“Naturally, I did not, since I neither knew it, nor believed it.

Compromised, Constantia! That is a dangerous word to use. That involves

a good name.”

“It does indeed, James. It involves ours. I tell you that the girl is

stale.” She might as well have shot him—she had never done herself more

fatal mischief.

He seemed hardly able to look at her, nor did she know him when he did.

“Do you dare speak so of any woman born? To the brother of this

girl’s—do you dare? You have shocked me beyond expression.”

She was certainly frightened—but she had her duty to do. “I am sorry to

have displeased you. I spoke advisedly. I hope that I always do that.”

His pride was stinging him. He spoke now as if he were her

enemy—coldly, as if he hardly knew the woman.

“If, as I am bound to believe, you are speaking with knowledge which I

do not possess, I must ask you to let me share it. This is a very

serious matter both to John and to Mary. With whom do you say she is

compromised?”

Two and two make four, of course—but two shadows and two cannot make

four plump facts. Mrs. James knew that she had gone too far. She had

little but suspicion behind her. “I think that Tristram has made love to

her,” she said, and rehearsed the scene of the garden. As she put it

now, the Rector made a wry face.

“This, at its worst, is discreditable to Tristram. I see your point now.

Mary, you suggest, has had experiences. All girls have them, I suppose,

and certainly are not always the worse for them. You must have something

worse than this to excuse your strong words.”

Mrs. James had. She poured out all the garner of a year’s eye-harvest,

this young man and that young man—a moonlight encounter—God knows what

not. And—“Mrs. Seacox told me,” she said, “that Mary used to be a great

deal in the company of young Rudd. She had seen them kissing.” A sudden

flood of disgust engulfed the Rector of Misperton Brand. He turned

shortly on his heel and paced the carpet. Midway back he stopped.

“I can’t tell you how I sicken at all this gossip—this traffic of nods

and winks. It amounts to little at its worst. I will have no more of it.

It is my duty to believe the best of my neighbours; I have not the eyes

of Mrs. Seacox, nor, I hope, her understanding. I believe Mary to be a

modest and virtuous young woman, and you have told me nothing to vary

that opinion. Such matters—Matters! they are nothing but nasty

surmises—are intensely distasteful to me; I will hear no more.” He went

into his study and shut the door. All the Germains were squeamish.

Rather hard on Mrs. James. And so was felt to be the result of her

elaborate disclosure to the Cantacutes. This was that Hertha de Speyne

went down in person and invited the girl to tea—and that Lady Cantacute

called her “a nice little thing.”

XIII

WHAT THEY SAID AT HOME

In obedience to one of those traditions before which the British parent

lies prone, the moment that Mary Middleham was asked for and granted,

the utmost care was taken that she should see as little as possible of

the man with whom she was to spend her life. Spotless must she be

brought out by the contractors, spotless be transferred to the

purchaser. She was sent for from home, and home she went after a month

of clearing up. There had been much to do; good-byes to say, some to

avoid saying, if so it might be. Mr. Nunn, making her a presentation and

a speech before his assembled seed-plots, also made her cry; but Mrs.

James Germain, in the course of an icy tea-party, whereat the girl was

present, unexplained, unaccounted for, and ignored, until the late entry

of the Rector on the scene very nearly made her defiant. She had a

spirit of her own—and there are ways of showing “persons their place”

which spirited persons may not endure. At that tea-party—under Mrs.

James’s politeness and the chill insolence of Mrs. Duplessis—the

prosperity of Mr. John Germain’s love was like that of a bubble on a

tobacco pipe—its iris globe throbbed towards inward collapse. His

brother saved it to soar; he was charming—easy, homely, cool, and

obviously glad to have her there. Touched profoundly, she became at once

buoyant—as all young people must be if they are to live—and meek. When

the company was gone he had her into his library, and discussed her

affair as a settled, happily settled, thing—ending, rectorwise, with a

little homily, in which he delicately but unmistakably showed her that

she was going into a very new world and had better go in clean raiment.

“Let there be no drawbacks to your future happiness, my dear, of your

own providing. Marriage is the happiest of all states so long as it is a

clear bargain. That is not always possible; with two people of an age

much may be taken for granted. You are young, and your husband is not.

He is wiser than you are and asks nothing better than to help you. Make

him your friend before he makes you his wife; you will never regret it.

And you may begin, I believe, by making a friend of his brother.”

She replied brokenly, lamely, but she was deeply grateful—and he knew

it. Atop of that came Miss de Speyne—the Honourable Hertha de

Speyne—in a fast dog-cart to her cottage door, with an invitation to

tea at the Park. She went—and had the sense to go in her simplest.

Dress, manner, and looks appealed—Here am I, the girl as he found me,

as I pleased him. Make what you please of me—if you please. Lady

Cantacute could make no mistake in a matter of the sort—her manners

were as fine as her instincts. His lordship, even more finely, varied

nothing from his habits; and his daughter could not. There was no

company, and all went well; after tea, better. Miss de Speyne invited

her to walk; they sat in the rose-garden. By-and-by came a question. “I

think you know a friend of mine—Mr. Senhouse?” This had to be

explained. Mr. Senhouse, it appeared, was the gentleman-tinker of Mere

Common. Mary sparkled as she admitted her acquaintance, and after that

all was well indeed. His acts and opinions were debated. Miss de Speyne

thought him cynical, and hinted at some unhealed wound; Miss Middleham

could not admit that. She believed him sound, if not spear-proof.

“He spoke to me of my engagement, but not as anybody else would have

done.”

“Did he like it?”

Mary blushed. “I could hardly say. He spoke very highly of Mr. Germain.

He had met him here, he told me.”

“Yes. I wanted them to meet,” Miss de Speyne said—and Mary wondered.

“He told me, in the course of conversation, that he should never

marry”—she said, presently; but Miss de Speyne, older than her new

friend, held her peace.

At parting, the tall, splendid young woman clasped hands with her

warmly. “Good-bye. It was nice of you to come. I wish I had known you

before—but we’re such fools in the country.”

Mary said, “I hope you won’t forget me after I’m—” She felt delicate

about this astounding marriage. But Miss Hertha reassured her. “When

you’ve settled down, ask me and I shall come and see you. Of course,

you’ll be asked here—but you needn’t come unless you like.” This was

bracing; she began to believe in herself, to say that she had nothing to

fear, and to believe it. But she found out her mistake within a little,

when, in mid-August, she left Misperton Brand, crossed London, and found

her sister Jinny awaiting her on the Blackheath platform.

