should he be tempestuous?

No. Should he be amazed? Again no. Even on his own theory of the story,

Duplay's assertion hardly entitled him to be amazed.

"As regards my part in this matter," he said at last, "I have only this

to say. The circumstances of my birth--with which I am, as you rightly

suppose, quite familiar--were such as to render the sort of notion you

have got hold of plausible enough. I don't want what you call

proofs--though you'll want them badly if you mean to pursue your present

line. I have my own proofs--perfectly in order, perfectly satisfactory.

That's all I have to say about my part of the matter. About your part in

it I can, I think, be almost equally brief. Are you merely Mr Iver's

friend, or are you also, as you put it, paying attentions to Miss Iver?"

"That, sir, has nothing to do with it."

Harry Tristram looked up at him. For the first time he broke into a

smile as he studied Duplay's face. "I shouldn't in the least wonder," he

said almost chaffingly, "if you believed that to be true. You get hold

of a cock-and-bull story about my being illegitimate (Oh, I've no

objection to plainness either in its proper place!), you come to me and

tell me almost in so many words that if I don't give up the lady you'll

go to her father and show him your precious proofs. Everybody knows that

you're after Miss Iver yourself, and yet you say that it has nothing to

do with it! That's the sort of thing a man may manage to believe about

himself; it's not the sort of thing that other people believe about him,

Major Duplay." He rose slowly to his feet and the men stood face to face

on the edge of the Pool. The rain fell more heavily: Duplay turned up

his collar, Harry took no notice of the downpour.

"I'm perfectly satisfied as to the honesty of my own motives," said

Duplay.

"That's not true, and you know it. You may try to shut your eyes, but

you can't succeed."

Duplay was shaken. His enemy put into words what his own conscience had

said to him. His position was hard: he was doing what honestly seemed to

him the right thing to do: he could not seem to do it because it was

right. He would be wronging the Ivers if he did not do it, yet how ugly

it could be made to look! He was not above suspicion even to himself,

though he clung eagerly to his plea of honesty.

"You fail to put yourself in my place----" he began.

"Absolutely, I assure you," Harry interrupted, with quiet insolence.

"And I can't put myself in yours, sir. But I can tell you what I mean to

do. It is my most earnest wish to take no steps in this matter at all;

but that rests with you, not with me. At least I desire to take none

during Lady Tristram's illness, or during her life should she unhappily

not recover."

"My mother will not recover," said Harry. "It's a matter of a few weeks

at most."

Duplay nodded. "At least wait till then," he urged. "Do nothing more in

regard to the matter we have spoken of while your mother lives." He

spoke with genuine feeling. Harry Tristram marked it and took account of

it. It was a point in the game to him.

"In turn I'll tell you what I mean to do," he said. "I mean to proceed

exactly as if you had never come to Merrion Lodge, had never got your

proofs from God knows where, and had never given me the pleasure of this

very peculiar interview. My mother would ask no consideration from you,

and I ask none for her any more than for myself. To be plain for the

last time, sir, you're making a fool of yourself at the best, and at the

worst a blackguard into the bargain." He paused and broke into a laugh.

"Well, then, where are the proofs? Show them me. Or send them down to

Blent. Or I'll come up to Merrion. We'll have a look at them--for your

sake, not for mine."

"I may have spoken inexactly, Mr Tristram. I know the facts; I could

get, but have not yet got, the proof of them."

"Then don't waste your money, Major Duplay." He waited an instant before

he gave a deeper thrust. "Or Iver's--because I don't think your purse is

long enough to furnish the resources of war. You'd get the money from

him? I'm beginning to wonder more and more at the views people contrive

to take of their own actions."

Harry had fought his fight well, but now perhaps he went wrong, even as

he had gone wrong with Mina Zabriska at Fairholme. He was not content to

defeat or repel; he must triumph, he must taunt. The insolence of his

speech and air drove Duplay to fury. If it told him he was beaten now,

it made him determined not to give up the contest; it made him wish too

that he was in a country where duelling was not considered absurd. At

any rate he was minded to rebuke Harry.

"You're a young man----" he began.

"Tell me that when I'm beaten. It may console me," interrupted Harry.

"You'll be beaten, sir, sooner than you think," said Duplay gravely.

"But though you refuse my offer, I shall consider Lady Tristram. I will

not move while she lives, unless you force me to it."

"By marrying the heiress you want?" sneered Harry.

"By carrying out your swindling plans." Duplay's temper began to fail

him. "Listen. As soon as your engagement is announced--if it ever is--I

go to Mr Iver with what I know. If you abandon the idea of that

marriage, you're safe from me. I have no other friends here; the rest

must look after themselves. But you shall not delude my friends with

false pretences."

"And I shall not spoil your game with Miss Iver?"

Duplay's temper quite failed him. He had not meant this to happen; he

had pictured himself calm, Harry wild and unrestrained--either in fury

or in supplication. The young man had himself in hand, firmly in hand;

the elder lost self-control.

"If you insult me again, sir, I'll throw you in the river!"

Harry's slow smile broke across his face. With all his wariness and

calculation he measured the Major's figure. The attitude of mind was not

heroic; it was Harry's. Who, having ten thousand men, will go against

him that has twenty thousand? A fool or a hero, Harry would have said,

and he claimed neither name. But in the end he reckoned that he was a

match for the Major. He smiled more broadly and raised his brows, asking

of sky and earth as he glanced round:

"Since when have blackmailers grown so sensitive?"

In an instant Duplay closed with him in a struggle on which hung not

death indeed, but an unpleasant and humiliating ducking. The rain fell

on both; the water waited for one. The Major was taller and heavier;

Harry was younger and in better trim. Harry was cooler too. It was rude

hugging, nothing more; neither of them had skill or knew more tricks

than the common dimly remembered devices of urchinhood. The fight was

most unpicturesque, most unheroic; but it was tolerably grim for all

that. The grass grew slippery under the rain and the slithering feet;

luck had its share. And just behind them ran the Queen's highway. They

did not think of the Queen's highway. To this pass a determination to be

calm, whatever else they were, had brought them.

The varying wriggles (no more dignified word is appropriate) of the

encounter ended in a stern stiff grip which locked the men one to the

other, Duplay facing down the valley, Harry looking up the river. Harry

could not see over the Major's shoulder, but he saw past it, and sighted

a tall dog-cart driven quickly and rather rashly down the hill. It was

raining hard now, and had not looked like rain when the dog-cart

started. Hats were being ruined--there was some excuse for risking

broken knees to the horse and broken necks to the riders. In the middle

of his struggle Harry smiled: he put out his strength too; and he did

not warn his enemy of what he saw; yet he knew very well who was in the

dog-cart. Duplay's anger had stirred him to seek a primitive though

effective revenge. Harry was hoping to inflict a more subtle punishment.

He needed only a bit of luck to help him to it; he knew how to use the

chance when it came--just as well as he knew who was in the dog-cart, as

well as he guessed whence the dog-cart came.

The luck did not fail. Duplay's right foot slipped. In the effort to

recover himself he darted out his left over the edge of the bank. Harry

impelled him; the Major loosed his hold and set to work to save

himself--none too soon: both his legs were over, his feet touched water,

he lay spread-eagled on the bank, half on, half off, in a ludicrous

attitude; still he slipped and could not get a hold on the short slimy

grass. At that moment the dog-cart was pulled up just behind them.

"What are you doing?" cried Janie Iver, leaning forward in amazement;

Mina Zabriska sat beside her with wide-open eyes. Harry stooped, caught

the Major under the shoulders, and with a great effort hauled him up on

the bank, a sad sight, draggled and dirty. Then, as Duplay slowly rose,

he turned with a start, as though he noticed the new-comers for the

first time. He laughed as he raised his cap.

"We didn't know we were to have spectators," said he. "And you nearly

came in for a tragedy! He was all but gone. Weren't you, Major?"

"What were you doing?" cried Janie again. Mina was silent and still,

scrutinizing both men keenly.

"Why, we had been talking about wrestling, and the Major offered to show

me a trick which he bet a shilling would floor me. Only the ground was

too slippery; wasn't it, Major? And the trick didn't exactly come off. I

wasn't floored, so I must trouble you for a shilling, Major."

Major Duplay did not look at Janie, still less did he meet his niece's

eye. He spent a few seconds in a futile effort to rub the mud off his

coat with muddy hands; he glanced a moment at Harry.

"I must have another try some day," he said, but with no great

readiness.

"Meanwhile--the shilling!" demanded Harry good-humoredly, a subtle

mockery in his eyes alone showing the imaginary character of the bet

which he claimed to have won.

In the presence of those two inquisitive young women Major Duplay did

not deny the debt. He felt in his pocket, found a shilling, and gave it

to Harry Tristram. That young man looked at it, spun it in the air, and

pocketed it.

"Yes, a revenge whenever you like," said he. "And now we'd better get

home, because it's begun to rain."

"Begun to! It's rained for half-an-hour," said Janie crossly.

"Has it? I didn't notice. I was too busy with the Major's trick."

As he spoke he looked full in Mina Zabriska's face. She bore his glance

for a moment, then cried to Janie, "Oh, please drive on!" The dog-cart

started; the Major, with a stiff touch of his hat, strode along the

road. Harry was left alone by the Pool. His gayety and defiance

vanished; he stood there scowling at the Pool. On the surface the honors

of the encounter were indeed his; the real peril remained, the real

battle had still to be fought. It was with heart-felt sincerity that he

muttered, as he sought for pipe and tobacco:

"I wish I'd drowned the beggar in the Pool!"

VI

THE ATTRACTION OF IT

Mr Jenkinson Neeld sat at lunch at the Imperium Club, quite happy with a

neck chop, last week's _Athenæum_, and a pint of Apollinaris. To him

enter disturbers of peace.

"How are you, Neeld?" said Lord Southend, taking the chair next him.

"Sit down here, Iver. Let me introduce you--Mr Iver--Mr Neeld. Bill of

fare, waiter." His lordship smiled rather maliciously at Mr Neeld as he

made the introduction, which Iver acknowledged with bluff courtesy,

Neeld with a timid little bow. "How are things down your way?" pursued

Southend, addressing Iver. "Lady Tristram's very ill, I hear?"

"I'm afraid so."

"Wonderful woman that, you know. You ought to have seen her in the

seventies--when she ran away with Randolph Edge."

A gentleman, two tables off, looked round.

"Hush, Southend! That's his brother," whispered Mr Neeld.

"Whose brother?" demanded Southend.

"That's Wilmot Edge--Sir Randolph's brother."

"Oh, the deuce it is. I thought he'd been pilled."

Blackballs also were an embarrassing subject; Neeld sipped his

Apollinaris nervously.

"Well, as I was saying" (Lord Southend spoke a little lower), "she went

straight from the Duchess of Slough's ball to the station, as she was,

in a low gown and a scarlet opera cloak--met Edge, whose wife had only

been dead three months--and went off with him. You know the rest of the

story. It was a near run for young Harry Tristram! How is the boy,

Iver?"

"The boy's very much of a man indeed; we don't talk about the near run

before him."

Southend laughed. "A miss is as good as a mile," he said, "eh, Neeld?

I'd like to see Addie Tristram again--though I suppose she's a wreck,

poor thing!"

"Why couldn't she marry the man properly, instead of bolting?" asked

Iver. He did not approve of such escapades.

"Oh, he had to bolt anyhow--a thorough bad lot--debts, you know--her

people wouldn't hear of it; besides she was engaged to Fred Nares--you

don't remember Fred? A devilish passionate fellow, with a wart on his

nose. So altogether it was easier to cut and run. Besides she liked the

sort of thing, don't you know. Romantic and all that. Then Edge

vanished, and the other man appeared. That turned out all right, but she

ran it fine. Eh, Neeld?"

Mr Neeld was sadly flustered by these recurring references to him. He

had no desire to pose as an authority on the subject. Josiah

Cholderton's diary put him in a difficulty. He wished to goodness he had

been left to the peaceful delights of literary journalism.

"Well, if you'll come down to my place, I can promise to show you Harry

Tristram; and you can go over and see his mother if she's better."

"By Jove, I've half a mind to! Very kind of you, Iver. You've got a fine

place, I hear."

"I've built so many houses for other people that I may be allowed one

for myself, mayn't I? We're proud of our neighborhood," he pursued,

politely addressing himself to Mr Neeld. "If you're ever that way, I

hope you'll look me up. I shall be delighted to welcome a fellow-member

of the Imperium."

A short chuckle escaped from Lord Southend's lips; he covered it by an

exaggerated devotion to his broiled kidneys. Mr Neeld turned pink and

murmured incoherent thanks; he felt like a traitor.

"Yes, we see a good deal of young Harry," said Iver, with a smile--"and

of other young fellows about the place too. They don't come to see me,

though. I expect Janie's the attraction. You remember my girl,

Southend?"

"Well, I suppose Blent's worth nine or ten thousand a year still?" The

progress of Lord Southend's thoughts was obvious.

"H'm. Seven or eight, I should think, as it's managed now. It's a nice

place, though, and would go a good bit better in proper hands."

"Paterfamilias considering?"

"I don't quite make the young fellow out. He's got a good opinion of

himself, I fancy." Iver laughed a little. "Well, we shall see," he

ended.

"Not a bad thing to be Lady Tristram of Blent, you know, Iver. That's

none of your pinchbeck. The real thing--though, as I say, young Harry's

only got it by the skin of his teeth. Eh, Neeld?"

Mr Neeld laid down his napkin and pushed back his chair.

"Sit still, man. We've nearly finished, and we'll all have a cup of

coffee together and a cigar."

Misfortunes accumulated, for Neeld hated tobacco. But he was anxious to

be scrupulously polite to Iver, and thus to deaden the pangs of

conscience. Resigned though miserable, he went with them to the

smoking-room. Colonel Wilmot Edge looked up from the _Army and Navy

Gazette_, and glanced curiously at the party as they passed his table.

Why were these old fellows reviving old stories? They were better left

at rest. The Colonel groaned as he went back to his newspaper.

Happily, in the smoking-room the talk shifted to less embarrassing

subjects. Iver told of his life and doings, and Neeld found himself

drawn to the man: he listened with interest and appreciation; he seemed

brought into touch with life; he caught himself sighing over the retired

inactive nature of his own occupations. He forgave Iver the hoardings

about the streets; he could not forgive himself the revenge he had taken

for them. Iver and Southend spoke of big schemes in which they had been

or were engaged together--legitimate enterprises, good for the nation as

well as for themselves. How had he, a useless old fogy, dared to

blackball a man like Iver? An occasional droll glance from Southend

emphasized his compunction.

"I see you've got a new thing coming out, Neeld," said Southend, after a

pause in the talk. "I remember old Cholderton very well. He was a

starchy old chap, but he knew his subjects. Makes rather heavy reading,

I should think, eh?"

"Not all of it, not by any means all of it," Neeld assured him. "He

doesn't confine himself to business matters."

"Still, even old Joe Cholderton's recreations----"

"He was certainly mainly an observer, but he saw some interesting things

and people." There was a renewed touch of nervousness in Mr Neeld's

manner.

"Interesting people? H'm. Then I hope he's discreet?"

"Or that Mr Neeld will be discreet for him," Iver put in. "Though I

don't know why interesting people are supposed to create a need for

discretion."

"Oh yes, you do, Iver. You know the world. Don't you be too discreet,

Neeld. Give us a taste of Joe's lighter style."

Neeld did not quite approve of his deceased and respected friend being

referred to as "Joe," nor did he desire to discuss in that company what

he had and what he had not suppressed in the Journal.

"I have used the best of my judgment," he said primly, and was surprised

to find Iver smiling at him with an amused approval.

"The least likely men break out," Lord Southend continued hopefully.

"The Baptist minister down at my place once waylaid the wife of the

Chairman of Quarter Sessions and asked her to run away with him."

"That's one of your Nonconformist stories, Southend. I never believe

them," said Iver.

"Oh, I'm not saying anything. She was a pretty woman. I just gave it as

an illustration. I happen to know it's true, because she told me

herself."

"Ah, I'd begin to listen if he'd told you," was Iver's cautious comment.

"You give us the whole of old Joe Cholderton!" was Lord Southend's final

injunction.

"Imagine if I did!" thought Neeld, beginning to feel some of the joy of

holding a secret.

Presently Southend took his leave, saying he had an engagement. To his

own surprise Neeld did not feel this to be an unwarrantable proceeding;

he sat on with Iver, and found himself cunningly encouraging his

companion to talk again about the Tristrams. The story in the Journal

had not lost its interest for him; he had read it over more than once

again; it was strange to be brought into contact, even at second-hand,

with the people whose lives and fortunes it concerned. It was evident

that Iver, on his side, had for some reason been thinking of the

Tristrams too, and he responded readily to Neeld's veiled invitation.

He described Blent for him; he told him how Lady Tristram had looked,

and that her illness was supposed to be fatal; he talked again of Harry

Tristram, her destined successor. But he said no more of his daughter.

Neeld was left without any clear idea that his companion's concern with

the Tristrams was more than that of a neighbor or beyond what an ancient

family with odd episodes in its history might naturally inspire.

"Oh, you must come to Blentmouth, Mr Neeld, you must indeed. For a few

days, now? Choose your time, only let it be soon. Why, if you made your

way into the library at Blent, you might happen on a find there! A lot

of interesting stuff there, I'm told. And we shall be very grateful for

a visit."

Neeld was conscious of a strong desire to go to Blentmouth. But it would

be a wrong thing to do; he felt that he could not fairly accept Iver's

hospitality. And he felt, moreover, that he had much better not get

himself mixed up with the Tristrams of Blent. No man is bound to act on

hearsay evidence, especially when that evidence has been acquired

through a confidential channel. But if he came to know the Tristrams, to

know Harry Tristram, his position would certainly be peculiar. Well,

that was in the end why he wanted to do it.

Iver rose and held out his hand. "I must go," he said. "Fairholme,

Blentmouth! I hope I shall have a letter from you soon, to tell us to

look out for you."

One of the unexpected likings that occur between people had happened.

Each man felt it and recognized it in the other. They were alone in the

room for the moment.

"Mr Iver," said Neeld, in his precise prim tones, "I must make a

confession to you. When you were up for this club I--my vote was not in

your favor."

During a minute's silence Iver looked at him with amusement and almost

with affection.

"I'm glad you've told me that."

"Well, I'm glad I have too." Neeld's laugh was nervous.

"Because it shows that you're thinking of coming to Blentmouth."

"Well--yes, I am," answered Neeld, smiling. And they shook hands. Here

was the beginning of a friendship; here, also, Neeld's entry on the

scene where Harry Tristram's fortunes formed the subject of the play.

It was now a foregone conclusion that Mr Neeld would fall before

temptation and come to Blentmouth. There had been little doubt about it

all along; his confession to Iver removed the last real obstacle. The

story in Josiah Cholderton's Journal had him in its grip; on the first

occasion of trial his resolution not to be mixed up with the Tristrams

melted away. Perhaps he consoled himself by saying that he would be,

like his deceased and respected friend, mainly an observer. The Imp, it

may be remembered, had gone to Merrion Lodge with exactly the same idea;

it has been seen how it fared with her.

By the Blent the drama seemed very considerately to be waiting for him.

It says much for Major Duplay that his utter and humiliating defeat by

the Pool had not driven him into any hasty action or shaken him in his

original purpose. He was abiding by the offer which he had made,

although the offer had been scornfully rejected. If he could by any

means avoid it, he was determined not to move while Lady Tristram lived.

Harry might force him to act sooner; that rested with Harry, not with

him. Meanwhile he declined to explain even to Mina what had occurred by

the Pool, and treated her open incredulity as to Harry's explanation

with silence or a snub. The Major was not happy at this time; yet his

unhappiness was nothing to the deep woe, and indeed terror, which had

settled on Mina Zabriska. She had guessed enough to see that, for the

moment at least, Harry had succeeded in handling Duplay so roughly as to

delay, if not to thwart, his operations; what would he not do to her,

whom he must know to be the original cause of the trouble? She used to

stand on the terrace at Merrion and wonder about this; and she dared not

go to Fairholme lest she should encounter Harry. She made many good

resolutions for the future, but there was no comfort in the present

days.

The resolutions went for nothing, even in the moment in which they were

made. She had suffered for meddling; that was bad: it was worse to the

Imp not to meddle; inactivity was the one thing unendurable.

She too, like old Mr Neeld in London town, was drawn by the interest of

the position, by the need of seeing how Harry Tristram fought his fight.

For four days she resisted; on the evening of the fifth, after dinner,

while the Major dozed, she came out on the terrace in a cloak and looked

down the hill. It was rather dark, and Blent Hall loomed dimly in the

valley below. She pulled the hood of her cloak over her head, and began

to descend the hill: she had no special purpose; she wanted a nearer

look at Blent, and it was a fine night for a stroll. She came to the

road, crossed it after a momentary hesitation, and stood by the gate of

the little foot-bridge, which, in the days before enmity arose, Harry

Tristram had told her was never locked. It was not now. Mina advanced to

the middle of the bridge and leant on the parapet, her eyes set on

Blent Hall. There were lights in the lower windows; one window on the

upper floor was lighted too. There, doubtless, Lady Tristram lay slowly

dying; somewhere else in the house Harry was keeping his guard and

perfecting his defences. The absolute peace and rest of the outward

view, the sleepless vigilance and unceasing battle within, a battle that

death made keener and could not lull to rest--this contrast came upon

Mina with a strange painfulness; her eyes filled with tears as she stood

looking.

A man came out into the garden and lit a cigar; she knew it was Harry;

she did not move. He sauntered toward the bridge; she held her ground;

though he should strike her, she would have speech with him to-night. He

was by the bridge and had his hand on the gate at the Blent end of it

before he saw her. He stood still a moment, then came to her side, and

leant as she was leaning over the parapet. He was bare-headed--she saw

his thick hair and his peaked forehead; he smoked steadily; he showed no

surprise at seeing her, and he did not speak to her for a long time. At

last, still without looking at her, he began. She could just make out

his smile, or thought she could; at any rate she was sure it was there.

"Well, Mina de Kries?" said he. She started a little. "Oh, I don't

believe in the late Zabriska; I don't believe you're grown up; I think

you're about fifteen--a beastly age." He put his cigar back in his

mouth.

"You see that window?" he resumed in a moment. "And you know what's

happening behind it? My mother's dying there. Well, how's the Major? Has

he got that trick in better order yet?"

She found her tongue with difficulty.

"Does Lady Tristram know about--about me?" she stammered.

"I sometimes lie to my mother," said Harry, flicking his ash into the

river. "Why do you lie to your uncle, though?"

"I didn't lie. You know I didn't lie."

He shrugged his shoulders wearily and relapsed into silence. Silence

there was till, a minute or two later, it was broken by a little sob

from Mina Zabriska. He turned his head toward her; then he took hold of

her arm and twisted her face round to him. The tears were running down

her cheeks.

"I'm so, so sorry," she murmured. "I didn't mean to; and I did it! And

now--now I can't stop it. You needn't believe me if you don't like, but

I'm--I'm miserable and--and frightened."

He flung his cigar into the water and put his hands in his pockets. So

he stood watching her, his body swaying a little to and fro; his eyes

were suspicious of her, yet they seemed amused also, and they were not

cruel; it was not such a look as he had given her when they parted by

the Pool.

"If it were true?" she asked. "I mean, couldn't Lady Tristram

somehow----?"

"If what was true? Oh, the nonsense you told Duplay?" He laughed. "If it

was true, I should be a nobody and nobody's son. I suppose that would

amuse you very much, wouldn't it? You wouldn't have come to Merrion for

nothing then! But as it isn't true, what's the use of talking?"

He won no belief from her when he said that it was not true; to her

quick mind the concentrated bitterness with which he described what it

would mean to him showed that he believed it and that the thought was no

new one; in imagination he had heard the world calling him many times

what he now called himself--if the thing were true. She drew her cloak

round her and shivered.

"Cold?" he asked.

"No. Wretched, wretched."

"Would you like to see my mother?"

"You wouldn't let her see me?"

"She's asleep, and the nurse is at supper--not that she'd matter. Come

along."

He turned and began to walk quickly toward the house; Mina followed him

as though in a dream. They entered a large hall. It was dark, save for

one candle, and she could see nothing of its furniture. He led her

straight up a broad oak staircase that rose from the middle of it, and

then along a corridor. The polished oak gleamed here and there as they

passed candles in brackets on the wall, and was slippery under her

unaccustomed feet. The whole house was very still--still, cool, and very

peaceful.

Cautiously he opened a door and beckoned her to follow him. Lights were

burning in the room. Lady Tristram lay sleeping; her hair, still fair

and golden, spread over the pillow; her face was calm and unlined. She

seemed a young and beautiful girl wasted by a fever; but the fever was

the fever of life as well as of disease. Thus Mina saw again the lady

she had seen at Heidelberg.

"She won't wake--she's had her sleeping draught," he said; and Mina took

him to mean that she might linger a moment more. She cast her eyes round

the room. Over the fireplace, facing the bed, was a full-length portrait

of a girl. She was dressed all in red; the glory of her white neck, her

brilliant hair, and her blue eyes rose out of the scarlet setting. This

was Addie Tristram in her prime; as she was when she fled with Randolph

Edge, as she was when she cried in the little room at Heidelberg,

"Think of the difference it makes, the enormous difference!"

"My mother likes to have that picture there," Harry explained.

The sleeping woman stirred faintly. In obedience to a look from Harry,

Mina followed him from the room, and they passed downstairs and through

the hall together in silence. He came with her as far as the bridge.

There he paused. The scene they had left had apparently stirred no new

emotion in him; but Mina Zabriska was trembling and moved to the heart.

"Now you've seen her--and before that you'd seen me. And perhaps now

you'll understand that we're the Tristrams of Blent, and that we live

and die that." His voice grew a little louder. "And your nonsense!" he

exclaimed; "it's all a lie. But if it was true? It's the blood, isn't

it, not the law, that matters? It's her blood and my blood. That's my

real title to Blent!"

In the midst of his lying he spoke truth there, and Mina knew it. It

seemed as though there, to her, in the privacy of that night, he lied as

but a matter of form; his true heart, his true purpose, and his true

creed he showed her in his last words. By right of blood he claimed to

stand master of Blent, and so he meant to stand.

"Yes," she said. "Yes, yes. God help you to it." She turned and left

him, and ran up the hill, catching her breath in sobs again.

Harry Tristram stood and watched her as long as he could see her

retreating figure. There were no signs of excitement about him; even his

confession of faith he had spoken calmly, although with strong emphasis.

He smiled now as he turned on his heel and took his way back to the

house.

"The Major must play his hand alone now," he said; "he'll get no more

help from her." He paused a moment. "It's a funny thing, though. That's

not really why I took her up."

He shook his head in puzzle; perhaps he could hardly be expected to

recognize that it was that pride of his--pride in his mother, his race,

himself--which had made him bid Mina Zabriska look upon Lady Tristram as

she slept.

VII

THE MOMENT DRAWS NEAR

Not knowing your own mind, though generally referred to as an

intellectual weakness and sometimes as a moral fault, is none the less

now and then a pleasant state to live in for a while. There is a

richness of possibility about it, a variety of prospects open, a choice

of roads each in its own fashion attractive. Besides, you can always

tell yourself that it is prudent to look all round the question and

consider all alternatives. The pleasure, like most pleasures, is greater

when it comes once in a way to a person unaccustomed to it. Janie Iver

had been brought up to know her own mind; it was the eleventh

commandment in the Iver household. Iver entertained the intellectual,

his wife the moral objection to shilly-shallying; their daughter's

training, while conducted with all kindness, had been eminently

sensible, and early days had offered few temptations to stray from the

path of the obviously desirable. The case was different now; riches

brought a change, the world revealed its resources, life was spreading

out its diverse wares. Janie was much puzzled as to what she ought to

do, more as to what she wanted to do, most of all as to what she would

in the end do--unless indeed the fact that she was puzzled continued to

rank as the greatest puzzle of all.

Naturally the puzzles were personified--or the persons made into

puzzles. Men became lives to her, as well as individuals--the Tristram,

the Duplay, the Broadley life; her opinion of the life complicated her

feeling toward the person. The Tristram life attracted her strongly, the

life of the great lady; Harry had his fascination too; but she did not

think that she and Harry would be very happy together, woman and man.

She was loth to let him go, with all that he meant; perhaps she would

have been secretly relieved if fate had taken him away from her. The

Duplay life promised another sort of joy: the Major's experience was

world-wide, his knowledge various, his conversation full of hints of the

unexplored; she would be broadening her life if she identified it with

his. Yet the Major was an approximate forty (on one side or the other),

in a few years would seem rather old, and was not even now capable of

raising a very strong sentiment; there too she would be taking rather

the life than the man. Lastly there was that quiet Broadley life, to be

transformed in some degree, doubtless, by her wealth, but likely to

remain in essentials the peaceful homely existence which she knew very

well. It had little to set against the rival prospects; yet there was a

feeling that in either of the other two existences she would miss

something; and that something seemed to be Bob Broadley himself.

She found herself thinking, in terms superficially repugnant to

convention, that she would like to pay long visits to the other men, but

have Bob to come home to when she was inclined for rest and

tranquillity. Her perplexity was not strange in itself, but it was

strange and new to her; imbued with the parental views about

shilly-shallying, she was angry with herself and inclined to be ashamed.

The excuse she had made to Mina Zabriska did not acquit her in her own

eyes. Yet she was also interested, excited, and pleasantly awake to the

importance which her indecision gave her.

Judged from the outside, she was not open to blame in her attitude

toward Harry; he was not in love with her, and hardly pretended to be.

She met him fairly on a friendly footing of business; he was the sinner

in that, while what she offered was undoubtedly hers, what he proposed

to give in return was only precariously his.

Nor had Duplay any cause of complaint in being kept waiting; he would be

held exceedingly lucky not to be sent to the right-about instantly. But

with Bob Broadley the matter was different. On the subtle question of

what exactly constitutes "encouragement" (it is the technical term) in

these cases it is not perhaps necessary to enter; but false hopes might,

no doubt, arise from her visits to Mingham, from her habit of riding up

the road by the river about the time when Bob would be likely to be

riding down it, or of sauntering by the Pool on the days when he drove

his gig into Blentmouth on business--all this being beyond and outside

legitimate meetings at Fairholme itself. Unless she meant to marry him

she might indeed raise hopes that were false.

Yes, but it did not seem as though she did. Bob was humble. She had

tyrannized over him even before the Ivers grew so very rich. (They had

begun in a small villa at Blentmouth--Miss Swinkerton lived there now.)

It was natural that she should tyrannize still. He saw that she liked to

meet him; grateful for friendship, he was incredulous of more. His

disposition may plead in excuse for her; whatever she did, she would not

disappoint a confident hope.

But she was always so glad to see him, and when she was with him, he was

no perplexity, he was only her dear old friend. Well, and one thing

besides--a man whom it was rather amusing to try to get a compliment out

of, to try to torment into a manifestation of devotion; it was all

there; Janie liked to lure it to the surface sometimes. But Bob was not

even visibly miserable; he was always equable, even jolly, with so much

to say about his horses and his farm that sentiment did not always

secure its fair share of the interview. Janie, not being sentimental

either, liked all this even while it affronted her vanity.

"Send the gig home and stay and talk," she commanded, as he stopped by

her on the road; he was returning from Blentmouth to Mingham and found

her strolling by the Pool. "I want to speak to you."

He had his bailiff with him--they had been selling a cow--and left him

to take the gig home. He shook hands with frank cordiality.

"That's awfully nice of you," he said. "What about?"

"Nothing in particular," said she. "Mayn't I want it just generally?"

"Oh, well, I thought you meant there was something special. I've sold

the cow well, Miss Janie."

"Bother the cow! Why haven't you been to Fairholme?"

"Well, in fact, I'm not sure that Mr Iver is death on seeing me there

too often. But I shall turn up all right soon."

"Have you been going about anywhere?"

"No. Been up at Mingham most of the time."

"Isn't that rather lonely?"

"Lonely? Good Heavens, no! I've got too much to do."

Janie glanced at him; what was to be done with a man who treated

provocative suggestions as though they were sincere questions? If he had

not cared for her now! But she knew he did.

"Well, I've been very dull, anyhow. One never sees anybody fresh at

Fairholme now. It's always either Mr. Tristram or Major Duplay."

"Well, I shouldn't be very fresh either, should I?" The names she

mentioned drew no sign from him.

"I don't count you as a visitor at all--and they are visitors, I

suppose." She seemed a little in doubt; yet both the gentlemen, at any

rate, were not presumably received as members of the family.

"I'll tell you what I've been thinking about," said Bob, speaking

slowly, and apparently approaching a momentous announcement.

"Yes," she said, turning to him with interest, and watching his handsome

open face; it was not a very clever face, but it was a very pleasant

one; she enjoyed looking at it.

"I've been thinking that I'll sell the black horse, but I can't make up

my mind whether to do it now or keep him through the summer and sell him

when hunting begins. I don't know which would pay me best."

"That certainly is a very important question," remarked Janie, with a

wealth of sarcasm.

"Well, it gives me a lot of trouble, Miss Janie."

"Does it? And it doesn't interest me in the very--Yes, it does, Bob,

very much. I'm sorry. Of course it does. Only----"

"Anything the matter with you?" Bob inquired with friendly solicitude.

"No--not just now. There never is, somehow, when I'm with you. And let's

talk about the black horse--it'll be soothing. Is the price of oats a

factor?"

Bob laughed a little, but did not proceed with the discussion. They

sauntered on in silence for a few minutes, Bob taking out his tobacco.

"Worried, aren't you?" he asked, lighting his pipe.

"Yes," she answered shortly.

"Was that what you wanted to say to me?"

"No, of course not; as if I should talk to you about it!"

"Don't suppose you would, no. Still, we're friends, aren't we?"

"Do you feel friendly to me?"

"Friendly! Well----!" He laughed. "What do you think about it yourself?"

he asked. "Look here, I don't bother you, but I'm here when you want

me."

"When I want you?"

"I mean, if I can do anything for you, or--or advise you. I don't think

I'm a fool, you know."

"I'm really glad to hear you've got as far as that," she remarked rather

tartly. "Your fault, Bob, is not thinking nearly enough of yourself."

"You'll soon change that, if you say much more." His pleasure in her

implied praise was obvious, but he did not read a single word more into

her speech than the words she uttered.

"And you are friendly to me--still?"

"It doesn't make any difference to me whether I see you or not----"

"What?" she cried. The next moment she was laughing. "Thanks, Bob,

but--but you've a funny way of putting things sometimes." She laid her

hand on his arm for a moment, sighing, "Dear old Bob!"

"Oh, you know what I mean," he said, puffing away. His healthy skin had

flushed a trifle, but that was his only reply to her little caress.

"If--if I came to you some day and said I'd been a fool, or been made a

fool of, and was very unhappy, and--and wanted comforting, would you

still be nice to me?"

His answer came after a puff and a pause.

"Well, if you ever get like that, I should recommend you just to try me

for what I'm worth," he said. Her eyes were fixed on his face, but he

did not look at her. Some men would have seen in her appeal an

opportunity of trying to win from her more than she was giving. The case

did not present itself in that light to Bob Broadley. He did not press

his own advantage, he hardly believed in it; and he had, besides, a

vague idea that he would spoil for her the feeling she had if he greeted

it with too much enthusiasm. What she wanted was a friend--a solid,

possibly rather stolid, friend; with that commodity he was prepared to

provide her. Any sign of agitation in her he answered and hoped to quiet

by an increased calm in his own manner. The humblest of men have moments

of pride; it must be confessed that Bob thought he was behaving not only

with proper feeling but also with considerable tact--a tact that was

based on knowledge of women.

Interviews such as these--and they were not infrequent--formed a rather

incongruous background, but also an undeniable relief, to the life Janie

was leading at Fairholme. That seemed to have little concern with Bob

Broadley and to be engrossed in the struggle between Harry and Duplay.

Both men pressed on. Harry had not been scared away. Duplay would win

without using his secret weapon, if he could. Each had his manner;

Harry's constrained yet direct; the Major's more florid, more expressed

in glances, compliments, and attentions. Neither had yet risked the

decisive word. Janie was playing for delay. The Major seemed inclined to

grant it her; he would make every step firm under him before he took

another forward. But Harry grew impatient, was imperious in his calls on

her time, and might face her with the demand for an answer any day. She

could not explain how it was, but somehow his conduct seemed to be

influenced by the progress of Lady Tristram's illness. She gathered this

idea from words he let fall; perhaps his mother wanted to see the affair

settled before she died. Duplay often spoke of the illness too; it

could have no importance for him at least, she thought.

About Harry Tristram anyhow she was right. He was using to its full

value his rival's chivalrous desire to make no movement during Lady

Tristram's lifetime; he reckoned on it and meant to profit by it. The

Major had indeed conveyed to him that the chivalry had its limits; even

if that were so, Harry would be no worse off; and there was the chance

that Duplay would not speak. A look of brutality would be given to any

action of his while Lady Tristram lay dying; Harry hoped this aspect of

his conduct would frighten him. At least it was worth risking. The

doctors talked of two months more; Harry Tristram meant to be engaged

before one of them was out. Could he be married before the second ran

its course? Mrs Iver would have scoffed at the idea, and Janie shrunk

from it. But a dying mother's appeal would count with almost

irresistible strength in such a case; and Harry was sure of being

furnished with this aid.

He came to Fairholme a day or two after Janie had talked with Bob

Broadley. She was on the lawn; with her Mina Zabriska and a small, neat,

elderly man, who was introduced to him as Mr Jenkinson Neeld. Harry paid

little attention to this insignificant person, and gave Mina no more

than a careless shake of the hand and a good-humored amused nod; he was

not afraid of her any longer. She had done what harm she could. If she

did anything more now it would be on his side. Else why had he shown her

Lady Tristram? He claimed Janie and contrived to lead her to some chairs

on the other side of the lawn.

"And that's Mr Harry Tristram?" said Neeld, looking at him intently

through his spectacles.

"Yes," said the Imp briefly--she was at the moment rather bored by Mr.

Neeld.

"An interesting-looking young man."

"Yes, he's interesting." And she added a moment later, "You're having a

good look at him, Mr Neeld."

"Dear me, was I staring? I hope not. But--well, we've all heard of his

mother, you know."

"I'm afraid the next thing we hear about her will be the last." What she

had seen at Blent Hall was in her mind and she spoke sadly. "Mr Tristram

will succeed to his throne soon now."

Neeld looked at her as if he were about to speak, but he said nothing,

and his eyes wandered back to Harry again.

"They're friends--Miss Iver and he?" he asked at last.

"Oh, it's no secret that he wants to marry her."

"And does she----?"

Mina laughed, not very naturally. "It's something to be Lady Tristram of

Blent." She smiled to think how much more her words meant to herself

than they could mean to her companion. She would have been amazed to

find that Neeld was thinking that she would not speak so lightly if she

knew what he did.

Harry wanted to marry Janie Iver! With a sudden revulsion of feeling

Neeld wished himself far from Blentmouth. However it was his duty to

talk to this sharp little foreign woman, and he meant to try. A few

polite questions brought him to the point of inquiring her nationality.

"Oh, we're Swiss, French Swiss. But I was born at Heidelberg. My mother

lived there after my father died. My uncle--who lives with me--Major

Duplay, is her brother; he was in the Swiss Service."

"A pleasant society at Heidelberg, I dare say?"

"Rather dull," said Mina. It seemed much the same at Blentmouth at the

moment.

Iver strolled out from his study on to the lawn. He cast a glance toward

his daughter and Harry, frowned slightly, and sat down on Mina's other

side. He had a newspaper in his hand, and he held it up as he spoke to

Neeld across Mina.

"Your book's promised for the 15th, I see, Neeld."

"Yes, it's to be out then."

Mina was delighted at being presented with a topic. Sometimes it is the

most precious of gifts.

"Oh, Mr Neeld, have you written a book? How interesting! What is it? A

novel?"

"My dear Madame Zabriska!" murmured Neeld, feeling as if he were being

made fun of. "And it's not really my book. I've only edited it."

"But that's just as good," Mina insisted amiably. "Do tell me what it

is."

"Here you are, Mina. There's the full title and description for you.

There's nothing else in the paper." Iver handed it to her with a stifled

yawn. She read and turned to Neeld with a quick jerk of her head.

"Journal and Correspondence of Josiah Cholderton!" she repeated. "Oh,

but--oh, but--well, that is curious! Why, we used to know Mr

Cholderton!"

"You knew Mr Cholderton?" said Mr Neeld in mild surprise. Then, with a

recollection, he added, "Oh, at Heidelberg, I dare say? But you must

have been a child?"

"Yes, I was. Does he talk about Heidelberg?"

"He mentions it once or twice." In spite of himself Neeld began to feel

that he was within measurable distance of getting on to difficult

ground.

"What fun if he mentioned me! Oh, but of course he wouldn't say anything

about a child of five!"

The slightest start ran through Neeld's figure; it passed unnoticed. He

looked sharply at Mina Zabriska. She went on, in all innocence this

time; she had no reason to think that Cholderton had been in possession

of any secrets, and if he had, it would not have occurred to her that he

would record them.

"He knew my mother quite well; he used to come and see us. Does he

mention her--Madame de Kries?"

There was a perceptible pause; then Neeld answered primly:

"I'm afraid you won't find your mother's name mentioned in Mr.

Cholderton's Journal, Madame Zabriska."

"How horrid!" remarked Mina, greatly disappointed; she regarded Mr Neeld

with a new interest all the same.

They were both struck with this strange coincidence--as it seemed to

them; though in fact that they should meet at Blentmouth was not

properly a coincidence at all. There was nothing surprising about it;

the same cause and similar impulses had brought them both there. The

woman who lay dying at Blent and the young man who sat making love under

the tree yonder--these and no more far-fetched causes--had brought them

both where they were. Mina knew the truth about herself, Neeld about

himself; neither knew or guessed it about the other. Hence their wonder

and their unreasonable feeling that there was something of a fate

bringing them together in that place.

"You're sure he says nothing about us?" she urged.

"You'll not find a word," he replied, sticking to the form of assertion

that salved his conscience. He looked across the lawn again, but Janie

and Harry had disappeared amongst the bushes.

"You're sort of old acquaintances at second-hand, then," said Iver,

smiling. "Cholderton's the connecting link."

"He didn't like me," remarked Mina. "He used to call me the Imp."