Jinny, the tall, the pert, the very fair, strikingly attired, despising

all mankind and ignoring all womankind, sailed to meet her, intending to

be patroness still. It was soon to be seen that her claim was not

disputed. “Well, Molly, so here you are. Hand out your traps. And, for

Heaven’s sake, child, put your hat straight. Do you want all the world

to know that you’re engaged?”

Mary laughed, her hands to her hat. “It’s all right, my dear,” she said.

“I’ve come down alone.”

“If you’d come down with your Mr. Germain I should never have accused

_him_ of it, I assure you.” Miss Jinny tossed her head. “Too much the

gentleman by half. Is that all you have? The rest in the van, I suppose.

Well, child, you look well enough, I must say. So he agrees with you?”

They kissed each other on both cheeks.

In the fly, Jinny enlarged upon the recent visit of Mr. Germain. “My

dear! he fairly scared poor father. It was, ‘Yes, sir,’ ‘no, sir,’ from

him all the time—and ‘any arrangements you wish, sir.’ I don’t see that

sort of talk myself—but father was always a worm. What he made of me I

really can’t say—you know my way with gentlemen—take me or leave me

alone, is my rule. Well, he left me alone, and I managed to get over

that, as you see. I’m still the same height in my stockings. So you mean

to be ‘an old man’s darling,’ Molly? Every one to her taste, I suppose.”

“Oh, Jinny, he’s not old.”

“He could be your father, my dear—easily.”

“He’s not going to be, I assure you.”

“Well, we’ll see. I should hope not, of course. One thing’s as plain as

my nose; your people won’t see much of you when you’re boxed up with

that old——”

“Jinny, please!”

“Oh, if you want me to tell falsehoods, my dear, I’ll do my best to

oblige you. I’ll call him young to myself until it comes easy. Practice

makes perfect, they say. Why, here we are! This horse must have the

glanders or something. Perhaps he thought Mr. Germain was after you.

There’s a lot of sense in brute beasts.” All this, which shows the

rights of elder, was meekly received.

Home-coming was nevertheless a sort of triumph. The younger girls—all

tidied up—allowed her to kiss them as if she had become an aunt; father

and mother made much of her; she must see in their faces a sort of

anxious wonder—Can this be our Mary then? Can I have begotten this

young lady? Can these breasts have nourished a Mrs. Germain? She was to

have tea in her hat, which Jinny refused to do; but elaborately removed

it and administered the kettle, the muffins, the slices of bread, the

jam-pot. Blushing and successful as she showed, Mary would have put an

end to this splendid isolation if she could. It was not possible until

tea was over; but then, when her father made her a kind of

speech—clearing his throat and frowning at one of the girls, who was

speaking the deaf and dumb language to another under the table—then

indeed Mary upset all ceremonial, by jumping up, and knocking down her

chair, by throwing herself upon her mother’s lap, her arms around her

mother’s neck, by hiding her face upon her mother’s breast and anointing

that dear cradle with tears. Mr. Middleham’s little speech ended in a

choking fit; the girls looked all their misery; and Jinny sniffed and

hardened her heart. Mary had unbent, but she was made to see that all

her people knew that it was a condescension.

The sisters slept together as of old, and Jinny must be wooed. For

natural reasons Mary must have Jinny’s approbation, must coax and kiss

and strain for it. Jinny was not easily won, but after a passionate

while allowed the back of her mind to be seen. She sat up in bed and

asked a series of questions. They were answered in low murmurs by a

hiding Molly.

“Molly, how did you get off from Misperton?”

“Quite well.”

“H’m. Glad to hear it. No scenes?”

“Mrs. Germain was rather awful. She always hated me. The Rector was

sweet to me. And oh! there was Miss de Speyne—I can’t tell you how kind

she was. Certainly, we had a friend in common . . . but——”

“That’s not what I mean. You can manage _them_, I should hope. I know

that _I_ could. The Rectory, indeed—and you to go out before her!

Molly, did you see _him_ before you went?”

“Who do you mean?” said a suddenly sobered Molly.

“You know quite well who I mean.”

“John Rudd, I suppose. There’s nothing between us—now.”

“John Rudd! John Germain! There’s not only Johns in the world. There’s

an Ambrose—you know.”

“Mr. Perivale! Oh, Jinny, that’s ridiculous. Why, he only——”

“I know what he only—as you call it. I don’t mean that at all—or him

either. I asked you, Did you see _him_ before you went?” There was no

answer for a minute or more—and then a defiant answer.

“No, I didn’t. He’s away—abroad.”

“Ah. Well, you’ll have to, you know. Have you told old—Mr. Germain?”

“No—at least—I was going to. But that was when he—kissed me—and so I

couldn’t.”

“That was when he kissed you? Do you mean to tell me——?”

“No, of course not. But he kisses my hand mostly.”

“Well, I’m—” Miss Jinny did not say what she considered herself to be.

“Gentlemen are like that, Jinny—real gentlemen.”

“Gentlemen! Do you mean to tell me that Tr—that _he_ is not a

gentleman?”

“That was quite different. He meant nothing but—it was all nonsense.”

“I advise you to find out whether Mr. Germain thinks it nonsense.”

“Of course, I shall tell him everything. I don’t want ever to see Mr.

Dup—him again. That was all foolishness.” Mary sat up in bed and

clasped her knees. Her eyes, staring at the bright light, were stored

with knowledge—as if the soul within were shining through them at last.

“I have a friend—a real, wise friend—who has told me this much—that

there _is_ a real thing. I believe that, I do indeed.”

Jinny stared, then yawned. “I’m sleepy. That’s real enough for me just

now. What do you mean, child?”

“I mean that one might give up everything—risk everything—if one were

sure, quite sure. But if one isn’t—if one knows that one is a trifle, a

plaything, to a—to a person, and that, to another person, one may be

much more—then—oh, Jinny, Jinny, please!” Mary’s arms were now about

Jinny’s neck, and Jinny allowed herself to be pulled down. Mary snuggled

and put up her lips. After an instant she whispered, “Darling old Jinny,

will you do something for me?”

“What is it?”

“Promise.”

“What is it?”

“If Tr—if he comes here—will you see him for me? Oh, please,

please——”

“Why can’t you——?”

“No, no, I can’t, you know I can’t. Why, he looks at me as if I belonged

to him—as if he had a right—! And when he does that, when he frowns

and looks through you, and waits—and says nothing—I know what he

means; and if he said one word, or moved towards me, or beckoned”—She

shivered and hid her face. “I simply mustn’t—I daren’t. Oh, Jinny

darling, please!”

After a time Jinny promised—but Mary’s peace was broken up. A shadow

haunted her outdoors and in.

Mr. Germain drove down to Blackheath to greet his bride. Her shy

welcome, with gladness behind, to make it real, charmed him altogether.

The family, after a respectful interval, left him the parlour, for which

he was grateful. It would have, no doubt, to be explained that in

marrying Mary he had no intention of taking charge of her people.

Admittedly they were impossible, but it is very odd that he loved the

girl of his selection the more for being simply and unaffectedly one of

them. He respected her for it, but there was more than that. At the

bottom of his heart he knew that if she were to lose sight of her

origin, his love would suffer. It was absolutely necessary—he felt

it—that she must masquerade for life, be a sweet little _bourgeoise_

playing county lady; but playing it with sincerity, and obediently,

doing her best because she was told. The unvoiced conviction lay behind

what he now had to say to her. He told her, for instance, that he hoped

she would see as much of her family as she pleased, after she was

married, though, of course, she would have the duties of her new station

to consider and to reconcile with others. He did not suppose, he told

her, that it would be reasonable, or even true kindness, to ask them

often to Southover. “I esteem your father highly, my dearest. He is in

all respects what I should have expected your father to be. Your mother,

too, is, I am sure, worthy of your love and gratitude; your sisters seem

to me happy and affectionate girls. I doubt, however, if they would be

comfortable among our friends at Southover—” Mary here said at once

that she was sure they would not.

“They are different from you—quite different. We are quite poor

people—you would call us middle-class people, wouldn’t you?”

“I suppose that I should,” he admitted; “but would that hurt you, my

love?”

“No, no, not at all. There is no harm in that; and we can’t help

it—but——”

He leaned, put his arm round her waist and drew her to him. “Well, my

darling, well—? Tell me of what you are thinking.”

“I was wondering—if you can see that they wouldn’t do at Southover,

what made you think that I should do there, either?” He held her closer.

“I’ll tell you, my love. It was because I knew what I should feel if you

were ever to be there. It was because my heart was full of you, so that

I could never look on any scene that I loved without seeing you in it,

and loving it the more for your presence there. When I thought of

Southover, I saw you its little sovereign lady, and myself waiting upon

you, showing you all the things about it which have been so dear to me

in spite of—much unhappiness; and my heart beat high. I said to myself,

You must be a miserable and lonely man, my friend, unless you can

promise yourself this joy of service. Does my Mary understand me?” He

stooped his head to hers, and asked her again, Did she understand? Yes,

yes, she said, but she sighed, and turned her face away. Then he must

needs kiss her.

Then she did try to speak, meaning, if possible, to lead herself up to a

confession. She told him that she feared to disappoint him, that he

rated her too highly. “I can tell you truthfully that your love has made

me very proud and very happy; I must assure you that I shall do

everything in my power to prove to you how proud I am. I will do my duty

faithfully—you must tell me of the least thing which is not just as you

like. I can’t do more than that, can I?”

“Nobody in the world could do more than that,” he told her.

“But there’s something else. Mrs. Germain at Misperton doesn’t like me

at all——”

He nodded sadly. “I know, my dear, I know. She is a foolish, arrogant

woman, but there are excuses——”

“Oh, of course there are!” She sat upon his knee. “I expect that she is

right and that you are wrong—in a way.” Then her eyes opened widely

upon him: the hour had come. “But she thinks—she says that I am—bad.”

He turned grey. “Oh, no, my love, you misjudge her! Good Heavens—bad!”

She held her face back from him that she might look at him seriously.

“She does, you know—but she makes no allowances. I have always tried to

be a good girl—I assure you. Please believe that.” He held her to his

heart.

“My dearest, my dearest, you distress me. Good! Who is good if you are

not? Purest of the pure—my Mary.” But she shook herself free in a

hurry.

“No, no, indeed, you mustn’t say that. That’s absurd. I am just an

ordinary girl, who likes to be happy, and to be admired, and to have fun

when I can——”

“Of course, of course. Oh, my beloved, do not reproach yourself.” Then

she turned in his arms, put her hands on his shoulders, and looked

gravely and imploringly into his face.

“Promise me one thing,” she said, “one thing only. I will ask you

nothing more than that.” She could not have been resisted by the

Assessing Angel.

“Speak, my adored one.”

“Whatever you hear of me—against me—ask me what I have to say before

you condemn me. Promise me that.”

“My love and my life,” he said fervently; and she pouted her lips for a

kiss. Thus she justified herself in this regard, and by a sophistry of

her sex came in time to feel that she had made him a full confession.

She told Jinny as much.

We were now in late August; the wedding was to be quietly at Blackheath

at the end of September, and the exciting business of the trousseau must

be undertaken. Mrs. James, it seems, had so far reconciled herself to

the inevitable as to have consented to come to town and “see to things”

which the child must have. Her own people being out of the question,

Mary was to stay with her in Hill-street, which was one day to be her

own house, and do her shopping. A liberal sum was in Mrs. James’s hands

for the purpose. There was to be no white satin; but Jinny was to be

allowed to walk as bridesmaid. There was no way out of this. Her dress

was to be chosen for her, and then she must come to London to be fitted;

but she was not to be asked to Hill-street.

XIV

THE NEWS REACHES THE PYRENEES

Pau, in August, being what no man could be expected to stand, Duplessis

and his friend Lord Bramleigh went into Spain, and lounged at San

Sebastian. Here on a blazing noon of mid-September, as they were

breakfasting at leisure, a budget of letters was delivered.

Lord Bramleigh, cheerful, wholesome, and round-faced, chirped over his,

according to his wont. He read most of them aloud, with comments. “Old

Gosperton’s shoot—will I go? I’ll see him damned. Why should I go and

see old Gosperton shoot beaters? Not if I know it. Who’s this? Mary St.

Chad, by the Lord! Now what does _she_ want? . . . ‘I suppose you know

that Bob Longford is . . .’ I’ll be shot if I know anything of the sort.

I know he _wants to_ all right; but you can’t marry a chap’s wife—at

least I don’t _think_ you can. . . . Oh, sorry! Fellow’s dead. . . . I

say, Tristram, do you hear that? Old Bland-Mainways is dead, and Bob

Longford’s married his relic—married her in a week, my boy. What do you

say to that? You marry a man’s remains almost as soon as he’s remains

himself. Pretty manners, what? . . .”