"Yes, yes," said Neeld in absent-minded acquiescence. "Yes, the Imp."

"You don't seem much surprised!" cried Mina in mock indignation.

"Surprised?" He started more violently. "Oh, yes--I--I-- Of course!

I'm----" A laugh from his host spared him the effort of further

apologies. But he was a good deal shaken; he had nearly betrayed his

knowledge of the Imp. Indeed he could not rid himself of the idea that

there was a very inquisitive look in Madame Zabriska's large eyes.

Mina risked one more question, put very carelessly.

"I think he must have met Lady Tristram there once or twice. Does he say

anything about her?"

"Not a word," said Neeld, grasping the nettle firmly this time.

Mina took another look at him, but he blinked resolutely behind his

glasses.

"Well, it's just like Mr Cholderton to leave out all the interesting

things," she observed resignedly. "Only I wonder why you edit his book

if it's like that, you know."

"Hello, what's that?" exclaimed Iver, suddenly sitting up in his chair.

They heard the sound of a horse's galloping on the road outside. The

noise of the hoofs stopped suddenly. They sat listening. In a minute or

two the butler led a groom in the Tristram livery on to the lawn. He

came quickly across to Iver, touching his hat.

"Beg pardon, sir, but could I see Mr Tristram? I've an important message

for him."

At the same moment Janie and Harry Tristram came out on to the grass.

Harry saw the groom and was with them in a moment, Janie following.

"Well, Sam, what is it? You were riding hard."

"Her ladyship has had a relapse, sir, and Dr Fryer ordered me to ride

over and tell you at once. No time to lose, he said, sir."

"Did you bring a horse for me?"

"No, sir. But I'm riding Quilldriver."

"I'll go back on him. You can walk." He turned to the rest. "I must go

at once," he said. "I don't know what this may mean."

"Not so bad as it sounds, I hope," said Iver. "But you'd best be off at

once."

Harry included Mina and Mr Neeld in one light nod, and walked briskly

toward the gate, Iver and Janie accompanying him. Mina and Neeld were

left together, and sat in silence some moments.

"It sounds as if she was dying," said Mina at last in a low voice.

"Yes, poor woman!"

"I saw her once lately. She was very beautiful, Mr Neeld."

"Yes, yes, to her own great trouble, poor thing!"

"You knew about----?"

"Oh, everybody knew, Madame Zabriska."

"Yes, and now she's dying!" She turned to him, looking him fairly in the

face. "And Harry'll be Tristram of Blent," she said.

"Yes," said Neeld. "He'll be Tristram of Blent."

Both fell into silence again, looking absently at the sunshine playing

among the trees. They were not to share their secret just yet. A link

was missing between them still.

Harry came to where the horse was, and stood there for a moment, while

the groom altered the stirrups to suit him.

"It's the beginning of the end, if not the end itself," he said.

"Our earnest good wishes to her."

"My love," said Janie. Her father glanced quickly at her.

Harry jumped into the saddle, waved his hand to them, and started at a

gallop for Blent. The groom, with another touch of his hat, trudged off

in his master's track. Janie Iver stood looking as long as Harry was in

sight.

"He won't spare the horse," said Iver.

"Well, he can't this time; and anyhow he wouldn't, if he wanted to get

there." She took her father's arm and pressed it. "Father, Harry

Tristram has just asked me to marry him. He said Lady Tristram wanted it

settled before--before she died, or he wouldn't have spoken so soon."

"Well, Janie dear?"

"When the groom came, I had just told him that I would give him an

answer in a week. But now!" She made a gesture with her free hand; it

seemed to mean bewilderment. She could not tell what would happen now.

VIII

DUTY AND MR. NEELD

When Mina Zabriska brought back the news from Fairholme, and announced

it with an intensity of significance which the sudden aggravation of an

illness long known to be mortal hardly accounted for, Major Duplay grew

very solemn. The moment for action approached, and the nearer it came,

the less was the Major satisfied with his position and resources. The

scene by the Pool had taught him that he would have a stiff fight. He

had been hard hit by Harry's shrewd suggestion that he must ask Iver

himself for the means of proving what he meant to tell Iver. The only

alternative, however, was to procure money for the necessary

investigations from his niece; and his niece, though comfortably off,

was not rich. Nor was she any longer zealous in the cause. The Imp was

sulky and sullen with him, sorry she had ever touched the affair at all,

ready, he suspected, to grasp at any excuse for letting it drop. This

temper of hers foreboded a refusal to open her purse. It was serious in

another way. Of himself Duplay knew nothing; Mina was his only witness;

her evidence, though really second-hand, was undoubtedly weighty; it

would at least make inquiries necessary. But would she give it? Duplay

was conscious that she was capable of turning round on him and declaring

that she had made a blunder. If she did that, what would happen? Duplay

was sure that Harry had formal proofs, good and valid _prima facie_; he

would need Mina, money, and time to upset them. There were moments when

the Major himself wished that he had relied on his own attractions, and

not challenged Harry to battle on any issue save their respective power

to win Janie Iver's affections. But it seemed too late to go back.

Besides, he was in a rage with Harry; his defeat by the Pool rankled.

Harry, as usual, had spared his enemy none of the bitterness of defeat;

Duplay would now take pleasure in humbling him for the sake of the

triumph itself, apart from its effect on the Ivers, father and daughter.

But could he do it? He abode by the conclusion that he was bound to try,

but he was not happy in it.

Harry's attitude would be simple. He would at the proper time produce

his certificates, testifying to the death of Sir Randolph, the marriage

of his parents, his own birth. The copies were in perfect order and duly

authenticated; they were evidence in themselves; the originals could be

had and would bear out the copies. All this had been well looked after,

and Duplay did not doubt it. What had he to set against it? Only that

the third certificate was false, and that somewhere--neither he nor even

Mina knew where--bearing some dates--neither he nor Mina knew

what--there must be two other certificates--one fatal to Harry's case as

fixing his birth at an earlier date, the other throwing at least grave

suspicion on it by recording a second ceremony of marriage. But where

were these certificates? Conceivably they had been destroyed; that was

not likely, but it was possible. At any rate, to find them would need

much time and some money. On reflection, the Major could not blame Harry

for defying him by the Pool.

It will be seen that the information which Mina had gleaned from her

mother, and filled in from her own childish recollection, was not so

minute in the matter of dates as that which Madame de Kries had given at

the time of the events to Mr Cholderton, and which was now locked away

in the drawer at Mr Jenkinson Neeld's chambers. The Major would have

been materially assisted by a sight of that document; it would have

narrowed the necessary area of inquiry and given a definiteness to his

assertions which must have carried added weight with Mr Iver. As it was,

he began to be convinced that Mina would decline to remember any dates

even approximately, and this was all she had professed to do in her

first disclosure. Duplay acknowledged that, as matters stood, the

betting was in favor of his adversary.

Mina, being sulky, would not talk to her uncle; she could not talk to

Janie Iver; she did not see Harry, and would not have dared to talk to

him if she had. But it need hardly be said that she was dying to talk to

somebody. With such matters on hand, she struggled against silence like

soda-water against the cork. Merely to stare down at Blent and wonder

what was happening there whetted a curiosity it could not satisfy. She

felt out of the game, and the feeling was intolerable. As a last resort,

in a last effort to keep in touch with it, although she had been warned

that she would find nothing of interest to her in the volume, she

telegraphed to a bookseller in London to send her Mr. Cholderton's

Journal. It came the day after it was published, four days after she had

made Mr Neeld's acquaintance, and while Lady Tristram, contrary to

expectation, still held death at arm's length and lay looking at her own

picture. The next morning Neeld received a pressing invitation to go to

tea at Merrion Lodge. Without a moment's hesitation he went; with him

too all resolutions to know and to care nothing further about the matter

vanished before the first chance of seeing more of it. And Mina had

been Mina de Kries.

She received him in the library; the Journal lay on the table. Something

had restored animation to her manner and malice to her eyes; those who

knew her well would have conjectured that she saw her way to making

somebody uncomfortable. But there was also an underlying nervousness

which seemed to hint at something beyond. She began by flattering her

visitor outrageously and indulging in a number of false statements

regarding her delight with the Journal and the amusement and instruction

she had gained from it; she even professed to have mastered the

Hygroxeric Method, observing that a note by the Editor put the whole

thing in a nutshell. Much pleased, yet vaguely disappointed, Mr Neeld

concluded that she had no more to say about the visit to Heidelberg.

The Imp turned over the pages leisurely while Neeld sipped his tea.

"I see you put little asterisk things where you leave out anything," she

observed. "That's convenient, isn't it?"

"I think it's usual," said he.

"And another thing you do--Oh, you really are a splendid editor!--you

put the date at the top of every page--even where Mr Cholderton's entry

runs over ever so many pages. He is rather long sometimes, isn't he?"

"I've always found the date at the top of the page a convenience in

reading myself," said Mr Neeld.

"Yes, it tells you just where you are--and where Mr Cholderton was." She

laughed a little. "Yes, look here, page 365, May 1875, he's at Berlin!

Then there are some asterisks"--Mr Neeld looked up from his tea--"and

you turn over the page" (the Imp turned over with the air of a

discoverer), "and you find him at Interlaken in--why, in August, Mr

Neeld!" An amiable surprise appeared on her face. "Where was he in

between?" she asked.

"I--I suppose he stayed at Berlin."

"Oh, perhaps. No--look here. He says, 'I had not previously met Sir

Silas Minting, as I left Berlin before he arrived in the beginning of

June.'"

The Imp laid down the Journal, leant back in her chair, and regarded

Neeld steadily.

"You told me right," she added; "I don't find any mention of my

mother--nor of Heidelberg. It's rather funny that he doesn't mention

Heidelberg."

She poured out a second cup of tea and--waited. The first part of her

work was done. She had made Neeld very uncomfortable. "Because," she

added, after she had given her previous remarks time to soak in,

"between May and August 1875 is just about the time I remember him at

Heidelberg--the time when he met Mrs Fitzhubert, you know."

She nodded her head slightly toward the window, the window that looked

down to the valley and gave a view of the house where Lady Tristram lay.

Mina was keenly excited now. Had the Journal told Neeld anything? Was

that the meaning of his asterisks?

"There was something about his visit to Heidelberg, but it contained

nothing of public interest, Madame Zabriska, and in my discretion I

omitted it."

"Why didn't you tell me that the other day? You gave me to understand

that he only mentioned Heidelberg casually."

"I may have expressed myself----"

"And did he mention us?"

Neeld rose to his feet and took a turn up and down the room.

"In my discretion I left the passage out. I can answer no questions

about it. Please don't press me, Madame Zabriska."

"I will know," she said excitedly, almost angrily.

Neeld came to a stand opposite her, deep perplexity expressing itself in

his look and manner.

"Did he talk about us? Did he talk about Lady Tristram?"

"I am speaking to you, and to you only, Madame Zabriska?"

"Yes, yes--to me only."

"He did mention you, and he did speak of Lady Tristram."

"That's why you weren't surprised when I told you he called me the Imp!"

She smiled a moment, and Neeld smiled too. But in an instant she was

eager again. "And about Lady Tristram?"

"It was no use reprinting poor Lady Tristram's story." He sat down

again, trying to look as though the subject were done with; but he

rubbed his hands together nervously and would not meet Mina's eyes.

There was a long pause; Mina rose, took the Journal, put it in the

cupboard and turned the key on it. She came back and stood over him.

"You know?" she said. "It was in the Journal? I'm sure you know."

"Know what?" Mr Neeld was fighting in the last ditch.

"But I don't want to tell you unless you know! No, I'm sure you know!"

"And do you know?"

"Yes, I know. My mother told me."

They understood one another now. Neeld made no further pretence.

"You mean about Harry Tristram?" he asked, simply, but in a low voice.

"Yes. At first I didn't know what it meant to him. But I know now."

Neeld made no reply, and there was another moment of silence. Neeld wore

a restless, timid, uneasy air, in strong contrast to the resolute

intensity of Mina's manner; she seemed to have taken and to keep the

upper hand of him.

"And you know what it would mean to him?" she asked.

Neeld nodded; of course he knew that.

"What are you going to do?"

He raised his hands and let them drop again in a confession that he did

not know.

"I knew, and I told," she said. He started a little. "Yes, I told,

because I was spiteful. I was the Imp! I've never been happy since I

told. Mr Tristram knows I've told, though he denies there's anything in

it. But he knows I've told. And still he's been kind to me." Her voice

shook.

"You told? Whom did you tell?"

"Never mind--or guess, if you can. I shan't tell him any more. I shan't

help him any more. I won't speak. I will not speak. I'm for Mr Tristram.

Thick and thin, I'm for Mr Tristram now." She came a step nearer to him.

"The man I told may try; but I don't think he can do much without

us--without me and without you. If we keep quiet, no, he can't do much.

Why should we tell? Is it our business? You suppressed it in the

Journal. Can't you suppress it now?"

"The Ivers?" he stammered.

"The Ivers! What's it to the Ivers compared to what it is to him? It'll

never come out. If it did--Oh, but it won't! It's life and death to him.

And isn't it right? Isn't it justice? He's her son. This thing's just a

horrible accident. Oh, if you'd heard him speak of Blent!" She paused a

moment, rubbing her hand across her eyes. Then she threw herself back

into her chair, asking again, "What are you going to do?"

He sat silent, thinking hard. It was not his business. Right and justice

seemed, in some sense at least, on Harry's side. But the law is the law.

And there were his friends the Ivers. In him there was no motive of

self-interest such as had swayed Major Duplay and made his action seem

rather ugly even to himself. Neeld owed loyalty and friendship; that was

all. Was it loyal, was it friendly, to utter no word while friends were

deceived? With what face would he greet Iver if the thing did come out

afterward? He debated with entire sincerity the point that Major Duplay

had invoked in defence of himself against his conscience. On the other

side was the strong sympathy which that story in the Journal had created

in him since first he read it, and realized its perverse little tragedy;

and there was the thought of Lady Tristram dying down at Blent.

The long silence was broken by neither of them. Neeld was weighing his

question; Mina had made her appeal and waited for an answer. The quiet

of the book-lined room (There were the yellowy-brown volumes from which

Mina had acquired her lore!) was broken by a new voice. They both

started to hear it, and turned alert faces to the window whence it came.

Harry Tristram, in flannels and a straw hat, stood looking in.

"I've got an hour off," he explained, "so I walked up to thank you for

the flowers. My mother liked them, and liked to have them from you." He

saw Neeld, and greeted him courteously. "I asked her if I should give

you her love, and she said yes--with her eyes, you know. She speaks

mostly that way now. Well, she always did a good deal, I expect." His

smile came on the last words.

"She sent her love to me?"

"Yes. I told her what you did one evening, and she liked that too."

"I hope Lady Tristram is--er--going on well?" asked Neeld.

"She doesn't suffer, thank you."

Mina invited him in; there was an appositeness in his coming which

appealed to her, and she watched Neeld with covert eagerness.

Harry looked round the room, then vaulted over the sill.

"My uncle's playing golf with Mr Iver," remarked Mina. "Tea?"

"No; too sick-roomy. I'm for nothing but strong drink now--and I've had

some." He came to the middle of the room and stood between them,

flinging his hat on the table where Mr Cholderton's Journal had so

lately lain. "My mother's an extraordinary woman," he went on, evidently

so full of his thought that he must speak it out; "she's dying

joyfully."

After an instant Mina asked, "Why?" Neeld was surprised at the baldness

of the question, but Harry took it as natural.

"It's like going off guard--I mean, rather, off duty--to her, I think."

He made the correction thoughtfully and with no haste. "Life has always

seemed rather like an obligation to do things you don't want to--not

that she did them all--and now she's tired, she's glad to leave it to

me. Only she wishes I was a bit better-looking, though she won't admit

it. She couldn't stand a downright ugly man at Blent, you know. I've a

sort of notion"--he seemed to forget Neeld, and looked at Mina for

sympathy--"that she thinks she'll be able to come and have a look at

Blent and me in it, all the same." His smile took a whimsical turn as he

spoke of his mother's dying fancies.

Mina glanced at Mr Neeld; was the picture visible to him that rose

before her eyes--of the poor sprite coming eagerly, but turning sadly

away when she saw a stranger enthroned at Blent, and knew not where to

look for her homeless, landless son? Mina was not certain that she could

safely credit Neeld with such a flight of imagination; still he was

listening, and his eyes were very gentle behind his spectacles.

"The parson came to see her yesterday. He's not what you'd call an

unusual man, Madame Zabriska--and she is an unusual woman, you know. It

was--yes, it was amusing, and there's an end of it." He paused, and

added, by way of excuse, "Oh, I know her so well, you see. She wouldn't

be left alone with him; she wanted another sinner there."

Mina marked the change in him--the new expansiveness, the new appeal for

sympathy. He had forgotten his suspicion and his watchfulness; she was

inclined to say that he had forgotten himself. On her death-bed Addie

Tristram had exerted her charm once more--and over her own son. Once

more a man, whatever his own position, thought mainly of her--and that

man was her son. Did Neeld see this? To Neeld it came as the strongest

reinforcement to the feelings which bade him hold his peace. It seemed

an appeal to him, straight from the death-bed in the valley below. Harry

found the old gentleman's gaze fixed intently on him.

"I beg your pardon for troubling you with all this, Mr Neeld," he said,

relapsing rather into his defensive attitude. "Madame Zabriska knows my

ways."

"No, I don't think I know this new way of yours at all," she objected.

"But I like it, Mr Tristram. I feel all you do. I have seen her." She

turned to Neeld. "Oh, how I wish you had!" she cried.

Her earnestness stirred a little curiosity in Harry. He glanced with his

old wariness at Neeld. But what could he see save a kindly precise old

gentleman, who was unimportant to him but seemed interested in what he

said. He turned back to Mina, asking:

"A new way of mine?"

"Well, not quite. You were rather like it once. But generally you've got

a veil before your face. Or perhaps you're really changed?"

He thought for a moment. "Things change a man." And he added, "I'm only

twenty-two."

"Yes, I know," she smiled, "though I constantly forget it all the same."

"Well, twenty-three, come the twentieth of July," said he. His eyes were

on hers, his characteristic smile on his lips. It was a challenge to

her.

"I shan't forget the date," she answered, answering his look too. He

sighed lightly; he was assured that she was with him.

The twentieth of July! The Editor of Mr Cholderton's Journal sat by

listening; he raised no voice in protest.

"I must get back," said Harry. "Walk with me to the dip of the hill."

With a glance of apology to Neeld, she followed him and stepped out of

the window; there were two steps at the side leading up to it. "I'll be

back directly," she cried over her shoulder, as she joined Harry

Tristram. They walked to the gate which marked the end of the terrace on

which Merrion stood.

"I'm so glad you came! You do believe in me now?" she asked.

"Yes, and I'm not afraid. But do you know--it seems incredible to

me--I'm not thinking of that now. I shall again directly, when it's

over. But now--well, Blent won't seem much without my mother."

"She couldn't rest if you weren't there," cried Mina, throwing back the

impression she had received, as her disposition made her.

"I haven't changed about that, but it will wait. Three days they say

now--three days, or maybe four, and then--she goes."

Together they stood, looking down. Mina's heart was very full. She was

with the Tristrams indeed now, thick and thin; their cause seemed hers,

their house must stand.

Harry turned to her suddenly.

"Say nothing of this to the Major. Let him alone; that's best. We'll see

about all that afterward. Good-by."

"And--and the Ivers?" She could not restrain the question.

A slight frown came on his brow; he seemed to have no relish for the

subject.

"Oh, that'll wait too," he said impatiently. He caught her by the arm as

he had done once before. "If all they said was true, if what you think

was true (he smiled at her as he spoke), I'd change with no man in

England; remember that. If it comes to a fight and I'm beaten, remember

that." And he ran down the hill.

Mina returned slowly to the library and found Neeld walking restlessly

to and fro. For the moment they did not speak. Mina sat down and

followed the old gentleman's figure in its restless pacing.

"You heard him about his mother?" she asked at last.

He nodded, but did not reply.

"You make all the difference," she blurted out after another pause.

Again he nodded, not ceasing his walk. For a minute or two longer Mina

endured the suspense, though it seemed more than she could bear. Then

she sprang up, ran to him, intercepted him, and caught hold of both his

hands, arresting his progress with an eager, imperious grip.

"Well?" she cried. "Well? What are you going to do?"

For a moment still he waited. Then he spoke deliberately.

"I can't consider it my duty to do anything, Madame Zabriska."

"Ah!" cried the Imp in shrill triumph, and she flung her arms round his

neck and kissed him. She did not mind his putting it on the score of

duty.

IX

THE MAN IN POSSESSION

In these days Janie Iver would have been lonely but for the Major's

attentions. Her father had gone to London on business--showing, to Mr

Neeld's relief, no disposition to take the Journal with him to read on

the way--Neeld was absurdly nervous about the Journal now. Her mother

was engrossed in a notable scheme which Miss Swinkerton had started for

the benefit of the poor of Blentmouth. Bible-readings, a savings-bank,

and cottage-gardens were so inextricably mingled in it that the

beneficiary, if she liked one, had to go in for them all. "Just my

object," Miss Swinkerton would remark triumphantly as she set the

flower-pots down on the Bibles, only to find that the bank-books had got

stored away with the seed. Clearly Mrs Iver, chief aide-de-camp, had no

leisure. Harry was at Blent; no word and no sign came from him. Bob

Broadley never made advances. The field was clear for the Major. Janie,

grateful for his attentions, yet felt vaguely that he was more amusing

as one of two attentive cavaliers than when he was her only resource. A

sense of flatness came over her sometimes. In fact the centre of

interest had shifted from her; she no longer held the stage; it was

occupied now, for the few days she had still to live, by Lady Tristram.

Moreover, Duplay was puzzling. Although not a girl who erected every

attention or every indication of liking into an obligation to propose

matrimony, Janie knew that after a certain point things of this kind

were supposed to go either forward or backward, not to remain _in statu

quo_. If her own bearing toward Bob contradicted this general

rule--well, that was an exceptional case. In Duplay's instance she could

see nothing exceptional. She herself was not eager for a final

issue--indeed that would probably be brought about in another way--but,

knowing nothing of his diplomatic reasons for delay, she thought he

ought to be. It is not very flattering when a gentleman takes too long

over considering such a matter; a touch of impetuosity is more becoming.

She would have preferred that he should need to be put off, and failed

to understand why (if it may be so expressed) he put himself off from

day to day.

But Duplay's reasons were, in fact, overwhelming. Lady Tristram lived

still, and he had the grace to count that as the strongest motive for

holding his hand. Harry's campaign was for the moment at a standstill;

Duplay had no doubt he would resume it as soon as his mother was buried;

on its apparent progress the Major's action would depend. It was just

possible that he could defeat his enemy without his secret weapon; in

that event he pictured himself writing a letter to Harry, half

sorrowful, half magnanimous, in which he would leave that young man to

settle matters with his conscience, and, for his own part, wash his

hands of the whole affair. But his conviction was that there would come

a critical moment at which he could go to Iver, not (as he must now)

without any compelling reason, but in the guise of a friend who acts

reluctantly yet under an imperious call. What would happen if he did?

Victory, he used to repeat to himself. But often his heart sank. Mina

was with him no more; he never thought of Neeld as a possible ally;

Harry's position was strong. Among the reasons for inactivity which

Duplay did not acknowledge to himself was the simple and common one that

he was in his heart afraid to act. He meant to act, but he shrank from

it and postponed the hour as long as he could. Defeat would be very

ignominious; and he could not deny that defeat was possible merely from

want of means to carry on the war. When the Major recognized this fact

he was filled with a sombre indignation at the inequalities of wealth,

and at the ways of a world wherein not even Truth shall triumph unless

she commands a big credit at the bank.

And Mina annoyed him intensely, assuming an aggrieved air, and hinting

severe moral condemnation in every glance of her eye. She behaved for

all the world as though the Major had begun the whole thing, and

entirely ignored her own responsibility. She conveyed the view that he

was the unscrupulous assailant, she the devoted defender, of the

Tristrams. Such a _volte-face_ as this was not only palpably unjust, it

was altogether too nimble a bit of gymnastics for Duplay to appreciate.

The general unreasonableness of woman was his only refuge; but the dogma

could not bring understanding, much less consolation, with it.

"What did you tell me for, then?" he cried at last. "You were hot on it

then. Now you say you won't help me, you'll have nothing more to do with

it!"

"I only told it you as--as a remarkable circumstance," the Imp alleged,

with a wanton disregard for truth.

"Nonsense, Mina. You were delighted to have a weapon against young

Tristram then."

"I can't help it if you insist on misunderstanding me, uncle; and,

anyhow, I suppose I can change my mind if I like, can't I?"

"No," he declared, "it's not fair to me. I can't make you out at all.

You're not in love with Harry Tristram, are you?"

"With that boy?" asked Mina, attempting to be superb.

"That's women's old nonsense," observed Duplay, twirling his mustache

knowingly. "They often fall in love with young men and always try to

pass it off by calling them boys."

"Of course I haven't your experience, uncle," she rejoined, passing into

the sarcastic vein.

"And if you are," he went on, reverting to the special case, "I don't

see why you make his path smooth to Janie Iver."

"Some people are capable of self-sacrifice in their love."

"Yes, but I shouldn't think you'd be one of them," said the Major rather

rudely. He looked at her curiously. Her interest in Harry was

unmistakable, her championship of him had become thorough-going, fierce,

and (to the Major's mind) utterly unscrupulous. Was he faced with a

situation so startlingly changed? Did his niece object to turning Harry

off his throne because she harbored a hope of sharing it with him? If

that were so, and if the hope had any chance of becoming a reality,

Duplay would have to reconsider his game. But what chance of success

could there be? She would (he put it bluntly in his thoughts) only be

making a fool of herself.

The Imp screwed up her little lean face into a grimace which served

effectually to cover any sign of her real feelings. She neither admitted

nor denied the charge levied against her. She was bewildering her uncle,

and she found, as usual, a genuine pleasure in the pursuit. If she were

also bewildering herself a little with her constant thoughts of Harry

Tristram and her ardent championship of his cause, well, in the country

there is such a thing as being too peaceful, and up to the present time

the confusion of feeling had been rather pleasant than painful.

"I don't really know what I feel," she remarked the next moment. "But

you can read women, uncle, you've often said so, and I dare say you

really know more about what I feel than I do myself." A grossness of

innocence was her new assumption. "Now judging from what I do and

look--that's the way to judge, isn't it, not from what I say?--what do

you think my real inmost feelings are about Mr Tristram?"

If the Major had been asked what his real inmost feelings about his

niece were at the moment, he would have been at some difficulty to

express them decorously. She was back at fifteen--a particularly

exasperating child of fifteen. Her great eyes, with their mock gravity,

were fixed on his irritated face. He would have agreed absolutely with

Mr Cholderton's estimate of the evil in her, and of its proper remedy.

Wherein Duplay was derided his niece made very plain to him; wherein his

words had any effect was studiously concealed. Yet she repeated the

words when he had, with a marked failure of temper, gone his way and

slammed the door behind him. "In love with Harry Tristram!" Mina found

the idea at once explanatory and picturesque. Why otherwise was she his

champion? She paused (as they say) for a reply. How better could she

draw to herself a part and a share in the undoubtedly romantic situation

in which she grouped the facts of the case? By being in love with Harry

she became part of the drama; and she complicated the drama most

delightfully. Janie knew nothing--she knew everything. Janie

hesitated--what if she did not hesitate? A big _rôle_ opened before her

eyes. What if it were very unlikely that Harry would reciprocate her

proposed feelings? The Imp hesitated between a natural vexation and an

artistic pleasure. Such a failure on his part would wound the woman, but

it would add pathos to the play. She became almost sure that she could

love Harry; she remained uncertain whether he should return the

compliment. And, after all, to be Lady Tristram of Blent! That was

attractive. Or (in case Harry suffered defeat) to be Lady Tristram of

Blent in the sight of heaven (a polite and time-honored way of

describing an arrangement not recognized on earth, and quite adaptable

to the present circumstances); that had a hardly less alluring, and at

least a rarer, flavor. The Imp looked down on Blent with an access of

interest. Monsieur Zabriska had left her with unexhausted reserves of

feeling. Moreover she could not be expected to help her uncle if she

were seriously attached to Harry. The moral of all this for the Major

was that it is unwise to suggest courses of action unless you are

willing to see them carried out, or channels of emotion unless you are

prepared to find them filled.

"Some people are capable of self-sacrifice in their love." That would

mean being his champion still, and letting him marry Janie Iver. She did

not object much to her own part, but she cavilled suddenly at

Janie's--or at Harry's relation to Janie. Would it be better to share

adversity with him? Perhaps. But, after all, she did not fancy him in

adversity. The third course recommended itself--victory for him, but not

Janie. Who then?

At this point Mina became sensible of no more than the vaguest visions,

not at all convincing even to herself. By a sad deficiency of

imagination, she could give no definiteness to a picture of Harry

Tristram making love. He had never, to her mind, looked like it with

Janie Iver, even while he had purported to be doing it. He never looked

like it at all, not even as though he could do it. Stay, though! That

new way of his, which she had marked when he came up the hill to thank

her for the flowers, was an exception. But the new way had been for his

mother's sake. Now a man cannot be in love with his mother. The question

grew more puzzling, more annoying, more engrossing still.

While full of these problems, refusing indeed to be anything else, Mina

was surprised by a visit from Miss Swinkerton, who sought a subscription

for the scheme of which an inadequate account has already been given.

Miss Swinkerton (for some reason she was generally known as Miss S., a

vulgar style of description possessing sometimes an inexplicable

appropriateness) was fifty-five, tall and bony, the daughter of a

Rear-Admiral, the sister of an Archdeacon. She lived for good works and

by gossip. Mina's sovereign (foreigners will not grasp the cheap

additional handsomeness of a guinea) duly disbursed, conversation became

general--that is to say, they talked about their neighbors.

"A hard young man," said Miss S. (Why be more genteel than her friends?)

"And if Janie Iver thinks he's in love with her----"

"What do you mean by being in love, Miss Swinkerton?"

Miss Swinkerton had always been rather surprised, not to say hurt, when

the Catechism asked for an explanation of what she meant by the Lord's

Prayer. This question of Mina's was still more uncalled for.

"You know enough English, my dear----"

"It's not a question of English," interrupted Mina, "but of human

nature, Miss Swinkerton."

"When I was a girl there were no such questions."

"What about Lady Tristram, then?"

There was flattery in this, ten or fifteen years of flattery. Miss S.

was unmoved.

"I am happy to say that Lady Tristram never called at Seaview." Miss

S.'s house was called Seaview--Sea-Backview would have been a more

precise description.

"I call him in love with Janie Iver. He must want to marry her or----"

"They do say that money isn't very plentiful at Blent. And there'll be

the Death Duties, you know."

"What are they?" asked Mina.

"Like stamps," explained Miss S., vaguely. "For my part, I think it's

lucky he is what he is. There's been enough of falling in love in the

Tristram family. If you ask me who is in love with her, of course it's

poor young Broadley. Well, you know that, as you're always driving up to

Mingham with her."

"We've only been three or four times, Miss Swinkerton."

"Six, I was told," observed Miss S., with an air of preferring accuracy.

"Oh, I should be very pleased to see him married to Janie--Mr Tristram,

I mean, of course--but she mustn't expect too much, my dear. Where's

your uncle?"

"At Fairholme, I expect," answered the Imp demurely. As a matter of fact

the Major had gone to Exeter on a business errand.

"Fairholme?" Miss S.'s air was significant, Mina's falsehood rewarded.

Mina threw out a smile; her visitor's pursed lips responded to it.

"He goes there a lot," pursued Mina, "to play golf with Mr Iver."

"So I've heard." Her tone put the report in its proper place. To play

golf indeed!

"I think Janie's rather fond of Mr Tristram, anyhow." This was simply a

feeler on Mina's part.

"Well, my dear, the position! Blent's been under a cloud--though people

don't seem to mind that much nowadays, to be sure. But the new Lady

Tristram! They've always been the heads of the neighborhood. She'll have

him, no doubt, but as for being in love with him--well, could you,

Madame Zabriska?"

"Yes," said the Imp, without the least hesitation. "I think he's most

attractive--mysterious, you know. I'm quite taken with him."

"He always looks at me as if I wanted to pick his pocket."

"Well, you generally do--for your charities." The laugh was confined to

Mina herself. "But I know the manner you mean."

"Poor young man! I'm told he's very sensitive about his mother. That's

it perhaps." The guess was at all events as near as gossip generally

gets to truth. "It would make him a very uncomfortable sort of husband

though, even if one didn't mind having that kind of story in the

family."

With a flash of surprise--really she had not been thinking about

herself, in spite of her little attempts to mystify Miss S.--Mina caught

that lady indulging in a very intent scrutiny of her, which gave an

obvious point to her last words and paved the way (as it appeared in a

moment) for a direct approach to the principal object of Miss S.'s

visit. That this object did not come to the front till Miss S. was on

her feet to go was quite characteristic.

"I'm really glad, my dear," she observed, hanging her silk bag on her

arm, "to have had this talk with you. They do say such things, and now I

shall be able to contradict them on the best authority."

"What do they say?"

"Well, I never repeat things; still I think perhaps you've a right to

know. They do say that you're more interested in Harry Tristram than a

mere neighbor would be, and--well, really, I don't quite know how to put

it."

"Oh, I do!" cried Mina, delightedly hitting the mark. "That uncle and I

are working together, I suppose?"

"I don't listen to such gossip, but it comes to my ears," Miss S.

admitted.

"What diplomatists we are!" said the Imp. "I didn't know we were so

clever. But why do I take Janie to Mingham?"

"They'd say that Bob Broadley's no real danger, and if it _should_

disgust Harry Tristram----"

"I am clever! Dear Miss Swinkerton, I never thought of anything half so

good myself. I'll tell uncle about it directly."

Miss S. looked at her suspiciously. The innocence seemed very much

over-done.

"I knew you'd laugh at it," she observed.

"I should do that even if it was true," said Mina, thoroughly enjoying

herself.

Miss S. took her leave, quite undecided whether to announce on the best

authority that the idea was true, or that it was quite unfounded. One

thing only was certain; whatever she decided to say, she would say on

the best authority. If it turned out incorrect in the end, Miss S. would

take credit for an impenetrable discretion and an unswerving loyalty to

the friends who had given her their confidence.

Mina was left very unquiet. Miss S. chimed in with the Major; the

neighborhood too seemed in the same tune. She could laugh at the

ingenuities attributed to her, yet the notions which had given them

birth found, as she perceived more and more clearly, a warrant in her

feelings, if not in her conduct. Look at it how she would, she was

wrapped up in Harry Tristram; she spent her days watching his fortunes,

any wakeful hour of the night found her occupied in thinking of him. Was

she a traitor to her friend Janie Iver? Was that treachery bringing her

back, by a roundabout way, to a new alliance with her uncle? Did it

involve treason to Harry himself? For certainly it was hard to go on

helping him toward a marriage with Janie Iver.

"But I will all the same if he wants it," she exclaimed, as she paced

about on the terrace, glancing now and then down at Blent. And again she

stood aghast at the thorough-going devotion which such an attitude as

that implied. "If only I could keep out of things!" she murmured. "But I

never can."

Major Duplay drove up the hill in a Blentmouth station fly; he had met

the doctor on the road, and the news was that in all probability Lady

Tristram would not live out the night. The tidings gained added

solemnity from Duplay's delivery of them, even though a larger share of

his impressiveness was directed to the influence the event might have on

his fortunes than to the event itself.

"Then we shall see. He'll assume the title, I suppose. That's no affair

of mine. And then he'll go to Fairholme. That is." He turned suddenly,

almost threateningly, upon her. "I hope you've come to your senses,

Mina," said he. "You'll have to speak, you know. If I can't make you,

Iver will." He paused and laughed. "But you'll speak fast enough when

you find yourself in the lawyer's office."

Mina refused to be frightened by the threatened terrors of the law.

"Who's going to take me to a lawyer's office?" she demanded.

"Why, Iver will, of course." He showed contemptuous surprise. "Oh,

you've gone too far to think you can get out of it now."

She studied him attentively for a moment or two. The result was

reassuring; his blustering manner hid, she believed, a sinking heart.

"You can't frighten me, uncle. I've made up my mind what to do, and I

shall do it."

She was not afraid of him now. She was wondering how she had come to be

bullied into telling her secret at all, looking back with surprise to

that scene in the library when, with sullen obedience and childish fear,

she had obeyed his command to speak. Why was it all different now? Why

was his attempt to take the same line with her not only a failure, but a

ridiculous effort? She knew the angry answer he would give. Could she

give any other answer herself? A new influence had come into her life.

She had not ceased to be afraid, but she was afraid of somebody else. A

domination was over her still, but it was no longer his. Like some

turbulent little city of old Greece, she had made her revolution: the

end had been to saddle her with a new tyrant. There seemed no more use

in denying it; the Major said it, Miss S. said it, the neighborhood was

all agreed. What she herself was most conscious of, and most oppressed

by, was a sense of audacity. How dared she devote herself to Harry

Tristram? He had asked nothing of her. No, but he had imposed something

on her. She had volunteered for his service. It was indeed "women's

nonsense" when she spoke of him as "That Boy."

Duplay turned away from her, disheartened and disgusted. Things looked

well for the enemy. He was alone with his unsupported story of a

conversation which Mina would not repeat, with his empty purse which

could supply no means of proving what he said. He ran the risk of losing

what chance he had of Janie Iver's favor, and he was in sore peril of

coming off second-best again in his wrestling-bout with Harry Tristram.

The Man in Possession was strong. The perils that had seemed so

threatening were passing away. Mina was devoted; Neeld would be silent.

Who would there be who could effectively contest his claim, or oust him

from his place? Thus secure, he would hardly need the check always by

him. Yet he was a cautious wary young man. There is little doubt that he

would still like to have the check by him, and that he would take the

only means of getting it.

Now that the moment had come for which all his life had been a

preparation, Harry Tristram had little reason to be afraid.

X

BEHOLD THE HEIR!

Addie Tristram died with all her old uncommonness. Death was to her an

end more fully than it is to most; had she been herself responsible for

it, she could hardly have thought less of any possible consequences. And

it was to her such a beginning as it can seldom seem. She had been

living in anticipation of dying, but in a sense utterly remote from that

contemplation of their latter end which is enjoined on the pious. So

that, together with an acquiescence so complete as almost to justify her

son in calling it joyful, there was an expectation, nearly an

excitement--save that the tired body failed to second the mind. She

might have shown remorse, both for her own acts and for the position in

which she was leaving Harry; she fell in with the view he had always

maintained with her, that all these things had come about somehow, had

produced a certain state of affairs, and must be made to seem as if they

had done nothing of the sort. During the last day or two she was

delirious at intervals; as a precaution Harry was with her then, instead

of the nurse. The measure was superfluous; there was nothing on Lady

Tristram's mind, and when she spoke unconsciously, she spoke of trifles.

The few final hours found her conscious and intelligent, although very

weak. Just at the end a curious idea got hold of her. She was a little

distressed that the Gainsboroughs were not there; she whispered her

feeling to Harry apologetically, well remembering his objection to that

branch of the family, and his disinclination to have them or any of them

at Blent. "Cecily ought to be here," she murmured. Harry started a

little; he was not accustomed in his own mind to concede Cecily any

rights. His mother's fear of offending him by the suggestion was very

obvious. "She'd come after you, you see, if----" she said once or twice.

There did not pass between them a word of acknowledgment that Cecily

ought to come before him. Yet he was left wondering whether that idea,

so scorned before, had not won its way to her with some sudden

strength--as though an instinct for the true heir made itself felt in

spite of all her resolution and all her prejudices, and forced her to do

something toward recognizing the claims which they were both determined

to thwart.

The barest hint of this kind would have raised Harry's suspicion and

anger a few weeks before; the new mood which Mina Zabriska had marked in

him made him take it quietly now, and even affectionately. For this

Addie Tristram was grateful; she had always the rare grace of seeming

surprised at her own power over men. It was no less in keeping with her

character and her life that the feeling she suffered under, and

manifested, was very easily appeased. Harry promised to ask the

Gainsboroughs to her funeral. Addie Tristram's conscientious scruples

were entirely laid to rest; with a sigh of peace she settled herself to

die. It was the feudal feeling, Harry decided, which insisted that the

family must not be ignored; it did not deny their humble position, or

the gulf that separated them from the succession. Yet he was vaguely

vexed, even while he agreed to what she wanted.

So she passed away in the full tide of the darkness of night. The doctor

had left her some hours before, the nurse had been sent to bed, for

there was nothing that could be done. Harry was alone with her; he

kissed her when she was dead, and stood many minutes by her, looking

from her to the picture of her that hung on the wall. A strange

loneliness was on him, a loneliness which there seemed nobody to solace.

He had said that Blent would not be much without his mother. That was

not quite right; it was much, but different. She had carried away with

her the atmosphere of the place, the essence of the life that he had

lived there with her. Who would make that the same to him again?

Suddenly he recollected that in four days he was to ask Janie Iver for

her answer. Say a week now, for the funeral would enforce or excuse so

much postponement. Janie Iver would not give him back the life or the

atmosphere. A description of how he felt, had it been related to him a

year ago, would have appeared an absurdity. Yet these crowding

unexpected thoughts made not a hair's breadth of difference in what he

purposed. It was only that he became aware of an irreparable change of

scene; there was to be no change in his action. He was Tristram of Blent

now--that he must and would remain. But it was not the same Blent, and

did not seem as though it could be again. So much of the poetry had gone

out of it with Addie Tristram.

After he had left her room, he walked through the house, carrying a

shaded candle in his hand along the dark corridors of shining oak. He

bent his steps toward the long gallery which filled all the upper floor

of the left wing. Here were the Valhalla and the treasure-house of the

Tristrams, the pictures of ancestors, the cases of precious things which

the ancestors had amassed. At the end of this gallery Addie Tristram had

used to sit when she was well, in a large high-backed arm-chair by the

big window that commanded the gardens and the river. He flung the

window open and stood looking out. The wind swished in the trees and

the Blent washed along leisurely. A beautiful stillness was about him.

It was as though she were by his side, her fair head resting against the

old brocade cover of the arm-chair, her eyes wandering in delighted

employment round the room she had loved so well. Who should sit there

next? As he looked now at the room, now out into the night, his eyes

filled suddenly with tears; the love of the place came back to him, his

pride in it lived again, he would keep it not only because it was his

but because it had been hers before him. His blood spoke strong in him.