Duplessis took no heed; the babbler ran on. . . . “This is my

mater—wonder what she’s got to say? I rather funk the Dowager. . . .

Hulloa! By Gad, that’s rum. I say, Duplessis, did you know a chap called

Senhouse at Cambridge? Pembroke, was he? Or King’s? King’s, I think

. . . it _was_ King’s. Did you know him? Jack Senhouse—John

Senhouse—rum chap.”

“Eh? Senhouse? Oh, yes, I knew him. Used to see him about.” Duplessis

resumed his letters; one, especially, made him frown—then stare out of

the window. He read others but returned to that.

Lord Bramleigh went on. “I want to tell you about this chap Senhouse. Of

course, I never knew him at the Varsity—ages before me, he was. Good

footer—player—ran with the beagles—ran like the devil; rowed a bit,

painted a bit, sang a damned good song: Jack Senhouse. Well, he’s mad.

Rich chap—at least, his father was rich—alderman somewhere, I

b’lieve—say, Birmingham . . . one of those sort of places. Well, Jack

Senhouse chucked all that—took to painting, scribbling, God knows what.

His governor gets cross—sends him round the world on the chance he’ll

settle down by’n by. Not he! Gets up to all sorts of unlawful

games—cuts the ship and starts off on his own across Morocco; gets hung

up at Fez—row with a Shereef about his wife or wives. Foreign Office

has to get to work—makes it all right. Senhouse goes? Not he. Stays

there all the same—to learn the language, I’ll ask you. Language and

plants. He collects plants in the Atlas. So he goes on. Then he gets

back home. ‘Hope you’ll settle down to the office, my boy,’ says his

governor. ‘No, thank ye,’ says Jack, and doesn’t. He was off again on

the tramp somewhere—turns up in Russia—if Warsaw’s in Russia—anyhow

he turns up where Warsaw is—talking to the Poles about Revolution.

Still collects plants. They put him over the frontier. He goes to

Siberia after plants and politics. More rows. Well, anyhow, he came back

a year ago, and said he was a tinker. He’d learned tinkerin’ somewhere

round, sawderin’ and all that—and I’m damned if he didn’t set up a cart

and horse and go about with a tent. He paints, he scribbles, he tinkers,

he sawders—just as he dam’ pleases. And he turns England into a garden,

and plants his plants. He’s got plants out all over the country. I tell

you—the rummiest chap. Up in the Lakes somewhere he’s got a

lot—growin’ wild, free and easy—says he don’t want hedges round his

things. ‘Let ’em go as they please,’ he says. So he turns the Land’s End

into a rockery and stuffs the cracks with things from the Alps. He’s

made me promise him things from the Pyrenees, confound him—you’ll have

to help me with ’em. And irises on Dartmoor—from the Caucasus! And

peonies growin’ wild in South Wales—oh, he’s mad! You never saw such a

chap. And so dam’ reasonable about it. I like the chap. _He’s_ all

right, you know. He’s been turned out of every village in England pretty

well, ’cause he _will_ talk and _will_ camp out, and plant his plants in

other men’s land. I met him once bein’ kicked out of Dicky Clavering’s

place—regular procession—and old Jack sittin’ up in his cart talkin’

to the policeman like an old friend. Admirin’ crowd, of course—the gels

all love him, he’s so devilish agreeable, is Jack. I tell you, he learnt

more than one sort of sawderin’. And as for his flowers—well, you know

there’s a language of ’em. Well, now, what do you think? I’ve heard from

the Dowager, and I’ll be shot if she hasn’t just turned old Jack out of

my place! Found him campin’ in the park, with one of the maids boilin’

his kettle, and another cuttin’ bread and butter for him. Plantin’

peonies he was—in my park! Dam’ funny business; but the end’s funnier

still. The Dowager, out driving, comes home—sees Master Jack waiting

for his tea. Stops the carriage—sends the footman to order him off.

Jack says he’ll go after tea. This won’t suit the Dowager by any

means—so there’s a row. Jack comes up to explain; makes himself so

infernally agreeable that I’ll be jiggered if the Dowager don’t ask him

to dinner, and up he turns in evenin’ togs, just like you or me. After

dinner—‘Good-night, my lady,’ says Jack. ‘I must be off early, as I’ve

some saucepan bottoms waiting for me—and I’ve promised ’em for

to-morrow sharp’—says Jack. Now—I say, I don’t believe you’ve heard a

word of all this.”

Duplessis, I think, had not. He had been frowning at the glare outside,

biting his cheek; in his hand was a crumpled-up letter.

“Look here, Bramleigh, I must get out of this,” he said. “I want to go

home.” Lord Bramleigh, never to be surprised, emptied his tumbler.

Then he asked, “What’s up? No trouble, I hope?”

He had a gloomy stare for his first answer, and for second—“No, I don’t

say that. I don’t know. That’s why I am off—to see.”

A man’s pleasure is a matter of course to your Bramleighs: the moral and

social order must accommodate itself to that.

“That’s all right,” said Lord Bramleigh, therefore. “When do you go?

To-morrow?”

“I go this evening.” The effect of this was to raise Lord Bramleigh’s

scalp a shade higher.

“We swore we’d go to Madame Sop’s to-night, you know.” Madame Sop was a

Madame Sopwith, a lady of uncertain age and Oriental appearance, who

gave card-parties.

Duplessis said, “You must make my excuses—if she wants ’em. I’m going.”

“A woman, of course,” said Bramleigh, tapping a cigarette—but had no

answer. Duplessis caught the Sun express, and, travelling straight

through, reached Misperton Brand in less than two days.

On the afternoon of the third day he was at the door of the little

house, Heath View, in Blackheath. The door was open, and within the

frame of it stood a tall young woman with hair elaborately puffed over

the ears and a complexion heightened by excitement.

“Good-afternoon,” says Duplessis. “Miss Middleham at home?”

“Yes,” says Jinny, “she is. Will you come in?”

He followed her into the parlour and was offered a chair. “Thanks very

much,” he said, but did not take it. He stood by the window, and Jinny

Middleham stood by the door.

Presently Jinny said, “I am Miss Middleham, you know. Or perhaps you

didn’t know it.” Duplessis stared, then recovered.

“I beg your pardon. No, I didn’t grasp that. But you’re not my Miss

Middleham.”

“I didn’t know that you had one,” said Jinny. “It’s the first I’ve heard

of it.”

He laughed. “You’ll think me very rude in a minute; but I’ll explain to

you. It was your sister I wanted to see. She is—a friend of mine. My

name is Duplessis. She may have told you.” Jinny was as stiff as a

poker.

“I have heard my sister speak of you, certainly. I understood that you

were—an acquaintance.”

Duplessis nodded easily. “Put it at that. I suppose I may see her?”

“She’s away,” said Jinny. “She’s staying in London—with the Honourable

Mrs. Germain.”

He began to bite his cheek. “Can you give me Mrs. Germain’s address?

It’s not Hill-street, I suppose?”

Jinny was very happy just now. “I suppose that a letter to Mrs. Germain

at Misperton would find her. You are related to her, I believe?”

“My dear Miss Middleham,” said Duplessis candidly, “let’s keep to the

point. It seems to me that you don’t want me to see your sister.”

“Oh,” says Jinny, “it don’t matter at all to me.” He knit his brows.

“Then you mean——?”

“I mean,” said Jinny, “that my sister is going to be married to Mr.

Germain. That’s what it comes to.”

Duplessis bowed. “I see. Thank you very much. Than I think, if you’ll

allow me—” He bowed again and went towards the door. The scene was to

be over. Jinny put her hand upon the latch. “Where are you going?” she

said, very short of breath. There was a thrill yet to be got out of

this.

What was sport to her mortified him to death. “Really, I don’t know that

I need trouble you any more,” he said. “You will give my kind regards to

your sister, I hope.” But Jinny kept the door-handle in possession.

“Mr. Duplessis,” she said, “I ought to tell you that my sister would

rather be excused from seeing you. At least, she says so. She said so to

me. You best know why that may be.”

He ill concealed his mortification. “We won’t talk of your sister’s

affairs, I think. I am happy to have made your acquaintance——”

Jinny tossed her head up. “My acquaintance, as you call it, is for them

that want it. My sister’s is her own business. I tell you fairly, Mr.

Duplessis, that she may be very unhappy.”

He flashed her a savage look. “Good Heavens, I believe that. Why, the

thing’s monstrous! You might as well marry her to a nunnery. The

fellow’s frozen—stark cold.” Jinny steadfastly regarded him.

“You know very well that you never meant to marry her,” she said. He

grew cold instantly.

“Once for all, I must tell you that I decline to discuss your sister’s

affairs with any one but herself. And since you tell me that I am not to

see her, I will ask you to let me bid you good-afternoon. I am very

sorry to have given you so much trouble.”

It was over; there was but one treatment for such a cavalier in Jinny’s

code of manners. She opened the door wide. “Good-afternoon,” she said.

He bowed and went out with no more ceremony.

He felt spotted, and was furious that such a squalid drama should have

engaged him. A fluffed shop-girl—and Tristram Duplessis! Filthy, filthy

business! But he went directly to Hill-street—whither a telegram had

preceded him, terse and significant according to Jinny’s sense of the

theatre. “Look out,” it said.

That sent the colour flying from Mary’s lips, and lighted panic in her

eyes. She crushed it into a ball and dropped it; then she went directly

to Mrs. James and asked leave to go home for a few days. She shook as

she spoke. She said she was feeling very tired and unlike herself; she

wanted her mother, she said simply, and as her lip quivered at the

pathetic sound of that, her eyes also filled. Mrs. James, not an unkind

woman by any means, was really sympathetic. “My dear child, I quite

understand. Go home, of course, and get strong and well. Although you

may hardly believe me, I care very much for your happiness—and John

would wish it. If he could have been here I know he would have taken

you. You shall have the carriage. Now, when would you like to——?”

“At once, please, Mrs. Germain—at once.” Mrs. Germain rang the bell and

ordered the carriage. Mary could hardly wait for it; she spent the

lagging moments pacing her room, and before it was fairly at the door

she was on the doorstep. She took no luggage. Crouched in one corner of

the hatefully dawdling thing, she stared quivering out of the window. At

the corner of the square by Lansdowne House she gasped and cowered. A

cab passed her, in which sat, scowling and great, Tristram Duplessis,

his arms folded over the apron. Did he—? No, no, thank God, he had not

seen her. She was safe in the ladies’ waiting-room; but the traverse of

the platform was full of peril. Not until the train moved did she feel

herself safe. She hungered for Jinny’s arms as never in her life before.

The brave, the capable, the dauntless Jinny—Mercy of Heaven, to have

given her such a sister in whom to confide!

But Mrs. James—the sweeping eye having lighted upon the ball of

paper—Mrs. James wrote to her brother-in-law that night:—

“My dear John,—In case you may be hurrying back to town, I

think I should tell you that Mary has gone to her people for a

few days; she will write me the day and hour of her return.

There is nothing serious; but she complained of being

overtired—not to be wondered at. Even young ladies may find the

pleasures of shopping a tax. It is possible, I think, that

family matters, of which I know nothing—as I am not in her

confidence—may have called her home. She left this telegram

here. ‘Blackheath’ is on the stamp, you will notice. Mary spoke

of her mother to me when she said that she must go, and seemed

unhappy. I put this down to her being overwrought—and no doubt

you will hear from her by the post which brings you this. Most

of my work is done here, I am happy to say. I hope you will be

pleased with Mary’s things. I must say that she looks charming

in her wedding gown. But Ninon may be trusted _for style_. James

is getting restive without me. Soames is no doubt at his tricks

again. I shall be glad to be at my post. Your affecte. sister,

“Constantia Germain.”

“P.S.—Tristram is back from San Sebastian. I had a visit from

him this afternoon, some three minutes after Mary left. He asked

after her. You know that they were old acquaintances. Lord

Bramleigh remains in Spain. He seems in no hurry to greet his

bride. She is staying with the Gospertons at Brenchmore. They

expect him there from day to day.”

Next day Mr. Germain presented himself in Hill-street, nothing varied in

his deliberate urbanity. He had not heard from Mary, he said, in reply

to a question; there had been no time for a letter to reach Southover,

and the absence of a telegram was reassuring. He intended to go to

Blackheath in the course of the afternoon. No doubt she had overtired

herself. He applied himself to other topics and said nothing of

Duplessis nor of the Blackheath message until luncheon was over. Then,

as Mrs. James went by him through the door which he held open for her,

he said, “I had forgotten: you have Tristram back? If he should happen

to call, pray tell him that I should be glad to see him if he could

spare me a moment.”

Mrs. James stopped in her rustling career. “But I don’t think it at all

likely he will call—again,” she said.