Suddenly he smiled. It was at the thought that all this belonged in law

to Miss Cecily Gainsborough--the house, the gallery, the pictures, the

treasures, the very chair where Addie Tristram had used to sit. Every

stick and stone about the place was Cecily Gainsborough's, aye, and the

bed of the Blent from shore to shore. He had nothing at all--according

to law.

Well, the law must have some honor, some recognition, at all events. The

Gainsboroughs should, as he had promised, be asked to the funeral. They

should be invited with all honor and most formally, in the name of

Tristram of Blent--which, by the by was, according to law, also Miss

Cecily Gainsborough's. Harry had no name according to law; no more than

he had houses or pictures or treasures, any stick or stone, or the

smallest heritage in the bed of the Blent. He had been son to the

mistress of it all; she was gone and he was nobody--according to law. It

was, after all, a reasonable concession that his mother had urged on

him; the Gainsboroughs ought to be asked to the funeral. The last of his

vexation on this score died away into a sense of grim amusement at Addie

Tristram's wish and his own appreciation of it. He had no sense of

danger; Tristram had succeeded to Tristram; all was well.

Little inclined to sleep, he went down into the garden presently, lit

his cigar, and strolled on to the bridge. The night had grown clearer

and some stars showed in the sky; it was nearly one o'clock. He had

stood where he was only a few moments when to his surprise he heard the

sound of a horse's hoofs on the road from Blentmouth. Thinking the

doctor, who often did his rounds in the saddle, might have returned, he

crossed the bridge, opened the gate, and stood on the high road. The

rider came up in a few minutes and drew rein at the sight of his figure,

but, as Harry did not move, made as though he would ride on again with

no more than the customary country salute of "Good-night."

"Who is it?" asked Harry, peering through the darkness.

"Me--Bob Broadley," was the answer.

"You're late."

"I've been at the Club at Blentmouth. The Cricket Club's Annual Dinner,

you know."

"Ah, I forgot."

Bob, come to a standstill, was taking the opportunity of lighting his

pipe. This done, he looked up at the house and back to Harry rather

timidly.

"Lady Tristram----?" he began.

"My mother has been dead something above an hour," said Harry.

After a moment Bob dismounted and threw his reins over the gatepost.

"I'm sorry, Tristram," he said, holding out his hand. "Lady Tristram was

always very kind to me. Indeed she was that to everybody." He paused a

moment and then went on slowly. "It must seem strange to you. Why, I

remember when my father died I felt--besides the sorrow, you know--sort

of lost at coming into my bit of land at Mingham. But you----" Harry

could see his head turn as he looked over the demesne of Blent and

struggled to give some expression to the thoughts which his companion's

position suggested. The circumstances of this meeting made for sincerity

and openness; they were always Bob's characteristics. Harry too was in

such a mood that he liked Bob to stay and talk a little.

They fell into talk with more ease and naturalness than they had

recently achieved together, getting back to the friendliness of boyhood,

although Bob still spoke as to one greater than himself and infused a

little deference into his manner. But they came to nothing intimate till

Bob had declared that he must be on his way and was about to mount his

horse.

"As soon as I begin to have people here, I hope you'll come often," said

Harry, cordially. "Naturally we shall be a little more lively than we've

been able to be of late, and I shall hope to see all my friends."

He did not instantly understand the hesitation in Bob's manner as he

answered, "You're very kind. I--I shall like to come."

"Blent must do its duty," Harry pursued.

Bob turned back to him, leaving his horse again. "Yes, I'll come. I hope

I know how to take a licking, Tristram." He held out his hand.

"A licking?" Both the word and the gesture seemed to surprise Harry

Tristram.

"Oh, you know what I mean. You're engaged to her, aren't you? Or as good

as anyhow? I don't want to ask questions----"

"Not even as good as, yet," answered Harry slowly.

"Of course you know what I feel. Everybody knows that, though I've never

talked about it--even to her."

"Why not to her? Isn't that rather usual in such cases?" Harry was

smiling now.

"It would only worry her. What chance should I have?"

"Well, I don't agree with being too humble."

"Oh, I don't know that I'm humble. Perhaps I think myself as good a man

as you. But"--he laughed a little--"I'm Broadley of Mingham, not

Tristram of Blent."

"I see. That's it? And our friend the Major?"

"I shouldn't so much mind having a turn-up with the Major."

"But Tristram of Blent is--is too much?"

"It's not your fault, you can't help it," smiled Bob. "You're born to it

and----" He ended with a shrug.

"You're very fond of her?" Harry asked, frowning a little.

"I've been in love with her all my life--ever since they came to

Seaview. Fairholme wasn't dreamed of then."

He spoke of Fairholme with a touch of bitterness which he hastened to

correct by adding--"Of course I'm glad of their good luck."

"You mean, if it were Seaview still and not Fairholme----?"

"No, I don't. I've no business to think anything of the sort, and I

don't think it," Bob interposed quickly. "You asked me a question and I

answered it. I'm not in a position to know anything about you, and I'm

not going to say anything."

"A good many reasons enter into a marriage sometimes," remarked Harry.

"Yes, with people like you. I know that."

His renewed reference to Harry's position brought another frown to

Harry's face, but it was the frown of thoughtfulness, not of anger.

"I can't quarrel with the way of the world, and I'm sure if it does come

off you'll be good to her."

"You think I don't care about her--about her herself?"

"I don't know, I tell you. I don't want to know. I suppose you like

her."

"Yes, I like her." He took the word from Bob and made no attempt to

alter or to amplify it.

Bob was mounting now; the hour was late for him to be abroad and work

waited him in the morning.

"Good-night, Tristram," he said, as he settled in his saddle.

"Good-night. And, Bob, if by any chance it doesn't come off with me, you

have that turn-up with the Major!"

"Well, I don't like the idea of a foreign chap coming down and---- But,

mind you, Duplay's a very superior fellow. He knows the deuce of a lot."

"Thinks he does, anyhow," said Harry, smiling again. "Good-night, old

fellow," he called after Bob in a very friendly voice as horse and rider

disappeared up the road.

"I must go to bed, I suppose," he muttered as he returned to the bridge

and stood leaning on the parapet. He yawned, not in weariness but in a

reaction from the excitement of the last few days. His emotional mood

had passed for the time at all events; it was succeeded by an apathy

that was dull without being restful. And in its general effect his

interview with Bob was vaguely vexatious in spite of its cordial

character. It left with him a notion which he rejected but could not

quite get rid of--the notion that he was taking, or (if all were known)

would be thought to be taking, an unfair advantage. Bob had said he was

born to it and that he could not help it. If that had indeed been so in

the fullest possible sense, would he have had the notion that irritated

him now? Yes, he told himself; but the answer did not quite convince.

Still the annoyance was no more than a restless suggestion of something

not quite satisfactory in his position, and worth mentioning only as the

first such feeling he had ever had. It did not trouble him seriously. He

smoked another cigar on the bridge and then went into the house and to

bed. As he undressed it occurred to him (and the idea gave him both

pleasure and amusement) that he had made a sort of alliance with Bob

against Duplay, although it could come into operation only under

circumstances which were very unlikely to happen.

The blinds drawn at Blent next morning told Mina what had happened, and

the hour of eleven found her at a Committee Meeting at Miss

Swinkerton's, which she certainly would not have attended otherwise. As

it was, she wanted to talk and to hear, and the gathering afforded a

chance. Mrs Iver was there, and Mrs Trumbler the vicar's wife, a meek

woman, rather ousted from her proper position by the energy of Miss

Swinkerton; she was to manage the Bible-reading department, which was

not nearly so responsible a task as conducting the savings-bank, and did

not involve anything like the same amount of supervision of other

people's affairs. Mrs Trumbler felt, however, that on matters of morals

she had a claim to speak _jure mariti_.

"It is so sad!" she murmured. "And Mr Trumbler found he could do so

little! He came home quite distressed."

"I'm told she wasn't the least sensible of her position," observed Miss

S., with what looked rather like satisfaction.

"Didn't she know she was dying?" asked Mina, who had established her

footing by a hypocritical show of interest in the cottage-gardens.

"Oh, yes, she knew she was dying, my dear," said Miss S. What poor Lady

Tristram might have known, but apparently had not, was left to an

obvious inference.

"She was very kind," remarked Mrs Iver. "Not exactly actively, you know,

but if you happened to come across her." She rose as she spoke and bade

Miss S. farewell. That lady did not try to detain her, and the moment

the door had closed behind her remarked:

"Of course Mrs Iver feels in a delicate position and can't say anything

about Lady Tristram; but from what I hear she never realized the

peculiarity of her position. No (this to Mrs Trumbler), I mean in the

neighborhood, Mrs Trumbler. And the young man is just the same. But I

should have liked to hear that Mr Trumbler thought it came home to her

at the last."

Mr Trumbler's wife shook her head gently.

"Well, now we shall see, I suppose," Miss S. pursued. "The engagement is

to be made public directly after the funeral."

Mina almost started at this authoritative announcement.

"And I suppose they'll be married as soon as they decently can. I'm glad

for Janie Iver's sake--not that I like him, the little I've seen of

him."

"We never see him," said Mrs Trumbler.

"Not at church, anyhow," added Miss S. incisively. "Perhaps he'll

remember what's due to his position now."

"Are you sure they're engaged?" asked Mina.

Miss S. looked at her with a smile. "Certain, my dear."

"How?" asked Mina. Mrs Trumbler stared at her in surprised rebuke.

"When I make a mistake, it will be time to ask questions," observed Miss

S. with dignity. "For the present you may take what I say. I can wait to

be proved right, Madame Zabriska."

"I've no doubt you're right; only I thought Janie would have told me,"

said Mina; she had no wish to quarrel with Miss S.

"Janie Iver's very secretive, my dear. She always was. I used to talk to

Mrs Iver about it when she was a little girl. And in your case----" Miss

S.'s smile could only refer to the circumstance that Mina was Major

Duplay's niece; the Major's manoeuvres had not escaped Miss S.'s eye. "Of

course the funeral will be very quiet," Miss S. continued. "That avoids

so many difficulties. The people who would come and the people who

wouldn't--and all that, you know."

"There are always so many questions about funerals," sighed Mrs

Trumbler.

"I hate funerals," said Mina. "I'm going to be cremated."

"That may be very well abroad, my dear," said Miss S. tolerantly, "but

you couldn't here. The question is, will Janie Iver go--and if she does,

where will she walk?"

"Oh, I should hardly think she'd go, if it's not announced, you know,"

said Mrs Trumbler.

"It's sometimes done, and I'm told she would walk just behind the

family."

Mina left the two ladies debating this point of etiquette, Miss S.

showing some deference to Mrs Trumbler's experience in this particular

department, but professing to be fortified in her own view by the

opinion of an undertaker with a wide connection. She reflected, as she

got into her pony carriage, that it is impossible even to die without

affording a good deal of pleasure to other people--surely a fortunate

feature of the world!

On her way home she stopped to leave cards at Blent, and was not

surprised when Harry Tristram came out of his study, having seen her

through the window, and greeted her.

"Send your trap home and walk up the hill with me," he suggested, and

she fell in with his wish very readily. They crossed the foot-bridge

together.

"I've just been writing to ask my relations to the funeral," he said.

"At my mother's wish, not mine. Only two of them--and I never saw them

in my life."

"I shouldn't think you'd cultivate your relations much."

"No. But Cecily Gainsborough ought to come, I suppose. She's my heir."

Mina turned to him with a gesture of interest or surprise.

"Your heir?" she said. "You mean----?"

"I mean that if I died without having any children, she'd succeed me.

She'd be Lady Tristram in her own right, as my mother was." He faced

round and looked at Blent. "She's never been to the place or seen it

yet," he added.

"How intensely interested she'll be!"

"I don't see why she should," said Harry rather crossly. "It's a great

bore having her here at all, and if I'm barely civil to her that's all I

shall manage. They won't stay more than a few days, I suppose." After a

second he went on: "Her mother wouldn't know my mother, though after her

death the father wanted to be reconciled."

"Is that why you dislike them so?"

"How do you know I dislike them?" he asked, seeming surprised.

"It's pretty evident, isn't it? And it would be a good reason for

disliking the mother anyhow."

"But not the daughter?"

"No, and you seem to dislike the daughter too--which isn't fair."

"Oh, I take the family in the lump. And I don't know that what we've

been talking of has anything to do with it."

He did not seem inclined to talk more about the Gainsboroughs, though

his frown told her that something distasteful was still in his thoughts.

What he had said was enough to rouse in her a great interest and

curiosity about this girl who was his heir. Questions and rights

attracted her mind very little till they came to mean people; then she

was keen on the track of the human side of the matter. The girl whom he

chose to call his heir was really the owner of Blent!

"Are you going to ask us to the funeral?" she said.

"I'm not going to ask anybody. The churchyard is free; they can come if

they like."

"I shall come. Shall you dislike my coming?"

"Oh, no." He was undisguisedly indifferent and almost bored.

"And then I shall see Cecily Gainsborough."

"Have a good look at her. You'll not have another chance--at Blent

anyhow. She'll never come here again."

She looked at him in wonder, in a sort of fear.

"How hard you are sometimes," she said. "The poor girl's done nothing to

you."

He shook his head impatiently and came to a stand on the road.

"You're going back? Good-by, Lord Tristram."

"I'm not called that till after the funeral," he told her, looking as

suspicious as he had in the earliest days of their acquaintance.

"And will you let me go on living at Merrion--or coming every summer

anyhow?"

"Do you think of coming again?"

"I want to," she answered with some nervousness in her manner.

"And Major Duplay?" He smiled slightly.

"I don't know whether he would want. Should you object?"

"Oh, no," said Harry, again with the weary indifference that seemed to

have fastened on him now.

"I've been gossiping," she said, "with Mrs Trumbler and Miss

Swinkerton."

"Good Lord!"

"Miss Swinkerton says your engagement to Janie will be announced

directly after the funeral."

"And Major Duplay says that directly it's announced----!"

"You don't mean to tell me anything about it?"

"Really, I don't see why I should. Well, if you like--I want to marry

her."

Mina had really known this well for a long while, yet she did not like

to hear it. She had been spinning fancies about the man; what he had in

his mind for himself was very prosaic. At least it seemed so to

her--though she would have appreciated the dramatic side of it, had he

told her of his idea of living with the big check by him.

"I can't help thinking that somehow you'll do something more exciting

than that."

"She won't marry me?" He was not looking at her, and he spoke rather

absently.

"I don't suppose she'll refuse you, but--no, I've just a feeling. I

can't explain."

"A feeling? What feeling?" He was irritable, but his attention was

caught again.

"That something more's waiting for you."

"That it's my business to go on affording you amusement perhaps?"

Mina glanced at him; he was smiling; he had become good-tempered.

"Oh, I don't expect you to do it for that reason, but if you do it----"

"Do what?" he asked, laughing outright.

"I don't know. But if you do, I shall be there to see--looking so hard

at you, Mr Tristram." She paused, and then added, "I should like Cecily

Gainsborough to come into it too."

"Confound Cecily Gainsborough! Good-by," said Harry.

He left with her two main impressions; the first was that he had not the

least love for the girl whom he meant to marry; the second that he

hardly cared to deny to her that he hated Cecily Gainsborough because

she was the owner of Blent.

"All the same," she thought, "I suppose he'll marry Janie, and I'm

certain he'll keep Blent." Yet he seemed to take no pleasure in his

prospects and just at this moment not much in his possessions. Mina was

puzzled, but did not go so far wrong as to conceive him

conscience-stricken. She concluded that she must wait for light.

XI

A PHANTOM BY THE POOL

In a quite little street running between the Fulham and the King's Road,

in a row of small houses not yet improved out of existence, there was

one house smallest of all, with the smallest front, the smallest back,

and the smallest garden. The whole thing was almost impossibly small, a

peculiarity properly reflected in the rent which Mr Gainsborough paid to

the firm of Sloyd, Sloyd, and Gurney for the fag-end of a long lease. He

did some professional work for Sloyds from time to time, and that member

of the firm who had let Merrion Lodge to Mina Zabriska was on friendly

terms with him; so that perhaps the rent was a little lower still than

it would have been otherwise; even trifling reductions counted as

important things in the Gainsborough Budget. Being thus small, the house

was naturally full; the three people who lived there were themselves

enough to account for that. But it was also unnaturally full by reason

of Mr Gainsborough's habit of acquiring old furniture of no value, and

new bric-à-brac whose worth could be expressed only by minus signs.

These things flooded floors and walls, and overflowed on to the strip of

gravel behind. From time to time many of them disappeared; there were

periodical revolts on Cecily's part, resulting in clearances; the gaps

were soon made good by a fresh influx of the absolutely undesirable.

When Sloyd came he looked round with a professional despair that there

was not a thing in the place which would fetch a sovereign! Such is the

end of seeking beauty on an empty purse; some find a pathos in it, but

it is more generally regarded as a folly in the seeker, a wrong to his

dependents, and a nuisance to his friends.

In no other way could Gainsborough--Melton John Gainsborough,

Architect--be called a nuisance, unless by Harry Tristram's capricious

pleasure. For he was very unobtrusive, small like his house, lean like

his purse, shabby as his furniture, humbler than his bric-à-brac. He

asked very little of the world; it gave him half, and he did not

complain. He was never proud of anything, but he was gratified by his

honorable descent and by his alliance with the Tristrams. The family

instinct was very strong in him. Among the rubbish he bought somebody

else's pedigree was often to be found. His wife's hung framed on the

wall (ending with "Adelaide Louisa Aimée" in large letters for one

branch, and "Cecily" in small for the other); his own was the constant

subject of unprofitable searchings in county histories--one aspect of

his remarkable genius for the unremunerative in all its respectable

forms. He worked very hard and gave the impression of doing nothing--and

the impression perhaps possessed the higher truth. Anyhow, while he and

his had (thanks to a very small property which came with the late Mrs

Gainsborough) always just enough to eat, they had always just not enough

of anything else; short commons were the rule.

And now they were going to Blent. Sloyd, calling on a matter of business

and pleasantly excusing his intrusion by the payment of some fees, had

heard about it from Gainsborough. "This'll just take us to Blent!" the

little gentleman had observed with satisfaction as he waved the slip of

paper. Sloyd knew Blent and could take an interest; he described it,

raising his voice so that it travelled beyond the room and reached the

hammock in the garden where Cecily lay. She liked a hammock, and her

father could not stand china figures and vases on it, so that it secured

her where to lay her head. Gainsborough was very fussy over the news; a

deeper but quieter excitement glowed in Cecily's eyes as, listening to

Sloyd, she feigned to pay no heed. She had designs on the check. Beauty

unadorned may mean several things; but moralists cannot be right in

twisting the commendation of it into a eulogium on thread-bare frocks.

She must have a funeral frock.

Sloyd came to the door which opened on the garden, and greeted her. He

was as smart as usual, his tie a new creation, his hat mirroring the

sun. Cecily was shabby from necessity and somewhat touzled from lolling

in the hammock. She looked up at him, smiling in a lazy amusement.

"Do you ever wear the same hat twice?" she asked.

"Must have a good hat in my profession, Miss Gainsborough. You never

know where you'll be sent for. The Duchess of This, or Lady That, loses

her money at cards--or the Earl drops a bit at Newmarket--must let the

house for the season--sends off for me--mustn't catch me in an old hat!"

"Yes, I see!"

"Besides, you may say what you like, but a gentleman ought to wear a

good hat. It stamps him, Miss Gainsborough."

"Yours positively illuminates you. I could find the way by you on the

darkest night."

"With just a leetle touch of oil----" he admitted cautiously, not quite

sure how far she was serious in the admiration her eyes seemed to

express. "What have you been doing with yourself?" he asked, breaking

off after his sufficient confession.

"I've been drawing up advertisements of my own accomplishments." She sat

up suddenly. "Oh, why didn't I ask you to help me? You'd have made me

sound eligible and desirable, and handsome and spacious, and all the

rest of it. And I found nothing at all to say!"

"What are you advertising for?"

"Somebody who knows less French than I do. But I shall wait till we come

back now." She yawned a little. "I don't in the least want to earn my

living, you know," she added candidly, "and there's no way I could

honestly. I don't really know any French at all."

Sloyd regarded her with mingled pleasure and pain. His taste was for

more robust beauty and more striking raiment, and she--no, she was not

neat. Yet he decided that she would, as he put it, pay for dressing; she

wanted some process analogous to the thorough repair which he loved to

see applied to old houses. Then she would be attractive--not his sort,

of course, but still attractive.

"I wonder if you'll meet Madame Zabriska, the lady I let Merrion Lodge

to, and the gentleman with her, her uncle."

"I expect not. My cousin invites us for the funeral. It's on Saturday. I

suppose we shall stay the Sunday, that's all. And I don't suppose we

shall see anybody, to speak to, anyhow." Her air was very careless; the

whole thing was represented as rather a bore.

"You should make a longer visit--I'm sure his lordship will be delighted

to have you, and it's a charming neighborhood, a very desirable

neighborhood indeed."

"I dare say. But desirable things don't generally come our way, Mr

Sloyd, or at any rate not much of them."

"It's pretty odd to think it'd all be yours if--if anything happened to

Lord Tristram." His tone showed a mixture of amusement and awe. She was

what he saw--she might become My Lady! The incongruity reached his sense

of humor, while her proximity to a noble status nearly made him take off

his hat.

"It may be pretty odd," she said indolently, "but it doesn't do me much

good, does it?"

This last remark summed up the attitude which Cecily had always adopted

about Blent, and she chose to maintain it now that she was at last to

see Blent. Probably her father's family instinct had driven her into an

insincere opposition; or she did not consider it dignified to show

interest in relatives who had shown none in her. She had never been

asked to Blent. If she was asked now it was as a duty; as a duty she

would go. Harry did not monopolize the Tristram blood or the Tristram

pride. But this attitude was not very comprehensible to her present

companion. As a personal taste, Mr Sloyd would have liked to be

connected, however remotely, with the aristocracy, and, if he had been,

would have let his social circle hear a good deal about it; even a

business connection was something, and suffered no loss of importance in

his practised hands.

Yet in her heart she was on fire with an excitement which Sloyd would

have wondered at, and which made her father's fussy nervousness seem

absurd. At last she was to see with her eyes the things she had always

heard of. She was to see Blent. Addie Tristram indeed she could no

longer see; that had always been denied to her, and the loss was

irreparable. But even the dead Lady Tristram she would soon be able to

realize far better than she had yet done; she would put her into her

surroundings. And Harry would be there, the cousin who had never been

cousinly, the young man whom she did not know and who was a factor of

such importance in her life. She had dreams in abundance about the

expedition; and it was in vain that reason said "It'll be all over in

three days. Then back to the little house and the need for that

advertisement!" Luckily, this sort of suggestion, made by reason, never

sounds probable, however well reason proves to us that it must come to

pass. Cecily was sure that at last--ah, at last!--a change in life had

come. Life had been always so very much the same; changes generally need

money, and money had not been hers. Knowledge usually needs money too,

and of the kinds of life outside her own narrow sphere she was very

ignorant. Beautiful things also need money; of them she had seen and

enjoyed very little; only the parodies came to the small house in the

small road. All these things joined to make her feel that a great moment

was at hand; she might and did deride herself, but the feeling was

there, and at last she admitted it to her father when she said with a

little laugh:

"I don't suppose anybody ever was so excited over a funeral before!"

But perhaps there was ignorance in that remark too. It has been seen,

for instance, that Miss Swinkerton and her friends could be very

excited, although they had not the excuse of youth, of dreams, or of any

kinship with the Tristrams.

"It's begun!" Cecily said to herself when, three days afterward, they

got out of their third-class carriage and got into the landau that

waited for them. The footman, touching his hat, asked if Miss

Gainsborough had brought a maid. ("The maid," not "A maid," was the form

of reference familiar to Miss Gainsborough.) Her father was in new

black, she was in new black, the two trunks had been well polished; and

the seats of the landau were very soft.

"They don't use the Fitzhubert crest, I observe," remarked Gainsborough.

"Only the Tristram fox. Did you notice it on the harness?"

"I was gazing with all my eyes at the coronet on the panel," she

answered, laughing.

A tall and angular lady came up and spoke to the footman, as he was

about to mount the box.

"At two on Saturday, miss," they heard him reply. Miss Swinkerton

nodded, and walked slowly past the carriage, giving the occupants a

leisurely stare. Of course Miss S. had known the time of the funeral

quite well; now her intimates would be made equally well acquainted with

the appearance of the visitors.

Blent was in full beauty that summer evening, and the girl sat in

entranced silence as they drove by the river and came where the old

house stood. The blinds were down, the escutcheon, with the Tristram fox

again, above the door in the central tower. They were ushered into the

library. Gainsborough's eyes ran over the books with a longing envious

glance; his daughter turned to the window, to look at the Blent and up

to Merrion. A funny remembrance of Sloyd crossed her mind, and she

smiled. Had she already so caught the air of the place that Sloyd seemed

to her both remote and very plebeian? Turning her head, she saw the left

wing with the row of windows that lighted the Long Gallery; she had

never seen such a room in a private house, and thought there must be

several rooms in that wing. A man-servant brought in tea, and told them

that Mr Tristram was engaged in pressing business and begged to be

excused; dinner would be at 8.15. Disappointed at her host's

invisibility, she gave her father tea with a languid air. The little man

was nervous and excited; he walked the carpet carefully; but soon he

pounced on a book--a county history--and sat down with it. After a few

minutes' idleness Cecily rose, strolled into the hall, and thence out

into the garden. The hush of the house had become oppressive to her.

Yes, everything was very beautiful; she felt that again, and drank it

in, indulging her thirst so long unsatisfied. She had seen larger

places, such palaces as all the folk of London are allowed to see. The

present scene was new. And in the room above lay Addie Tristram in her

coffin--the lovely strange woman of whom her mother had told her. She

would not see Lady Tristram, but she seemed now to see all her life and

to be able to picture her, to understand why she did the things they

talked of, and what manner of woman she had been. She wandered to the

little bridge. The stream below was the Blent! Geographies might treat

the rivulet with scanty notice and with poor respect; to her it was

Jordan--the sacred river. Might not its god have been ancestor to all

the Tristrams? In such a place as this one could have many such fancies;

they would come to feed the mind and make it grow, to transform it into

something that could appreciate poetry. A big rose-tree climbed the wall

of the right wing. Who had picked its blossoms and through how many

years? Its flowers must often have adorned Addie Tristram's unsurpassed

loveliness. After the years of short commons there came this bountiful

feast to her soul. She felt herself a Tristram. A turn of chance might

have made all this her own. Her breath seemed to stop as she thought of

this. The idea now was far different from what it had sounded when Sloyd

gave it utterance in the tiny strip of garden behind the tiny house, and

she had greeted it with scorn and a mocking smile. She did not want all

this for her own; but she did want--how she wanted!--to be allowed to

stop and look at it, to stay long enough to make it part of her and

have it to carry back with her to her home between the King's Road and

the Fulham Road in London.

She crossed the bridge and walked up the valley. Twenty minutes brought

her to the Pool. It opened on her with a new surprise. The sun had just

left it and its darkness was touched by mystery. The steep wooded bank

opposite cast a dull heavy shadow across half the surface; the low

lapping of the water sounded like somebody whispering old secrets that

she seemed half to hear, garrulous histories of the dead--the dead whose

blood was in her veins--old glories, old scandals, old trifles, all

mixed together, all of great importance in the valley of the Blent. Who

cares about such things in London, about anybody's family, or anybody

himself? There is no time for such things in London. It is very

different in the valley of the Blent when the sun is low and the cry of

a bird makes a sound too shrill to be welcome.

Turning by chance to look up the road toward Mingham, she saw a man

coming down the hill. He was sauntering idly along, beating the grass by

the road-side with his stick. Suddenly he stopped short, put his hand

above his eyes, and gave her a long look; he seemed to start. Then he

began to walk toward her with a rapid eager stride. She turned away and

strolled along by the Pool on her way back to Blent Hall. But he would

not be denied; his tread came nearer; he overtook her and halted almost

by her side, raising his hat and gazing with uncompromising straightness

in her face. She knew him at once; he must be Harry Tristram. Was

lounging about the roads his pressing business?

"I beg your pardon," he said with a curious appearance of agitation. "I

am Harry Tristram, and you must be----?"

"Cecily Gainsborough," said she with a distant manner, inclined to be

offended that their meeting should be by accident. Why had he not

received his guests if he had nothing to do but lounge about the roads?

"Yes, I was sure. The moment I thought, I was sure." He took no heed of

her manner, engrossed in some preoccupation of his own. "At first I was

startled." He smiled now, as he offered her his hand. Then he

recollected. "You must forgive me for being out. I have been hard at

work all day, and the craving for the evening was on me. I went out

without thinking."

"They said you were engaged on pressing business."

"They lied for me. I forgot to leave any message. I'm not generally

discourteous."

His apology disarmed her and made her resentment seem petty.

"How could you think of us at such a time? It's good of you to have us

at all."

"My mother wanted you to come." He added no welcome of his own. "You

never saw her, did you?" he asked a moment later.

Cecily shook her head. She was rather confused by the steady gaze of his

eyes. Did Cousin Harry always stare at people as hard as that? Yet it

was not exactly a stare; it was too thoughtful, too ruminative, too

unconscious for that.

"Let's walk back together. You've had a look at the place already

perhaps?"

"It's very beautiful."

"Yes," he assented absently, as they began to walk.

If she did not stare, still she used her eyes, curiously studying his

face with its suggestion of strength and that somehow rather

inconsistent hint of sensitiveness. He was gloomy; that was just now

only proper. She saw something that puzzled her; Mina Zabriska could

have told her what it was, but she herself did not succeed in

identifying Harry's watching look. She was merely puzzled at a certain

shade of expression in the eyes. She had not seen it at the first

moment, but it was there now as he turned to her from time to time while

they sauntered along.

"That's Merrion, our dower-house. But it's let now to a funny little

woman, Madame Zabriska. She's rather a friend of mine, but her uncle,

who lives with her, doesn't like me." He smiled as he spoke of the

Major. "She's very much interested in you."

"In me? Has she heard of me?"

"She hears of most things. She's as sharp as a needle. I like her

though."

He said no more till they were back in the garden; then he proposed that

they should sit down on the seat by the river.

"My mother used to sit here often," he said. "She always loved to see

the sun go down from the garden. She didn't read or do anything; she

just sat watching."

"Thinking?" Cecily suggested.

"Well, hardly. Letting thoughts happen if they wanted to, perhaps. She

was always rather--rather passive about things, you know. They took hold

of her if--well, as I say, if they wanted to." He turned to her quickly

as he asked, "Are you at all like that?"

"I believe I'm only just beginning to find out that I'm anything or like

anything. And, anyhow, I'm quite different from what I was yesterday."

"From yesterday?"

"Yes. Just by coming here, I think."

"That's what I mean! Things do take hold of you then?"

"This place does apparently," she answered laughing, as she leaned back

on the seat, throwing her arm behind her and resting her head on it. She

caught him looking at her again with marked and almost startled

intensity. He was rather strange with his alternations of apparent

forgetfulness and this embarrassing scrutiny.

"Tell me about yourself," he asked, or rather commanded, so brusque and

direct was the request.

She told him about the small house and the small life she had led in it,

even about the furniture and the bric-à-brac, confessing to her

occasional clearances and the deception she had to practise on her

father about them. He was very silent, but he was a good listener. Soon

he began to smoke, but did not ask leave. This might be rudeness, but

seemed a rather cousinly sort of rudeness, and was readily forgiven.

"And suddenly I come to all this!" she murmured. Then with a start she

added, "But I'm forgetting your mother's death and what you must feel,

and chattering about myself!"

"I asked you to talk about yourself. Is it such a great change to come

here?"

"Immense! To come here even for a day! Immense!" She waved her hand a

moment and found him following it with his eyes as it moved.

"You don't look," he said slowly, "as if it was any change at all."

"What do you mean?" she asked, interested in what he seemed to suggest.

"You fit in," he murmured, looking up at the house--at the window of

Addie Tristram's room. "And you're very poor?" he asked.

"Yes. And you----!"

"Oh, I'm not rich as such things go. The estate has fallen in value very

much, you know. But----" He broke off, frowning a little. "Still we're

comfortable enough," he resumed.

"I should think so. You'd always have it to look at anyhow. What did you

think I should be like?"

"Anything in the world but what you are."

The tone was at once too sincere and too absent for a compliment. Cecily

knew herself not to be plain; but he was referring to something else

than that.

"In fact I hardly thought of you as an individual at all. You were the

Gainsboroughs."

"And you didn't like the Gainsboroughs?" she cried in a flash of

intuition.

"No, I didn't," he admitted.

"Why not?"

"A prejudice," answered Harry Tristram after a pause.

She crossed her legs, sticking one foot out in front of her and looking

at it thoughtfully. He followed the movement and slowly broke into a

smile; it was followed by an impatient shrug. With the feminine instinct

she pushed her gown lower down, half over the foot. Harry laughed. She

looked up, blushing and inclined to be angry.

"Oh, it wasn't that," he said, laughing again rather contemptuously.

"But----" He rose, took some paces along the lawn, and then, coming

back, stood beside her, staring at the Blent and frowning rather

formidably.

"Did you see me when I first saw you by the Pool?" he asked in a moment.

"Yes. How you hurried after me!"

Another pause followed, Harry's frown giving way to a smile, but a

perplexed and reluctant one. Cecily watched him with puzzled

interest--still sitting with her foot stuck out in front of her and her

head resting on the bend of her arm; her eyes looked upward, and her

lips were just parted.

"Have I been staring at you?" he inquired abruptly.

"Well, yes, you have," she answered, laughing. "But a strange cousin

expects to be examined rather carefully. Do I pass muster among the

Tristrams? Or am I all the hated Gainsborough?"

He looked at her again and earnestly. She met the look without lowering

her eyes or altering her position in any particular.

"It's too absurd!" he declared, half fretful, half amused. "You're

features aren't so very much alike--except the eyes, they are--and your

hair's darker. But you move and carry yourself and turn your head as she

did. And that position you're in now--why I've seen her in it a thousand

times! Your arm there and your foot stuck out----"

His voice grew louder as he went on, his petulant amusement giving way

to an agitation imperfectly suppressed.

"What do you mean?" she asked, catching excitement from him.

"Why, my mother. That's her attitude, and your walk's her walk, and your

voice her voice. You're her--all over! Why, when I saw you by the Pool

just now, a hundred yards off, strolling on the bank----"

"Yes?" she half-whispered. "You started, didn't you?"

"Yes, I started. I thought for a moment I saw my mother's ghost. I

thought my mother had come back to Blent. And it is--you!"

He threw out his hands in a gesture of what seemed despair.

XII

FIGHTERS AND DOUBTERS

"Miss S. wasn't so far wrong after all!" exclaimed Mina Zabriska,

flinging down a letter on the table by her.

It was three days after Addie Tristram's funeral. Mina had attended that

ceremony, or rather watched it from a little way off. She had seen

Gainsborough's spare humble figure, she had seen too, with an acute

interest, the tall slim girl all in black, heavily veiled, who walked

beside him, just behind the new Lord Tristram. She had also, of course,

seen all the neighbors who were looking on like herself, but who gave

their best attention to Janie Iver and disappointed Miss S. by asking

hardly any questions about the Gainsboroughs. Little indeed would have

been said concerning them except for the fact that Gainsborough (true to

his knack of the unlucky) caught a chill on the occasion and was

confined to his bed down at Blent. A most vexatious occurrence for Lord

Tristram, said Miss S. But one that he ought to bear patiently, added

Mrs Trumbler. And after all, both ladies agreed, it would have been

hardly decent to turn the Gainsboroughs out on Monday, as it was well

known the new lord had proposed.

But the Gainsboroughs were not in Mina's thoughts just now.

"Nothing is to be made public yet--please remember this. But I want

you to know that I have just written to Harry Tristram to say I

will marry him. I have had a great deal of trouble, dear Mina, but

I think I have done right, looking at it all round. Except my own

people I am telling only one friend besides you ('Bob Broadley!'

said Mina with a nod, as she read the letter the second time). But

I want you to know; and please tell your uncle too. I hope you will

both give me your good wishes. I do think I'm acting wisely; and I

thought I had no right to keep him waiting and worrying about this

when he has so much to think of besides. You must stay at Merrion

after I come to Blent.--JANIE."

Barring the matter of the immediate announcement then, Miss S. was

justified. Janie had done the obviously right thing--and was obviously

not quite sure that it was right. That mattered very little; it was

done. It was for Mina Zabriska--and others concerned--to adapt

themselves and conform their actions to the accomplished fact. But would

Major Duplay take that view? To Mina was intrusted the delicate task of

breaking the news to her uncle. It is the virtue of a soldier not to

know when he is beaten; of a general not to let others know. To what

standard of martial conduct would the Major adhere? This matter of the

Major was in every way a nuisance to his niece. In the first place she

wanted to think about herself and her own feelings--the one luxury of

the unhappy. Secondly she was afraid again. For Harry suddenly seemed to

be no protection now, and the horrors threatened by Duplay--the

interrogation, the lawyer's office, and the like--recovered their

dreadfulness. It had been easy--perhaps pleasant--to suffer for the

confidential friend who had opened his heart to her on the hillside. It

became less easy and certainly more unpleasant to be sacrificed for

Janie Iver's _fiancé_. But Mina, though no longer exultant and no more

fearless, would be loyal and constant all the same. Should she, after

saving others, be herself a castaway? She experienced a longing for the

sympathy and support of Mr Jenkinson Neeld. Surely he would stand firm

too? He was still at Fairholme. Was he included in Janie's "own people"?

Had he been told the news?

The delicate task! The Imp's temper was far too bad for delicacy; she

found a positive pleasure in outraging it. She took her letter, marched

into the smoking-room, and threw it to (not to say at) her uncle.

"Read that!" she said and strode off to the window to have a look at

Blent. The letter had succeeded, it seemed, in taking away from her life

all she wanted, and introducing into it all she did not.

"This is very serious," declared the Major solemnly, "very serious

indeed, Mina."

"Don't see how," snapped the Imp, presenting an unwavering back-view to

her uncle. "If they like to get married, why is it serious?"

"Pray be reasonable," he urged. "You must perceive that the situation I

have always contemplated----"

"Well, you can go on contemplating it, can't you, uncle? It won't do

much good, but still----"

"The situation, I say, has arisen." She heard him get up, walk to the

hearth-rug, and strike a match. Of course he was going to have a

cigarette! He would smoke it all through with exasperating slowness and

then arrive at an odious conclusion. Mina had not been married for

nothing; she knew men's ways. He justified her forecast; it was minutes

before he spoke again.

"The terms of this letter," he resumed at last, "fortify me in my

purpose. It is evident that Miss Iver is influenced--largely

influenced--by--er--the supposed position of--er--Mr Tristram."

"Of who?"

"Of the present possessor of Blent."

"If you want people to know who you mean, you'd better say Lord

Tristram."

"For the present, if you wish it. I say, she is----" Duplay's pompous

formality suddenly broke down. "She's taking him for his title, that's

all."

"Oh, if you choose to say things like that about your friends!"

"You know it's true. What becomes my duty then?"

"I don't know and I don't care. Only I hate people to talk about duty

when they're going to----" Well, one must stop somewhere in describing

one's relatives' conduct. The Imp stopped there. But the sentence really

lost nothing; Duplay could guess pretty accurately what she had been

going to say.

Fortunately, although he was very dependent on her help, he cared little

about her opinion. She neither would nor could judge his position

fairly; she would not perceive how he felt, how righteous was his anger,

how his friends were being cheated and he was being jockeyed out of his

chances by one and the same unscrupulous bit of imposture. He had

brought himself round to a more settled state of mind and had got his

conscience into better order. If he were acting unselfishly, he deserved

commendation. But even if self-interest guided him he was free of blame.

No man is bound to let himself be swindled. He doubted seriously of

nothing now except his power to upset Harry Tristram's plans. He was

resolved to try; Mina must speak--and if money were needed, it must come

from somewhere. The mere assertion of what he meant to allege must at

least delay this hateful marriage. It must be added--though the Major

was careful not to add--that it would also give Harry Tristram a very

unpleasant shock; the wrestling bout by the Pool and the loss of that

shilling were not forgotten. It may further be observed--though the

Major could not be expected to observe--that he had such an estimate of

his own attractions as led him to seize very eagerly on any evidences of

liking for Harry's position, rather than of preference for Harry

himself, which Janie's letter might be considered to afford. The Major,

in fact, had a case; good argument made it seem a good case. It is

something to have a case that can be argued at all; morality has a sad

habit of leaving us without a leg to stand on. In the afternoon of that

day Duplay went down to Fairholme. Miss Swinkerton passed him on the

road and smiled sagaciously. Oh, if Miss S. had known the truth about

his errand! A gossip in ignorance has pathos as a spectacle.

Mr Neeld was still at Fairholme; he had been pressed to stay and needed

little pressing; in fact, in default of the pressure he would probably

have taken lodgings in the town. He could not go away; he had seen Addie

Tristram buried, and her son walking behind the coffin, clad in his new

dignity. His mind was full of the situation. Yet he had shrunk from

discussing it further with Mina Zabriska. The family anxiety about

Janie's love affair had been all round him. Now he suspected strongly

that some issue was being decided upon. He ought to speak, to break his

word to Mina and speak--or he ought to go. From day to day he meant to

go and cease to accept the hospitality which his silence seemed to

abuse. But he did not go. These internal struggles were new in his

placid and estimable life; this affair of Harry Tristram's had a way of

putting people in strange and difficult positions.

"Mind you say nothing--nothing--nothing." That sentence had reached him

on the reverse side of an invitation to take tea at Merrion--a vague

some-day-when-you're-passing sort of invitation, in Neeld's eyes plainly

and merely a pretext for writing and an opportunity of conveying the

urgent little scrawl on the other side. It arrived at mid-day; in the

afternoon Duplay had come and was now alone with Iver.

The outward calm of the gray-haired old gentleman who sat on the lawn at

Fairholme, holding a weekly review upside down, was no index to the

alarming and disturbing questions which were agitating him within. At

the end of a blameless life it is hard to discover that you must do one

of two things and that, whichever you do, you will feel like a villain.

The news that Josiah Cholderton's Journal was going off very fairly well

with the trade had been unable to give its editor any consolation; he

did not care about the Journal now.