“No? Very well. Perhaps I shall encounter him somewhere. Or I could

write.”

“Quite so,” said Mrs. James. “It is easy to write.” Then she shimmered

away up the stairs. He went into the library, and, after some pacing of

the floor, sat down at his desk, wrote, signed, and sealed a paper. He

rang the bell.

“I wish you and Gutteridge to witness a paper for me, Jennings,” he said

to the man. “Fetch him in here, please.” The two functionaries signed

the sheet as he directed them. “Sign there, if you please, Jennings. And

Gutteridge below your name. . . . That will do. Thank you.” He put the

paper and a crumpled telegram together in a long envelope, sealed it,

and wrote shortly on the outside. He locked it in his desk, then resumed

his pacing of the room. As he walked his lips moved to frame

words—“Impossible! Purity’s self. . . Her eyes ray innocence. . . .”

But he knew Tristram, and could not get his leisurely image away. And

Tristram had been much at Misperton; and had a way of—his lips moved

again—“My darling from the lions! From the power of the dog!” He went

back to his desk, took out the envelope he had sealed, and would have

torn it across—but did not. Instead, he put it in his breast-pocket,

and left the house.

In the little parlour of Heath View he stood presently awaiting her.

Jinny had seemed relieved to see him when she opened the door. Mary had

been lying down, she said, and would come when she was tidy. He smiled

and said he would wait. He was noticeably white and lined in the face.

She came into the room presently, flushed and very bright-eyed. He

thought that she stood there like a mouse sensing the air for alarms,

prompt to dart at a pinfall. His heart beat to see the youth and charm

of her; his pain was swallowed up in longing for his treasured bliss. He

almost sobbed as he held out his arms. “Mary—my child—my love;—” and

when she ran in and clung to him with all her force, he clasped her in a

frenzy. Whatever darksome fears his honest mind may have harboured,

whatever beasts he may have fought, there were none after such a

greeting as this. He poured out his love like water upon her, kissed her

wet cheeks and shining eyes, and with, “There, my little lamb, there, my

pretty one, be at rest, be at peace with me,” he soothed her, and felt

the panic of her heart to die down. Then, sitting, he drew her to his

knees and let her lie awhile with her head on his shoulder.

She whispered in his ear, “Oh, it was sweet of you to come! I wanted you

dreadfully—you don’t know.”

“No, my precious one, I don’t indeed. But I am well content that you

should have needed me. I pray that you always will, and that I may never

fail you.”

She lifted her head back to look at him; she smiled like an April day.

“_You_ fail me! Oh, no, you’ll never do that.” And of her own accord she

kissed him. The good man simply adored her.

“Now will you tell me what upset you so much?” he asked her, but she

shook her head roguishly and said that she didn’t know. “It was my

stupidity—I was frightened—suddenly frightened of all the

grandeur—the great rooms, the butler and footmen—the people in

carriages who called—” She stopped here, her large eyes full upon his

own. She breathed very fast. Then she said, “That’s partly the

truth—but there’s more.”

He could not bear it. He could not face what she had to say. He knew

that he was a coward, but he could not; despised himself, but could not.

He clasped her close. “Tell me nothing more, darling child. You will

reproach yourself, and I cannot bear it.”

She struggled to be free. “Oh, listen, listen to me, please!”

He kissed her with passion. “My life is yours; would you rob me of it? I

cannot listen to you——”

She gave over, and lay with hidden face until she dared to look up

again. Then, when both were calmer, she showed her serious face. Playing

with his eyeglasses, she did relieve her mind of one of her fears. “Do

you know,” she said, “unless you are with me—always—I am sure that I

shall do something mad, or bad. Run away from it all—hide myself.” She

nodded her head sadly. “Yes, I’m quite sure.” He could afford to look at

the future, not the past.

“Why, then, my love, I shall be with you always—night and day. Do you

hear me? Night and day! How will you like that?” She hung her head,

peered up at him for a second, and hung her head again. He could do

nothing but kiss her after that.

He stayed to tea, which she prepared with her own quick hands. She and

Jinny entertained him, and he had never liked that pronounced young

woman so well. It was her birthday, Jinny’s birthday, he was told. “A

few days only from mine,” he said, with a fine smile to Mary, which made

her understand him, and blush. “Twenty-nine to-day,” said Jinny

candidly, cutting cake. “This is my cake, Mr. Germain. I suppose you’ll

give Mary a better one.”

“I shall give her the best I can, Miss Jinny, you may be sure,” he said

heartily, and she nodded to him her confidence in his love. He treated

her with grave politeness, which lost all its distance by the evident

interest he took in her affairs. She gave herself no airs or graces, was

neither pert nor sniffing for offence, nor airy, nor merely odious.

Germain’s own manners were so fine, so based upon candour and honesty

that one could not fail to respond. Even Jinny Middleham forgot herself;

and as for Mary, she sat quietly on the watch, really happy, really at

ease about the dread future—and whatever terrors she may have owed to

Tristram she had none now. Yet she was to have one more chance. At

parting she clung to him again, and begged him not to leave her for

long. “I’m safe with you—I feel that. Oh, how did you make me like

you?”

“By liking you myself, I expect, little witch.”

“I’m not a witch. I’m a dunce, and you know that I am. But listen——”

“I listen, dearest.”

“I am going to be the best girl in the world. I’m going to do everything

that you tell me—always.”

“Beloved, I am sure.”

“Wait. You haven’t forgotten what you promised me?”

“What was that?”

“You have forgotten! Oh, but you must never forget it. It is

important—to me.”

“Tell me again.”

“It was—always to ask me before you believe anything against me. That

was it—and you promised.” He took her face between his hands and looked

long into her eyes.

“My dearest heart,” he said, “I’ll promise you better. Not only shall I

never believe anything against you—but I shall never even ask you of

the fact. Never, never.”

She searched his face—her eyes wandered over it, doubting, judging,

considering.

“I had rather you asked me,” she told him; but his answer was to kiss

her lips.

She went with him to the garden gate, seemed most unwilling that he

should go. Farewells spoken, her ring-hand kissed, she stood watching

him down the terrace, and then, as he never looked back, walked slowly

into the house and shut the door. Had she stayed a moment longer she

would have seen an encounter he had at the corner where you turn up for

the station. Perhaps it was better as it was; I don’t know. He had

paused there to hail a fly with his umbrella, and having faced round

towards his way, saw Duplessis advancing towards him. He felt himself

turn cold and sick. The fly drew up. “Wait for me where you are,” he

said, and went to meet the young man. Duplessis saw him on a sudden; his

eyes, blue by nature, grew steely and intensely narrow.

“Good-evening, Tristram,” said Germain. “Constantia told me of your

return.” Duplessis dug the pavement with his stick.

“Did she? Well, it is true, you see.”

“I do see. You are going to pay Mary a visit, I suppose. She’s not very

well, I’m sorry to say—a little overtired. Otherwise, I am sure she

would have been delighted.”

Duplessis made no reply, and the other continued: “I told Constantia

that I hoped to see you—to tell you a small piece of news. I am about

to be married again. Mary has been so kind as to confide her future

happiness into my hands. Perhaps you won’t misunderstand me if I say

that some little fraction of that happiness depends upon her not seeing

you for the moment. When she is rested, we may hope—The wedding will

naturally be a very quiet one. Her people wish it, and my taste agrees

with theirs. Otherwise we should have liked to have you among our

guests. We promise ourselves the pleasure of seeing you at Southover in

the near future. I think the place will please you. You must give an

account of my pheasants in December.”

“That’s very good of you, Germain,” said Duplessis, looking him full in

the face.

Mr. Germain turned to his waiting fly. “Have you other engagements in

Blackheath?”

“None,” said Duplessis.

“No? Then perhaps I can offer you a seat in my carriage.”

“Thanks,” said Duplessis, “I’m walking;” nodded, and went forward, the

way of the heath.

“The station,” said Mr. Germain.

He could thank God, at least, that she had not meant to deceive him; he

could thank God, at least, that she had done with the past. But he had

received a mortal wound, and after his manner concealed it. His lovely

image was soiled; the glass of his life to come dimmed already. He saw

nothing more of Mary until the wedding day, though he wrote to her in

his usual fashion and on his usual days. “My dear child,” and “Yours

with sincere affection.” She did not guess that anything was amiss,

could not know what they had cost him to write them twice a week. His

brother and sister-in-law noticed his depression. Mrs. James indeed was

tempted to believe that, at the eleventh hour—but the Rector knew him

better. All his forces were now to put heart in the bridegroom. He spoke

much of Mary.

XV

A PHILOSOPHER EMBALES

That young man with the look of a faun, at once sleepy and arch, the

habit of a philosopher and the taste for gardening at large, whom we

have seen very much at his ease in society quite various, was by name

Senhouse—patronym, Senhouse, in the faith John, to the world of his

familiars Jack Senhouse, and to many Mad Jack. But madness is a term of

convenience to express relations, and to him, it may well be, the world

was mad. He thought, for instance, that Lord Bramleigh was mad, to whom

we are now to hear him talking, as much at his length and as much at his

ease as of late we saw him in the company of Miss Mary Middleham, or of

Miss Hertha de Speyne of the Cantacute stem.

Perhaps he was more at his ease. He lay, at any rate, before his tent,

full length upon his stomach, his crook’d elbows supported his face,

which was wrinkled between his hands. His pipe, grown cold by delay, lay

on the sward before him. One leg, from the knee, made frequent

excursions towards the sky, and when it did, discovered itself lean and

sinewy, bare of sock. His sweater was now blue, and his trousers were

grey; it was probably he had no more clothing upon him. Upon a

camp-stool near by sat Lord Bramleigh of the round face, corded and

gaitered, high-collared and astare. To express bewilderment, he

whistled; concerned, he smiled.

“Well,” he said presently, “I think you might. We’re short of a

gun—I’ve told you so.”

“My dear man,” said the other, “I shoot no birds. I’d as soon shoot my

sister.”

“That’s rot, you know, Jack.”

“To me it’s plain sense. God save you, Bramleigh, have you ever seen a

bird fly? It’s the most marvellous—no, it’s not, because we’re all

marvels together; but I’ll tell you this—boys frisking after a full

meal, girls at knucklebones, a leopard stalking from a bough, horses in

a windy pasture—whatever you like of the sort has been done, and well

done—but a bird in flight, never! There’s no greater sight—and you’ll

flare into it with your filthy explosives and shatter a miracle into

blood and feathers. Beastly work, my boy, butchers’ work.”

“Rot,” said Bramleigh—“But of course you’re mad. Why are my cartridges

filthier than your pots of paint? Hey?”

“Well, I make something, you see—or try to, and you blow it to

smithereens—However, we won’t wrangle, Bramleigh. You’re a nice little

man, after all. Those Ramondias—it was really decent of you.”

“Much obliged,” said the young lord; and then—“I say, talking of the

Pyrenees, you knew Duplessis? He’s our man short. He’s chucked, you

know. He’s awfully sick.” Senhouse was but faintly interested.

“Yes, I knew him—Cleverish—conceited ass. What’s he sick about?”

“Gel. Gel goin’ to be married—to-day or something—end of September, I

know. Tristram’s mad about it. He was at San Sebastian with me when he

heard about it—and bolted off like a rabbit—mad rabbit.”

Senhouse yawned. “We’re all mad according to you, you know. So I take

something off. I can understand his sort of madness, anyhow. Who’s the

lady?”

“Oh, I don’t know her myself. Gel down at his place—in a poor sort of

way, I b’lieve. Companion or something—he played about—and now she’s

been picked up by a swell connexion of his—old Germain of Southover. Be

shot, if he’s not going to marry her.”

The lengthy philosopher smiled to himself, but gave no other sign of

recognition until he said, “I know that lady. Brown-eyed, sharp-eyed,

quick, sleek, mouse of a girl.”

“Dessay,” said Lord Bramleigh. “They know their way about.” The

philosopher threw himself upon his back and gazed into the sky.

“Yes, and what a way, good Lord! Idol-hunting—panting after idols.

Maims herself and expects Heaven as a reward. I don’t suppose that she

has been herself since she left her mother’s lap. And now, with an

alternative of being sucked dry and pitched away, she is to be slowly

starved to death. I only saw her once—no, twice. She had what struck me

as unusual capacities for happiness—zest, curiosity, health—but no

chances of it whatsoever. Ignorant—oh, Lord! They make me weep, that

sort. So pretty and so foolish. But there, if I once began to cry, I

should dissolve in mist.”

“Oh, come,” said Lord Bramleigh, “I don’t think she’s doin’ badly for

herself. She was nobody, you know, and old Germain—well, he’s a

somebody. He’s a connexion of mine, through his sister-in-law—she was

Constantia Telfer—so I know he’s all right.”