Iver came out and sat down beside him without speaking. Neeld hastily

restored his paper to a position more befitting its dignity and became

apparently absorbed in an article on _Shyness in Elephants_; the subject

was treated with a wealth of illustration and in a vein of introspective

philosophy exceedingly instructive. But it was all wasted on Mr Neeld.

He was waiting for Iver; no man could be so silent unless he had

something important to say or to leave unsaid. And Iver was not even

smoking the cigar which he always smoked after tea. Neeld could bear it

no longer; he got up and was about to move away.

"Stop, Neeld. Do you mind sitting down again for a moment?"

Neeld could do nothing but comply. The review fell on the ground by him

and he ceased to struggle with the elephants.

"I want to ask your opinion----"

"My dear Iver, my opinion! Oh, I'm not a business man, and----"

"It's not business. You know Major Duplay? What do you think of him?"

"I--I've always found him very agreeable."

"Yes, so have I. And I've always thought him honest, haven't you?"

Neeld admitted that he had no reason to impugn the Major's character.

"And I suppose he's sane," Iver pursued. "But he's just been telling me

the most extraordinary thing." He paused a moment. "I dare say you've

noticed something between Janie and young Tristram? I may as well tell

you that she has just consented to marry him. But I don't want to talk

about that except so far as it comes into the other matter--which it

does very considerably." He laid his hand on Neeld's knee. "Neeld,

Duplay came and told me that Harry Tristram has no title to the peerage

or to Blent. I'm not going to trouble you with the details now. It comes

to this--Harry was born before, not after, the marriage of his parents.

Duplay says Mina knows all about it, and will give us information that

will make the proof easy. That's a tolerably startling story, eh? One's

prepared for something where Lady Tristram was involved, but this----!"

It was fortunate that he did not glance at Neeld; Neeld had tried to

appear startled, but had succeeded only in looking supremely miserable.

But Iver's eyes were gazing straight in front of him under brows that

frowned heavily.

"Now, what I want you to do," he resumed, "and I'm sure you won't refuse

me, is this. I'm inclined to dismiss the whole thing as a blunder. I

believe Duplay's honest, but I think certain facts in his own position

have led him to be too ready to believe a mere yarn. But I've consented

to see Mina and hear what she has to say. And I said I should bring you

as a witness. I go to Merrion Lodge to-morrow for this purpose, and I

shall rely on you to accompany me." With that the cigar made its

appearance; Iver lit it and lay back in his chair, frowning still in

perplexity and vexation. He had not asked his friend's opinion but his

services. It was characteristic of him not to notice this fact. And the

fact did nothing to relieve Neeld's piteous embarrassment.

"I knew it all along;" he might say that. "I know nothing about it;" he

might act that. Or he might temporize for a little while. This was what

he did.

"It would make a great difference if this were true?" His voice shook,

but Iver was absorbed.

"An enormous difference," said Iver (Lady Tristram herself had once said

the same). "I marry my daughter to Lord Tristram of Blent or to--to

whom? You'll call that snobbishness, or some people would. I say it's

not snobbish in us new men to consider that. It's the right thing for us

to do, Neeld. Other things equal--if the man's a decent fellow and the

girl likes him--I say it's the right thing for us to do. That's the way

it always has happened, and the right way too."

Mr Neeld nodded. He had sympathy with these opinions.

"But if it's true, why, who's Harry Tristram? Oh, I know it's all a

fluke, a damned fluke, if you like, Neeld, and uncommonly hard on the

boy. But the law's the law, and for my own part I'm not in favor of

altering it. Now do you suppose I want my daughter to marry him, if it's

true?"

"I suppose you wouldn't," murmured Neeld.

"And there's another thing. Duplay says Harry knows it--Duplay swears he

knows it. Well then, what's he doing? In my opinion he's practising a

fraud. He knows he isn't what he pretends to be. He deceives me, he

deceives Janie. If the thing ever comes out, where is she? He's treated

us very badly if it's true."

The man, ordinarily so calm and quiet in his reserved strength, broke

out into vehemence as he talked of what Harry Tristram had done if the

Major's tale were true. Neeld asked himself what his host would say of a

friend who knew the story to be true and yet said nothing of it. He

perceived too that although Iver would not have forced his daughter's

inclination, yet the marriage was very good in his eyes, the proper end

and the finest crown to his own career. This had never come home to

Neeld with any special force before. Iver was English of the English in

his repression, in his habit of meeting both good and bad luck

with--well, with something like a grunt. But he was stirred now; the

suddenness of the thing had done it. And in face of his feelings how

stood Mr Neeld? He saw nothing admirable in how and where he stood.

"Well, we'll see Mina and hear if she's got anything to say. Fancy that

little monkey being drawn into a thing like this! Meanwhile we'll say

nothing. I don't believe it, and I shall want a lot of convincing. Until

I am convinced everything stands as it did. I rely on you for that,

Neeld--and I rely on you to come to Merrion to-morrow. Not a word to my

wife--above all not a word to Janie!" He got up, took possession of

Neeld's review, and walked off into the house with his business-like

quick stride.

Neeld sat there, slowly rubbing his hands against one another between

his knees. He was realizing what he had done, or rather what had

happened to him. When his life, his years, and what he conceived to be

his character were considered, it was a very surprising thing, this

silence of his--the conspiracy he had entered into with Mina Zabriska,

the view of duty which the Imp, or Harry, or the thought of beautiful

Addie Tristram, or all of them together, had made him take. So strange a

view for him! To run counter to law, to outrage good sense, to slight

the claims of friendship, to suppress the truth, to aid what Iver so

relentlessly called a fraud--all these were strange doings for him to be

engaged in. And why had he done it? The explanation was as strange as

the things that he invoked it to explain. Still rubbing his hands, palm

against palm, to and fro, he said very slowly, with wonder and

reluctance:

"I was carried away. I was carried away by--by romance."

The word made him feel a fool. Yet what other word was there for the

overwhelming unreasoning feeling that at the cost of everything the

Tristrams, mother and son, must keep Blent, the son living and the

mother dead, that the son must dwell there and the spirit of the mother

be about him she loved in the spot that she had graced? It was very rank

romance indeed--no other word for it! And--wildest paradox--it all came

out of editing Josiah Cholderton's Journal.

Before he had made any progress in unravelling his skein of perplexities

he saw Janie coming across the lawn. She took the chair her father had

left and seemed to take her father's mood with it; the same oppressive

silence settled on her. Neeld broke it this time.

"You don't look very merry, Miss Janie," he said, smiling at her and

achieving a plausible jocularity.

"Why should I, Mr Neeld?" She glanced at him. "Oh, has father told you

anything?"

"Yes, that you're engaged. You know how truly I desire your happiness,

my dear." With a pretty courtesy the old man took her hand and kissed

it, baring his gray hair the while.

"You're very, very kind. Yes, I've promised to marry Harry Tristram. Not

yet, you know. And it isn't to be announced. But I've promised."

He stole a glance at her, and then another. She did not look merry

indeed. Neeld knew his ignorance of feminine things, and made guesses

with proper diffidence; but he certainly fancied she had been crying--or

very near it--not so long ago. Yet the daughter of William Iver was

sensible and not given to silly tears.

"I think I've done right," she said--as she had said when she wrote to

Mina. "Everybody will be pleased. Father's very pleased." Suddenly she

put out her hand and took hold of his, giving it a tight grip. "Oh, but,

Mr Neeld, I've made somebody so unhappy."

"I dare say, my dear, I dare say. I was a young fellow once. I dare

say."

"And he says nothing about it. He wished me joy--and he does wish me joy

too. I've no right to talk to you, to tell you, or anything. I don't

believe people think girls ever mind making men unhappy; but they do."

"If they like the men?" This suggestion at least was not too difficult

for him.

"Yes, when they like them, when they're old friends, you know. I only

spoke to him for a moment, I only just met him on the road. I don't

suppose I shall ever talk to him about it, or about anything in

particular, again." She squeezed Neeld's hand a second time, and then

withdrew her own.

This was unknown country again for Mr Neeld; his sense of being lost

grew more acute. These were not the sort of problems which had occupied

his life; but they seemed now to him no less real, hardly less

important. It was only a girl wondering if she had done right. Yet he

felt the importance of it.

"You can't help the unhappiness," he said. "You must go to the man you

love, my dear."

With a little start she turned and looked at him for an instant. Then

she murmured in a perfunctory fashion:

"Yes, I must make the best choice I can, of course." She added after a

pause, "But I wish----"

Words or the inclination to speak failed her again, and she relapsed

into silence.

As he sat there beside her, silent too, his mind travelled back to what

her father had said; and slowly he began to understand. No doubt she

liked Harry, even as her father did. No doubt she thought he would be a

good husband, as Iver had thought him a good fellow. But it became plain

to the searcher after truth that not to her any more than to her father

was it nothing that Harry was Tristram of Blent. Her phrases about doing

right and making the right choice included a reference to that, even if

that were not their whole meaning. She had mentioned her father's

pleasure--everybody's pleasure. That pleasure would be found largely in

seeing her Lady Tristram. What then would she have to say on the

question that so perplexed Mr Neeld? Would she not echo Iver's

accusation of fraud against Harry Tristram and (as a consequence)

against those who aided and abetted him? Would she understand or accept

as an excuse the plea that Neeld had been led away by romance or

entrapped into a conspiracy by Mina Zabriska? No. She too would call out

"Fraud, fraud!" and he did not blame her. He called himself a fool for

having been led away by romance, by unreasoning feeling. Should he blame

her because she was not led away? His disposition was to praise her for

a choice so wise, and to think that she had done very right in

accepting Lord Tristram of Blent. Aye, Lord Tristram of Blent!

Precisely! Deep despair settled on Mr Neeld's baffled mind.

Meanwhile, Duplay walked home, the happier for having crossed his

Rubicon. He had opened his campaign with all the success he could have

expected. Like a wise man, Iver held nothing true till it was proved;

but like a wise man also he dubbed nothing a lie merely because it was

new or improbable. And on the whole he had done the Major justice. He

had smiled for a moment when he hinted that Duplay and Harry were not

very cordial; the Major met him by a straightforward recognition that

this was true, and by an indirect admission of the reason. As to this

latter Iver had dropped no word; but he would give Duplay a hearing. Now

it remained only to bring Mina to reason. If she spoke, the case would

be so strong as to demand inquiry. The relief in Duplay's mind was so

great that he could not explain it, until he realized that his niece's

way of treating him had so stuck in his memory that he had been prepared

to be turned from Iver's doors with contumely. Such an idea seemed

absurd now, and the Major laughed.

Mina was strange, Duplay never ceased to think that. They had parted on

impossible terms; but now, as soon as he appeared, she ran at him with

apparent pleasure and with the utmost eagerness. She asked nothing about

his expedition either, though she could easily have guessed where he had

been and for what purpose. She almost danced as she cried:

"I've seen her! I've been talking to her! I met her in the meadow near

Matson's cottage, and she asked me the way back to Blent. Uncle, she's

wonderful!"

"Who are you talking about?"

"Why, Cecily Gainsborough, of course. I just remember how Lady Tristram

spoke. She speaks the same way exactly! I can't describe it, but it's

the sort of voice that makes you want to do anything in the world it

asks. Don't you know? She told me a lot about herself; then she talked

about Blent. She's full of it; she admires it most tremendously----"

"That's all right," interrupted Duplay with a malicious smile. "Because,

so far as I can understand, she happens to own it."

"What?" The Imp stood frozen into stillness.

"You've been talking to Lady Tristram of Blent," he added with a nod.

"Though I suppose you didn't tell her so?"

To Lady Tristram of Blent! She had never once thought of that while they

talked. The shock of the idea was great, so great that Mina forgot to

repudiate it, or to show any indignation at Harry's claims being passed

by in contemptuous silence. All the while they talked, she had thought

of the girl as far removed from Blent, as even more of a visitor to the

countryside than she herself was, a wonderful visitor indeed, but no

part of their life. And she was--well, at the least she was heir to

Blent! How had she forgotten that? The persistent triumph of Duplay's

smile marked his sense of the success of his sally.

"Yes, and she'll be installed there before many months are out," he went

on. "So I hope you made yourself pleasant, Mina?"

Mina gave him one scornful glance, as she passed by him and ran out on

to her favorite terrace. There was a new thing to look and to wonder at

in Blent. The interest, the sense of concern in Blent and its affairs,

which the news of the engagement had blunted and almost destroyed,

revived in her now. She forgot the prose of that marriage arrangement

and turned eagerly to the poetry of Cecily Gainsborough, of the poor

girl there in the house that was hers, unwitting guest of the man who

was---- The Imp stopped herself with rude abruptness. What had she been

about to say, what had she been about to think? The guest of the man who

was robbing her? That had been it. But no, no, no! She did not think

that. Confused in her mind by this new idea, none the less she found her

sympathy going out to Harry again. He was not a robber; it was his own.

The blood, she cried still, and not the law. But what was to be done

about Cecily Gainsborough? Was she to go back to the little house in

London, was she to go back to ugliness, to work, to short commons? There

seemed no way out. Between the old and the new attraction, the old

allegiance and the new claim to homage that Cecily made, Mina Zabriska

stood bewildered. She had a taste now of the same perplexity that she

had done so much to bring on poor Mr Neeld at Fairholme. Yet not quite

the same. He did not know what he ought to do; she did not feel sure of

what she wanted. Both stood undecided. Mr Cholderton's Journal was still

at its work of disturbing people's minds.

But Major Duplay was well content with the day's work. If his niece had

a divided mind she would be easier to bend to his will. He did not care

who had Blent, if only it passed from Harry. But it was a point gained

if Mina could think of its passing from Harry to somebody who would be

welcome to her there. Then she would tell the story which she had

received from her mother, and the first battle against Harry Tristram

would be won. The excitement of fighting was on the Major now. He could

neither pity the enemy nor distrust his own cause till the strife was

done.

Amongst all the indecision there was about, Duplay had the merit of a

clear vision of his own purpose and his own desires.

XIII

IN THE LONG GALLERY

The man with whom the fighters and the doubters were concerned, in whose

defence or attack efforts and hopes were enlisted, round whom hesitation

and struggles gathered, was thinking very little about his champions or

his enemies. No fresh whispers of danger had come to Harry Tristram's

ears. He knew nothing of Neeld and could not think of that quiet old

gentleman as a possible menace to his secret. He trusted Mina Zabriska

and relied on the influence which he had proved himself to possess over

her. He did not believe that Duplay would stick to his game, and was not

afraid of him if he did. The engagement was accomplished; the big check,

or the prospect of it, lay ready to his hand; his formal proofs, perfect

so long as they were unassailed, awaited the hour when formal proofs

would be required. To all appearance he was secure in his inheritance

and buttressed against any peril. No voice was raised, no murmur was

heard, to impugn the right of the new Lord Tristram of Blent. The object

of all those long preparations, which had occupied his mother and

himself for so many years, was achieved. He sat in Addie Tristram's

place, and none said him nay.

His mind was not much on these matters at all. Even his engagement

occupied him very little. Janie's letter had arrived and had been read.

It came at mid-day, and the evening found it still unacknowledged. It

had broken in from outside as it were, intruding like something foreign

into the life that he had begun to live on the evening before Addie

Tristram was buried, the evening when for an instant he had thought he

saw her phantom by the Pool; a life foreshadowed by the new mood which

Mina had noticed in him while Lady Tristram still lived, but brought

into reality by the presence of another. It seemed a new life coming to

one who was almost a new man, so much of the unexpected in him did it

reveal to himself. He had struggled against it, saying that the Monday

morning would see an end of this unlooked-for episode of feeling and of

companionship. Accident stepped in; Gainsborough lay in bed with a chill

and could not move. Harry acquiesced in the necessity of his remaining,

not exactly with pleasure, rather with a sense that something had begun

to happen, not by his will, but affecting him deeply. What would come of

it he did not know; that it would end in a day or two, that it would be

only an episode and leave no permanent mark seemed now almost

impossible; it was fraught with something bigger than that.

But with what? He had no reasoned idea; he was unable to reason. He was

passive in the hands of the feelings, the impressions, the fancies that

laid hold of him. Addie Tristram's death had moved him strangely; then

came that hardly natural, eerily fascinating reminiscence--no, it was

more than that--that re-embodiment or resurrection of her in the girl

who moved and talked and sat like her, who had her ways though not her

face, her eyes set in another frame, her voice renewed in youthful

richness, the very turns of her head, even her old trick of sticking out

her foot. He scowled sometimes, he was surprised into laughter

sometimes; at another moment he would rebel against the malicious Power

that seemed to be having a joke with him; for the most part he looked,

and looked, and looked, unwilling to miss a single one of the

characteristic touches which had been Addie Tristram's belongings and

which he had never expected to see again after her spirit had passed

away. And the outcome of all his looking was still the same as the

effect of his first impression on the evening before the funeral--a sort

of despair. A thing was there which he did not know how to deal with.

And she was so happy, so absurdly happy. She had soon found that he

expected no conventional solemnity; he laughed himself at the idea of

Addie Tristram wanting people to pull long faces, and keep them long

when pulled, because she had laid her burden down and was at peace.

Cecily found she might be merry, and merry she was. A new life had come

to her too, a life of river and trees and meadows; deeper than that, a

life of beauty about her. She absorbed it with a native thirst. There

was plenty of it, and she had been starved so long. She seized on Blent

and enjoyed it to the full. She enjoyed Harry too, laughing now when he

stared at her and making him laugh, yet herself noting all his ways, his

pride, his little lordlinesses--these grew dear to her--his air of

owning the countryside, and making no secret of her own pleasure in

being part of the family and in living in the house that owned the

countryside. It is to be feared that Mr Gainsborough and his chill were

rather neglected, but he got on very well with Addie Tristram's ancient

maid; she had the nobility at her fingers' ends and even knew something

about their pedigrees. Cecily was free, or assumed the freedom, to spend

her time with Harry, or, if he failed her, at least with and among the

things that belonged to him and had belonged to beautiful Addie Tristram

who had been like her--so Harry said, and Cecily treasured the thought,

teasing him now sometimes, as they grew intimate, with a purposed

repetition of a pose or trick that she had first displayed

unconsciously, and found had power to make him frown or smile. She

smiled herself in mischievous triumph when she hit her mark, or she

would break into the rich gurgle of delight that he remembered hearing

from his young mother when he himself was a child. The life was to her

all pure delight; she had no share in the thoughts that often darkened

his brow, no knowledge of the thing which again and again filled him

with that wondering despair.

On the evening of the day when Major Duplay went to Fairholme, the two

sat together in the garden after dinner. It was nine o'clock, a close

still night, with dark clouds now and then slowly moving off and on to

the face of a moon nearly full. They had been silent for some minutes,

sipping coffee. Cecily pointed to the row of windows in the left wing of

the house.

"I've never been there," she said. "What's that?"

"The Long Gallery--all one long room, you know," he answered.

"One room! All that! What's in it?"

"Well, everything mostly," he smiled. "All our treasures, and our

pictures, and so on."

"Why haven't you taken me there?"

Harry shrugged his shoulders. "You never asked me," he said.

"Well, will you take me there now--when you've finished your cigar?"

There was a pause before he answered, "Yes, if you like." He turned to

the servant who had come to take away the coffee. "Light up the Long

Gallery at once."

"Yes, my lord." A slight surprise broke through the respectful

acceptance of the order.

"It was lighted last for my mother, months ago," Harry said, as though

he were explaining his servant's surprise. "She sat there the last

evening before she took to her room."

"Is that why you haven't taken me there?"

"I expect it is." His tone was not very confident.

"And you don't much want to now?"

"No, I don't know that I do." But his reluctance seemed vague and weak.

"Oh, I must go," Cecily decided, "but you needn't come unless you like,

you know."

"All right, you go alone," he agreed.

Window after window sprang into light. "Ah!" murmured Cecily in

satisfaction; and Mina Zabriska saw the illumination from the terrace of

Merrion on the hill. Cecily rose, waved her hand to Harry, and ran off

into the house with a laugh. The next moment he saw her figure in the

first window; she threw it open, waved her hand again, and again

laughed; the moon, clear for a moment, shone on her face and turned it

pale.

He sat watching the lighted windows. From time to time she darted into

sight; once he heard the big window at the end facing the river flung

open, the next instant she was in sight at the other extremity of the

Gallery. Evidently she was running about, examining all the things. She

came to a window presently and cried, "I wish you'd come and tell me all

about it." "I don't think I will," he called back. "Oh, well----!" she

laughed impatiently, and disappeared. Minutes passed and he did not see

her again; she must have settled down somewhere, he supposed; or perhaps

her interest was exhausted and she had gone off to her father's room.

No, there she was, flitting past a window again. His reluctance gave way

before curiosity and attraction. Flinging away his cigar, he got up and

walked slowly into the house.

The passage outside the Gallery was dimly lighted, and the door of the

Gallery was open. Harry stood in the shadow unseen, watching intently

every movement of the girl's. She was looking at a case of miniatures

and medals, memorials of beauties and of warriors. She turned from them

to the picture of an Elizabethan countess, splendid in ruff and rich in

embroidery. She caught up a candle and held it over her head, up toward

the picture. Then setting the candle down she ran to the end window and

looked out on the night. Addie Tristram's tall arm-chair still stood by

the window. Cecily threw herself into it, sighing and stretching her

arms in a delighted weariness. Mina Zabriska could make out a figure in

the Long Gallery now.

Slowly and irresolutely Harry Tristram came in; Cecily's face was not

turned toward the door, and he stood unnoticed just within the

threshold. His eyes ranged round the room but came back to Cecily. She

was very quiet, but he saw her breast rise and fall in quick breathing.

She was stirred and moved. A strange agitation, an intensity of feeling,

came over him as he stood there motionless, everything seeming

motionless around him, while his ancestors and hers looked down on them

from the walls, down on their successors. The Lords of Blent were about

him. Their trophies and their treasures decked the room. And she sat

there in Addie Tristram's chair, in Addie Tristram's place, in Addie

Tristram's attitude. Did the dead know the secret? Did the pictures

share it? Who was to them the Lord of Blent?

He shook off these idle fancies--a man should not give way to them--and

walked up the room with a steady assured tread. Even then she did not

seem to hear him till he spoke.

"Well, do you like it?" he asked, leaning against a table in the middle

of the upper part of the room, a few feet from the chair where she sat.

Now Mina Zabriska made out two figures, cast up by the bright light

against the darkness, and watched them with an eagerness that had no

reason in it.

"Like it!" she cried, springing to her feet, running to him, holding out

her hands. "Like it! Oh, Harry! Why, it's better than all the rest.

Better, even better!"

"It's rather a jolly room," said Harry. "The pictures and all the things

about make it look well."

"Oh, I'm not going to say anything if you talk like that. You don't feel

like that!--'Rather a jolly room!' That's what one says if the inn

parlor's comfortable. This isn't a room. It's--it's----"

"Shall we call it a temple?" he suggested, smiling.

"I believe it's heaven--the private particular Tristram heaven. They're

all here!" She waved toward the pictures. "Here in a heaven of their

own."

"And we're allowed to visit it before we die?"

"Yes. At least I am. You let me visit it. It belongs to you--to the dead

and you."

"Do you want to stay here any longer?" he asked with a sudden roughness.

"Yes, lots longer," she laughed defiantly, quite undismayed. "You

needn't, though. You'll have it all your life. Perhaps I shall never

have it again. Father's better! And I don't know if you'll ever ask us

here again. You never did before, you know. So I mean to have all of it

I can get." She darted away from him and ran back to the miniatures. A

richly ornamented sword hung on the wall just above them. This caught

her notice; she took it down and unsheathed it.

"_Henricus Baro Tristram de Blent_," she spelt out from the enamelled

steel. "_Per Ensem Justitia._ What does that mean? No, I know. Rather a

good motto, cousin Harry. 'That he shall take who has the power, and he

shall keep who can!' That was his justice, I expect!"

"Do you quarrel with it? If this was all yours, would you give it up?"

"Not without a fight!" she laughed. "_Per Ensem Justitia!_" She waved

the blade.

Harry left her busy with the things that were so great a delight and

walked to the window at the other end of the long room. Thence he

watched, now her, now the clouds that lounged off and on to the moon's

disk. More and more, though, his eyes were caught by her and glued to

her; she was the centre of the room; it seemed all made and prepared for

her even as it had seemed for Addie Tristram. The motto ran in his

head--_Per Ensem Justitia_. What was the justice and what the sword? He

awoke to the cause of the changed mood in him and of the agitation in

which he had been living. It was nothing to defy the law, to make light

of a dry abstraction, to find right against it in his blood. His

opponent now was no more the law, it was no more even some tiresome,

unknown, unrealized girl in London, with surroundings most unpicturesque

and associations that had no power to touch his heart. Here was the

enemy, this creature whose every movement claimed the blood that was

hers, whose coming repaired the loss Blent had suffered in losing Addie

Tristram, whose presence crowned its charms with a new glory. Nature

that fashioned her in the Tristram image--had it not put in her hand the

sword by which she should win justice? The thought passed through his

mind now without a shock; he seemed to see her mistress of Blent; for

the moment he forgot himself as anyone save an onlooker; he did not seem

concerned.

Once more he roused himself. He had fallen into a fear of the fancies

that threatened to carry him he did not know where. He wanted to get

away from this room with its suggestions, and from the presence that

gave them such force.

"Aren't you ready yet?" he called to her. "It's getting late."

"Are you still there?" she cried back in a gay affectation of surprise.

"I'd forgotten all about you, I thought I had it to myself. I was trying

to think it was all mine."

"Shall we go downstairs?" His voice was hard and constrained.

"No, I won't," she said squarely. "I can't go. It's barely ten o'clock.

Come, we'll talk here. You smoke--or is that high treason?--and I'll sit

here." She threw herself into Addie Tristram's great chair. There was a

triumphant gayety in her air that spoke of her joy in all about her, of

her sense of the boundless satisfaction that her surroundings gave. "I

love it all so much," she murmured, half perhaps to herself, yet still

as a plea to him that he would not seek to hurry her from the place.

Harry turned away, again with that despair on him. She gave him

permission to go, but he could not leave her--neither her nor now the

room. Yet he was afraid that he could not answer for himself if he

stayed. It was too strange that every association, and every tradition,

and every emotion which had through all the years seemed to justify and

even to sanctify his own position and the means he was taking to

preserve it, should in two or three days begin to desert him, and should

now in this hour openly range themselves against him and on her side; so

that all he invoked to aid him pleaded for her, all that he had prayed

to bless him and his enterprise blessed her and cursed the work to which

he had put his hand.

Which of them could best face the world without Blent? Which of them

could best look the world in the face having Blent? These were the

questions that rose in his mind with tempestuous insistence.

"I could sit here forever," she murmured, a lazy enjoyment succeeding to

the agile movements of her body and the delighted agitation of her

nerves. "It just suits me to sit here, cousin Harry. Looking like a

great lady!" Her eyes challenged him to deny that she looked the part to

perfection. She glanced through the window. "I met that funny little

Madame Zabriska who lives up at Merrion Lodge to-day. She seems very

anxious to know all about us."

"Madame Zabriska has a healthy--or unhealthy--curiosity." The mention of

Mina was a fresh prick. Mina knew; suddenly he hated that she should

know.

"Is she in love with you?" asked Cecily, mockingly yet languidly, indeed

as a great lady might inquire about the less exalted, condescending to

be amused.

"Nobody's in love with me, not even the girl who's going to marry me."

"To marry you?" She sat up, looking at him. "Are you engaged?"

"Yes, to Janie Iver. You know who I mean?"

"Yes, I know. You're going to be married to her?"

"I asked her a week ago. To-day she wrote to say she'd have me." He was

on his feet even as he spoke. "To marry me and to marry all this, you

know."

She was too sympathetic to waste breath on civil pretences.

"To be mistress here? To own this? To be Lady Tristram of Blent?"

"Yes. To have what--what I'm supposed to have," said he.

Cecily regarded him intently for another moment. Then she sank back

into Addie Tristram's great arm-chair, asking, "Will she do it well?"

"No," said Harry. "She's a good sort, but she won't do it well."

Cecily sighed and turned her head toward the window.

"Why do you do it? Do you care for her?"

"I like her. And I want money. She's very rich. Money might be useful to

me."

"You seem very rich. Why do you want money?"

"I might want it."

There was silence for a moment. "Well, I hope you'll be happy," she said

presently.

She herself was the reason--the embodied reason (was reason ever more

fairly embodied?), why he was going to marry Janie Iver. The

monstrousness of it rose before his mind. When he told of his

engagement, there had been for an instant a look in her eyes. Wonder it

was at least. Was it disappointment? Was it at all near to

consternation? She sat very still now; her gayety was gone. She was like

Addie Tristram still, but like Addie when the hard world used her ill,

when there were aches to be borne and sins to be reckoned with. As he

watched her, yet another new thing came upon him, or a thing that seemed

to be as new as the last quarter chimed by the old French clock on the

mantel-piece, and yet might date back so long as three days ago. Even

now it hardly reached consciousness, certainly did not attain

explicitness. It was still rather than Janie was no mistress for Blent

and that this girl was the ideal. It was Blent still rather than

himself, Blent's mistress rather than his. But it was enough to set a

new edge on his questioning. Was he to be the man--he who looked on her

now and saw how fair she was--was he to be the man to deny her her own,

to rob her of her right, to parade before the world in the trappings

which were hers? It was all so strange, so overwhelming. He dropped into

a chair by him and pressed his hand across his brow. A low murmur,

almost a groan, escaped him in the tumult of his soul. "My God!" he

whispered, in a whisper that seemed to echo through the room.

"Harry! Are you unhappy?" In an instant she was by him. "What is it? I

don't understand. You tell me you're engaged, and you look so unhappy.

Why do you marry her if you don't love her? Are you giving her all

this--and yourself--you yourself--without loving her? Dear Harry--yes,

you've been very good to me--dear Harry, why?"

"Go back," he said. "Go back to your chair. Go and sit there."

With wonder in her eyes and a smile fresh-born on her lips she obeyed

him.

"Well?" she said. "You're very odd. But--why?"

"I'm marrying her for Blent's sake--and I think she's marrying me for

Blent's sake."

"I call that horrible."

"No." He sprang to his feet. "If Blent was yours, what would you do to

keep it?"

"Everything," she answered. "Everything--except sell myself, Harry."

She was superb. By a natural instinct, all affectation forgotten, she

had thrown herself into Addie Tristram's attitude. There was the head on

the bend of the arm, there was the dainty foot stuck out. There was all

the defiance of a world insensate to love, greedy to find sin, dull to

see grace and beauty, blind to a woman's self while it cavilled at a

woman's deeds.

"Everything except sell yourself?" he repeated, his eyes set on her

face.

"Yes--_Per Ensem Justitia!_" she laughed. "But not lies, and not buying

and selling, Harry."

"My word is given. I must marry her now."

"Better fling Blent away!" she flashed out in a brilliant indignation.

"And if I did that?"

"A woman would love you for yourself," she cried, leaning forward to him

with hands clasped.

Again he rose and paced the length of the Long Gallery. The moment was

come. There was a great alliance against him. He fought still. At every

step he took he came to something that still was his, that he prized,

that he loved, that meant much to him, that typified his position as

Tristram of Blent. A separate pang waited on every step, a great agony

rose in him with the thought that he might be walking this room as its

master for the last time. Yes, it had come to that. For against all,

threatening to conquer all, was the girl who sat in his mother's chair,

her very body asserting the claim that her thoughts did not know and her

mouth could not utter. And yet his mood had affected her. The upturned

eyes were full of excitement, the parted lips waited for a word from

him. Mina Zabriska had left her terrace and gone to bed, declaring that

she was still on Harry's side; but she was not with him in this fight.

He returned to Cecily and stood by her. The sympathy between them kept

her still; she watched, she waited. For minutes he was silent; all

thought of time was gone. Now she knew that he had something great to

say. Was it that he would and could have no more to do with Janie Iver,

that another had come, that his word must go, and that he loved her? She

could hardly believe that. It was so short a time since he had seen her.

Yet why could it not be true of him, if it were true of her? And was it

not? Else why did she hang on his words and keep her eyes on his? Else

why was it so still in the room, as though the world too waited for

speech from his lips?

"I can't do it!" burst from him suddenly. "By God, I can't do it!"

"What, Harry?" The words were no more than breathed. He came right up to

her and caught her by the arm.

"You see all that--everything here? You love it?"

"Yes."

"As much as I do? As much as I do?" His self-control was gone. She made

no answer; she could not understand.

With an effort he mastered himself.

"Yes, you love it," he said, and a smile came on his face. "I'm glad you

love it. As God lives, unless you'd loved it, I'd have spoken not a word

of this. But you're one of us, you're a Tristram. I don't know the real

rights of it, but I'll run no risk of cheating a Tristram. You love it

all?"

"Yes, yes, Harry. But why, dear Harry, why?"

"Why? Because it's yours."

He let go her hand and reeled back a step.

"Mine? What do you mean?" she cried. Still the idea, the wild idea, that

he offered it with himself was in her mind.

"It's yours, not mine--it's never been mine. You're the owner of it.

You're Tristram of Blent."

"I--I Tristram of Blent?" She was utterly bewildered. For he was not a

lover--no lover ever spoke like that.

"Yes, I say, yes." His voice rose imperiously as it pronounced the words

that threw away his rule. "You're Lady Tristram of Blent."

She did not understand; yet she believed. He spoke so that he must be

believed.

"This is all yours--yours--yours. You're Tristram of Blent."

She rose to her height, and stood facing him.

"And you? And you?"

"I? I'm--Harry."

"Harry? Harry? Harry what?"

He smiled as he looked at her; as his eyes met hers he smiled.

"Harry what? Harry Nothing," he said. "Harry Nothing-at-all."

He turned and left her alone in the room. She sank back into the great

arm-chair where Addie Tristram had been wont to sit.

XIV

THE VERY SAME DAY

"Shall I wait up, my lord? Miss Gainsborough has gone to her room. I've

turned out the lights and shut up the house."

Harry looked at the clock in the study. It was one o'clock.

"I thought you'd gone to bed long ago, Mason." He rose and stretched

himself. "I'm going to town early in the morning. I shan't want any

breakfast and I shan't take anybody with me. Tell Fisher to pack my

portmanteau--things for a few days--and send it to Paddington. I'll have

it fetched from there. Tell him to be ready to follow me, if I send for

him."

"Yes, my lord."

"Give that letter to Miss Gainsborough in the morning." He handed Mason

a thick letter. Two others lay on the table. After a moment's apparent

hesitation Harry put them in his pocket. "I'll post them myself," he

said. "When did Miss Gainsborough go to her room?"

"About an hour back, my lord."

"Did she stay in the Long Gallery till then?"

"Yes, my lord."

"I may be away a little while, Mason. I hope Miss Gainsborough--and Mr

Gainsborough too--will be staying on some time. Make them comfortable."

Not a sign of curiosity or surprise escaped Mason. His "Yes, my lord,"

was just the same as though Harry had ordered an egg for breakfast.

Sudden comings and goings had always been the fashion of the house.

"All right. Good-night, Mason."

"Good-night, my lord." Mason looked round for something to carry

off--the force of habit--found nothing, and retired noiselessly.

"One o'clock!" sighed Harry. "Ah, I'm tired. I won't go to bed though, I

couldn't sleep."

He moved restlessly about the room. His flood of feeling had gone by;

for the time the power of thought too seemed to have deserted him. He

had told Cecily everything; he had told Janie enough; he had yielded to

an impulse to write a line to Mina Zabriska--because she had been so

mixed up in it all. The documents that were to have proved his claim

made a little heap of ashes in the grate.

All this had been two hours' hard work. But after all two hours is not

long to spend in getting rid of an old life and entering on a new. He

found himself rather surprised at the simplicity of the process. What

was there left to do? He had only to go to London and see his lawyer--an

interview easy enough for him, though startling no doubt to the lawyer.

Cecily would be put into possession of her own. There was nothing

sensational. He would travel a bit perhaps, or just stay in town. He had

money enough to live on quietly or to use in making more; for his

mother's savings were indubitably his, left to him by a will in which

he, the real Harry, was so expressly designated by his own full

name--even more than that--as "Henry Austen Fitzhubert Tristram,

otherwise Henry Austen Fitzhubert, my son by the late Captain Austen

Fitzhubert"--that no question of his right could arise. That money would

not go with the title. Only Blent and all the realty passed with that;

the money was not affected by the date of his birth; that must be

explained to Cecily by his lawyer or perhaps she would expect to get

it. For the moment there was nothing to do but to go to London--and then

perhaps travel a bit. He smiled for an instant; it certainly struck him

as rather an anti-climax. He threw himself on a sofa and, in spite of

his conviction that he could not sleep, dozed off almost directly.

It was three when he awoke; he went up to his room, had a bath, shaved,

and put on a tweed suit. Coming down to the study again, he opened the

shutters and looked out. It would be light soon, and he could go away.

He was fretfully impatient of staying. He drank some whiskey and

soda-water, and smoked a cigar as he walked up and down. Yes, there were

signs of dawn now; the darkness lifted over the hill on which Merrion

stood.

Merrion! Yes, Merrion. And the Major? Well, Duplay had not frightened

him, Duplay had not turned him out. He was going of his own will--of his

own act anyhow, for he could not feel so sure about the will. But for

the first time it struck him that his abdication might accrue to the

Major's benefit, that he had won for Duplay the prize which he was sure

the gallant officer could not have achieved for himself. "I'll be hanged

if I do that," he muttered. "Yes, I know what I'll do," he added,

smiling.

He got his hat and stick and went out into the garden. The windows of

the Long Gallery were all dark. Harry smiled again and shook his fist at

them. There was no light in Cecily's window. He was glad to think that

the girl slept; if he were tired she must be terribly tired too. He was

quite alone--alone with the old place for the last time. He walked to

where he had sat with Cecily, where his mother used to sit. He was easy

in his mind about his mother. When she had wanted him to keep the house

and the name, she had no idea of the true state of the case. And in

fact she herself had done it all by requesting him to invite the

Gainsboroughs to her funeral. That was proof enough that he had not

wronged her; in the mood he was in it seemed quite proof enough.

Realities were still a little dim to him, and fancies rather real. His

outward calmness of manner had returned, but his mind was not in a

normal state. Still he was awake enough to the every-day world and to

his ordinary feelings to remain very eager that his sacrifice should not

turn to the Major's good.

He started at a brisk walk to the little bridge, reached the middle of

it, and stopped short. The talk he had had with Mina Zabriska at this

very spot came back into his mind. "The blood, not the law!" he had

said. Well, it was to the blood he had bowed and not to the law. He was

strong about not having been frightened by the law. Nor had he been

dispossessed, he insisted on that too. He had given; he had chosen to

give. He made a movement as though to walk on, but for a moment he could

not. When it came to going, for an instant he could not go. The parting

was difficult. He had no discontent with what he had done; on the whole

it seemed far easier than he could ever have imagined. But it was hard

to go, to leave Blent just as the slowly growing day brought into sight

every outline that he knew so well, and began to warm the gardens into

life. "I should rather like to stay a day," was his thought, as he

lingered still. But the next moment he was across the bridge, slamming

the gate behind him and beginning to mount the road up the valley. He

had heard a shutter thrown open and a window raised; the sound came from

the wing where Cecily slept. He did not want to see her now; he did not

wish her to see him. She was to awake to undivided possession, free from

any reminder of him. That was his fancy, his idea of making his gift to

her of what was hers more splendid and more complete. But she did see

him; she watched him from her window as he walked away up the valley. He

did not know; true to his fancy, he never turned his head.

Bob Broadley was an early riser, as his business in life demanded. At

six o'clock he was breakfasting in a bright little room opening on his

garden. He was in the middle of his rasher when a shadow fell across his

plate. Looking up, he started to see Harry Tristram at the doorway.

"Lord Tristram!" he exclaimed.

"You've called me Tristram all your life. I should think you might

still," observed Harry.

"Oh, all right. But what brings you here? These aren't generally your

hours, are they?"

"Perhaps not. May I have some breakfast?"

The maid was summoned and brought him what he asked. She nearly dropped

the cup and saucer when she realized that the Great Man was there--at

six in the morning!

"I'm on my way to London," said Harry. "Going to take the train at

Fillingford instead of Blentmouth, because I wanted to drop in on you.

I've something to say."

"I expect I've heard. It's very kind of you to come, but I saw Janie

Iver in Blentmouth yesterday."

"I dare say; but she didn't tell you what I'm going to."

Harry, having made but a pretence of breakfasting, pushed away his

plate. "I'll smoke if you don't mind. You go on eating," he said. "Do

you remember a little talk we had about our friend Duplay? We agreed

that we should both like to put a spoke in his wheel."

"And you've done it," said Bob, reaching for his pipe from the

mantel-piece.

"I did do it. I can't do it any more. You know there were certain

reasons which made a marriage between Janie Iver and me seem desirable?

I'm saying nothing against her, and I don't intend to say a word against

myself. Well, those reasons no longer exist. I have written to her to

say so. She'll get that letter this afternoon."

"You've written to break off the engagement?" Bob spoke slowly and

thoughtfully, but with no great surprise.

"Yes. She accepted me under a serious misapprehension. When I asked her

I was in a position to which I had no----" He interrupted himself,

frowning a little. Not even now was he ready to say that. "In a position

which I no longer occupy," he amended, recovering his placidity. "All

the world will know that very soon. I am no longer owner of Blent."

"What?" cried Bob, jumping up and looking hard at Harry. The surprise

came now.

"And I am no longer what you called me just now--Lord Tristram. You know

the law about succeeding to peerages and entailed lands? Very well. My

birth has been discovered [he smiled for an instant] not to satisfy that

law--the merits of which, Bob, we won't discuss. Consequently not I, but

Miss Gainsborough succeeds my mother in the title and the property. I

have informed Miss Gainsborough--I ought to say Lady Tristram--of these

facts, and I'm on my way to London to see the lawyers and get everything

done in proper order."

"Good God, do you mean what you say?"

"Oh, of course I do. Do you take me for an idiot, to come up here at six

in the morning to talk balderdash?" Harry was obviously irritated.

"Everybody will know soon. I came to tell you because I fancy you've

some concern in it, and, as I say, I still want that spoke put in the

Major's wheel."

Bob sat down and was silent for many moments, smoking hard.

"But Janie won't do that," he broke out at last. "She's too straight,

too loyal. If she's accepted you----"

"A beautiful idea, Bob, if she was in love with me. But she isn't. Can

you tell me you think she is?"

Bob grunted inarticulately--an obvious, though not a skilful, evasion of

the question.

"And anyhow," Harry pursued, "the thing's at an end. I shan't marry her.

Now if that suggests any action on your part I--well, I shall be glad I

came to breakfast." He got up and went to the window, looking out on the

neat little garden and to the paddock beyond.

In a moment Bob Broadley's hand was laid on his shoulder. He turned and

faced him.

"What a thing for you! You--you lose it all?"

"I have given it all up."

"I can't realize it, you know. The change----"

"Perhaps I can't either. I don't know that I want to, Bob."

"Who made the discovery? How did it come out? Nobody ever had any

suspicion of it!"

Harry looked at him long and thoughtfully, but in the end he only shook

his head, saying, "Well, it's true anyhow."

"It beats me. I see what you mean about myself and--Still I give you my

word I hate its happening. Who's this girl? Why is she to come here? Who

knows anything about her?"

"You don't, of course," Harry conceded with a smile. "No more did I a

week ago."

"Couldn't you have made a fight for it?"

"Yes, a deuced good fight. But I chose to let it go. Now don't go on

looking as if you didn't understand the thing. It's simple enough."

"But Lady Tristram--your mother--must have known----"

"The question didn't arise as long as my mother lived," said Harry

quickly. "Her title was all right, of course."

There was another question on the tip of Bob's tongue, but after a

glance at Harry's face he did not put it; he could not ask Harry if he

had known.

"I'm hanged!" he muttered.

"Yes, but you understand why I came here?"

"Yes. That was kind."

"Oh, no. I want to spike the Major's guns, you know." He laughed a

little. "And--well, yes, I think I'm promoting the general happiness

too, if you must know. Now I'm off, Bob."

He held out his hand and Bob grasped it. "We'll meet again some day,

when things have settled down. Beat Duplay for me, Bob. Good-by."

"That's grit, real grit," muttered Bob, as he returned to the house

after seeing Harry Tristram on his way.

It was that--or else the intoxication of some influence whose power had

not passed away. Whatever it was, it had a marked effect on Bob

Broadley. There was an appearance of strength and resolution about

it--as of a man knowing what he meant to do and doing it. As he

inspected his pigs an hour later, Bob came to the conclusion that he

himself was a poor sort of fellow. People who waited for the fruit to

fall into their mouths were apt to find that a hand intervened and

plucked it. That had happened to him once, and probably he could not

have helped it; but he meant to try to prevent its happening again. He

was in a ferment all the morning, partly on his own account, as much

about the revolution which had suddenly occurred in the little kingdom

on the banks of the Blent.

In the afternoon he had his gig brought round and set out for

Blentmouth. As he passed Blent Hall, he saw a girl on the bridge--a girl

in black looking down at the water. Lady Tristram? It was strange to

call her by the title that had been another's. But he supposed it must

be Lady Tristram. She did not look up as he passed; he retained a vision

of the slack dreariness of her pose. Going on, he met the Iver carriage;

Iver and Neeld sat in it, side by side; they waved their hands in

careless greeting and went on talking earnestly. On the outskirts of the

town he came on Miss Swinkerton and Mrs Trumbler walking together. As he

raised his hat, a dim and wholly inadequate idea occurred to him of the

excitement into which these good ladies would soon be thrown, a

foreshadowing of the wonder, the consternation, the questionings, the

bubbling emotions which were soon to stir the quiet backwaters of the

villas of Blentmouth. For himself, what was he going to do? He could not

tell. He put up his gig at the inn and sauntered out into the street;

still he could not tell. But he wandered out to Fairholme, up to the

gate, and past it, and back to it, and past it again.

Now would Harry Tristram do that? No; either he would never have come or

he would have been inside before this. Bob's new love of boldness did

not let him consider whether this was the happiest moment for its

display. Those learned in the lore of such matters would probably have

advised him to let her alone for a few days, or weeks, or months,

according to the subtilty of their knowledge or their views. Bob rang

the bell.

Janie was not denied to him, but only because no chance was given to her

of denying herself. A footman, unconscious of convulsions external or

internal, showed him into the morning-room. But Janie's own attitude was

plain enough in her reception of him.

"Oh, Bob, why in the world do you come here to-day? Indeed I can't talk

to you to-day." Her dismay was evident. "If there's nothing very

particular----"

"Well, you know there is," Bob interrupted.

She turned her head quickly toward him. "I know there is? What do you

mean?"

"You've got Harry Tristram's letter, I suppose?"

"What do you know of Harry Tristram's letter?"

"I haven't seen it, but I know what's in it all the same."

"How do you know?"

"He came up to Mingham to-day and told me." Bob sat down by her,

uninvited; certainly the belief in boldness was carrying him far. But he

did not quite anticipate the next development. She sprang up, sprang

away from his neighborhood, crying,

"Then how dare you come here to-day? Yes, I've got the letter--just an

hour ago. Have you come to--to triumph over me?"

"What an extraordinary idea!" remarked Bob in the slow tones of a

genuine astonishment.

"You'd call it to condole, I suppose! That's rather worse."

Bob confined himself to a long look at her. It brought him no

enlightenment.

"You must see that you're the very----" She broke off abruptly, and,

turning away, began to walk up and down.

"The very what?" asked Bob.

She turned and looked at him; she broke into a peevishly nervous laugh.

Anybody but Bob--really anybody but Bob--would have known! The laugh

encouraged him a little, which again it had no right to do.

"I thought you'd be in trouble, and like a bit of cheering up," he said

with a diplomatic air that was ludicrously obvious.

She considered a moment, taking another turn about the room to do it.

"What did Harry Tristram say to you?"

"Oh, he told me the whole thing. That--that he's chucked it up, you

know."

"I mean about me."

"He didn't say much about you. Just that it was all ended, you know."

"Did he think I should accept his withdrawal?"

"Yes, he seemed quite sure of it," answered Bob. "I had my doubts, but

he seemed quite sure of it." Apparently Bob considered his statement

reassuring and comforting.

"You had your doubts?"

"Yes. I thought perhaps----"

"You were wrong then, and Harry Tristram was right." She flung the words

at him in a fierce hostility. "Now he's not Lord Tristram any longer, I

don't want to marry him." She paused. "You believe he isn't, don't you?

There's no doubt?"

"I believe him all right. He's a fellow you can rely on."

"But it's all so strange. Why has he done it? Well, that doesn't matter.

At any rate he's right about me."

Bob sat stolidly in his chair. He did not know at all what to say, but

he did not mean to go. He had put no spoke in the Major's wheel yet,

and to do that was his contract with Harry Tristram, as well as his own

strong desire.

"Have you sympathized--or condoled--or triumphed--enough?" she asked;

she was fierce still.

"I don't know that I've had a chance of saying anything much," he

observed with some justice.

"I really don't see what you can have to say. What is there to say?"

"Well, there's just this to say--that I'm jolly glad of it."

She was startled by his blunt sincerity, so startled that she passed the

obvious chance of accusing him of cruelty toward Harry Tristram, and

thought only of how his words touched herself.

"Glad of it! Oh, if you knew how it makes me feel about myself! But you

don't, or you'd never be here now."

"Why shouldn't I be here now?" He spoke slowly, as though he were

himself searching for any sound reason.

"Oh, it's----" The power of explanation failed her. People who will not

see obvious things sometimes hold a very strong position. Janie began to

feel rather helpless. "Do go. I don't want anybody to come and find you

here." She had turned from command to entreaty.

"I'm jolly glad," he resumed, settling himself back in his chair, "that

the business between you and Harry Tristram's all over. It ought never

to have gone so far, you know."

"Are you out of your mind to-day, Bob?"

"And now, what about the Major, Miss Janie?"

She flushed red in indignation, perhaps in guilt too. "How dare you?

You've no business to----"

"I don't know the right way to say things, I dare say," he admitted,

but with an abominable tranquillity. "Still I expect you know what I

mean all the same."

"Do you accuse me of having encouraged Major Duplay?"

"I should say you'd been pretty pleasant to him. But it's not my

business to worry myself about Duplay."

"I wish you always understood as well what isn't your business."

"And it isn't what you have done but what you're going to do that I'm

interested in." He paused several moments and then went on very slowly,

"I tell you what it is. I'm not very proud of myself. So if you happen

to be feeling the same, why that's all right, Miss Janie. The fact is, I

let Harry Tristram put me in a funk, you know. He was a swell, and he's

got a sort of way about him too. But I'm hanged if I'm going to be in a

funk of Duplay." He seemed to ask her approval of the proposed firmness

of his attitude. "I've been a bit of an ass about it all, I think," he

concluded with an air of thoughtful inquiry.

The opening was irresistible. Janie seized it with impetuous

carelessness. "Yes, you have, you have indeed. Only I don't see why you

think it's over, I'm sure."

"Well, I'm glad you agree with me," said he. But he seemed now rather

uncertain how he ought to go on. "That's what I wanted to say," he

added, and looked at her as if he thought she might give him a lead.

The whole thing was preposterous; Janie was bewildered. He had outraged

all decency in coming at such a moment and in talking like this. Then

having got (by such utter disregard of all decency) to a point at which

he could not possibly stop, he stopped! He even appeared to ask her to

go on for him! She stood still in the middle of the room, looking at him

as he sat squarely in his chair.

"Since you've said what you wanted to say, I should think you might go."

"Yes, I suppose I might, but----" He was puzzled. He had said what he

wanted to say, or thought he had, but it had failed to produce the

situation he had anticipated from it. If he went now, leaving matters

just as they stood, could he be confident that the spoke was in the

wheel? Up to now nothing was really agreed upon except that he himself

had been an ass. No doubt this was a pregnant conclusion, but Bob was

not quite clear exactly how much it involved; while it encouraged him,

it left him still doubtful. "But don't you think you might tell me what

you think about it?" he asked in the end.

"I think I'm not fit to live," cried Janie. "That's what I think about

it, Bob." Her voice trembled; she was afraid she might cry soon if

something did not happen to relieve the strain of this interview. "And

you saw what Harry thought by his sending me that letter. The very

moment it happened, he sent me that letter!"

"I saw what he thought pretty well, anyhow," said Bob, smiling

reflectively again.

"Oh, yes, if that makes it any better for me!"

"Well, if he's not miserable, I don't see why you need be."

"The things you don't see would fill an encyclopædia!"

Bob looked at his watch; the action seemed in the nature of an

ultimatum; his glance from the watch to Janie heightened the impression.

"You've nothing more to say?" he asked her.

"No. I agreed with what you said--that you'd been--an ass. I don't know

that you've said anything else."

"All right." He got up and came to her, holding out his hand. "Good-by

for the present, then."

She took his hand--and she held it. She could not let it go. Bob allowed

it to lie in hers.

"Oh, dear old Bob, I'm so miserable; I hate myself for having done it,

and I hate myself worse for being so glad it's undone. It did seem best

till I did it. No, I suppose I really wanted the title and--and all

that. I do hate myself! And now--the very same day--I let you----"

"You haven't let me do much," he suggested consolingly.

"Yes, I have. At least----" She came a little nearer to him. He took

hold of her other hand. He drew her to him and held her in his arms.

"That's all right," he remarked, still in tones of consolation.

"If anybody knew this! You won't say a word, will you, Bob? Not for ever

so long? You will pretend it was ever so long before I--I mean,

between----?"

"I'll tell any lie," said Bob very cheerfully.

She laughed hysterically. "Because I should never be able to look people

in the face if anybody knew that on the very same day----"

"I should think a--a week would be about right?"

"A week! No, no. Six months."

"Oh, six months be----"

"Well then, three? Do agree to three."

"We'll think about three. Still miserable, Janie?"

"Yes, still--rather. Now you must go. Fancy if anybody came!"

"All right, I'll go. But, I say, you might just drop a hint to the

Major."

"I can't send him another message that I'm--that I've done it again!"

She drew a little away from him. Bob's hearty laugh rang out; his latent

sense of humor was touched at the idea of this second communication to

the Major. For a moment Janie looked angry, for a moment deeply hurt.

Bob laughed still. There was nothing for it but to join in. Her own

laugh rang out gayly as he caught her in his arms again and kissed her.

"Oh, if anybody knew!" sighed Janie.

But Bob was full of triumph. The task was done, the spoke was in the

wheel. There was an end of the Major as well as of Harry--and an end to

his own long and not very hopeful waiting. He kissed his love again.

There was a sudden end to the scene too--startling and sudden. The door

of the room opened abruptly, and in the doorway stood Mrs Iver. Little

need to dilate on the situation as it appeared to Mrs Iver! Had she

known the truth, the thing was bad enough. But she knew nothing of Harry

Tristram's letter. After a moment of consternation Janie ran to her,

crying,

"I'm not engaged any more to Harry Tristram, mother!"

Mrs Iver said nothing. She stood by the open door. There was no

mistaking her meaning. With a shame-faced bow, struggling with an

unruly smile, Bob Broadley got through it somehow. Janie was left alone

with Mrs Iver.

Such occurrences as these are very deplorable. Almost of necessity they

impair a daughter's proper position of superiority and put her in a

relation toward her mother which no self-respecting young woman would

desire to occupy. It might be weeks before Janie Iver could really

assert her dignity again. It was strong proof of her affection for Bob

Broadley that, considering the matter in her own room (she had not been

exactly sent there, but a retreat had seemed advisable) she came to the

conclusion that, taking good and bad together, she was on the whole glad

that he had called.

But to Bob, with the selfishness of man, Mrs Iver's sudden appearance

wore rather an amusing aspect. It certainly could not spoil his triumph

or impair his happiness.

XV

AN INQUISITION INTERRUPTED

"My mother told it me just as a bit of gossip. She didn't believe it, no

more did I."

"But you repeated it."

It was Iver who was pressing her. He was not now the kind host Mina knew

so well. He was rather the keen man of business, impatient of shuffling,

incredulous of any action for which he could not see the motive,

distrustful and very shrewd.

"Oh, I repeated it to my uncle, because I thought it might amuse

him--just for something to say."

"Your idea of small talk is rather peculiar," was Iver's dry comment. He

looked at the Major on his right, and at Neeld on his left at the table;

Mina was opposite, like the witness before the committee.

"So is yours of politeness," she cried. "It's my house. Why do you come

and bully me in it?"

Duplay was sullenly furious. Poor Mr Neeld's state was lamentable. He

had not spoken a word throughout the interview. He had taken refuge in

nodding, exhausting the significance of nods in reply to the various

appeals that the other three addressed to him. If their meaning had been

developed, his nods must have landed him in a pitiable mess of

inconsistencies; he had tried to agree with everybody, to sympathize all

round, to indorse universally. He had won momentary applause, and in the

end created general dissatisfaction.

Iver had his temper in hand still, but he was hard and resolute.

"You don't seem to understand the seriousness of the thing in the

least," he said. "I've spoken plainly to you. My daughter's future is at

stake. You say it was all idle gossip. I find that hard to believe. Even

if so, I must have that gossip investigated and proved to be nothing but

gossip."

"Investigate it then," said the Imp peevishly.

"You refuse me the materials. What you told Major Duplay was too vague.

You know more. You can put me on the track."

Mina was silent. Neeld wiped his brow with his handkerchief. Iver

changed his tone.

"Mina, we've been friends to you. I'm not ashamed to remind you of it.

Janie's a great friend of yours; my wife and I have welcomed you first

for her sake, then for your own. Is this the best return you can make

us? Consult anybody you like, if you think I'm prejudiced, whether your

conduct is honorable, is square." He paused a moment. "Ask Mr Neeld here

what he would do. I'm willing to abide by his judgment."

Mina was sorely tempted to say, "Ask him then." The situation would thus

become so much the more piquant. But Mr Neeld was in such distress--to

her sharp eyes a distress so visible--that she did not dare to risk the

_coup_. If he were let alone he might keep silence and quiet his

conscience by the plea that he had been asked no questions. But she did

not venture to face him with a demand for a verdict on her conduct; for

her conduct was also his own.

"I must judge for myself. Mr Neeld can't help me," she answered. "Uncle

has chosen to say he can prove these things. Let him try." She drew

herself up with a prim prudish air. "I don't think it's desirable to mix

myself up in such very peculiar questions at all, and I don't think it's

nice of men to come and cross-question me about them."

"Oh, we're not in a girls' school," said Iver, with a touch of

irritation hardly suppressed. "We come as men of the world to a sensible

woman."

"Anybody will tell you I'm not that," interrupted the Imp.

"Well, then, to a woman of good feeling, who wishes to be honest and to

be true to her friends. Duplay, have you no influence with Madame

Zabriska?"

"I've spared no effort," replied the Major. "I can't believe that she

won't help us in the end." His tone was almost menacing. Mina,

remembering how he had terrorized the secret out of her before, and

resenting the humiliation of the memory, stiffened her neck once more.

"I've nothing to say. You must do as you think best," she said.

"You must be made to speak."

Iver's threats alarmed where Duplay's only annoyed. He spoke calmly and

with weight.

"Who can make me speak?" she cried, more angry from her fear.

"The law. When we have reached a certain stage in the inquiry, we shall

be able to compel you to speak."

"I thought you couldn't move a step without me?"

Iver was rather set back, but he braved it out.

"The difficulties are immensely increased, but they're not insuperable,"

he said.

"I shan't stay to be questioned and bullied. I shall go abroad."

Iver looked at the Major; the Major returned his glance; they were both

resolute men.

"No, you won't go away," declared Iver slowly.

The Imp was frightened; she was an ignorant young woman in a land of

whose laws she knew nothing. Neeld would have liked to suggest

something soothing about the liberty of the individual and the Habeas

Corpus Act. But he dared show no sympathy--beyond nodding at her

unobserved. The nod told her nothing.

"You'll stop me?" Still she tried to sneer defiantly.

Another glance passed between Iver and Duplay. A shrewd observer might

have interpreted it as meaning, "Even if we can't do it, she'll think we

can."

"We shall," said the Major, executing the bluff on behalf of himself and

his partner.

The Imp thought of crying--not for her uncle--which would be

hopeless--but for Iver. She concluded it would be hopeless there too;

Iver would not heed tears in business hours, however tender-hearted he

might be in private life. So she laughed again instead. But the laugh

was a failure, and Iver was sharp enough to see it.

"In this country people aren't allowed to play fast and loose in this

fashion," he remarked. "I'll tell you one way in which we can make you

speak. I have only to go to Lord Tristram and tell him you have spread

these reports, that you have made and repeated these imputations on his

birth and on his title. What will he do? Can he rest content without

disproving them at law? I say he can't. In those proceedings you would

be compelled to speak. I must assume you would tell the truth. I refuse

to suppose you would commit perjury."

"I should hold my tongue," said Mina.

"Then you'd be sent to prison for contempt of court."

The bluff worked well. Mina knew nothing at all of what Harry Tristram

would do, or might do, or must do, of what the law would, or might, or

might not do, in the circumstances supposed. And Iver spoke as though

he knew everything, with a weighty confidence, with an admirable air of

considered candor. She was no match for him; she grew rather pale, her

lips twitched, and her breath came quick. Tears were no longer to be

treated merely as a possible policy; they threatened to occur of their

own accord.

What wonder that a feeling of intolerable meanness attacked Mr Jenkinson

Neeld? He was on the wrong side of the table, on the bench instead of in

the dock. He sat there judging; his proper place was side by side with

the criminal, in charge of the same policeman, wearing the handcuffs

too. And he had less excuse for his crime than she. He was even more in

Iver's debt; he had eaten his bread these weeks past; even now he was

pretending to be his adviser and his witness; his deception was deeper

than hers. Besides he was not a young woman who might find excuse in the

glamour of Harry's position or the attraction of Harry's eyes; he was

not a romantic young woman; he was only a romantic old fool. He could

bear it no longer. He must speak. He could not get into the dock beside

her--for that would throw away the case which she was defending so

gallantly--but he must speak a word for her.

"In my opinion," he said nervously, but not without his usual precision,

"we can carry this matter no further. Madame Zabriska declines to speak.

I may say that I understand and respect the motive which I believe

inspires her. She regrets her idle words. She thinks that by repeating

them she would give them greater importance. She does not wish to assume

responsibility. She leaves the matter in your hands, Iver. It is not her

affair; she had no reason to suppose that it would be yours. By a train

of events for which she is not accountable the question has become of

importance to you. In her view it is for you to take your own steps. She

stands aside."

"She's my friend, she's my daughter's friend. The question is whether my

daughter marries Lord Tristram of Blent or an impostor (whether

voluntary or involuntary) without a name, an acre, or, so far as I know,

a shilling. She can help me. She stands aside. You think her right,

Neeld?"

"Yes, I do," said the old gentleman with the promptness of desperation.

"Then your idea of friendship differs diametrically from mine. I desire

no such friends as that."

It is to be hoped that the sting of Iver's remark was somewhat mitigated

by Mina's covertly telegraphed gratitude. Yet Neeld was no happier after

his effort than before it. A silence fell on them all. Mina glanced from

her uncle's face to Iver's. Both men were stern and gloomy. Her sense of

heroism barely supported her; things were so very uncomfortable. If

Harry could know what she suffered for him, it would be something. But

Mina had an idea that Harry was thinking very little about her.

Moreover, in taking sides in a controversy, perhaps the most important

practical question is--whom has one got to live with? She had to live

not with Harry Tristram, but with that glowering uncle, Major Duplay.

Agree with your enemy whiles you are in the house with him, even more

than whiles you are in the way.

At this point--the deadlock demanded by the canons of art having been

reached by the force of circumstances and the clash of wills--enter the

_Deus ex Machina_, in the shape of a pretty parlormaid in a black gown

and white apron, with a bow of pink ribbon at her neck; instead of the

car, a silver salver, and on it a single letter.

"For you, ma'am," said the _Deus_, and with a glance at Neeld (merely

because he was a man and a stranger) she ended her brief but momentous

appearance on the stage.

The Imp was in no mood for ceremony; one glance at the handwriting, and

she tore the envelope open eagerly. Iver was whispering to Duplay.

Neeld's eyes were on the ceiling, because he did not know where else he

could direct them with any sense of safety.

Mina read. A gasp of breath from her brought Neeld's eyes down from

their refuge and stayed Iver and the Major's whispered talk. She gazed

from one to the other of them. She had flushed red; her face was very

agitated and showed a great stress of feeling. Duplay with an

exclamation of surprise put out his hand for the letter. But Mina kept

hers on it, pinning it immovably to the table. For another minute she

sat there, facing the three. Then all composure failed her; she burst

into tears, and bowing her head to meet her arms on the table, covering

the letter with her hair, she sobbed violently.

The fort she had been defending was betrayed from within. For some

reason unknown, unguessable, the champion she fought for had fled from

the fight. And the few words of his message--aye, and that he should

send a message to her--pierced her to the heart. Strained already by her

battle, she was broken down by this sudden end to it, this sudden and

disastrous end.

"I can't help it, I can't help it," the men heard her say between her

sobs.

Her apology did nothing to relieve their extreme discomfort. All three

felt brutal; even the Major's face lost its gloomy fierceness and

relaxed into an embarrassed solicitude. "Ought we to call the maid?" he

whispered. "Poor child!" murmured Neeld.

The sobs dominated these timid utterances. Was it they who had brought

her to this state, or was it the letter? Iver stirred uneasily in his

chair, his business manner and uncharitable shrewdness suddenly seeming

out of place. "Give her time," he said gently. "Give her time, poor

girl."

Mina raised her head; tears ran down her cheeks; she was woe

personified.

"Time's no use," she groaned. "It's all over now."

Neeld caught at the state of affairs by an intuition to which his

previous knowledge helped him. Duplay had been baffled by Harry's

diplomacy and expected no action from his side. To Neeld such a

development seemed possible, and it was the only thing which to his mind

could throw light on Mina's behavior.

"Won't you show us the letter?" he asked gently.

"Oh, yes. And I'll tell you anything you like now. It doesn't matter

now." She looked at Neeld; she was loyal to the end. "I was the only

person who knew it," she said to Iver.

That was too much. Timid he might be, even to the point of cowardice;

but now, when the result of confession would be no harm to anybody but

himself, Neeld felt he must speak if he were to have any chance of going

on thinking himself a gentleman--and it is an unpleasant thing for a man

to realize that he has none.

"I must correct Madame Zabriska," he said. "I knew it too."

"What?" cried Duplay. Iver turned quick scrutinizing eyes on his friend.

"You knew too? You knew what?" he demanded.

"The facts we have been endeavoring to obtain from Madame Zabriska."

"The facts about----"

"Oh, it's all in the letter," cried Mina in a quick burst of impatience.

"There it is."

She flung it across to Iver and rested her chin on her hands, while her

eyes followed his expression as he read. Duplay was all excitement, but

old Mr Neeld had sunk back in his chair with a look of fretful

weariness. Iver was deliberate; his glasses needed some fitting on; the

sheet of paper required some smoothing after its contact with Mina's

disordered and disordering hair. Besides, he was really as excited as

Duplay and almost as agitated as Mina herself. But these emotions are

not appropriate to business men. So he was very calm and deliberate in

his demeanor; he might have been going to deliver a whole speech from

the way he cleared his throat.

"I have thrown up the sponge and fled. Please make friends with Lady

Tristram of Blent.--H. T."

It was enough. What need of further witness? And if there had been, the

principal criminal had confessed and the lips of his accomplices were

unsealed.

For a while nobody spoke. Then Neeld, leaning forward to the table

again, began to explain and excuse his silence, to speak of the hard

case he was in, of the accidental and confidential character of his

knowledge. Neither Mina nor her uncle even appeared to heed him. Iver

seemed to listen patiently and courteously, but his mind too was

distracted, and he did not cease fidgeting with Harry Tristram's letter

and referring ever and again to its brief sufficient message.

"I dare say I was wrong. The position was very difficult," pleaded

Neeld.

"Yes, yes," said Iver in an absent tone. "Difficult no doubt, Neeld;

both for you and Mina. And now he has--he has given up the game himself!

Or was his hand forced?"

"No," flashed out Mina, restored in a moment to animation, her fighting

instincts awake again. "He'd never have been forced. He must have done

it of his own accord."

"But why?" Again he returned to the letter. "And why does he write to

you?"

"Because he knew I knew about it. He didn't know that Mr Neeld did."

"And this--this Lady Tristram of Blent?" Iver's voice was hesitating and

conscious as he pronounced the name that was to have become his

daughter's.

Again the pink-ribboned _Deus_ made entry on the scene, to give the

speaker a more striking answer.

"A lady to see you, ma'am. Miss Gainsborough."

The three men sprang to their feet; with a sudden wrench Mina turned her

chair round toward the door. A tall slim girl in black came in with a

quick yet hesitating step.

"Forgive me, Madame Zabriska. But I had to come. Harry said you were his

friend. Do you know anything about him? Do you know where he is?" She

looked at the men and blushed as she returned their bow with a hurried

recognition.

"No, I haven't seen him. I know nothing," said Mina.

"The letter, Mina," Duplay reminded her, and Mina held it out to Cecily.

Cecily came forward, took and read it. She looked again at the group,

evidently puzzled.

"He doesn't say where he's gone," she said.

"You are----?" Iver began.

"I'm Cecily Gainsborough. But I think he means me when he says Lady

Tristram of Blent."

"Yes, he must mean you, Miss Gainsborough."

"Yes, because last night he told me--it was so strange, but he wouldn't

have done it unless it was true--he told me that he wasn't Lord Tristram

really, and that I----" Her eyes travelled quickly over their faces,

and she re-read the letter. "Do you know anything about it?" she

demanded imperiously. "Tell me, do you know what he means by this letter

and whether what he says is true?"

"We know what he means," answered Iver gravely, "and we know that it's

true."

"Have you known it long?" she asked.

Iver glanced at Duplay and Neeld. It was Neeld who answered gently:

"Some of us have been sure of it for some time. But----" He looked at

Mina before he went on. "But we didn't intend to speak."

Cecily stood there, seeming to consider and for a moment meeting Mina's

intense gaze which had never left her face.

"Had he known for long?" was her next question.

It met with no immediate answer. Duplay rose abruptly and walked to the

mantelpiece; he leant his arm on it and turned half away from the group

at the table.

"Had he known for long?" Cecily repeated.

"Ever so long," answered Mina Zabriska in a low voice, but very

confidently.

"Ah, he was waiting till Lady Tristram died?"

Iver nodded; he thought what she suggested a very good explanation to

accept. It was plausible and sensible; it equipped Harry Tristram with a

decent excuse for his past silence, and a sound reason for the moment of

his disclosure. He looked at Neeld and found ready acquiescence in the

old gentleman's approving nod. But Mina broke out impatiently--

"No, no, that had nothing to do with it. He never meant to speak. Blent

was all the world to him. He never meant to speak." A quick remembrance

flashed across her. "Were you with him in the Long Gallery last night?"

she cried. "With him there for hours?"

"Yes, we were there."

"Yes, I saw you from the terrace here. Did he tell you there?"

"He told me there." There was embarrassment as well as wonder in her

manner now.

"Well then, you must know why he told you. We don't know." Mina was very

peevish.

"Is it any use asking----?" Iver began. An unceremoniously impatient and

peremptory wave of Mina's arm reduced him to silence. Her curiosity left

no room for his prudent counsels of reticence.

"What were you doing in the Gallery?" demanded Mina.

"I was looking at all the things there and--and admiring them. He came

up presently and--I don't remember that he said very much. He watched

me; then he asked me if I loved the things. And--well, then he told me.

He told me and went straight out of the room. I waited a long while, but

he didn't come back, and I haven't spoken to him since." She looked at

each of them in turn as though someone might be able to help her with

the puzzle.

"Somehow you made him do it--you," said Mina Zabriska.

Slowly Cecily's eyes settled on Mina's face; thus she stood silent for a

full minute.

"Yes, I think so. I think I must have somehow." Her voice rose as she

asked with a sudden access of agitation, "But what are we to do now?"

Mina had no thought for that; it was the thing itself that engrossed

her, not the consequences.

"There will, of course, be a good many formalities," said Iver. "Subject

to those, I imagine that the--er--question settles itself."

His phrase seemed to give Cecily no enlightenment.

"Settles itself?" she repeated.

"Subject to formal proof, I mean, and in the absence of opposition from"

(he hesitated a second) "--from Mr Tristram, which can't be anticipated

now, you will be put into possession of the estates and the title." He

pointed to Harry's letter which was still in her hands. "You see what he

himself calls you there, Miss Gainsborough."

She made no answer. With another glance at Neeld, Iver pushed back his

chair and rose. Neeld followed his example. They felt that the interview

had better end. Duplay did not move, and Cecily stood where she was. She

seemed to ask what was to be done with her; her desolation was sad, but

it had something of the comic in it. She was so obviously lost.

"You might walk down to Blent with Miss Gainsborough, Mina," Iver

suggested.

"No," cried the Imp in a passion, leaping up from her chair. "I don't

want to have anything to do with her."

Cecily started and her cheeks flushed red as though she had been struck.

Iver looked vexed and ashamed.

"It's all her fault that Harry Tristram's--that Harry Tristram's----"

The Imp's voice was choked; she could get no further.

Old Mr Neeld came forward. He took Harry's letter from Cecily and gave

it to Mina.

"My dear, my dear!" he said gently, as he patted her hand. "Read that

again."

Mina read, and then scrutinized Cecily keenly.

"Well, I'll walk down with you," she said grudgingly. She came nearer to

Cecily. "I wonder what you did!" she exclaimed, scanning her face. "I

must find out what you did!"

Iver came forward. "I must introduce myself to you, Miss Gainsborough. I

live at Blentmouth, and my name is Iver."

"Iver!" She looked at him curiously. At once he felt that she had

knowledge of the relation between his daughter and Harry Tristram.

"Yes, and since we shall probably be neighbors----" He held out his

hand. She put hers into it, still with a bewildered air. Neeld contented

himself with a bow as he passed her, and Duplay escaped from the room

with a rapidity and stillness suggestive of a desire not to be observed.

When the men were gone Cecily sank into a chair and covered her face

with her hands for a minute. She looked up to find Mina regarding her,

still with mingled inquisitiveness and hostility.

"What were you all doing here when I came?" asked Cecily.

"They were trying to make me tell what I knew about Harry Tristram. But

I wouldn't tell."

"Wouldn't you?" Cecily's eyes sparkled in sudden approval, and she broke

into a smile. "I like you for that," she cried. "I wouldn't have told

either."

"But now!" The Imp pouted disconsolately. "Well, it's not your fault, I

suppose, and----" She walked up to Cecily and gave her a brief but

friendly kiss. "And you needn't be so upset as all that about it. We'll

just talk over what we'd better do."

There was not much prospect of their talk affecting either the laws of

England or the determination of Harry Tristram to any appreciable

extent. But the proposal seemed to comfort Cecily; and the Imp rang the

bell for tea. Coming back from this task, she gave Cecily a critical

glance.

"You'll look it anyhow," she concluded with a reluctant smile.

Meanwhile Iver and Neeld drove back to Blentmouth. Iver said nothing

about his friend's bygone treachery; oddly enough it was not in the

culprit's mind either.

"Now, Neeld, to break this news to Janie!" said Iver.

Neeld nodded once again.

But of course a situation quite other than they expected awaited them at

Fairholme.

XVI

THE NEW LIFE

"You haven't mentioned it to the young man himself?" asked Lady

Evenswood.

"Certainly not. I've only seen him once, and then he didn't talk of his

own affairs. He takes the thing very well. He's lost his position and

he's the hero of the newspapers, and he bears both afflictions quite

coolly. A lad of good balance, I think."

"Is he agreeable?"

"Hum, I'm not sure of that. No excess of modesty, I fancy."

"I suppose you mean he's not shy? All young men are conceited. I think I

should like you to bring him to see me."

For forty years such an intimation from Lady Evenswood had enjoyed the

rank of a command; Lord Southend received it with proper obedience.

"The solution I spoke of has occurred to some of us," he went on. "He's

poor now, but with that he could make a marriage. The case is very

exceptional----"

"So is what you propose, George."

"Oh, there are precedents. It was done in the Bearsdale case."

"There was a doubt there." Lady Evenswood knew all about the Bearsdale

case; though it was ancient history to Southend, she had danced with

both the parties to it.

"The House was against the marriage unanimously." But he did not deny

the doubt.

"Well, what are you going to do?" she asked.

"It would be necessary to approach Disney." Southend spoke with some

appearance of timidity. Mr Disney was Prime Minister. "And the truth is,

none of us seemed to like the job. So John Fullcombe suggested you."

"What brave men you are!" Her face wrinkled humorously.

"Well, he might bite us, and he couldn't bite you--not so hard anyhow."

"And you want me to ask for a higher rank! That wasn't done in the

Bearsdale case, nor in any other that I ever heard of."

"We shouldn't press that. A barony would do. But if Disney thought that

under the very exceptional circumstances a viscounty----"

"I don't see why you want it," she persisted. The slight embarrassment

in Southend's manner stirred the old lady's curiosity. "It's rather odd

to reward a man for his mother's----. There, I don't say a word about

Addie. I took her to her first ball, poor girl."

"Disney used to know her as a girl."

"If you're relying on Robert Disney's romantic memories----" But she

stopped, adding after a pause, "Well, one never knows. But again, why a

viscounty?"

Driven into a corner, but evidently rather ashamed of himself, Southend

explained.

"The viscounty would be more convenient if a match came about between

him and the girl."

"What, the new Lady Tristram? Well, George, romance has taken possession

of you to-day!"

"Not at all," he protested indignantly. "It's the obviously sensible way

out."

"Then they can do it without a viscounty."

"Oh, no, not without something. There's the past, you see."

"And a sponge is wanted? And the bigger the sponge the better? And I'm

to get my nose bitten off by asking Robert Disney for it? And if by a

miracle he said yes, for all I know somebody else might say no!"

This dark reference to the Highest Quarters caused Southend to nod

thoughtfully: they discussed the probable attitude--a theme too exalted

to be more than mentioned here. "Anyhow the first thing is to sound

Disney," continued Southend.

"I'll think about it after I've seen the young man," Lady Evenswood

promised. "Have you any reason to suppose he likes his cousin?"

"None at all--except, of course, the way he's cleared out for her."

"Yielding gracefully to necessity, I suppose?"

"Really, I doubt the necessity; and, anyhow, the gracefulness needs some

explanation in a case like this. Still I always fancied he was going to

marry another girl, a daughter of a friend of mine--Iver--you know who I

mean?"

"Oh, yes. Bring Harry Tristram to see me," said she. "Good-by, George.

You're looking very well."

"And you're looking very young."

"Oh, I finished getting old before you were forty."

A thought struck Southend. "You might suggest the viscounty as

contingent on the marriage."

"I shan't suggest anything till I've seen the boy--and I won't promise

to then."

Later in the afternoon Southend dropped in at the Imperium, where to his

surprise and pleasure he found Iver in the smoking-room. Asked how he

came to be in town, Iver explained:

"I really ran away from the cackling down at Blentmouth. All our old

ladies are talking fifteen to the dozen about Harry Tristram, and Lady

Tristram, and me, and my family, and--well, I dare say you're in it by

now, Southend! There's an old cat named Swinkerton, who is positively

beyond human endurance; she waylays me in the street. And Mrs Trumbler,

the vicar's wife, comes and talks about Providence to my poor wife every

day. So I fled."

"Leaving your wife behind, I suppose?"

"Oh, she doesn't mind Mrs Trumbler. But I do."

"Well, there's a good deal of cackling up here too. But tell me about

the new girl." Lord Southend did not appear to consider his own question

"cackling" or as tending to produce the same.

"I've only seen her once. She's in absolute seclusion and lets nobody in

except Mina Zabriska--a funny little foreign woman--You don't know her."

"I know about her, I saw it in the paper. She had something to do with

it?"

"Yes." Iver passed away from that side of the subject immediately. "And

she's struck up a friendship with Cecily Gainsborough--Lady Tristram, I

ought to say. I had a few words with the father. The poor old chap

doesn't know whether he's on his head or his heels; but as they're of

about equal value, I should imagine, for thinking purposes, it doesn't

much matter. Ah, here's Neeld. He came up with me."

The advent of Neeld produced more discussion. Yet Southend said nothing

of the matter which he had brought to Lady Evenswood's attention.

Discretion was necessary there. Besides he wished to know how the land

lay as to Janie Iver. On that subject his friend preserved silence.

"And the whole thing was actually in old Joe's diary!" exclaimed

Southend.

Neeld, always annoyed at the "Joe," admitted that the main facts had

been recorded in Mr Cholderton's Journal, and that he himself had known

them when nobody else in England did--save, of course, the conspirators

themselves.

"And you kept it dark? I didn't know you were as deep as that, Neeld."

He looked at the old gentleman with great amazement.

"Neeld was in an exceedingly difficult position," said Iver. "I've come

to see that." He paused, looking at Southend with an amused air. "You

introduced us to one another," he reminded him with a smile.

"Bless my soul, so I did! I'd forgotten. Well, it seems my fate too to

be mixed up in the affair." Just at present, however, he was assisting

fate rather actively.

"It's everybody's. The Blent's on fire from Mingham to the sea."

"I've seen Harry Tristram."

"Ah, how is he?" asked Neeld.

"Never saw a young man more composed in all my life. And he couldn't be

better satisfied with himself if he'd turned out to be a duke."

"We know Harry's airs," Iver said, smiling indulgently. "But there's

stuff in him." A note of regret came into his voice. "He treated me very

badly--I know Neeld won't admit it, but he did. Still I like him and I'd

help him if I could."

"Well, he atoned for anything wrong by owning up in the end," remarked

Southend.

"That wasn't for my sake or for---- Well, it had nothing to do with us.

As far as we were concerned he'd be at Blent to-day. It was Cecily

Gainsborough who did it."

"Yes. I wonder----"

Iver rose decisively. "Look here, Southend, if you're going to do

exactly what all my friends and neighbors, beginning with Miss

Swinkerton, are doing, I shall go and write letters." With a nod he

walked into the next room, leaving Neeld alone with his inquisitive

friend. Southend lost no time.

"What's happened about Janie Iver? There was some talk----"

"It's all over," whispered Neeld with needless caution. "He released

her, and she accepted the release."

"What, on the ground that----?"

"Really I don't know any more. But it's finally over; you may depend

upon that."

Southend lit a cigar with a satisfied air. On the whole he was glad to

hear the news.

"Staying much longer in town?" he asked.

"No, I'm going down to Iver's again in August."

"You want to see the end of it? Come, I know that's it!" He laughed as

he walked away.

Meanwhile Harry Tristram, unconscious of the efforts which were being

made to arrange his future, and paying as little attention as he could

to the buzz of gossip about his past, had settled down in quiet rooms

and was looking at the world from a new point of view. He was in

seclusion like his cousin; the mourning they shared for Addie Tristram

was sufficient excuse; and he found his chief pleasure in wandering

about the streets. The season was not over yet, and he liked to go out

about eight in the evening and watch the great city starting forth to

enjoy itself. Then he could feel its life in all the rush and the gayety

of it. Somehow now he seemed more part of it and more at home in it than

when he used to run up for a few days from his country home. Then Blent

had been the centre of his life, and in town he was but a stranger and a

sojourner. Blent was gone; and London is home to homeless men. There was

a suggestion for him in the air of it, an impulse that was gradually but

strongly urging him to action, telling him that he must begin to do. For

the moment he was notorious, but the talk and the staring would be over

soon--the sooner the better, he added most sincerely. Then he must do

something if he wished still to be, or ever again to be, anybody.

Otherwise he could expect no more than to be pointed out now and then to

the curious as the man who had once been Tristram of Blent and had

ceased to be such in a puzzling manner.

As he looked back, he seemed to himself to have lived hitherto on the

banks of the river of life as well as of the river Blent; there had been

no need of swimming. But he was in the current now; he must swim or

sink. This idea took shape as he watched the carriages, the lines of

scampering hansoms, the crowds waiting at theatre doors. Every man and

every vehicle, every dandy and every urchin, represented some effort, if

it were only at one end of the scale to be magnificent, at the other not

to be hungry. No such notions had been fostered by days spent on the

banks of the Blent. "What shall I do? What shall I do?" The question

hummed in his brain as he walked about. There were such infinite

varieties of things to do, such a multitude of people doing them. To

some men this reflection brings despair or bewilderment; to Harry (as

indeed Lord Southend would have expected from his observation of him) it

was a titillating evidence of great opportunities, stirring his mind to

a busy consideration of chances. Thus then it seemed as though Blent

might fall into the background, his loved Blent. Perhaps his not

thinking of it had begun in wilfulness, or even in fear; but he found

the rule he had made far easier to keep than he had ever expected. There

had been a sort of release for his mind; he had not foreseen this as a

possible result of his great sacrifice. He even felt rather richer;

which seemed a strange paradox, till he reflected that the owners of

Blent had seldom been able to lay hands readily on a fluid sum of

fifteen thousand pounds, subject to no claims for houses to be repaired,

buildings to be maintained, cottages to be built, wages to be paid, and

the dozen other ways in which money disperses itself over the surface of

a landed estate. He had fifteen thousand pounds in form as good as cash.

He was living more or less as he had once meant to live in this one

particular; he was living with a respectable if not a big check by him,

ready for any emergency which might arise--an emergency not now of a

danger to be warded off, but of an opportunity to be seized.

These new thoughts suited well with the visit which he paid to Lady

Evenswood and gained fresh strength from it. His pride and independence

had made him hesitate about going. Southend, amazed yet half admiring,

had been obliged to plead, reminding him that it was not merely a woman

nor merely a woman of rank who wished to make his acquaintance, but also

a very old woman who had known his mother as a child. He further offered

his own company, so that the interview might assume a less formal

aspect. Harry declined the company but yielded to the plea. He was

announced as Mr Tristram. He had just taken steps to obtain a Royal

License to bear the name. Southend had chuckled again half admiringly

over that.

Although the room was in deep shadow and very still, and the old

white-haired lady the image of peace, for Harry there too the current

ran strong. Though not great, she had known the great; if she had not

done the things, she had seen them done; her talk revealed a

matter-of-course knowledge of secrets, a natural intimacy with the

inaccessible. It was like Harry to show no signs of being impressed; but

very shrewd eyes were upon him, and his impassivity met with amused

approval since it stopped short of inattention. She broke it down at

last by speaking of Addie Tristram.

"The most fascinating creature in the world," she said. "I knew her as a

little girl. I knew her up to the time of your birth almost. After that

she hardly left Blent, did she? At least she never came to London. You

travelled, I know."

"Were you ever at Blent?" he asked.

"No, Mr Tristram."

He frowned for a moment; it was odd not to be able to ask people there,

just too as he was awaking to the number of people there were in the

world worth asking.

"There never was anybody in the world like her, and there never will

be," Lady Evenswood went on.

"I used to think that; but I was wrong." The smile that Mina Zabriska

knew came on his face.

"You were wrong? Who's like her then?"

"Her successor. My cousin Cecily's very like her."

Lady Evenswood was more struck by the way he spoke than by the meaning

of what he said. She wanted to say "Bravo," and to pat him on the back;

he had avoided so entirely any hesitation or affectation in naming his

cousin--Addie Tristram's successor who had superseded him.

"She talks and moves and sits and looks at you in the same way. I was

amazed to see it." He had said not a word of this to anybody since he

left Blent. Lady Evenswood, studying him very curiously, began to make

conjectures about the history of the affair, also about what lay behind

her visitor's composed face; there was a hint of things suppressed in

his voice. But he had the bridle on himself again in a moment. "Very

curious these likenesses are," he ended with a shrug.

She decided that he was remarkable, for a boy of his age, bred in the

country, astonishing. She had heard her father describe Pitt at

twenty-one and Byron at eighteen. Without making absurd comparisons,

there was, all the same, something of that precocity of manhood here,

something also of the arrogance that the great men had exhibited. She

was very glad that she had sent for him.

"I don't want to be impertinent," she said (she had not meant to make

even this much apology), "but perhaps an old woman may tell you that she

is very sorry for--for this turn in your fortunes, Mr Tristram."

"You're very kind. It was all my own doing, you know. Nobody could have

touched me."

"But that would have meant----?" she exclaimed, startled into candor.

"Oh, yes, I know. Still--but since things have turned out differently, I

needn't trouble you with that."

She saw the truth, seeming to learn it from the set of his jaw. She

enjoyed a man who was not afraid to defy things, and she had been heard

to lament that everybody had a conscience nowadays--nay, insisted on

bringing it even into politics. She wanted to hear more--much more

now--about his surrender, and recognized as a new tribute to Harry the

fact that she could not question him. Immediately she conceived the idea

of inviting him to dinner to meet Mr Disney; but of course that must

wait for a little while.

"Everything must seem rather strange to you?" she suggested.

"Yes, very," he answered thoughtfully. "I'm beginning to think that some

day I shall look back on my boyhood with downright incredulity. I shan't

seem to have been that boy in the least."

"What are you going to do in the meantime, to procure that feeling?" She

was getting to the point she wished to arrive at, but very cautiously.

"I don't know yet. It's hard to choose."

"You certainly won't want for friends."

"Yes, that's pleasant, of course." He seemed to hint, however, that he

did not regard it as very useful.

"Oh, and serviceable too," she corrected him, with a nod of wise

experience. "Jobs are frowned at now, but many great men have started by

means of them. Robert Disney himself came in for a pocket-borough."

"Well, I really don't know," he repeated thoughtfully, but with no sign

of anxiety or fretting. "There's lots of time, Lady Evenswood."

"Not for me," she said with all her graciousness.

He smiled again, this time cordially, as he rose to take leave. But she

detained him.

"You're on friendly terms with your cousin, I suppose?"

"Certainly, if we meet. Of course I haven't seen her since I left Blent.

She's there, you know."

"Have you written to her?"

"No. I think it's best not to ask her to think of me just now."

She looked at him a moment, seeming to consider.

"Perhaps," she said at last. "But don't over-do that. Don't be cruel."

"Cruel?" There was strong surprise in his voice and on his face.

"Yes, cruel. Have you ever troubled to think what she may be feeling?"

"I don't know that I ever have," Harry admitted slowly. "At first sight

it looks as if I were the person who might be supposed to be feeling."

"At first sight, yes. Is that always to be enough for you, Mr Tristram?

If so, I shan't regret so much that I haven't--lots of time."

He stood silent before her for several seconds.

"Yes, I see. Perhaps. I daresay I can find out something about it. After

all, I've given some evidence of consideration for her."

"That makes it worse if you give none now. Good-by."

"It's less than a fortnight since I first met her. She won't miss me

much, Lady Evenswood."

"Time's everything, isn't it? Oh, you're not stupid! Think it over, Mr

Tristram. Now good-by. And don't conclude I shan't think about you

because it's only an hour since we met. We women are curious. When

you've nothing better to do it'll pay you to study us."

As Harry walked down from her house in Green Street, his thoughts were

divided between the new life and that old one which she had raised again

before his eyes by her reference to Cecily. The balance was turned in

favor of Blent by the sight of a man who was associated in his mind with

it--Sloyd, the house-agent who had let Merrion Lodge to Mina Zabriska.

Sloyd was as smart as usual, but he was walking along in a dejected way,

and his hat was unfashionably far back on his head. He started when he

saw Harry approaching him.

"Why, it's----" he began, and stopped in evident hesitation.

"Mr Tristram," said Harry. "Glad to meet you, Mr Sloyd, though you won't

have any more rent to hand over to me."

Sloyd began to murmur some rather flowery condolences.

Harry cut him short in a peremptory but good-natured fashion.

"How's business with you?" he asked.

"Might be worse, Mr Tristram. I don't complain. We're a young firm, and

we don't command the opportunities that others do." He laughed as he

added, "You couldn't recommend me to a gentleman with ten thousand

pounds to spare, could you, Mr Tristram?"

"I know just the man. What's it for?"

"No, no. Principals only," said Sloyd with a shake of his head.

"How does one become a principal then? I'll walk your way a bit." Harry

lit a cigar; Sloyd became more erect and amended the position of his

hat; he hoped that a good many people would recognize Harry. Yet social

pride did not interfere with business wariness.

"Are you in earnest, Mr Tristram? It's a safe thing."

"Oh, no, it isn't, or you wouldn't be hunting for ten thousand on the

pavement of Berkeley Square."

"I'll trust you," Sloyd declared. Harry nodded thanks, inwardly amused

at the obvious effort which attended the concession. "If you don't come

in, you'll not give it away?" Again Harry nodded. "It's a big chance,

but we haven't got the money to take it, and unless we can take it we

shall have to sell our rights. It's an option on land. I secured it, but

it's out in a week. Before then we must table twenty thousand. And ten

cleans us out."

"What'll happen if you don't?"

"I must sell the option--rather than forfeit it, you know. I've an offer

for it, but a starvation one."

"Who from?"

After a moment's scrutiny Sloyd whispered a name of immense significance

in such a connection: "Iver."

"I should like to hear some more about this. It's worth something, I

expect, if Iver wants it. Shall I go with you to your office?" He hailed

a passing cab. "I've got the money," he said, "and I want to use it. You

show me that this is a good thing, and in it goes."

An hour passed in the office of Sloyd, Sloyd, and Gurney. Harry Tristram

came out whistling. He looked very pleased; his step was alert; he had

found something to do, he had made a beginning--good or bad. It looked

good: that was enough. He was no longer an idler or merely an onlooker.

He had begun to take a hand in the game himself. He found an added,

perhaps a boyish, pleasure in the fact that the affair was for the

present to be a dead secret. He was against Iver too in a certain sense,

and that was another spice; not from any ill-will, but because it would

please him especially to show Iver that he could hold his own. It

occurred to him that in case of a success he would enjoy going and

telling old Lady Evenswood about it. He felt, as he said to himself,

very jolly, careless and jolly, more so than he remembered feeling for

many months back. Suddenly an idea struck him. Was it in whole or in

part because there was no longer anything to hide, because he need no

longer be on the watch? He gave this idea a good deal of rather amused

consideration, and came to the conclusion that there might be something

in it. He went to the theatre that night, to the pit (where he would not

be known), and enjoyed himself immensely.

And Lady Evenswood had made up her mind that she would find a way of

seeing Mr Disney soon, and throw out a cautious feeler. Everything would

have to be done very carefully, especially if the marriage with the

cousin were to be made a feature of the case. But her resolve, although

not altered, was hampered by a curious feeling to which her talk with

Harry had given rise. There was now not only the very grave question

whether Robert Disney--to say nothing of Somebody Else--would entertain

the idea. There was another, a much less obvious one--whether Harry

himself would welcome it. And a third--whether she herself would welcome

it for him. However, when Southend next called on her, she professed her

readiness to attack or at least to reconnoitre the task from which he

and John Fullcombe and the rest had shrunk.

"Only," she said, "if I were you, I should find out tolerably early--as

soon as we know that there's any chance at all--what Mr Tristram himself

thinks about it."

"There's only one thing he could think!" exclaimed Southend.

"Oh, very well," smiled Lady Evenswood.

A long life had taught her that only facts convince, and that they often

fail.

XVII

RIVER SCENES AND BRIC-À-BRAC

The Blent was on fire indeed, and Mina Zabriska occupied a position rich

in importance, prolific of pleasure. Others, such as Iver and Miss S.,

might meet Mr Gainsborough as he took timid rambles; they could extort

little beyond a dazed civility. Others again, such as Janie Iver and Bob

Broadley, might comfort themselves with the possession of a secret and

the conviction that they too could produce a fair sensation when the

appropriate (and respectable) time arrived; for the present they

commanded no public interest. Others again, the Major notably, strove

after importance by airs of previous knowledge and hints of undisclosed

details. Even Mrs Trumbler made her cast, declaring that she had always

known (the source of the information was left in obscurity) that pride

such as Harry Tristram's was the sure precursor of a fall. None of them

could compete with Mina Zabriska. To her alone the doors of Blent were

open; she held exclusive right of access to its hidden mistress. The

fact caused unmeasured indignation, the reason excited unresting

curiosity. This state of things ought to have made Mina very happy. What

more could woman want?

One thing only, but that a necessity--somebody to talk to about it. She

had nobody. Janie showed no desire to discuss Blent or anything or

anybody connected therewith, and with Janie out of the question there

was nobody to whom loyalty allowed her to talk. The Major, for instance,

was one of the enemy. She might pity him as an uncle--he was perplexed

and surly, because somehow he never happened to meet Miss Iver now--but

she could not confide in him. The gossips of Blentmouth were beneath her

lordly notice. She was bubbling over with undiscussed impressions. And

now even Mr Neeld had gone off on a visit to town!

Yet things needed talking about, hammering out, the light of another

mind thrown upon them; for they were very difficult. There was no need

to take account of Mr Gainsborough; as long as he could be kept in the

library and out of the one curiosity-shop which was to be found in

Blentmouth, he could not do himself or the house much harm. He was still

bewildered, but by no means unhappy, and he talked constantly of going

back to town to see about everything--to-morrow. There was nothing to

see about--the lawyers had done it all--and he was no more necessary or

important in London than he was at Blent. But Cecily's case was another

matter altogether, and it was about her that Mina desired the

enlightening contact of mind with mind, in order to canvass and explain

the incongruities of a behavior which conformed to no rational or

consistent theory.

Cecily had acquiesced in all the lawyers did, had signed papers at

request, had allowed herself to be invested with the property, saluted

with the title, enthroned in the fullest manner. So far then she had

accepted her cousin's sacrifice and the transformation of her own life.

Yet through and in spite of all this she maintained, even to the extreme

of punctiliousness, the air of being a visitor at Blent. She was not

exactly apologetic to the servants, but she thanked them profusely for

any special personal service they might perform for her; she made no

changes in the order of the household; when Mina--always busy in her

friend's interest--suggested re-arrangement of furniture or of curios,

Cecily's manner implied that she was prepared to take no such liberties

in another man's house. It would have been all very well-bred if Harry

had put his house at her disposal for a fortnight. Seeing that the place

was her own and that she had accepted it as being her own, Mina declared

that her conduct was little less than an absurdity. This assertion was

limited to Mina's own mind; it had not been made to the offender

herself. The fear she had felt of Harry threatened to spread to his

successor; she did not feel equal to a remonstrance. But she grew

gradually into a state of extreme irritation and impatience. This

provisional, this ostentatiously provisional, attitude could not be

maintained permanently. Something must happen one way or the other. Now

what was it to be? She could not pretend to guess. These Tristrams were

odd folk. There was the same blood in Cecily as had run in Addie

Tristram's veins. On the other hand the Gainsboroughs seemed to have

been ordinary. Was this period of indecision or of suspended action a

time of struggle between the Tristram in Cecily and the Gainsborough?

Mina, on the look-out for entertainment, had no doubt which of the two

she wished to be victorious; the Gainsborough promised nothing, the

Tristram--well--effects! The strain made Mina excited, restless, and at

times exceedingly short with Major Duplay.

The neighborhood waited too, but for the end of Lady Tristram's

mourning, not of her indecision. As a result of much discussion, based

on many rumors and an incredible number of authentic reports, it was

settled that at the end of six months Blent was to be thrown open,

visitors received, and a big house-warming given. A new era was to

begin. Splendor and respectability were to lie down together. Blent was

to pay a new homage to the proprieties. Miss Swinkerton was strongly of

opinion that bygones should be allowed to be bygones, and was author of

a theory which found much acceptance among the villas--namely, that Lady

Tristram would consider any reference to her immediate predecessor as

inconsiderate, indeed indelicate, and not such as might be expected to

proceed from lady-like mouths.

"We must remember that she's a girl, my dear," Miss S. observed to Mrs

Trumbler.

"She must know about it," Mrs Trumbler suggested. "But I dare say you're

right, Miss Swinkerton."

"If such a thing had happened in my family, I should consider myself

personally affronted by any reference to the persons concerned."

"The Vicar says he's sadly afraid that the notions of the upper classes

on such subjects are very lax."

"Not at all," said Miss S. tartly. Really she needed no instruction from

the Vicar. "And as I say, my dear, she's a girl. The ball will mark a

new departure. I said so to Madame Zabriska and she quite agreed with

me."

Mrs Trumbler frowned pensively. "I suppose Madame Zabriska has been a

widow some time?" she remarked.

"I have never inquired," said Miss S. with an air of expecting applause

for a rare discretion.

"I wonder what Mr Harry will do! The Vicar says he must be terribly

upset."

"Oh, I never professed to understand that young man. All I know is that

he's going abroad."

"Abroad?"

"Yes, my dear. I heard it in the town, and Madame Zabriska said she had

no doubt it was correct."

"But surely Madame Zabriska doesn't correspond----?"

"I don't know, my dear. I know what she said." She looked at Mrs

Trumbler and went on with emphasis: "It doesn't do to judge foreigners

as we should judge ourselves. If I corresponded with Mr Tristram it

would be one thing; if Madame Zabriska--and to be sure she has nobody to

look after her; that Major is no better than any silly young

man--chooses to do so, it's quite another. All I say is that, so far as

Blent is concerned, there's an end of Mr Tristram. Why, he hasn't got a

penny piece, my dear."

"So I heard," agreed Mrs Trumbler. "I suppose they won't let him

starve."

"Oh, arrangements are made in such cases," nodded Miss S. "But of course

nothing is said about them. For my part I shall never mention either Mr

Tristram or the late Lady Tristram to her present ladyship."

Mrs Trumbler was silent for a while; at last her mouth spoke the

thoughts of her heart.

"I suppose she'll be thinking of marrying soon. But I don't know anybody

in the neighborhood----"

"My dear, she'll have her house in town in the season. The only reason

the late Lady Tristram didn't do so was---- Well, you can see that for

yourself, Mrs Trumbler!"

"What must the Ivers think about it! What an escape! How providential!"

"Let us hope it'll be a lesson to Janie. If I had allowed myself to

think of position or wealth, I should have been married half a dozen

times, Mrs Trumbler."

"I dare say you would," said faithful Mrs Trumbler. But this assent did

not prevent her from remarking to the Vicar that Miss S. sometimes

talked of things which no unmarried woman could be expected really to

understand.

It will be observed that the Imp had been alleviating the pangs of her

own perplexity by a dexterous ministering to the delusions of others.

Not for the world would she have contradicted Miss S.'s assertions; she

would as soon have thought of giving that lady a plain and unvarnished

account of the late Monsieur Zabriska's very ordinary and quite

reputable life and death. No doubt she was right. Both she and the

neighborhood had to wait, and her efforts did something to make the

period more bearable for both of them. The only sufferer was poor Mr

Gainsborough, who was driven from Blentmouth and the curiosity shop by

the sheer terror of encountering ladies from villas who told him all

about what his daughter was going to do.

The outbreak came, and in a fashion as Tristram-esque as Mina could

desire, for all that the harbinger of it was frightened little Mr

Gainsborough, more frightened still. He came up the hill one evening

about six, praying Mina's immediate presence at Blent. Something had

happened, he explained, as they walked down. Cecily had had a

letter--from somebody in London. No, not Harry. She must see Mina at

once. That was all he knew, except that his daughter was perturbed and

excited. His manner protested against the whole thing with a mild

despair.

"Quick, quick!" cried the Imp, almost making him run to keep up with her

impatient strides.

Cecily was in her room--the room that had been Addie Tristram's.

"You've moved in here!" was Mina's first exclamation.

"Yes; the housekeeper said I must, so I did. But----" She glanced up for

a moment at Addie's picture and broke off. Then she held up a letter

which she had in her hand. "Do you know anything of Lord Southend?" she

asked.

"I've heard Mr Iver and Mr Neeld speak of him. That's all."

"He writes to say he knew Lady Tristram and--and Harry, and hopes he'll

know me soon."

"That's very friendly." Mina thought, but did not add, that it was

rather unimportant.

"Yes, but it's more than that. Don't you see? It's an opening." She

looked at her friend, impatient at her want of comprehension. "It makes

it possible to do something. I can begin now."

"Begin what?" Mina was enjoying her own bewilderment keenly.

"How long did you think I could stand it? I'm not made of--of--of soap!

You know Harry! You liked him, didn't you? And you knew Lady Tristram!

I've slept in this room two nights and----"

"You haven't seen a ghost?"

"Ghost! Oh, don't be silly. I've lain here awake, looking at that

picture. And it's looked at me--at least it seemed to. 'What are you

doing here?' That's what it's been saying. 'What are you doing here?'

No, I'm not mad. That's what I was saying myself. But the picture seemed

to say it."

There was a most satisfactory absence of Gainsborough about all this.

"Then I go into the Long Gallery! It's no better there!" Her hands were

flung out despairingly.

"You seemed to have settled down so well," murmured Mina.

"Settled down! What was there to do? Oh, you know I hadn't! I can't bear

it, Mina, and I won't. Isn't it hard? I should have loved it all so, if

it had been really mine, if it had come to me properly. And now--it's

worse than nothing!" She sat back in her chair with her face set in a

desperate unhappiness.

"It is yours; it did come to you properly," Mina protested. Her sympathy

tended always toward the person she was with, her sensitive mind

responding to the immediate appeal. She thought more of Cecily now than

of Harry, who was somewhere--vaguely somewhere--in London.

"You say that?" cried Cecily angrily. "You, Harry's friend! You, who

fought and lied--yes, lied for him. Why did you do all that if you think

it's properly mine? How can I face that picture and say it's mine? It's

a detestable injustice. Ah, and I did--I did love it so."

"Well, I don't see what you're to do. You can't give it back to Mr.

Tristram. At least I shouldn't like to propose that to him, and I'm sure

he wouldn't take it. Why, he couldn't, Cecily!"

Cecily rose and walked restlessly to the window.

"No, no, no," she said fretfully. She turned abruptly round to Mina.

"Lord Southend says he'd be glad to make my acquaintance and have a

talk."

"Ask him down here then."

"Ask him here? I'm not going to ask people to stay here."

"I think that's rather absurd." Mina had needed to summon up courage for

this remark.

"And he says---- There, look at this letter. He says he's seen Harry and

hopes to be able to do something for him. What does he mean by that?"

She came back toward Mina. "There must be something possible if he says

that."

"He can't mean anything about--about Blent. He means----"

"I must find out what he means. I must see him. The letter came when I

was just desperate. Father and I sitting down here together day after

day! As if----! As if----!" She paused and struggled for self-control.

"There, I'm going to be quite calm and reasonable about it," she ended.

Mina had her doubts about that--and would have been sorry not to have

them. The interest that had threatened to vanish from her life with

Addie Tristram's death and Harry's departure was revived. She sat

looking at the agitated girl in a pleasant suspense. Cecily took up

Southend's letter again and smoothed it thoughtfully. "What should you

think Harry must feel about me?" she asked, with a nearer approach to

the calm which she had promised; but it seemed the quiet of despair.

Here Mina had her theory ready and advanced it with confidence.

"I expect he hates you. You see he did what he did in a moment of

excitement: he must have been wrought up by something--something quite

unusual with him. You brought it about somehow."

"Yes, I know I did. Do you suppose I haven't thought about that?"

"There's sure to have been a reaction," pursued the sage Imp. "He'll

have got back to his ordinary state of mind, and in that he loved Blent

above everything. And the more he loves Blent, and the sorrier he is for

having given it up, the less he'll like you, of course."

"You think he's sorry?"

"When I've done anything on an impulse like that, I'm always sorry."

Mina spoke from a tolerably large experience of impulses and their

results; a very recent example had been the impulse of temper which made

her drop hints to the Major about Harry's right to be Tristram of Blent.

"Yes, then he would hate me," Cecily concluded. "And how she'd hate me!"

she cried the next instant, pointing at Addie Tristram's picture.

About that at least there was no doubt in Mina's mind. She nodded

emphatically.

"I've done what she spent her life trying to prevent! I've made

everybody talk about her again! Mina, I feel as if I'd thrown mud at

her, as if I'd reviled her. And she can't know how I would have loved

her!"

"I remember her when she thought her husband was dead, and that she

could be married all right to Captain Fitzhubert, and--and that it would

be all right, you know."

"What did she say?" Cecily's eyes were on the picture.

"She cried out--'Think of the difference it makes--the enormous

difference!' I didn't know what she meant then, but I remember how she

looked and how she spoke."

"And in the end there is--no difference! Yes, she'd hate me. And so must

Harry." She turned to Mina. "It's terribly unfair, isn't it, terribly?

She'd have liked me, I think, and I'd got to be such good friends with

him. I'd come to think he'd ask us down now and then--about once a year

perhaps. It would have been something to look forward to all the year.

It would have made life quite different, quite good enough, you know. I

should have been so content and so happy with that. Oh, it's terribly

unfair! Why do people do things that--that bring about things like

this?"

"Poor Lady Tristram," sighed Mina, glancing at the beautiful cause of

the terrible unfairness. "She was like that, you see," she added.

"Yes, I know that. But it oughtn't to count against other people so.

Yes, it's terribly unfair."

These criticisms on the order of the world, whether well-founded or not

(to Mina they seemed to possess much plausibility), did not advance

matters. A silence fell between the two, and Cecily walked again to the

window. The sun was setting on Blent, and it glowed in a soft beauty.

"To think that I should be here, and have this, and yet be very very

unhappy!" murmured the girl softly. She faced round suddenly. "Mina, I'm

going to London. Now--to-night. There's a train at eight."

The Imp sat up straight and stared.

"I shall wire to our house; the maid's there, and she'll have things

ready."

"What are you going to town for?"

"To see this Lord Southend. You must come with me."

"I? Oh, I can't possibly. And your father----?"

"He must stay here. You must come. Run back and pack a bag; you won't

want much. I shall go just as I am." With a gesture she indicated the

plain black frock she wore. "Oh, I can't be bothered with packing! What

does that matter? I'll call for you in the carriage at seven. We mustn't

miss the train."

Mina gasped. This was Tristram indeed; the wild resolve was announced in

tones calmer than any that Cecily had achieved during the interview.

Mina began to think that all the family must have this way of being

peculiar in ordinary things, but quite at home when there was an

opportunity of doing anything unusual.

"I just feel I must go. If anything's done at all, it'll be done in

London, not here."

"How long do you mean to stay?"

"I can't possibly tell. Till something's done. Go now, Mina, or you'll

be late."

"Oh, I'm not coming. The whole thing's absurd. What can you do? And,

anyhow, it's not my business."

"Very well. I shall go alone. Only I thought you were interested in

Harry and--and I thought you were my friend." She threw herself into a

chair; she was in Addie Tristram's attitude. "But I suppose I haven't

got any friends," she concluded, not in a distressed fashion, but with a

pensive submissive little smile.

"You're perfectly adorable," cried Mina, running across to her. "And

I'll go with you to Jericho, if you like." She caught Cecily's hands in

hers and kissed her cheek.

The scene was transformed in an instant; that also was the Tristram way.

Cecily sprang up laughing gayly, even dancing a step or two, as she

wrung Mina's hands.

"Hurrah! _Marchons! En Avant!_" she cried. "Oh, we'll do something,

Mina! Don't you hate sitting still?"

"Cecily, are you--are you in love with Harry?"

"Oh, I hope not, I hope not," she laughed softly. "Because he must hate

me so. And are you, Mina? Oh, I hope not that too! Come, to London! To

seek our fortunes in London! Oh, you tiresome old Blent, how glad I am

to leave you!"

"But your father----"

"We'll do things quite nicely, Mina dear. We won't distress father.

We'll leave a note for him. Mina, I'm sure Addie Tristram used just to

leave a note whenever she ran away! We'll sleep in London to-night!"

Suddenly Mina understood better why Harry had surrendered Blent, and

understood too, as her mind flew back, why Addie Tristram had made men

do what they had done. She was carried away by this sudden flood of

enraptured resolution, of a resolve that seemed like an inspiration, of

delight in the unreasonable, of gay defiance to the limits of the

possible.

"Oh, yes, you tiresome old Blent!" cried Cecily, shaking her fair hair

toward the open window. "How could a girl think she was going to live on

river scenes and bric-à-brac?" She laughed in airy scorn. "You must

grow more amusing if I'm to come back to you!" she threatened.

River scenes and bric-à-brac! Mina was surprised that Blent did not on

the instant punish the blasphemy by a revengeful earthquake or an

overwhelming flood. Cecily caught her by the arm, a burlesque

apprehension screwing her face up into a fantastically ugly mask.

"It was the Gainsborough in me!" she whispered, "Gainsboroughs can live

on curios! But I can't, Mina, I can't. I'm a Tristram, not a

Gainsborough. No more could Harry in the end, no more could Harry!"

Mina was panting; she had danced and she had wondered; she was on the

tip of the excitement with which Cecily had infected her.

"But what are we going to do?" she cried in a last protest of

common-sense.

"Oh, I don't know, but something--something--something," was the not

very common-sense answer she received.

It was not the moment for common-sense. Mina scorned the thing and flung

it from her. She would have none of it--she who stood between beautiful

Addie there on the wall and laughing Cecily here in the window, feeling

by a strange and welcome illusion that though there were two visible

shapes, there was but one heart, one spirit in the two. Almost it seemed

as though Addie had risen to life again, once more to charm and to defy

the world. An inexplicable impulse made her exclaim:

"Were you like this before you came to Blent?"

A sudden quiet fell on Cecily. She paused before she answered:

"No, not till I came to Blent." With a laugh she fell on her knees.

"Please forgive me what I said about the river and the bric-à-brac, dear

darling Blent!"

XVIII

CONSPIRATORS AND A CRUX

Lord Southend was devoted to his wife--a state of feeling natural often,

creditable always. Yet the reason people gave for it--and gave with

something like an explicit sanction from him--was not a very exalted

one. Susanna made him so exceedingly comfortable. She was born to manage

a hotel and cause it to pay fifteen per cent. Being a person--not of

social importance, nothing could make her that--but of social rank, she

was forced to restrict her genius to a couple of private houses. The

result was like the light of the lamps in the heroine's boudoir, a soft

brilliancy: in whose glamour Susanna's plain face and limited

intellectual interests were lost to view. She was also a particularly

good woman; but her husband knew better than to talk about that.

Behold him after the most perfect of lunches, his arm-chair in exactly

the right spot, his papers by him, his cigars to his hand (even these

Susanna understood), a sense of peace in his heart, and in his head a

mild wonder that anybody was discontented with the world. In this

condition he intended to spend at least a couple of hours; after which

Susanna would drive him gently once round the Park, take him to the

House of Lords, wait twenty minutes, and then land him at the Imperium.

He lit a cigar and took up the _Economist_; it was not the moment for

anything exciting.

"A lady to see you, my Lord--on important business."

Excessive comfort is enervating. After a brief and futile resistance he

found Mina Zabriska in the room, and himself regarding her with mingled

consternation and amusement. Relics of excitement hung about the Imp,

but they were converted to business purposes. She came as an agent. The

name of her principal awoke Southend's immediate interest.

"She's come up to London?" he exclaimed.

"Yes, both of us. We're at their old home."

Southend discovered his _pince-nez_ and studied her thin mobile little

face.

"And what have you come up for?" he asked after a pause.

Mina shrugged her shoulders. "Just to see what's going on," she said. "I

dare say you wonder what I've got to do with it?" His manner seemed to

assent, and she indicated her position briefly.

"Oh, that's it, is it? You knew the late Lady Tristram. And you

knew----" Again he regarded her thoughtfully. "I hope Lady Tristram--the

new one--is well?"

There was the sound of a whispered consultation outside the door; it

drew Mina's eyes in that direction.

"That's all right," he smiled. "It's only my wife scolding the butler

for having let you in. This is my time for rest."

"Rest!" exclaimed Mina rather scornfully. "You wrote to Cecily as if you

could do something."

"That was rash of me. What do you want done? I've heard about you from

Iver, you know."

"Oh, the Ivers have nothing to do with this. It's just between Cecily

and Mr. Tristram."

"And you and me, apparently."

"What was your idea when you wrote? I made Cecily let me come and see

you because it sounded as if you had an idea." If he had no idea, it was

clear that contempt awaited him.

"I wanted to be friendly. But as for doing anything--well, that hardly

depends on me."

"But things can't go on as they are, you know," she said brusquely.

"Unhappily, as I understand the law----"

"Oh, I understand the law too--and very silly it is. I suppose it can't

be changed?"

"Good gracious, my dear Madame Zabriska! Changed!" And on this point

too! _Nolumus leges Angliæ_---- He just stopped himself from the

quotation.

"What are Acts of Parliament for?" Mina demanded.

"Absolutely out of the question," he laughed. "Even if everybody

consented, absolutely."

"And Harry Tristram wouldn't consent, you mean?"

"Well, could any man?"

Mina looked round the room with a discontented air; there is such a

lamentable gulf between feeling that something must be done and

discovering what it is.

"I don't say positively that nothing can be done," he resumed after a

moment, dangling his glass and looking at her covertly. "Are you at

leisure this afternoon?"

"If you've got anything to suggest." Mina had grown distrustful of his

intelligence, and her tone showed it.

"I thought you might like to come and see a friend of mine, who is kind

enough to be interested in Harry Tristram." He added, with the

consciousness of naming an important person, "I mean Lady Evenswood."

"Who's she?" asked the Imp curtly.

To do them justice, Englishmen seldom forget that allowances must be

made for foreigners. Lord Southend explained gravely and patiently.

"Well, let's go," said Mina indifferently. "Not that it seems much use,"

her manner added.

"Excuse me a moment," said he, and he went out to soothe his wife's

alarm and assure her that he was not tired.

As they drove, Mina heard more of Lady Evenswood--among other things,

that she had known Addie Tristram as a child; this fact impressed the

Imp beyond all the rest. But Lady Evenswood herself made a greater

impression still. An unusual timidity assaulted and conquered Mina when

she found herself with the white-haired old lady who never seemed to do

more than gently suggest and yet exercised command. Southend watched

them together with keen amusement, while Lady Evenswood drew out of Mina

some account of Cecily's feelings and of the scene at Blent.

"Well, that's Tristram all over," sighed Lady Evenswood at the end.

"Yes, isn't it?" cried Mina, emboldened by a sympathy that spoke her own

thought. "She hates to feel she's taken everything away from him. But

Lord Southend says he can't have it back."

"Oh, no, no, my dear. Still----" She glanced at Southend, doubtful

whether to mention their scheme.

He shook his head slightly.

"I dare say Lady Tristram was momentarily excited," he remarked to Mina,

"and I think too that she exaggerates what Harry feels. As far as I've

seen him, he's by no means miserable."

"Well, she is anyhow," said Mina. "And you won't convince her that he

isn't." She turned to Lady Evenswood. "Is there nothing to be done? You

see it's all being wasted."

"All being wasted?"

"Yes, Blent and all of it. He can't have it; and as things are now she

can't enjoy it."

"Very perverse, very perverse, certainly," murmured Southend,

frowning--although he was rather amused too.

"With an obvious solution," said Lady Evenswood, "if only we lived in

the realms of romance."

"I have suggested a magician," put in Southend. "Though he doesn't look

much like one," he added with a laugh.

Mina did not understand his remark, but she caught Lady Evenswood's

meaning.

"Yes," she said, "but Harry wouldn't do that either."

"He doesn't like his cousin?"

"Yes, I think so." She smiled as she added, "And even if he didn't that

mightn't matter."

The other two exchanged glances as they listened. Mina, inspired by a

subject that never failed to rouse her, gained courage.

"Any more than it mattered with Miss Iver," she pursued. "And he might

just as likely have given Blent to Cecily in that way as in the way he

actually did--if she'd wanted it very much and--and it had been a

splendid thing for him to do."

Lady Evenswood nodded gently. Southend raised his brows in a sort of

protest against this relentless analysis.

"Because that sort of thing would have appealed to him. But he'd never

take it from her; he wouldn't even if he was in love with her." She

addressed Lady Evenswood especially. "You understand that?" she asked.

"He wouldn't be indebted to her. He'd hate her for that."

"Not very amiable," commented Southend.

"Amiable? No!" Amiability seemed at a discount with the Imp.

"You know him very well, my dear?"

"Yes, I--I came to." Mina paused, and suddenly blushed at the

remembrance of an idea that had once been suggested to her by Major

Duplay. "And I'm very fond of her," she added.

"In the deadlock," said Southend, "I think you'll have to try my

prescription, Lady Evenswood."

"You think that would be of use?"

"It would pacify this pride of Master Harry's perhaps."

Mina looked from one to the other.

"Do you mean there's anything possible?" she asked.

"My dear, you're a very good friend."

"I'm not very happy. I don't know what in the world Cecily will do. And

yet----" Mina struggled with her rival impulses of kindness and

curiosity. "It's all awfully interesting," she concluded, breaking into

a smile she could not resist.

"That's the only excuse for all of us, I suppose," sighed Lady

Evenswood.

"Not that I like the boy particularly," added Southend.

"Is there anything?" asked Mina. The appeal was to the lady, not to

Southend. But he answered chaffingly:

"Possibly--just possibly--the resources of the Constitution----"

The bell of the front door sounded audibly in the morning-room in which

they were.

"I dare say that's Robert," remarked Lady Evenswood. "He said he might

call."

"Oh, by Jove!" exclaimed Southend with a laugh that sounded a trifle

uneasy.

The door opened, and a man came in unannounced. He was of middle height,

with large features, thick coarse hair, and a rather ragged beard; his

arms were long and his hands large.

"How are you, Cousin Sylvia?" he said, crossing to Lady Evenswood, who

gave him her hand without rising. "How are you, Southend?" He turned

back to Lady Evenswood. "I thought you were alone."

He spoke in brusque tones, and he looked at Mina as if he did not know

what she might be doing there. His appearance seemed vaguely familiar to

her.

"We are holding a little conference, Robert. This young lady is very

interested in Harry Tristram and his affair. Come now, you remember

about it! Madame Zabriska, this is Mr Disney."

"Mr Disney!" The Imp gasped. "You mean----?"

The other two smiled. Mr Disney scowled a little. Obviously he had hoped

to find his relative alone.

"Madame Zabriska met Addie Tristram years ago at Heidelberg, Robert; and

she's been staying down at Blent--at Merrion Lodge, didn't you say, my

dear?"

Mr Disney had sat down.

"Well, what's the young fellow like?" he asked.

"Oh, I--I--don't know," murmured the Imp in forlorn shyness. This man

was--was actually--the--the Prime Minister! Matters would have been

rather better if he had consented to look just a little like it. As it

was, her head was in a whirl. Lady Evenswood called him "Robert" too!

Nothing about Lady Evenswood had impressed her as much as that, not even

the early acquaintance with Addie Tristram.

"Well then, what's the girl like?" asked Disney.

"Robert, don't frighten Madame Zabriska."

"Frighten her? What do you mean?"

"Oh, tell him what I mean, George," laughed Lady Evenswood, turning to

Southend. Mr Disney seemed genuinely resentful at the idea that he might

frighten anybody.

"Are you a member of the conference too, Southend?"

"Well, yes, I--I'm interested in the family." He telegraphed a glance of

caution to the old lady; he meant to convey that the present was not a

happy moment to broach the matter that was in their minds.

"I'm sorry I interrupted. Can you give me five minutes in another room,

Cousin Sylvia?" He rose and waited for her.

"Oh, but can't you do anything?" blurted out the Imp suddenly.

"Eh?" His eyes under their heavy brows were fixed on her now. There was

a deep-lying twinkle in them, although he still frowned ferociously. "Do

what?"

"Why, something for--for Harry Tristram?"

He looked round at each of them. The twinkle was gone; the frown was

not.

"Oh, was that the conference?" he asked slowly. "Well, what has the

conference decided?" It was Mina whom he questioned, for which Southend

at least was profoundly thankful. "He'd have bitten my head off, if the

women hadn't been there," he confided to Iver afterward.

Mr Disney slowly sat down again. Mina did not perceive the significance

of this action, but Lady Evenswood did.

"It's such an extraordinary case, Robert. So very exceptional! Poor

Addie Tristram! You remember her?"

"Yes, I remember Addie Tristram," he muttered--"growled," Mina described

it afterward. "Well, what do you want?" he asked.

Lady Evenswood was a woman of tact.

"Really," she said, "it can't be done in this way, of course. If

anything is to come before you, it must come before you regularly. I

know that, Robert."

The Imp had no tact.

"Oh, no," she cried. "Do listen now, Mr Disney. Do promise to help us

now!"

Tact is not always the best thing in the world.

"If you'll tell me in two words, I'll listen," said Mr Disney.

"I--I can't do that. In two words? Oh, but please----"

He had turned away from her to Southend.

"Now then, Southend?"

Lord Southend felt that he must be courageous. After all the women were

there.

"In two words? Literally?"

Disney nodded, smiling grimly at Mina's clasped hands and imploring

face.

"Literally--if you can." There was a gratuitous implication that

Southend and the rest of the world were apt to be loquacious.

"Well, then," said Southend, "I will. What we want is----" After one

glance at Lady Evenswood, he got it out. "What we want is--a viscounty."

For a moment Mr Disney sat still. Then again he rose slowly.

"Have I tumbled into Bedlam?" he asked.

"It was done in the Bearsdale case," suggested Lady Evenswood. "Of

course there was a doubt there----"

"Anyhow a barony--but a viscounty would be more convenient," murmured

Southend.

Mina was puzzled. These mysteries were beyond her. She had never heard

of the Bearsdale case, and she did not understand why--in certain

circumstances--a viscounty would be more convenient. But she knew that

something was being urged which might meet the difficulty, and she kept

eager eyes on Mr Disney. Perhaps she would have done that anyhow; men

who rule heads and hearts can surely draw eyes also. Yet at the moment

he was not inspiring. He listened with a smile (was it not rather a

grin?) of sardonic ridicule.

"You made me speak, you know," said Southend. "I'd rather have waited

till we got the thing into shape."

"And I should like you to see the boy, Robert."

"Bedlam!" said Mr Disney with savage conviction. "I'll talk to you about

what I came to say another day, Cousin Sylvia. Really to-day----!" With

a vague awkward wave of his arm he started for the door.

"You will try?" cried the Imp, darting at him.

She heard him say, half under his breath, "Damned persistent little

woman!" before he vanished through the door. She turned to her

companions, her face aghast, her lips quivering, her eyes dim. The

magician had come and gone and worked no spell; her disappointment was

very bitter.

To her amazement Southend was radiant and Lady Evenswood wore an air of

gratified contentment. She stared at them.

"It went off better than I expected," said he.

"It must be one of Robert's good days," said she.

"But--but----" gasped the Imp.

"He was very civil for him. He must mean to think about it, about

something of the sort anyhow," Southend explained. "I shouldn't wonder

if it had been in his mind," he added to Lady Evenswood.

"Neither should I. At any rate he took it splendidly. I almost wish we'd

spoken of the marriage."

"Couldn't you write to him?"

"He wouldn't read it, George."

"Telegraph then!"

"It would really be worth trying--considering how he took it." Lady

Evenswood did not seem able to get over the Prime Minister's

extraordinary affability.

"Well, if he treats you like that--great people like you--and you're

pleased, thank goodness I never met him alone!" Mina was not shy with

them any more; she had suffered worse.

They glanced at one another.

"It was you, my dear. He'd have been more difficult with us," said Lady

Evenswood.

"You interested him," Southend assured her.

"Yes, if anything's been done, you've done it."

They seemed quite sincere. That feeling of being on her head instead of

her heels came over Mina again.

"I shouldn't be a bit surprised if he sent for Harry."

"No, nor if he arranged to meet Cecily Gainsborough--Cecily Tristram, I

mean."

"I thought he looked--well, as if he was hit--when you mentioned Addie."

"Oh, there's really no telling with Robert. It went off very well

indeed. What a lucky thing he came!"

Still bewildered, Mina began, all the same, to assimilate this

atmosphere of contentment and congratulation.

"Do you really think I--I had anything to do with it?" she asked, a new

pride swelling in her heart.

"Yes, yes, you attracted his attention."

"He was amused at you, my dear."

"Then I'm glad." She meant that her sufferings would perhaps not go

unrecompensed.

"You must bring Lady Tristram to see me," said Lady Evenswood.

"Cecily? Oh--well, I'll try."

Lady Evenswood smiled and Southend laughed outright. It was not quite

the way in which Lady Evenswood's invitations were generally received.

But neither of them liked Mina less.

It was something to go back to the tiny house between the King's and

Fulham Road with the record of such adventures as these. Cecily was

there, languid and weary; she had spent the whole day in that hammock in

the strip of garden in which Sloyd had found her once. Despondency had

succeeded to her excitement--this was all quite in the Tristram way--and

she had expected no fruit from Mina's expedition. But Mina came home,

not indeed with anything very definite, yet laden with a whole pack of

possibilities. She put that point about the viscounty, which puzzled

her, first of all. It alone was enough to fire Cecily to animation. Then

she led up, through Lady Evenswood, to Mr Disney himself, confessing

however that she took the encouragement which that great man had given

on faith from those who knew him better than she did. Her own impression

would have been that he meant to dismiss the whole thing as impossible

nonsense.

"Still I can't help thinking we've done something," she ended in

triumph.

"Mina, are you working for him or for me?"

This question faced Mina with a latent problem which she had hitherto

avoided. And now she could not solve it. For some time back she had been

familiarized with the fact that her life was dull when Harry Tristram

passed out of it. The accepted explanation of that state of feeling was

simple enough. But then it would involve Cecily in her turn passing out

of view, or at least becoming entirely insignificant. And Mina was not

prepared for that. She tried hard to read the answer, regarding Cecily

earnestly the while.

"Mayn't I work for both of you?" she asked at last.

"Well, I can't see why you should do that," said Cecily, rolling out of

the hammock and fretfully smoothing her hair.

"I'm a busy-body. That's it," said Mina.

"You know what'll happen if he finds it out? Harry, I mean. He'll be

furious with both of us."

Mina reflected. "Yes, I suppose he will," she admitted. But the spirit

of self-sacrifice was on her, perhaps also that of adventure. "I don't

care," she said, "as long as I can help."

There was a loud knock at the door. Mina rushed into the front room and

saw a man in uniform delivering a letter. The next moment the maid

brought it to her--a long envelope with "First Lord of the Treasury"

stamped on the lower left-hand corner. She noticed that it was addressed

to Lady Evenswood's house, and must have been sent on post haste. She

tore it open. It was headed "Private and Confidential."

"MADAME--I am directed by Mr Disney to request you to state in

writing, for his consideration, any facts which may be within your

knowledge as to the circumstances attendant on the marriage of the

late Lady Tristram of Blent, and the birth of her son Mr Henry

Austen Fitzhubert Tristram. I am to add that your communication

will be considered confidential.--I am, Madame, Yours faithfully,

BROADSTAIRS.

"MADAME ZABRISKA."

"Cecily, Cecily, Cecily!" Mina darted back and thrust this wonderful

document into Cecily's hands. "He does mean something, you see, he will

do something!" she cried. "Oh, who's Broadstairs, I wonder."

Cecily took the letter and read. The Imp reappeared with a red volume in

her hand.

"Viscount Broadstairs--eldest son of the Earl of Ramsgate!" she read

with wide-open eyes. "And he says he's directed to write, doesn't he?

Well, you are funny in England! But I don't wonder I was afraid of Mr

Disney."

"Oh, Mr Disney's secretary, I suppose. But, Mina----" Cecily was alive

again now, but her awakening did not seem to be a pleasant one. She

turned suddenly from her friend and, walking as far off as the little

room would let her, flung herself into a chair.

"What's the matter?" asked Mina, checked in her excited gayety.

"What will Harry care about anything they can give him without Blent?"

Mina flushed. The conspiracy was put before her--not by one of the

conspirators but by her who was the object of it. She remembered Lady

Evenswood's question and Southend's. She had answered that it might not

much matter whether Harry liked his cousin or not. He had not loved

Janie Iver. Where was the difference?

"He won't want anything if he can't have Blent. Mina, did they say

anything about me to Mr Disney?"

"No," cried Mina eagerly.

"But they will, they mean to?" Cecily was leaning forward eagerly now.

Mina had no denial ready. She seemed rather to hang on Cecily's words

than to feel any need of speaking herself. She was trying to follow

Cecily's thoughts and to trace the cause of the apprehension, the terror

almost, that had come on the girl's face.

"He'll see it--just as I see it!" Cecily went on. "And, Mina----"

She paused again. Still Mina had no words, and no comfort for her. This

sight of the other side of the question was too sudden. It was Harry

then, and Harry only, who had really been in her thoughts; and Cecily,

her friend, was to be used as a tool. There might be little ground for

blaming Southend who had never seen her, or Lady Evenswood who had been

brought in purely in Harry's interest. But how stood Mina, who was

Cecily's friend? Yet at last a thought flashed into her mind and gave

her a weapon.

"Well, what did you come to London for?" she cried defiantly. "Why did

you come, unless you meant that too?"

Cecily started a little and lay back in her chair.

"Oh, I don't know," she murmured despondently. "He hates me, but if he's

offered Blent and me he'll--he'll take us both, Mina, you know he will."

An indignant rush of color came on her cheeks. "Oh, it's very easy for

you!"

In a difficulty of that sort it did not seem that even Mr Disney could

be of much avail.

"Oh, you Tristrams!" cried Mina in despair.

XIX

IN THE MATTER OF BLINKHAMPTON

Pity for the commander who, while engaging the enemy on his front with

valor and success, breaking his line and driving him from his position,

finds himself assailed in the rear by an unexpected or despised foe and

the prize of victory suddenly wrenched from him! His fate is more bitter

than if he had failed in his main encounter, his self-reproaches more

keen.

Major Duplay was awakening to the fact that this was his situation.

Triumph was not his although Harry Tristram had fled from the battle.

Iver's carefully guarded friendliness and the touch of motherly

compassion in his wife's manner, Mrs Trumbler's tacit request (conveyed

by a meek and Christian sympathy) that he should bow to the will of

Providence, Miss S.'s malicious questions as to where he meant to spend

the winter after leaving Merrion, told him the opinion of the world.

Janie Iver had begun to think flirtation wrong; and there was an

altogether new and remarkable self-assertion about Bob Broadley. The

last thing annoyed Duplay most. It is indeed absurd that a young man,

formerly of a commendable humility, should think a change of demeanor

justified merely because one young woman, herself insignificant, chooses

for reasons good or bad to favor him. Duplay assumed to despise Bob; it

is often better policy to despise people than to enter into competition

with them, and it is always rash to do both. These and other truths--as,

for example, that for some purposes it is better not to be

forty-four--the Major was learning. Was there any grain of comfort? It

lay in the fact that he was forty-four. A hypothetical, now impossible,

yet subtly soothing Major of thirty routed Bob Broadley and carried all

before him. In other words Duplay was driven back to the Last Ditch of

Consolation. What we could have done is the latest-tried plaster for the

wound of what we cannot do; it would be wise to try it sometimes a

little earlier.

From the orthodox sentimentalist he could claim no compassion. He had

lost not his heart's love but a very comfortable settlement; he was

wounded more in his vanity than in his affections; he had wasted not his

life, only one of his few remaining effective summers. But the more lax,

who base their views on what men generally are, may spare him one of

those less bitter tears which they appropriate to the misfortunes of

others. If the tear as it falls meets a smile,--why not? Such encounters

are hardly unexpected and may well prove agreeable.

There was another disconsolate person in the valley of the Blent--little

Mr Gainsborough, left alone in the big house with a note from his

daughter commanding him to stay there and to say nothing to anybody. He

was lonely, and nervous with the servants; the curios gave him small

pleasure since he had not bought them, and, if he had, they would not

have been cheap. For reasons before indicated, Blentmouth and the

curiosity-shop there had become too dangerous. Besides, he had no money;

Cecily had forgotten that detail in her hurried flight. A man cannot

spend more than a portion of his waking hours in a library or over

pedigrees. Gainsborough found himself regretting London and the little

house. If we divide humanity into those who do things and those who have

to get out of the way while they are being done (just as reasonable a

division as many adopted by statisticians) Gainsborough belonged to the

latter class; like most of us perhaps, but in a particularly

unmistakable degree. And he knew he did--not perhaps like most of us in

that. He never thought even of appealing to posterity.

Meanwhile Janie Iver was behaving as a pattern daughter, cherishing her

mother and father and making home sweet, exercising, in fact, that

prudent economy of wilfulness which preserves it for one great decisive

struggle, and scorns to fritter it away on the details of daily life.

Girls have adopted these tactics from the earliest days (so it is

recorded or may be presumed), and wary are the parents who are not

hoodwinked by them or, even if they perceive, are altogether unsoftened.

Janie was very saintly at Fairholme; the only sins which she could have

found to confess (not that Mr Trumbler favored confession--quite the

contrary) were certain suppressions of truth touching the direction in

which she drove her dog-cart--and even these were calculated to avoid

the giving of pain. As for the Tristrams--where were they? They seemed

to have dropped out of Janie's story.

Iver needed comfort. There is no disguising it, however much the

admission may damage him in the eyes of that same orthodox

sentimentalist. He had once expounded his views to Mr Jenkinson Neeld

(or rather one of his expositions of them has been recorded, there

having been more than one)--and the present situation did not satisfy

them. Among other rehabilitations and whitewashings, that of the cruel

father might well be undertaken by an ingenious writer; if Nero had had

a grown-up daughter there would have been the chance! Anyhow the attempt

would have met with some sympathy from Iver. Of course a man desires his

daughter's happiness (the remark is a platitude), but he may be allowed

to feel annoyance at the precise form in which it realizes--or thinks

it will realize--itself, a shape that may disappoint the aim of his

career. If he is provided with a son, he has the chance of a more

unselfish benevolence; but Iver was not. Let all be said that could be

said--Bob Broadley was a disappointment. Iver would, if put to it, have

preferred Duplay. There was at least a cosmopolitan polish about the

Major; drawing-rooms would not appal him nor the thought of going to

Court throw him into a perspiration. Iver had been keen to find out the

truth about Harry Tristram, as keen as Major Duplay. At this moment both

of them were wishing that the truth had never been discovered by them

nor flung in the face of the world by Harry himself.

"But darling Janie will be happy," Mrs Iver used to say. She had

surrendered very easily.

He was not really an unnatural parent because he growled once or twice,

"Darling Janie be hanged!" It was rather his wife's attitude of mind

that he meant to condemn.

Bob himself was hopeless from a parent's point of view. He was actually

a little touched by Mrs Trumbler's way of looking at the world; he did

think--and confessed it to Janie--that there was something very

remarkable in the way Harry Tristram had been cleared from his path. He

was in no sense an advanced thinker, and people in love are apt to

believe in what are called interpositions. Further, he was primitive in

his ideas; he had won the lady, and that seemed to him enough. It was

enough, if he could keep her; and in these days that really depends on

herself. Moreover he had no doubt of keeping her; his primitiveness

appears again; with the first kiss he seemed to pass from slave to

master. Many girls would have taught him better. Janie was not one. She

seemed rather to acquiesce, being, it must be presumed, also of a

somewhat primitive cast of mind. It was terribly clear to Iver that the

pair would stand to one another and settle down in inglorious

contentment together for their lives. Yes, it was worse than Duplay;

something might have been made of him. As for Harry--Iver used to end by

thinking how sensible a man old Mr Neeld was; for Mr Neeld had

determined to hold his tongue.

There was another vexation, of a different kind indeed, but also a check

in his success. Blinkhampton was not going quite right. Blinkhampton was

a predestined seaside resort on the South Coast, and Iver, with certain

associates, meant to develop it. They had bought it up, and laid it out

for building, and arranged for a big hotel with Birch & Company, the

famous furnishers. But all along in front of it--between where the

street now was and the esplanade was soon to be--ran a long narrow

strip, forming the estate of an elderly gentleman named Masters. Of

course Masters had to be bought out, the whole scheme hanging on that.

Iver, keen at a bargain, hard in business hours (had not Mina Zabriska

discovered that?), confident that nobody would care to incur his

enmity--he was powerful--by forestalling him, had refused Masters his

price; the old gentleman would have to come down. But some young men

stepped in, with the rashness of their youth, and acquired an option of

purchase from Masters. Iver smiled in a vexed fashion, but was not

dismayed. He let it be known that anybody who advanced money to the

young men--Sloyd, Sloyd, and Gurney was the firm--would be his enemies;

then he waited for the young men to approach him. They did not come. At

last, pride protesting, prudence insisting, he wrote and suggested that

they might probably be glad to make an arrangement with him. Mr

Sloyd--our Mr Sloyd--wrote back that they had found a capitalist--no

less than that--and proposed to develop their estate themselves, to put

up their own hotel, also a row of boarding-houses, a club, a winter

garden, and possibly an aquarium. Youth and a sense of elation caused

Sloyd to add that they would always be glad to cooperate with other

gentlemen interested in Blinkhampton.

Iver had many irons in the fire; he could no more devote himself

exclusively and personally to Blinkhampton than Napoleon could spend all

his time in the Peninsula. The transaction was important, yet hardly

vital; besides Iver himself could keep his ear to the telephone. It was

an opportunity for Bob to win his spurs; Iver proposed to him to go to

town and act as his representative.

"I'm afraid you'll lose the game if I play it for you, Mr Iver,"

responded Bob, with a shake of his head and a good-humored smile. "I'm

not accustomed to that sort of job, you know."

"It would be a good chance for you to begin to learn something of

business."

"Well, you see, farming's my business. And I don't think I'm a fool at

that. But building speculations and so on----" Bob shook his head again.

The progressive man gazed in wonder at the stationary. (We divide

humanity again.)

"You've no desire for--for a broader sphere?" he asked.

"Well, I like a quiet life, you see--with my horses, and my crops, and

so on. Don't believe I could stand the racket." So far as physique was

concerned, Bob could have stood penal servitude and a London Season

combined.

"But it's an opening," Iver persisted, by now actually more puzzled than

angry. "If you found yourself at home in the work, it might lead to

anything." He resisted the temptation to add, "Look at me!" Did not

Fairholme, its lawns and green-houses, say as much for him?

"But I don't know that I want anything," smiled Bob. "Of course I'll

have a shot if it'll oblige you," he added. "But---- Well, I'd rather

not risk it, you know."

Janie was there. Iver turned to her in despair. She was smiling at Bob

in an approving understanding way.

"It really isn't what would suit Bob, father," said she. "Besides, if he

went into your business, we should have to be so much in town and hardly

ever be at home at Mingham."

At home at Mingham! What a destiny! Certainly Blent was in the same

valley, but---- Well, a "seat" is one thing, and a farm's another; the

world is to blame again, no doubt. And with men who want nothing, for

whom the word "opening" has no magic, what is to be done? Abstractly

they are seen to be a necessary element in the community; but they do

not make good sons or sons-in-law for ambitious men. Janie, when she had

seen Bob, an unrepentant cheerful Bob, on his way, came back to find her

father sitting sorrowful.

"Dearest father, I'm so sorry," she said, putting her arms round his

neck.

He squared his shoulders to meet facts; he could always do that.

Moreover he looked ahead--that power was also among his gifts--and saw

how presently this thing, like other things, would become a matter of

course.

"That's settled, Janie," said he. "I've made my last suggestion."

She went off in distress to her mother, but was told to "let him alone."

The wisdom of woman and of years spoke. Presently Iver went out to play

golf. But his heart was still bitter within him; he could not resist

the sight of a possible sympathizer; he mentioned to the Major, who was

his antagonist in the game, that it was not often that a young fellow

refused such a chance as he had just offered in vain to Bob Broadley.

His prospective relationship to Bob had reached the stage of being

assumed between Duplay and him, although it had not yet been explicitly

mentioned.

"I wish somebody would try me!" laughed the Major. "I'm kicking my heels

all day down here."

Iver made no reply and played the round in silence. He lost, perhaps

because he was thinking of something else. He liked Duplay, he thought

him clever, and, looking back on the history of the Tristram affair, he

felt somehow that he would like to do the Major a good turn. Were they

not in a sense companions in misfortune?

Two days later Duplay sat in the offices of Sloyd, Sloyd, and Gurney, as

Iver's representative; his mission was to represent to the youthful firm

the exceeding folly of their conduct in regard to Blinkhampton. His

ready brain had assimilated all the facts, and they lost nothing by his

ready tongue. He even made an impression on the enemy.

"It doesn't do to look at one transaction only, Mr Sloyd," he reminded

the spruce but rather nervous young man. "It'll pay you to treat us

reasonably. Mr Iver's a good friend to have and a bad enemy."

"I'm quite alive to all that; but we have obtained a legitimate

advantage and----" Sloyd was evidently a little puzzled, and he glanced

at the clock.

"We recognize that; we offer you two thousand pounds. We take over your

option and give you two thousand." This was the figure that Iver and he

had decided would tempt the young firm; their fear of the great Mr Iver

would make them content with that.

Sloyd was half inclined to be content; the firm would make a thousand;

the balance would be good interest on the capitalist's ten thousand

pounds; and there would still be enough of a victory to soothe the

feelings of everybody concerned.

"I'm expecting the gentleman who is associated with us. If you'll excuse

me, I'll step out and see if he's arrived."

Duplay saw through the suggestion, but he had no objection to permitting

a consultation. He lit his cigar and waited while Sloyd was away. The

Major was in greater contentment with himself than he had been since he

recognized his defeat. Next to succeeding, it is perhaps the pleasantest

thing to make people regret that you have not succeeded. If he proved

his capacity Iver would regret what had happened more; possibly even

Janie would come to regret it. And he was glad to be using his brains

again. If they took the two thousand, if Iver got the Masters estate and

entire control of Blinkhampton for twenty-two thousand, Duplay would

have had a hand in a good bargain. He thought the Sloyds would yield.

"Be strong about it," Iver had said. "These young fellows have plenty of

enterprise, plenty of shrewdness, but they haven't got the grit to take

big chances. They'll catch at a certainty." Sloyd's manner had gone far

to bear out this opinion.

Sloyd returned, but, instead of coming in directly, he held the door and

allowed another to pass in front of him. Duplay jumped up with a

muttered exclamation. What the deuce was Harry Tristram doing there?

Harry advanced, holding out his hand.

"We neither of us thought we should meet in this way, Major Duplay? The

world's full of surprises. I've learnt that anyhow, and I dare say

you've known it a long while."

"You're in this business?" cried the Major, too astonished for any

preamble.

Harry nodded. "Let's get through it," he said. "Because it's very

simple. Sloyd and I have made up our minds exactly what we ought to

have."

It was the same manner that the Major remembered seeing by the

Pool--perhaps a trifle less aggressive, but making up for that by an

even increased self-confidence. Duplay had thought of his former

successful rival as a broken man. He was not that. He had never thought

of him as a speculator in building land. Seemingly that was what he had

become.

Harry sat down by the table, Sloyd standing by him and spreading out

before him a plan of Blinkhampton and the elevation of a row of

buildings.

"You ask us," Harry went on resentfully, almost accusingly, "to throw up

this thing just when we're ready to go ahead. Everything's in train; we

could begin work to-morrow."

"Come, come, where are you going to get the money?" interrupted Duplay.

He felt that he must assert himself.

"Never mind, we can get it; or we can wait till we do. We shut you out

just as badly whether we leave the old buildings or put up new. However,

we shall get it. I'm satisfied as to that."

"You've heard my offer?"

"Yes," smiled Harry. "The reward for getting ahead of Mr Iver is, it

seems, two thousand pounds. It must be done pretty often if it's as

cheap as that! I hope he's well?"

"Quite well, Mr Tristram, thank you. But when you talk of getting ahead

of him----"

"Well, I put it plainly; that's all. I'm new to this, and I dare say

Sloyd here would put it better. But my money's in it, so I like to have

my say."

Both the dislike and the reluctant respect of old days were present in

the Major's mind. He felt that the quality on whose absence Iver had

based his calculations had been supplied. Harry might be ignorant. Sloyd

could supply the knowledge. Harry had that grit which hitherto the firm

had lacked. Harry seemed to guess something of what was passing through

his adversary's mind.

"I don't want to be anything but friendly. Neither Sloyd nor I want

that--especially toward Mr Iver--or toward you, Major. We've been

neighbors." He smiled and went on, smiling still: "Oddly enough, I've

said what I'm going to say to you once before--on a different occasion.

You seem to have been trying to frighten us. I am not to be frightened,

that's all."

Sloyd whispered in his ear; Duplay guessed that he counselled more

urbanity; Harry turned from him with a rather contemptuous little laugh.

"Oh, I've got my living to earn now," Duplay heard him whisper--and

reflected that he had never wasted much time on politeness, even before

that necessity came upon him.

It was strange that Sloyd did not try to take any part in the

discussion. He wore an air of deference, partly due no doubt to Harry's

ability, yet having unmistakably a social flavor about it. Harry's

lordlinesses clung to him still, and had their effect on his business

partner. Duplay lodged an angry inward protest to the effect that they

had none whatever on him.

"Perhaps I'd better just say what we want," Harry pursued. "We've paid

Masters twenty thousand. We may be five hundred more out of pocket.

Never mind that." He pushed away the plans and elevations. "You're

empowered to treat, I suppose?" he asked. Sloyd had whispered to him

again.

"No," said Duplay. "But as a final offer, I think I can pledge Mr Iver

to go as far as five thousand (over and above the twenty thousand of

course)--to cover absolutely everything, you know."

"Multiply your twenty-five by two, and we're your men," said Harry.

"Multiply it by two? Fifty thousand? Oh, nonsense!"

"Twenty out of pocket--thirty profit. I call it very reasonable."

Major Duplay rose with a decisive air.

"I'm afraid I'm wasting your time," he said, "and my own too. I must say

good-afternoon."

"Pray, Major Duplay, don't be so abrupt, sir. We've----" It was Sloyd

who spoke, with an eager gesture as though he would detain the visitor.

Harry turned on him with his ugliest haughtiest scowl.

"I thought you'd left this to me, Sloyd?" he said.

Sloyd subsided, apologetic but evidently terrified. Alas, that the grit

had been supplied! But for that a triumph must have awaited the Major.

Harry turned to Duplay.

"I asked you before if you'd authority to treat. I ask you now if you've

authority to refuse to treat."

"I've authority to refuse to discuss absurdities."

"Doubtless. And to settle what are absurdities? Look here. I don't ask

you to accept that proposal without referring to Mr Iver. I merely say

that is the proposal, and that we give Mr Iver three days to consider

it. After that our offer is withdrawn."

Sloyd was biting his nails--aye, those nails that he got trimmed in

Regent Street twice a week; critical transactions must bring grist to

those skilled in manicure. Duplay glanced from his troubled face to

Harry's solid, composed, even amused mask.

"And you might add," Harry went on, "that it would be a very good thing

if Mr Iver saw his way to run up and have a talk with me. I think I

could make him see the thing from our point of view." Something seemed

to occur to him. "You must tell him that in ordinary circumstances I

should propose to call on him and to come wherever he was, but--well,

he'll understand that I don't want to go to Blentmouth just now."

The implied apology relieved what Duplay had begun to feel an

intolerable arrogance, but it was a concession of form only, and did not

touch the substance. The substance was and remained an ultimatum. The

Major felt aggrieved; he had been very anxious to carry his first

commission through triumphantly and with _éclat_. For the second time

Harry Tristram was in his path.

Harry rose. "That's all we can do to-day," he said. "We shall wait to

hear from Mr Iver."

"I really don't feel justified in putting such a proposition before

him."

"Oh, that's for you to consider," shrugged Harry. "I think I would

though, if I were you. At the worst, it will justify you in refusing to

do business with us. Do you happen to be walking down toward Pall Mall?"

Sloyd's offices were in Mount Street. "Good-day, Sloyd. I'll drop in

to-morrow."

With an idea that some concession might still be forthcoming, not from

any expectation of enjoying his walk, the Major consented to accompany

Harry.

"It was a great surprise to see you appear," he said as they started.

"So odd a coincidence!"

"Not at all," smiled Harry. "You guess why I went into it? No? Well, of

course, I know nothing about such things really. But Sloyd happened to

mention that Iver wanted to buy, so I thought the thing must be worth

buying, and I looked into it." He laughed a little. "That's one of the

penalties of a reputation like Iver's, isn't it?"

"But I didn't know you'd taken to business at all."

"Oh, one must do something. I can't sit down on four hundred a year, you

know. Besides, this is hardly business. By-the-bye, though, I ought to

be as much surprised to see you. We've both lost our situation, is that

it, Major?"

Insensibly the Major began to find him rather pleasanter, not a man he

would ever like really, but all the same more tolerable than he had been

at Blent; so Harry's somewhat audacious reference was received with a

grim smile.

"I knocked you out, you know," Harry pursued. "Left to himself, I don't

believe old Bob Broadley would ever have moved. But I put him up to it."

"What?" Duplay had not expected this.

"Well, you tried to put me out, you see. Besides, Janie Iver liked him,

and she didn't care about you--or me either, for that matter. So just

before I--well, disappeared--I told Bob that he'd win if he went ahead.

And I gather he has won, hasn't he?"

A brief nod from Duplay answered him; he was still revolving the news

about Bob Broadley.

"I'm afraid I haven't made you like me any better," said Harry with a

laugh. "And I don't go out of my way to get myself disliked. Do you see

why I mentioned that little fact about Bob Broadley just now?"

"I confess I don't, unless you wished to annoy me. Or--pardon--perhaps

you thought it fair that I should know?"

"Neither the one nor the other. I didn't do it from the personal point

of view at all. You see, Bob had a strong position--and didn't know it."

Duplay glanced at him. "Well," he said, "what you did didn't help you,

though it hurt me perhaps."

"I told him he had a strong position. Then he took it. Hullo, here we

are in Pall Mall. Now you see, don't you, Major?"

"No, I don't." Duplay was short in manner again.

"You don't see any parallel between Bob's position and our friend's up

there in Mount Street?" Harry laughed again as he held out his hand.

"Well, you tell the story to Iver and see if he does," he suggested.

"Oh, that's what you mean?" growled Duplay.

"Yes," assented Harry, almost gleefully. "That's what I mean; only this

time it won't hurt you, and I think it will help me. You've done all you

could, you know."

The touch of patronage came again. Duplay had hard work to keep his

temper under. Yet now it was rather annoyance that he felt than the

black dislike that he used to harbor. Harry's misfortune had lessened

that. If only Harry had been more chastened by his misfortune the

annoyance might have gone too. Unfortunately, the young man seemed

almost exultant.

"Well, good-by. Write to Sloyd--unless Iver decides to come up. And

don't forget that little story about Bob Broadley! Because you'll find

it useful, if you think of frightening Sloyd. He can't move without

me--and I don't move without my price."

"You moved from Blent," Duplay reminded him, stung to a sudden malice.

"Yes," said Harry thoughtfully. "Yes, so I did. Well, I suppose I had my

price. Good-by." He turned away and walked quickly down the street.

"What was his price?" asked the Major, puzzled. He was not aware that

Harry had got anything out of his surrender; and even Harry himself

seemed rather to conclude that, since he had moved, he must have got his

price than to say that he had got it or to be able to tell what it was.

But all that was not the question now. Duplay sought the telegraph

office and informed Iver of the uncompromising attitude of the enemy. He

added that Harry Tristram was in the business and that Harry suggested

an interview. It was perhaps the most significant tribute that Harry had

yet received when, after a few minutes of surprise and a few more of

consideration, Iver telegraphed back that he would come up to town, and

wished an appointment to be made for him with Mr Tristram. It was

something to force Napoleon to come to the Peninsula.

In fact, the only thing that could upset Iver's plans was blank

defiance. Reviewing his memories of Harry Tristram, he knew that

defiance was just what he had to fear. It was in the blood of the

Tristrams, and prudence made no better a resistance than propriety.

XX

THE TRISTRAM WAY--A SPECIMEN

Harry Tristram had led Lady Evenswood to believe that he would inform

himself of his cousin's state of mind, or even open direct communication

with her. He had done nothing to redeem this implied promise, although

the remembrance of it had not passed out of his mind. But he was

disinclined to fulfil it. In the first place, he was much occupied with

the pursuits and interests of his new life; secondly, he saw no way to

approach her in which he would not seem a disagreeable reminder; he

might even be taken for a beggar or at least regarded as a reproachful

suppliant. The splendor, the dramatic effect of his surrender and of the

scene which had led up to it, would be endangered and probably spoilt by

a resumption of intercourse between them. His disappearance had been

magnificent--no other conclusion could explain the satisfaction with

which he looked back on the episode. There was no material yet for a

reappearance equally striking. When he thought about her--which was not

very often just now--it was not to say that he would never meet her

again; he liked her too well, and she was too deeply bound up with the

associations of his life for that; but it was to decide to postpone the

meeting, and to dream perhaps of some progress or turn of events which

should present him with his opportunity, and invest their renewed

acquaintance with an atmosphere as unusual and as stimulating as that in

which their first days together had been spent. Thus thinking of her

only as she affected him, he remained at heart insensible to the aspect

of the case which Lady Evenswood had commended to his notice. Cecily's

possible unhappiness did not come home to him. After all, she had

everything and he nothing--and even he was not insupportably unhappy.

His idea, perhaps, was that Blent and a high position would console most

folk for somebody else's bad luck; men in bad luck themselves will

easily take such a view as that; their intimacy makes a second-hand

acquaintance with sorrow seem a trifling trouble.

Yet he had known his mother well. And he had made his surrender. Well,

only a very observant man can tell what his own moods may be; it is too

much to ask anybody to prophesy another's; and the last thing a man

appreciates is the family peculiarities--unless he happens not to share

them.

Southend was working quietly; aided by Jenkinson Neeld, he had prepared

an elaborate statement and fired it in at Mr Disney's door, himself

retreating as hastily as the urchin who has thrown a cracker. Lady

Evenswood was trying to induce her eminent cousin to come to tea. The

Imp, in response to that official missive which had made such an

impression on her, was compiling her reminiscences of Heidelberg and

Addie Tristram. Everybody was at work, and it was vaguely understood

that Mr Disney was considering the matter, at least that he had not

consigned all the documents to the waste-paper basket and the writers to

perdition--which was a great point gained with Mr Disney. "No hurry,

give me time"--"don't push it"--"wait"--"do nothing"--"the _status

quo_"--all these various phrases expressed Lord Southend's earnest and

re-iterated advice to the conspirators. A barony had, in his judgment,

begun to be a thing which might be mentioned without a smile. And the

viscounty--Well, said Lady Evenswood, if Robert were once convinced,

the want of precedents would not stop him; precedents must, after all,

be made, and why should not Robert make them?

This then, the moment when all the wise and experienced people were

agreed that nothing could, should, or ought to be done, was the chance

for a Tristram. Addie would have seized it without an instant's

hesitation; Cecily, her blood unavoidably diluted with a strain of

Gainsborough, took two whole days to make the plunge--two days and a

struggle, neither of which would have happened had she been Addie. But

she did at last reach the conclusion that immediate action was

necessary, that she was the person to act, that she could endure no more

delay, that she must herself go to Harry and do the one terrible thing

which alone suited, met, and could save the situation. It was very

horrible to her. Here was its last and irresistible fascination. Mina

supplied Harry's address--ostensibly for the purpose of a letter;

nothing else was necessary but a hansom cab.

In his quiet room in Duke Street, Harry was working out some details of

the proposed buildings at Blinkhampton. Iver was to come to town next

day, and Harry thought that the more entirely ready they seemed to go

on, the more eager Iver would be to stop them; so he was at it with his

elevations, plans, and estimates. It was just six o'clock, and a couple

of quiet hours stretched before him. Nothing was in his mind except

Blinkhampton; he had forgotten himself and his past fortunes, Blent and

the rest of it; he had even forgotten the peculiarities of his own

family. He heard with most genuine vexation that a lady must see him on

urgent business; but he had not experience enough to embolden him to

send word that he was out.

Such a message would probably have availed nothing. Cecily was already

at the door; she was in the room before he had done giving directions

that she should be admitted. Again the likeness which had already worked

on him so powerfully struck him with unlessened force; for its sake he

sprang forward to greet her and met her outstretched hands with his.

There was no appearance of embarrassment about her, rather a great

gladness and a triumph in her own courage in coming. She seemed quite

sure that she had done the right thing.

"You didn't come to me, so I came to you," she explained, as though the

explanation were quite sufficient.

She brought everything back to him very strongly--and in a moment

banished Blinkhampton.

"Does anybody know you've come?"

"No," she smiled. That was a part of the fun. "Mina didn't know I was

going out. You see everybody's been doing something except me and----"

"Everybody doing something? Doing what?"

"Oh, never mind now. Nothing of any real use."

"There's nothing to do," said Harry with a smile and a shrug.

She was a little disappointed to find him looking so well, so cheerful,

so busy. But the new impression was not strong enough to upset the

preconceptions with which she had come. "I've come to tell you I can't

bear it," she said. "Oh, why did you ever do it, Harry?"

"On my honor I don't know," he admitted after a moment's thought. "Won't

you sit down?" He watched her seat herself, actually hoping for the

famous attitude. But she was too excited for it. She sat upright, her

hands clasped on her knees. Her air was one of gravity, of tremulous

importance. She realized what she was going to do; if she had failed to

understand its very unusual character she would probably never have done

it at all.

"I can't bear this state of things," she began. "I can't endure it any

longer."

"Oh, I can, I'm all right. I hope you haven't been worrying?"

"Worrying! I've robbed you, robbed you of everything. Oh, I know you did

it yourself! That makes it worse. How did I come to make you do it?"

"I don't know," he said again. "Well, you seemed so in your place at

Blent. Somehow you made me feel an interloper. And----" He paused a

moment. "Yes, I'm glad," he ended.

"No, no, you mustn't be glad," she cried quickly. "Because it's

unendurable, unendurable!"

"To you? It's not to me. I thought it might be. It isn't."

"Yes, to me, to me! Oh, end it for me, Harry, end it for me!"

She was imploring, she was the suppliant. The reversal of parts, strange

in itself, hardly seemed strange to Harry Tristram. And it made him

quite his old self again. He felt that he had something to give. But her

next words shattered that delusion.

"You must take it back. Let me give it back to you," she prayed.

He was silent a full minute before he answered slowly and coldly:

"From anybody else I should treat that as an insult; with you I'm

willing to think it merely ignorance. In either case the absurdity's the

same." He turned away from her with a look of distaste, almost of

disgust. "How in the world could you do it?" he added by way of climax.

"I could do it. In one way I could." She rose as he turned back to her.

"I want you to have Blent. You're the proper master of Blent. Do you

think I want to have it by accident?"

"You have it by law, not by accident," he answered curtly. He was

growing angry. "Why do you come here and unsettle me?" he demanded. "I

wasn't thinking of it. And then you come here!"

She was apologetic no longer. She faced him boldly.

"You ought to think of it," she insisted. "And, yes, I've come here

because it was right for me to come, because I couldn't respect myself

unless I came. I want you to take back Blent."

"What infernal nonsense!" he exclaimed. "You know it's impossible."

"No," she said; she was calm but her breath came quick. "There's one way

in which it's possible."

In an instant he understood her; there was no need of more words. She

knew herself to be understood as she looked at him; and for a while she

looked steadily. But his gaze too was long, and it became very

searching, so that presently, in spite of her efforts, she felt herself

flushing red, and her eyes fell. The room had become uncomfortably quiet

too. At last he spoke.

"I suppose you remember what I told you about Janie Iver," he said, "and

that's how you came to think I might do this. You must see that that was

different. I gave as much as I got there. She was rich, I was----" He

smiled sourly. "I was Tristram of Blent. You are Tristram of Blent, I

am----" He shrugged his shoulders.

He made no reference to the personal side of the case. She was not hurt,

she was enormously relieved.

"I'm not inclined to be a pensioner on my wife," he said.

She opened her lips to speak; she was within an ace of telling him that,

if this and that went well, he would have so assured and recognized a

position that none could throw stones at him. Her words died away in

face of the peremptory finality of his words and the bitter anger on

his face. She sat silent and forlorn, wondering what had become of her

resolve and her inspiration.

"In my place you would feel as I do," he said a moment later. His tone

was milder. "You can't deny it," he insisted. "Look me in the face and

deny it if you can. I know you too well."

For some minutes longer she sat still. Then she got up with a desolate

air. Everything seemed over; the great offer, with its great scene, had

come to very little. Anticlimax, foe to emotion! She remembered how the

scene in the Long Gallery had gone. So much better, so much better! But

Harry dominated her--and he had stopped the scene. Without attempting to

bid him any farewell she moved toward the door slowly and drearily.

She was arrested by his voice--a new voice, very good-natured, rather

chaffing.

"Are you doing anything particular to-night?" he asked.

She turned round; he was smiling at her in an open but friendly

amusement.

"No," she murmured. "I'm going back home, I suppose."

"To Blent?" he asked quickly.

"No, to our house. Mina's there and----" Her face was puzzled; she left

her sentence unfinished.

"Well, I've got nothing to do. Let's have dinner and go somewhere

together?"

Their eyes met. Gradually Cecily's lightened into a sparkle as her lips

bent and her white teeth showed a little. She was almost laughing

outright as she answered readily, without so much as a show of

hesitation or a hint of surprise, "Yes."

Nothing else can be so ample as a monosyllable is sometimes. If it had

been Harry's object to escape from a tragic or sensational situation he

had achieved it triumphantly. The question was no longer who should have

Blent, but where they should have dinner. Nothing in his manner showed

that he had risked and succeeded in a hazardous experiment; he had

brought her down to the level of common-sense--that is, to his own view

of things; incidentally he had secured what he hoped would prove a very

pleasant evening. Finally he meant to have one more word with her on the

matter of her visit before they parted. His plan was very clear in his

head. By the end of the evening she would have forgotten the exalted

mood which had led her into absurdity; she would listen to a few wise

and weighty words--such as he would have at command. Then the ludicrous

episode would be over and done with forever; to its likeness,

superficially at least rather strong, to that other scene in which he

had been chief actor his mind did not advert.

A very pleasant evening it proved; so that it prolonged itself,

naturally as it were and without express arrangement, beyond dinner and

the play, and embraced in its many hours a little supper and a long

drive in a cab to those distant regions where Cecily's house was

situated. There was no more talk of Blent; there was some of Harry's new

life, its features and its plans; there was a good deal about nothing in

particular; and there was not much of any sort as they drove along in

the cab at one o'clock in the morning.

But Harry's purpose was not forgotten. He bade the cabman wait and

followed Cecily into the house. He looked round it with lively interest

and curiosity.

"So this is where you came from!" he exclaimed with a compassionate

smile. "You do want something to make up for this!"

She laughed as she took off her hat and sank into a chair. "Yes, this

is--home," she said.

"Have you had a pleasant evening?" he demanded.

"You know I have."

"Are you feeling friendly to me?"

Now came the attitude; she threw herself into it and smiled.

"That's what I wanted," he went on. "Now I can say what I have to say."

She sat still, waiting to hear him. There was now no sign of uneasiness

about her. She smiled luxuriously, and her eyes were resting on his face

with evident pleasure. They were together again as they had been in the

Long Gallery; the same contentment possessed her. The inner feeling had

its outward effect. There came on him the same admiration, the same

sense that she commanded his loyalty. When she had come to his rooms

that afternoon he had found it easy to rebuke and to rule her. His

intent for the evening had been the same; he had sought to bring her to

a more friendly mind chiefly that she might accept with greater

readiness the chastening of cool common-sense, and a rebuke from the

decent pride which her proposal had outraged. Harry was amazed to find

himself suddenly at a loss, looking at the girl, hardly knowing how to

speak to her.

"Well?" she said. Where now was the tremulous excitement? She was

magnificently at her ease and commanded him to speak, if he had anything

to say. If not, let him hold his peace.

But he was proud and obstinate too. They came to a conflict there in the

little room--the forgotten cab waiting outside, the forgotten Mina

beginning to stir in her bed as voices dimly reached her ears and she

awoke to the question--where was Cecily?

"If we're to be friends," Harry began, "I must hear no more of what you

said this afternoon. You asked me to be a pensioner, you proposed

yourself to be----"

He did not finish. The word was not handy, or he wished to spare her.

She showed no signs of receiving mercy.

"Very well," she said, smiling. "If you knew everything, you wouldn't

talk like that. I suppose you've no idea what it cost me?"

"What it cost you?"

She broke into a scornful laugh. "You know what it really meant. Still

you've only a scolding for me! How funny that you see one half and not

the other! But you've given me a very pleasant evening, Cousin Harry."

"You must leave my life alone," he insisted brusquely.

"Oh, yes, for the future. I've nothing left to offer, have I? I have

been--refused!" She seemed to exult in the abandonment of her candor.

He looked at her angrily, almost dangerously. For a passing moment she

had a sensation of that physical fear from which no moral courage can

wholly redeem the weak in body. But she showed none of it; her pose was

unchanged; only the hand on which her head rested shook a little. And

she began to laugh. "You look as if you were going to hit me," she said.

"Oh, you do talk nonsense!" he groaned. But she was too much for him; he

laughed too. She had spoken with such a grand security. "If you tell me

to walk out of the door I shall go."

"Well, in five minutes. It's very late."

"Oh, we weren't bred in Bayswater," he reminded her.

"I was--in Chelsea."

"So you say. I think in heaven--no, Olympus--really."

"Have you said what you wanted to say, Cousin Harry?"

"I suppose you hadn't the least idea what you were doing?"

"I was as cool as you were when you gave me Blent."

"You're cool enough now, anyhow," he admitted, in admiration of her

parry.

"Quite, thanks." The hand behind her head trembled sorely. His eyes were

on her, and a confusion threatened to overwhelm the composure of which

she boasted.

"I gave you Blent because it was yours."

"What I offered you is mine."

"By God, no. Never yours to give till you've lost it!"

With an effort she kept her pose. His words hummed through her head.

"Did you say that to Janie Iver?" she mustered coolness to ask him

mockingly.

He thrust away the taunt with a motion of his hand; one of

Gainsborough's gimcracks fell smashed on the floor. Cecily laughed, glad

of the excuse to seem at her ease.

"Hang the thing! If you'd loved me, you'd have been ashamed to do it."

"I was ashamed without loving you, Cousin Harry."

"Oh, do drop 'Cousin' Harry!"

"Well, I proposed to. But you wouldn't." Her only refuge now was in

quips and verbal victories. They served her well, for Harry, less master

of himself than usual, was hindered and tripped up by them. "Still, if

we ever meet again, I'll say 'Harry' if you like."

"Of course we shall meet again." She surprised that out of him.

"It'll be so awkward for me now," she laughed lightly. But her mirth

broke off suddenly as he came closer and stood over her.

"I could hate you for coming to me with that offer," he said.

Almost hating herself now, yet sorely wounded that he should think of

hating her, she answered him in a fury.

"Well then, shouldn't I hate you for giving me Blent? That was worse.

You could refuse, I couldn't. I have it, I have to keep it." In her

excitement she rose and faced him. "And because of you I can't be

happy!" she cried resentfully.

"I see! I ought to have drowned myself, instead of merely going away?

Oh, I know I owe the world at large apologies for my existence, and you

in particular, of course! Unfortunately, though, I intend to go on

existing; I even intend to live a life of my own--not the life of a

hanger-on--if you'll kindly allow me."

"Would any other man in the world talk like this after----?"

"Any man who had the sense to see what you'd done. I'm bound to be a

nuisance to you anyhow. I should be least of a nuisance as your husband!

That was it. Oh, I'm past astonishment at you."

His words sounded savage, but it was not their fierceness that banished

her mirth. It was the new light they threw on that impulse of hers. She

could only fall back on her old recrimination.

"When you gave me Blent----"

"Hold your tongue about Blent," he commanded imperiously. "If it were

mine again, and I came to you and said, 'You're on my conscience, you

fret me, you worry me. Marry me, and I shall be more comfortable!' What

then?"

"Why, it would be just like you to do it!" she cried in malicious

triumph.

"The sort of thing runs in the family, then." She started at the

plainness of his sneer. "Oh, yes, that was it. Well, what would your

answer be? Shall I tell you? You'd ask the first man who came by to kick

me out of the room. And you'd be right."

The truth of his words pierced her. She flushed red, but she was

resolved to admit nothing. Before him, at any rate, she would cling to

her case, to the view of her own action to which she stood committed. He

at least should never know that now at last he had made her bitterly and

horribly ashamed, with a shame not for what she had proposed to do

herself, but for what she had dared to ask him to do. She saw the thing

now as he saw it. Had his manner softened, had he made any appeal, had

he not lashed her with the bitterest words he could find, she would have

been in tears at his feet. But now she faced him so boldly that he took

her flush to mean anger. He turned away from her and picked up his hat

from the chair on which he had thrown it.

"Well, that's all, isn't it?" he asked.

Before she had time to answer, there was a cry from the doorway, full of

astonishment, consternation, and (it must be added) outraged propriety.

For it was past two o'clock and Mina Zabriska, for all her freakishness,

had been bred on strict lines of decorum. "Cecily!" she cried. "And

you!" she added a moment later. They turned and saw her standing there

in her dressing-gown, holding a candle. The sudden turn of events, the

introduction of this new figure, the intrusion that seemed so absurd,

overcame Cecily. She sank back in her chair, and laid her head on her

hands on the table, laughing hysterically. Harry's frown grew heavier.

"Oh, you're there?" he said to Mina. "You're in it too, I suppose? I've

always had the misfortune to interest you, haven't I? You wanted to turn

me out first. Now you're trying to put me in again, are you? Oh, you

women, can't you leave a man alone?"

"I don't know what you're talking about. And what are you doing here? Do

you know it's half-past two?"

"It would be all the same to me if it was half-past twenty-two," said

Harry contemptuously.

"You've been with her all the time?"

"Oh, lord, yes. Are you the chaperon?" He laughed, as he unceremoniously

clapped his hat on his head. "We've had an evening out, my cousin and I,

and I saw her home. And now I'm going home. Nothing wrong, I hope,

Madame Zabriska?"

Cecily raised her head; she was laughing still, with tears in her eyes.

Mina looked at her. Considerations of propriety fell into the

background.

"But what's it all about?" she cried.

"I'll leave Cecily to tell you." He was quiet now, but with a vicious

quietness. "I've been explaining that I have a preference for being left

alone. Perhaps it may not be superfluous to mention the fact to you too,

Madame Zabriska. My cab's waiting. Good-night." He looked a moment at

Cecily, and his eyes seemed to dwell a little longer than he had meant.

In a tone rather softer and more gentle he repeated, "Good-night."

Cecily sprang to her feet. "I shall remember!" she cried. "I shall

remember! If ever--if ever the time comes, I shall remember!" Her voice

was full of bitterness, her manner proudly defiant.

Harry hesitated a moment, then smiled grimly. "I shouldn't be able to

complain of that," he said, as he turned and went out to his cab.

Cecily threw herself into her chair again. The bewildered Imp stood

staring at her.

"I didn't know where you were," Mina complained.

"Oh, it doesn't matter."

"Fancy being here with him at this time of night!"

Cecily gave no signs of hearing this superficial criticism on her

conduct.

"You must tell me what it's all about," Mina insisted.

Cecily raised her eyes with a weary air, as though she spoke of a

distasteful subject unwillingly and to no good purpose.

"I went to tell him he could get Blent back by marrying me."

"Cecily!" Many emotions were packed into the cry. "What did he say?"

Cecily seemed to consider for a moment, then she answered slowly:

"Well, he very nearly beat me--and I rather wish he had," she said.

The net result of the day had distinctly not been to further certain

schemes. All that had been achieved--and both of them had contributed to

it--was an admirable example of the Tristram way.

XXI

THE PERSISTENCE OF BLENT

Harry Tristram awoke the next morning with visions in his head--no

unusual thing with young men, yet strange and almost unknown to him.

They had not been wont to come at Blent, nor had his affair with Janie

Iver created them. Possibly a constant, although unconscious, reference

of all attractions to the standard, or the tradition, of Addie

Tristram's had hitherto kept him free; or perhaps it was merely that

there were no striking attractions in the valley of the Blent. Anyhow

the visions were here now, a series of them covering all the hours of

the evening before, and embodying for him the manifold changes of

feeling which had marked the time. He saw himself as well as Cecily, and

the approval of his eyes was still for himself, their irritation for

her. But he could not dismiss her from the pictures; he realized this

with a new annoyance. He lay later than his custom was, looking at her,

recalling what she had said as he found the need of words to write

beneath each mental apparition. Under the irritation, and greater than

it, was the same sort of satisfaction that his activities had given

him--a feeling of more life and broader; this thing, though rising out

of the old life, fitted in well with the new. Above all, that sentence

of hers rang in his head, its extravagance perhaps gaining pre-eminence

for it: "If ever the time comes, I shall remember!" The time did not

seem likely to come--so far as he could interpret the vague and rather

threadbare phrase--but her resolution stirred his interest, and ended by

exacting his applause. He was glad that she had resisted, and had not

allowed herself to be trampled on. Though the threat was very empty, its

utterance showed a high spirit, such a spirit as he still wished to

preside over Blent. It was just what his mother might have said, with an

equal intensity of determination and an equal absence of definite

purpose. But then the whole proceedings had been just what he could

imagine his mother bringing about. Consequently he was rather blind to

the extraordinary character of the step Cecily had taken; so far he was

of the same clay as his cousin. He was, however, none the less outraged

by it, and none the less sure that he had met it in the right way. Yet

he did not consider that there was any quarrel between them, and he

meant to see more of her; he was accustomed to "scenes" occurring and

leaving no permanent estrangement or bitterness; the storms blew over

the sand, but they did not in the end make much difference in the sand.

There was work to be done--the first grave critical bit of work he had

ever had to do, the first real measuring of himself against an opponent

of proved ability. So he would think no more about the girl. This

resolve did not work. She, or rather her apparition, seemed to insist

that she had something to do with the work, was concerned in it, or at

least meant to look on at it. Harry found that he had small objection,

or even a sort of welcome for her presence. Side by side with the man's

pleasure in doing the thing, there was still some of the boy's delight

in showing he could do it. What had passed yesterday, particularly that

idea of doing things for him which he had detected and raged at, made it

additionally pleasant that he should be seen to be capable of doing

things for himself. All this was vague, but it was in his mind as he

walked to Sloyd's offices.

Grave and critical! Sloyd's nervous excitement and uneasy deference

toward Iver were the only indications of any such thing. Duplay was

there in the background, cool and easy. Iver himself was inclined to

gossip with Harry and to chaff him on the fresh departure he had made,

rather than to settle down to a discussion of Blinkhampton. That was

after all a small matter--so his manner seemed to assert; he had been in

town anyhow, so he dropped in; Duplay had made a point of it in his

scrupulous modesty as to his own experience. Harry found that he could

resist the impression he was meant to receive only by saying to himself

as he faced his old friend and present antagonist: "But you're

here--you're here--you're here!" Iver could neither gossip nor argue

that fact away.

"Well now," said Iver with a glance at his watch, "we must really get to

business. You don't want to live in Blinkhampton, you gentlemen, I

suppose? You want to leave a little better for your visit, eh? Quite so.

That's the proper thing with the sea-side. But you can't expect to find

fortunes growing on the beach. Surely Major Duplay mistook your

figures?"

"Unless he mentioned fifty thousand, he did," said Harry firmly.

"H'm, I did you injustice, Major--with some excuse, though. Surely, Mr

Sloyd----?" He turned away from Harry as he spoke.

"I beg pardon," interrupted Harry. "Am I to talk to Major Duplay?"

Iver looked at him curiously. "Well, I'd rather talk to you, Harry," he

said. "And I'll tell you plainly what I think. Mr Sloyd's a young

business man--so are you."

"I'm a baby," Harry agreed.

"And blackmailing big people isn't a good way to start." He watched

Harry, but he did not forget to watch Sloyd too. "Of course I use the

word in a figurative sense. The estate's not worth half that money to

you; we happen to want it--Oh, I'm always open!--So----" He gave a

shrug.

"Sorry to introduce new and immoral methods into business, Mr Iver. It

must be painful to you after all these years." Harry laughed

good-humoredly. "I shall corrupt the Major too!" he added.

"We'll give you five thousand for your bargain--twenty-five in all."

"I suggested to Major Duplay that being ahead of you was so rare an

achievement that it ought to be properly recognized."

Duplay whispered to Iver. Sloyd whispered to Harry. Iver listened

attentively, Harry with evident impatience. "Let it go for thirty, don't

make an enemy of him," had been Sloyd's secret counsel.

"My dear Harry, the simple fact is that the business won't stand more

than a certain amount. If we put money into Blinkhampton, it's because

we want it to come out again. Now the crop will be limited." He paused.

"I'll make you an absolutely final offer--thirty."

"My price is fifty," said Harry immovably.

"Out of the question."

"All right." Harry lit a cigarette with an air of having finished the

business.

"It simply cannot be done on the figures," Iver declared with genuine

vexation. "We've worked it out, Harry, and it can't be done. If I showed

our calculations to Mr Sloyd, who is, I'm sure, willing to be

reasonable----"

"Yes, Mr Iver, I am. I am, I hope, always desirous of--er--meeting

gentlemen half-way; and nothing could give me greater pleasure than to

do business with you, Mr Iver."

"Unfortunately you seem to have--a partner," Iver observed. "No, I've

told you the most we can give." He leant back in his chair. This time it

was he who had finished business.

"And I've told you the least we can take."

"It's hopeless. Fifty! Oh, we should be out of pocket. It's really

unreasonable." He was looking at Sloyd. "It's treating me as an

enemy,--and I shall have no alternative but to accept the situation.

Blinkhampton is not essential to me; and your hotel and so on won't

flourish much if I leave my tumble-down cottages and pigsties just

behind them. Will you put these papers together, Duplay?"

The Major obeyed leisurely. Sloyd was licking his lips and looking

acutely unhappy.

"You're absolutely resolved, Harry?"

"Absolutely, Mr Iver."

"Well, I give it up. It's bad for me, and it's worse for you. In all my

experience I never was so treated. You won't even discuss! If you'd said

thirty-five, well, I'd have listened. If you'd even said forty, I'd

have----"

"I say, done for forty!" said Harry quietly. "I'd a sort of idea all the

time that that might be your limit. I expect the thing really wouldn't

stand fifty, you know. Oh, that's just my notion."

Iver's face was a study. He was surprised, he was annoyed, but he was

also somewhat amused. Harry's acting had been good. That obstinate,

uncompromising immutable fifty!--Iver had really believed in it. And

forty had been his limit--his extreme limit. He just saw his way to

square his accounts satisfactorily if he were driven to pay that as the

penalty of one of his rare mistakes. He glanced at Sloyd; radiant joy

and relief illumined that young man's face, as he gave his mustache an

upward twirl. Duplay was smiling--yes, smiling. At last Iver smiled too.

Harry was grave--not solemn--but merely not smiling because he did not

perceive anything to smile at. No doubt he was gratified by the success

of his tactics, and pleased that his formidable opponent had been

deceived by them. But he thought nothing of what impressed Iver most.

The tactics had been, no doubt, well conceived and carried out, but they

were ordinary enough in their nature; Iver himself, and dozens of men he

had met, could have executed them as well. What struck him was that

Harry knew how far he could go, that he stopped on the verge, but not

beyond the boundary where a deal was possible. Mere guesswork could not

account for that, nor had he commanded the sources of information which

would have made the conclusion a matter of ordinary intelligent

calculation. No, he had intuitions; he must have an eye. Now eyes were

rare; and when they were found they were to be used. Iver was much

surprised at finding one in Harry. Yet it must be in Harry; Iver was

certain that Sloyd had known nothing of the plan of campaign or of the

decisive figure on which his associate had pitched.

"I'll give you forty," he said at last. "For the whole thing, lock,

stock, and barrel--forty."

"It's a bargain," said Harry, and Iver, with a sigh (for forty was the

extreme figure), pushed back his chair and rose to his feet.

"We've got a good many plans, sir," suggested Sloyd, very anxious to

establish pleasant relations. "I'm sure we should be very glad if you

found them of any service."

"You're very good, Mr Sloyd, but----"

"You may as well have a look at them," interrupted Harry. "There are one

or two good ideas. You'll explain them, won't you, Sloyd?"

Sloyd had already placed one in Iver's hand, who glanced at it, took

another, compared them, and after a minute's pause held both out to the

Major.

"Well, Duplay, suppose you look at them and hear anything that Mr Sloyd

is good enough to say, and report to me? You're at leisure?"

"Certainly," said Duplay. He was in good humor, better perhaps than if

his chief had proved more signally successful. Harry turned to him,

smiling.

"I saw Madame Zabriska last night, at Lady Tristram's house. She's

forsaken you, Major?"

"Mina's very busy about something," smiled the Major.

"Yes, she generally is," said Harry, frowning a little. "If she tells

you anything about me----"

"I'm not to believe it?"

"You may believe it, but not the way she puts it," laughed Harry.

"Now there's an end of business! Walk down to the Imperium with me,

Harry, and have a bit of lunch. You've earned it, eh? How do you like

the feeling of making money?"

"Well, I think it might grow on a man. What's your experience?"

"Sometimes better than this morning, or I should hardly have been your

neighbor at Fairholme."

The two walked off together, leaving Duplay and Sloyd very amicable.

Iver was thoughtful.

"You did that well," he said as they turned the corner into Berkeley

Square.

"I suppose I learnt to bluff a bit when I was at Blent."

"That was all right, but--well, how did you put your finger on the

figure?"

"I don't know. It looked like being about that, you know."

"It was very exactly that," admitted Iver.

"Rather a surprise to find our friend the Major going into business with

you."

"He'll be useful, I think, and--well, I'm short of help." He was eying

Harry now, but he said no more about the morning's transaction till they

reached the club.

"Perhaps we shall find Neeld here," he remarked, as they went in.

They did find Neeld, and also Lord Southend, the latter gentleman in a

state of disturbance about his curry. It was not what any man would

seriously call a curry; it was no more than a fortuitous concurrence of

mutton and rice.

"It's an extraordinary thing," he observed to Iver, "that whenever

Wilmot Edge is away, the curries in this club go to the devil--to the

devil. And he's always going off somewhere, confound him!"

"He can't be expected to stay at home just to look after your curry,"

Iver suggested.

"I suppose he's in South America, or South Africa, or South somewhere or

other out of reach. Waiter!" The embarrassed servant came. "When is

Colonel Edge expected back?"

"In a few weeks, I believe, my Lord."

"Who's Chairman of the Committee while he's away?"

"Mr Gore-Marston, my Lord."

"There--what can you expect?" He pushed away his plate. "Bring me some

cold beef," he commanded, and the waiter brought it with an air that

said "Ichabod" for the Imperium. "As soon as ever Edge comes back, I

shall draw his attention to the curry."

Everybody else had rather lost their interest in the subject. Neeld and

Harry were in conversation. Iver sat down by Southend, and, while lunch

was preparing, endeavored to distract his mind by giving him a history

of the morning. Southend too was concerned in Blinkhampton. Gradually

the curry was forgotten as he listened to the story of Harry's victory.

"Sort of young fellow who might be useful?" he suggested presently.

"That's what I was thinking. He's quite ready to work too, I fancy."

Southend regarded his friend. He was thinking that if this and that

happened--and they were things now within the bounds of

possibility--Iver might live to be sorry that Harry was not to be his

son-in-law. Hastily and in ignorance he included Janie in the scope of

this supposed regret. But at this moment the guilty and incompetent Mr

Gore-Marston had the misfortune to come in. Southend, all his grievance

revived, fell on him tooth and nail. His defence was feeble; he admitted

that he knew next to nothing of curries, and--yes, the cook did get

careless when Wilmot Edge's vigilant eye was removed.

"He'll be home soon," Gore-Marston pleaded. "I've had a letter from him;

he's just got back to civilization after being out in the wilderness,

shooting, for six weeks. He'll be here in a month now, I think."

"We shall have to salary him to stay," growled Southend.

Harry was amused at this little episode, and listened smiling.

Possessing a knowledge of curries seemed an odd way to acquire

importance for a fellow-creature, a strange reason for a man's return

being desired. He knew who Wilmot Edge was, and it was funny to hear of

him again in connection with curries. And curries seemed the only reason

why anybody should be interested in Colonel Edge's return. Not till they

met again in the smoking-room were the curries finally forgotten.

In later days Harry came to look back on that afternoon as the beginning

of many new things for him. Iver and Southend talked; old Mr Neeld sat

by, listening with the interest of a man who feels he has missed

something in life and would fain learn, even though he is too old to

turn the knowledge to account. Harry found himself listening too, but in

a different way.

They were not talking idly; they talked for him. That much he soon

discerned. And they were not offering to help him. His vigilant pride,

still sore from the blow that Cecily had dealt it, was on the look-out

for that. But the triumph of the morning, no less than the manner of the

men, reassured him. It is in its way an exciting moment for a young man

when he first receives proof that his seniors, the men of actual

achievement and admitted ability, think that there is something in him,

that he can be of service to them, that it is in his power, if it be in

his will, to emerge from the ruck and take a leading place. Harry was

glad for himself; he would have been touched had he spared time to

observe how delighted old Neeld was on his account. They made him no

gift; they asked work from him, and Iver, true to his traditions and

ingrained ideas, asked money as a guarantee for the work. "You give me

back what I'm going to pay you," he said, "and since you've taken such

an interest in Blinkhampton, turn to and see what you can make of it. It

looked as if there was a notion or two worth considering in those plans

of yours."

Southend agreed to every suggestion with an emphatic nod. But there was

something more in his mind. With every evidence of capability that

Harry showed, even with every increase in the chances of his attaining

position and wealth for himself, the prospect of success in the other

scheme--the scheme still secret--grew brighter. The thought of that

queer little woman Madame Zabriska, Harry's champion, came into his

mind. He would have something to tell her, if ever they met again at

Lady Evenswood's. He would have something to tell Lady Evenswood herself

too. He quite forgot his curry--and Colonel Wilmot Edge, who derived his

importance from it.

Nothing was settled; there were only suggestions for Harry to think

over. But he was left quite clear that everything depended on himself

alone, that he had only to will and to work, and a career of prosperous

activity was before him. The day had more than fulfilled its promise;

what had seemed its great triumph appeared now to be valuable only as an

introduction and a prelude to something larger and more real. Already he

was looking back with some surprise on the extreme gravity which he had

attached to his little Blinkhampton speculation. He grew very readily

where he was given room to grow; and all the while there was the impulse

to show himself--and others too--that he did not depend on Blent or on

having Blent. Blent or no Blent, he was a man who could make himself

felt. He was on his trial still of course; but he did not doubt of the

verdict. When a thing depended for success or failure on Harry alone,

Harry had never been in the habit of doubting the result. The Major had

noticed that trait in days which seemed now quite long ago; the Major

had not liked it, but in the affairs of life it probably had some value.

Except for one thing he seemed to be well settled into his new

existence. People had stopped staring at him. They had almost ceased to

talk of him. He was rapidly becoming a bygone story. Even to himself it

seemed months since he had been Tristram of Blent; he had no idea that

any plans were afoot concerning him which found their basis and

justification in his having filled that position. Except for one thing

he was quit of it all. But that remained, and in such strength as to

color all the new existence. The business of the day had not driven out

the visions of the morning. Real things should drive out fancies; it is

serious, perhaps deplorable, when the real things seem to derive at

least half their importance from the relation that they bear to the

fancies. Perhaps the proper conclusion would be that in such a case the

fancies too have their share of reality.

"Neeld and I go down to Fairholme to-morrow, Harry," said Iver as they

parted. "No chance of seeing you down there, I suppose?"

Neeld thought the question rather brutal; Iver's feelings were not

perhaps of the finest. But Harry was apparently unconscious of anything

that grated.

"Really, I don't suppose I shall ever go there again," he answered with

a laugh. "Off with the old love, you know, Mr Neeld!"

"Oh, don't say that," protested Southend.

There was a hint of some meaning in his speech which made Harry turn to

him with quick attention.

"Blent's a mere memory to me," he declared.

The three elder men were silent, but they seemed to receive what he said

with scepticism.

"Well, that's the only way, isn't it?" he asked.

"Just at present, I suppose," Southend said to him in a low voice, as he

shook hands.

These few words, with the subdued hint they carried, reinforced the

strength of the visions. Harry was rather full of his own will and proud

of his own powers just now--perhaps with some little excuse. But he

began, thanks to the bearing of these men and to the obstinate thoughts

of his own mind, to feel, still dimly, that it was a difficult thing to

forget and to get rid of the whole of a life, to make an entirely fresh

start, to be quite a different man. Unsuspected chains revealed

themselves with each new motion toward liberty. Absolute detachment had

been his ideal. He awoke with a start to the fact that he was still, in

the main, living with and moving among people who smacked strong of

Blent, who had known him as Tristram of Blent, whose lives had crossed

his because he was Addie Tristram's son. That was true of even his new

acquaintance Lady Evenswood--truer still of Neeld, of Southend, aye, of

Sloyd and the Major--most true of his cousin Cecily. This

interdependence of its periods is what welds life into a whole; even

able and wilful young men have, for good and evil, to reckon with it.

Otherwise morality would be in a bad case, and even logic rather at sea.

The disadvantage is that the difficulties in the way of heroic or

dramatic conduct are materially increased.

Yes, he was not to escape, not to forget. That day one scene more

awaited him which rose out of Blent and belonged to Blent. The Imp made

an appointment by telegram, and the Imp came. Harry could no longer

regard his bachelor-chambers as any barrier against the incursions of

excited young women. Anything that concerned the Tristrams seemed

naturally antipathetic to conventions. He surrendered and let Mina in;

that he wanted to see her--her for want of a better--was not recognized

by him. She was in a great temper, and he was soon inclined to regret

his accessibility. Still he endured; for it was an absolutely final

interview, she said. She had just come to tell him what she thought of

him--and there was an end of it. Then she was going back to Merrion and

she hoped Cecily was coming with her. He--Harry--would not be there

anyhow!

"Certainly not," he agreed. "But what's the matter, Madame Zabriska? You

don't complain that I didn't accept--that I couldn't fall in with my

cousin's peculiar ideas?"

"Oh, you can't get out of it like that! You know that isn't the point."

"What in the world is then?" cried Harry. "There's nothing else the

matter, is there?"

Mina could hardly sit still for rage; she was on pins.

"Nothing else?" She gathered herself together for the attack. "What did

you take her to dinner and to the theatre for? What did you bring her

home for?"

"I wanted to be friendly. I wanted to soften what I had to say."

"To soften it! Not you! Shall I tell you what you wanted, Mr Tristram?

Sometimes men seem to know so little about themselves!"

"If you'll philosophize on the subject of men--about which you know a

lot, of course--I'll listen with pleasure."

"It's the horrible selfishness of the thing. Why didn't you send her

away directly? Oh, no, you kept her, you made yourself pleasant, you

made her think you liked her----"

"What?"

"You never thought of anything but yourself all the way through. You

were lecturing her? Oh, no! You were posing and posturing. Being very

fine and very heroic! And then at the end you turned round and--and as

good as struck her in the face. Oh, I hope she'll never speak to you

again!"

"Did she send you to say this?"

"Of course not."

"Yes, of course not! You're right there. If it had happened to be in any

way your business----"

"Ah!" cried the Imp triumphantly. "You've no answer, so you turn round

and abuse me! But I don't care. I meant to tell you what I thought of

you, and I've done it."

"A post-card would have done it as well," Harry suggested.

"But you've gone too far, oh yes, you have. If you ever change your

mind----"

"What about? Oh, don't talk nonsense, Madame Zabriska."

"It's not nonsense. You behaved even worse than I think if you're not at

least half in love with her."

Harry threw a quick glance at her.

"That would be very unlucky for me," he remarked.

"Very--now," said the Imp with every appearance of delight.

"London will be dull without you, Madame Zabriska."

"I'm not going to take any more trouble about you, anyhow."

He rose and walked over to her.

"In the end," he said more seriously, "what's your complaint against

me?"

"You've made Cecily terribly unhappy."

"I couldn't help it. She--she did an impossible thing."

"After which you made her spend the evening with you! Even a Tristram

must have had a reason for that."

"I've told you. I felt friendly and I wanted her to be friendly. And I

like her. The whole thing's a ludicrous trifle." He paused a moment and

added: "I'm sorry if she's distressed."

"You've made everything impossible--that's all."

"I don't understand. It so happens that to-day all sorts of things have

begun to seem possible to me. Perhaps you've seen your uncle?"

"Yes, I have,--and--and it would have been splendid if you hadn't

treated her as you did."

"You hint at something I know nothing about." He was growing angry

again. "I really believe I could manage my own affairs." He returned to

his pet grievance.

"You don't understand? Well, you will soon." She grew cooler as her

mischievous pleasure in puzzling him overcame her wrath. "You'll know

what you've done soon."

"Shall I? How shall I find it out?"

"You'll be sorry when--when a certain thing happens."

He threw himself into a chair with a peevish laugh.

"I confess your riddles rather bore me. Is there any answer to this

one?"

"Yes, very soon. I've been to see Lady Evenswood."

"She knows the answer, does she?"

"Perhaps." Her animation suddenly left her. "But I suppose it's all no

use now," she said dolefully.

They sat silent for a minute or two, Harry seeming to fall into a fit of

abstraction.

"What did you mean by saying I oughtn't to have taken her to dinner and

so on?" he asked, as Mina rose to go.

She shook her head. "I've nothing more to say," she declared.

"And you say I'm half in love with her?"

"Yes, I do," she snapped viciously as she turned toward the door. But

she looked back at him before she went out.

"As far as that goes," he said slowly, "I'm not sure you're wrong,

Madame Zabriska. But I could never marry her."

The Imp launched a prophecy, confidently, triumphantly, maliciously.

"Before very long she'll be the one to say that, and you've got yourself

to thank for it too! Good-by!"

She was gone. Harry sat down and slowly filled and lit his pipe. It was

probably all nonsense; but again he recollected Cecily's words: "If ever

the time comes, I shall remember!"

Whatever might be the state of his feelings toward her, or of hers

toward him, a satisfactory outcome seemed impossible. And somehow this

notion had the effect of spoiling the success of the day for Harry

Tristram; so that among the Imp's whirling words there was perhaps a

grain or two of wisdom. At least his talk with her did not make Harry's

visions less constant or less intense.

XXII

AN INSULT TO THE BLOOD

It could not be denied that Blinkhampton was among the things which

arose out of Blent. To acknowledge even so much Harry felt to be a slur

on his independence, on the new sense of being able to do things for

himself in which his pride, robbed of its old opportunities, was taking

refuge and finding consolation. It was thanks to himself anyhow that it

had so arisen, for Iver was not the man to mingle business and

sentiment. Harry snatched this comfort, and threw his energies into the

work, both as a trial of his powers and as a safeguard against his

thoughts. He went down to the place and stayed a week. The result of his

visit was a report which Iver showed to Southend with a very significant

nod; even the mistakes in it, themselves inevitable from want of

experience, were the errors of a large mind. The touch of dogmatism did

not displease a man who valued self-confidence above all other

qualities.

"The lad will do; he'll make his way," said Iver.

Southend smiled. Lads who are equal to making their own way may go very

far if they are given such a start as he had in contemplation for Harry.

But would things go right? Southend had received an incoherent but

decidedly despairing letter from Mina Zabriska. He put it in the fire,

saying nothing to Lady Evenswood, and nothing, of course, to Mr Disney.

In the end there was perhaps no absolutely necessary connection between

the two parts of the scheme--that which concerned the lady, and that

which depended on the Minister. Yet the first would make the second so

much more easy!

Mr Disney had given no sign yet. There was a crisis somewhere abroad,

and a colleague understood to be self-opinionated; there was a crisis in

the Church, and a bishopric vacant. Lady Evenswood was of opinion that

the least attempt to hurry Robert would be fatal. There were, after all,

limits to the importance of Harry Tristram's case, and Robert was

likely, if worried, to state the fact with his own merciless vigor, and

with that to say good-by to the whole affair. The only person seriously

angry at the Prime Minister's "dawdling," was Mina Zabriska; and she had

enjoyed no chance of telling him so. To make such an opportunity for her

was too hazardous an experiment; it might have turned out well--one

could never tell with Robert--but on the whole it was not to be risked.

What Lady Evenswood would not venture, fortune dared. Mina had been

seeing sights--it was August now, a suitable month for the task--and one

evening, about half-past six, she landed her weary bones on a seat in St

James's Park for a few moments' rest before she faced the Underground.

The place was very empty, the few people there lay for the most part

asleep--workmen with the day's labor done. Presently she saw two men

walking slowly toward her from the direction of Westminster. One was

tall and slight, handsome and distinguished in appearance; in the other

she recognized the rugged awkward man whom she had met at Lady

Evenswood's. He was talking hard, hitting his fist into the palm of his

other hand sometimes. The handsome man listened with deference, but

frowned and seemed troubled. Suddenly the pair stopped.

"I must get back to the House," she heard the handsome man say.

"Well, think it over. Try to see it in that light," said Disney, holding

out his hand. The other took it, and then turned away. The episode would

have been worth a good paragraph and a dozen conjectures to a reporter;

the handsome man was the self-opinionated colleague, and the words Mina

had heard, were they not clear proof of dissensions in the Cabinet?

Disney stood stock-still on the path, not looking after his recalcitrant

colleague, but down on the ground; his thoughts made him unconscious of

things external. Mina glowed with excitement. He was not an awkward man

to her; he was a great and surprising fact, a wonderful institution, the

more wonderful because (to look at him) he might have been a superior

mechanic who had dropped sixpence and was scanning the ground for it.

She was really appalled, but her old instinct and habit of interference,

of not letting things go by her without laying at least a finger on

them, worked in her too. How long would he stand there motionless? As if

the ground could tell him anything! Yet she was not impatient of his

stillness. It was good to sit and watch him.

An artisan swung by, his tools over his back. Mina saw the suddenly

awakened attention with which his head turned to Disney. He slackened

pace a moment, and then, after an apparent hesitation, lifted his cap.

There was no sign that Disney saw him, save that he touched his hat in

almost unconscious acknowledgment. The artisan went by, but stopped,

turned to look again, and exchanged an amused smile with Mina. He

glanced round twice again before he was out of sight. Mina sighed in

enjoyment.

With a quick jerk of his head Disney began to walk on slowly. For an

instant Mina did not know what she would do; the fear and the attraction

struggled. Then she jumped up and walked toward him. Her manner tried

to assert that she had not noticed him. She was almost by him. She gave

a cough. He looked up. Would he know her? Would he remember asking--no,

directing--my lord his secretary to write to her, and had he read what

she wrote? He was looking at her. She dared a hurried little bow. He

came to a stand-still again.

"Yes, yes?" he said questioningly.

"Madame Zabriska, Mr Disney."

"Oh, yes." His voice sounded a little disappointed. "I met you at----?"

"At Lady Evenswood's, Mr Disney." Taking courage she added, "I sent what

you wanted?"

"What I wanted?"

"Yes. What you wanted me to write, about--about the Tristrams."

"Yes." The voice sounded now as if he had placed her. He smiled a

little. "I remember it all now. I read it the other morning." He nodded

at her, as if that finished the matter. But Mina did not move. "I'm busy

just now," he added, "but--Well, how's your side of the affair going on,

Madame Zabriska? I've heard nothing from my cousin about that."

"It's just wonderful to see you like this!" the Imp blurted out.

That amused him; she saw the twinkle in his eye.

"Never mind me. Tell me about the Tristram cousins."

"Oh, you are thinking of it then?"

"I never tell what I'm thinking about. That's the only reason people

think me clever. The cousins?"

"Oh, that's all dreadful. At least I believe they are--they would be--in

love; but--but--Mr Tristram's so difficult, so obstinate, so proud. I

don't suppose you understand----"

"You're the second person who's told me I can't understand, in the last

half-hour." He was smiling now, as he coupled Mina and the handsome

recalcitrant colleague in his protest. "I'm not sure of it."

"And she's been silly, and he's been horrid, and just now--well, it's

all as bad as can be, Mr Disney."

"Is it? You must get it better than that, you know, before I can do

anything. Good-night."

"Oh, stop, do stop! Do say what you mean!"

"I shan't do anything of the kind. You may tell Lady Evenswood what I've

said and she'll tell you what I mean."

"Oh, but please----"

"If you stop me any longer, I shall send you to the Tower. Tell Lady

Evenswood and Southend. If I didn't do my business better than you do

yours----!" He shrugged his shoulders with a good-natured rudeness.

"Good-night," he said again, and this time Mina dared not stop him.

Twenty yards further on he halted once more of his own accord and fell

into thought. Mina watched him till he moved on again, slowly making his

way across the Mall and toward St James's Street. A great thing had

happened to her--she felt that; and she had news too that she was to

tell to Southend and Lady Evenswood. There was considerable unsettlement

in the Imp's mind that night.

The next day found her at Lady Evenswood's. The old lady and Southend

(who had been summoned on Mina's command--certainly Mina was getting up

in the world) understood perfectly. They nodded wise heads.

"I was always inclined to think that Robert would take that view."

"He fears that the Bearsdale case won't carry him all the way. Depend

upon it, that's what he feels."

"Well, there was the doubt there, you see."

Mina was rather tired of the doubt in the Bearsdale case. It was always

cropping up and being mentioned as though it were something exceedingly

meritorious.

"And in poor Addie's case of course there--well, there wasn't,"

proceeded Lady Evenswood with a sigh. "So Robert feels that it might be

thought----"

"The people with consciences would be at him, I suppose," said Southend

scornfully.

"But if the marriage came off----"

"Oh, I see!" cried the Imp.

"Then he would feel able to act. It would look merely like putting

things back as they were, you see, Mina."

"Do you think he means the viscounty?" asked Southend.

"It would be so much more convenient. And they could have had an earldom

once before if they'd liked."

"Oh, twice," corrected Southend confidently.

"I know it's said, but I don't believe it. You mean in 1816?"

"Yes. Everybody knows that they could have had it from Mr Pitt."

"Well, George, I don't believe about 1816. At least my father heard Lord

Liverpool say----"

"Oh, dear me!" murmured the Imp. This historical inquiry was neither

comprehensible nor interesting. But they discussed it eagerly for some

minutes before agreeing that, wherever the truth lay, a viscounty could

not be considered out of the way for the Tristrams--legitimate and

proper Tristrams, be it understood.

"And that's where the match would be of decisive value," Lady Evenswood

concluded.

"Disney said as much evidently. So you understood, Madame Zabriska?"

"I suppose so. I've told you what he said."

"He could take Blentmouth, you know. It's all very simple."

"Well, I'm not sure that our friend Iver isn't keeping that for

himself," smiled Southend.

"Oh, he can be Lord Bricks and Putty," she suggested, laughing. But

there seemed in her words a deplorable hint of scorn for that process by

which the vitality (not to say the solvency) of the British aristocracy

is notoriously maintained. "Blentmouth would do very well for Harry

Tristram."

"Well then, what's to be done?" asked Southend.

"We must give him a hint, George."

"Have we enough to go upon? Suppose Disney turned round and----"

"Robert won't do that. Besides, we needn't pledge anything. We can just

put the case." She smiled thoughtfully. "I'm still not quite sure how Mr

Tristram will take it, you know."

"How he'll take it? He'll jump at it, of course."

"The girl or the title, George?"

"Well, both together. Won't he, Madame Zabriska?"

Mina thought great things of the girl, and even greater, if vaguer, of

the title.

"I should just think so," she replied complacently. There was a limit to

the perversity even of the Tristrams.

"We mustn't put it too baldly," observed Southend, dangling his

eyeglass.

"Oh, he'll think more of the thing itself than of how we put it," Lady

Evenswood declared.

From her knowledge of Harry, the Imp was exactly of that opinion. But

Southend was for diplomacy; indeed what pleasure is there in manoeuvring

schemes if they are not to be conducted with delicacy? A policy that can

be defined on a postage stamp has no attraction for ingenious minds,

although it is usually the most effective with a nation.

Harry Tristram returned from Blinkhampton in a state of intellectual

satisfaction marred by a sense of emotional emptiness. He had been very

active, very energetic, very successful. He had new and cogent evidence

of his power, not merely to start but to go ahead on his own account.

This was the good side. But he discovered and tried to rebuke in himself

a feeling that he had so far wasted the time in that he had seen nobody

and nothing beautiful. Men of affairs had no concern with a feeling like

that. Would Iver have it, or would Mr Disney? Surely not! It would be a

positive inconvenience to them, or at best a worthless asset. He traced

it back to Blent, to that influence which he had almost brought himself

to call malign because it seemed in some subtle way enervating, a thing

that sought to clog his steps and hung about those feet which had need

to be so alert and nimble. Yet the old life at Blent would not have

served by itself now. Was he to turn out so exacting that he must have

both lives before he, or what was in him, could cry "Content"? A man

will sometimes be alarmed when he realizes what he wants--a woman often.

So he came, in obedience to Lady Evenswood's summons, very confident but

rather sombre. When he arrived, a woman was there whom he did not know.

She exhaled fashion and the air of being exactly the right thing. She

was young--several years short of forty--and very handsome. Her manner

was quiet and well-dowered with repressed humor. He was introduced to

Lady Flora Disney, and found himself regarded with unmistakable interest

and lurking amusement. It was no effort to remember that Mr Disney had

married a daughter of Lord Bewdley's. That was enough; just as he knew

all about her, she would know all about him; they were both of the pale

in a sense that their hostess was, but Lord Southend--well, hardly

was--and (absurdly enough) Mr Disney himself not at all. This again was

in patent incongruity with Blinkhampton and smelt wofully strong of

Blent. Lady Evenswood encouraged Harry to converse with the visitor.

"We're a little quieter," she was saying. "The crisis is dormant, and

the bishop's made, and Lord Hove has gone to consult the Duke of

Dexminster--which means a fortnight's delay anyhow, and probably being

told to do nothing in the end. So I sometimes see Robert at dinner."

"And he tells you things, and you're indiscreet about them!" said Lady

Evenswood rebukingly.

"I believe Robert considers me a sort of ante-room to publicity. And

it's so much easier to disown a wife than a journalist, isn't it, Mr

Tristram?"

"Naturally. The Press have to pretend to believe one another," he said,

smiling.

"That's the corner-stone," Southend agreed.

"Great is Diana of the Ephesians!" pursued Lady Flora. "But Diana was

never a wife, if I remember."

"Though how they do it, my dear," marvelled Lady Evenswood, "is what I

don't understand."

"I know nothing about them," Lady Flora declared. "And they know nothing

about me. They stop at my gowns, you know, and even then they always

confuse me with Gertrude Melrose."

"I hope that stops at the gown too?" observed Southend.

"The hair does it, I think. She buys hers at the same shop as I--Now

what do I do, Mr Tristram?"

"You, Lady Flora? You know the shop. Is that enough?"

"Yes, or--well, no. I supplement there. I declare I won't wait any

longer for Robert."

"He won't come now," said Lady Evenswood. "Is the bishop nice, my dear?"

"Oh, yes, quite plump and gaitery! Good-by, dear Cousin Sylvia. I wish

you'd come and see me, Mr Tristram."

Harry, making his little bow, declared that he would be delighted.

"I like to see young men sometimes," observed the lady, retreating.

"The new style," Lady Evenswood summed up, as the door closed.

"And--well, I suppose Robert likes it."