“I’ll do her the justice to say,” Senhouse reflected aloud, “that she

didn’t sell herself—she’s not a prostitute. She’s a baby—pure baby.

She was dazzled, and misunderstood the sensation. She thought she was

touched. She’s positively grateful to the man—didn’t see how she was to

refuse. She’s a donkey, no doubt—but she had pretty ways. She could

have been inordinately happy—but she’s not going to be. She’s in for

troubles, and I’m sorry. I liked her.”

“She’d better look out for Tristram, I can tell you,” said Bramleigh.

“He’s an ugly customer, if he don’t have his rights. Not that there were

any rights, so far as I know—but that makes no difference to Tristram.”

“Is she worth his while? I doubt it.”

“She will be. Germain’s rich. Besides, Tristram sticks up for his

rights—tenacious beggar.”

“Should have been kicked young,” quoth the philosopher, and sped Lord

Bramleigh on his way.

“Mary Middleham, O Mary of the brown eyes and pretty mouth, I should

like to see you married!” he thought, as he packed his tent. “There’s a

woman inside you, my friend; you weren’t given her form for nothing. You

are not going to be married yet awhile, you know. It’ll take more than a

going to church to do that. You’ve got to be a woman first—and you’re

not yet born!”

He lifted a shallow box of earth, and fingered some plants in it.

“Ramondias—beauties! One of these springs there’ll be a cloud of your

mauve flushing a black cliff over the green water. There’s a palette to

have given old England! Mauve, wet black, and sea-green. I have the very

place for you, out of reach of any save God and the sea-mews and me. But

even with them you won’t have a bad ‘assistance.’ That’s a clever word,

for how is the artist going to make a masterpiece unless the public

makes half of it? Black, mauve, and green—all wet together! We’ll make

a masterpiece in England yet. . . .

“That girl’s great eyes haunt me. Lakes of brown wonder—they were the

colour of moorland water—a dainty piece! I could see love in her—she

was made for it. A dark hot night in summer, and she in your

arms. . . .! Good Lord, when the beast in a man gets informed by the

mind of a god—there’s no ecstasy beyond the sun to compare with

it. . . .

“Two things worth the world—: Power, and Giving. When a girl gives you

her soul in her body, and you pour it all back into her lap, you are

spending like a king. Why do women mourn Christ on His cross? Where else

would He choose to be? A royal giver! To have the thing to give—and to

give it all! He was to be envied, not mourned. . . .

“Old Germain—what’s he doing but playing the King on the Cross. He

feels it—we all feel it—but has he got anything to give? It’s an

infernal shame. He’s bought the child. She’ll never forgive him; she’ll

harden, she’ll be pitiless—have no mercy when the hour strikes.

There’ll be horrors—it ought to be stopped. I’ve half a mind——

“Damn it, no! She must go to school. If there’s woman in her, after

travail she’ll be born. . . .

“To school? To Duplessis? Is he to school her, poor wretch? What are his

‘rights?’ Squatter’s rights, you may suppose. So she’s to be a doll for

Germain to dandle, or an orange for Duplessis to suck, and betwixt the

feeding and the draining a woman’s to be born! Wife, who’s no wife,

mistress for an hour—and a pretty flower with the fruit unformed. . . .

“If I bedeck the bosom of England and star it with flowers, do I do

better than Germain with his money, or Duplessis with his rights? And if

I were to court her bosom . . . Oh, my brown-eyed venturer in deep

waters, I could serve you well! Go to school, go to school, missy—and

when you are tired, there’s Halfway House!”

That evening under the hunter’s moon he struck his camp. He had told

young Bramleigh that he was soon for the West, where he preferred to

winter. “I shall be in Cornwall by November,” he had said, “and that’s

time enough;” and this being late September, it is clear that he

projected a leisurely progress from Northamptonshire, where he now was,

to the Cornish Sea. He had indeed no reason for hurry, but many for

delay. That fairest of all seasons to the poet’s mind—that “close

bosom-friend of the maturing sun” was to him foster-mother, whether her

drowsy splendours fed him or he felt the tonic of her chill

after-breath. He worked out, he said, in winter what he had dreamed in

the autumn, and he could afford to lose no hours from her lap.

Loafer deliberately, incurably a tramp, he was never idle—whether

mending kettles or painting masterpieces (for he had a knack of colour

which now and then warranted that word), his real interest was in

watching life and in establishing a base broad enough or simple enough

to uphold it all. He was not too proud to learn from the beasts, nor

enough of a prig to ignore his two-legged neighbours: but for the life

of him he could not see wherein a Lord Bramleigh differed from a

ploughboy, or a Mary Middleham from a hen partridge—and it was a snare

laid for him that he was constantly to be tempted to overlook the fact

that they differed at least in this, that they had the chance of

differing considerably. He would have been greatly shocked to be told

that he was a cynic, and yet intellectually he was nothing more. He did

himself the honour of believing most people to be donkeys: if they were

not, why under the sun did they not do as he was doing?

The answer to that was that if they did, he would immediately do

something else, and find plenty reasons to support him. He had not

worked that out—but it’s true.

It was also true—as he had told Mary Middleham—that he lived from hand

to mouth. His father, Alderman Senhouse, J.P., of Dingeley, in the

Northern Midlands, was proprietor of the famous Dingeley Main Colliery,

and extremely rich. His mother had been a Battersby, well connected,

therefore. He had been to Rugby and to Cambridge, just as Duplessis had

been, and at the same times; like Duplessis he idled, but unlike him, he

cost no man anything. For his needs, which were very simple, he could

make enough by his water-colours, a portrait here and there, an essay, a

poem. Then—and that was true, too—he had the art and mystery of

tinkering at his disposition. He had earned his place in the guild of

tinkers—a very real body—by more than one battle. He was accepted as

an eccentric whose whim was to be taken seriously—and as such he made

his way. He had never asked his father for a sixpence since he left

Cambridge and was on very friendly terms with him. His brothers took the

world more strenuously; one was partner at the colliery, another in

Parliament, a third—the first born—was Recorder of Towcester.

So much for his talents—now for his accomplishments. He was an expert

woodman, a friend to every furred and feathered thing, could handle

adders without fear, and was said to know more about pole-cats, where

they could still be found, and when, than any man in England. He had

seen more badgers at ease than most people, and was infallible at

finding a fox. All herbs he loved, and knew their virtues; a very good

gardener in the West said that the gentleman-tinker could _make_ a plant

grow. There’s no doubt he had a knack, as the rock-faces between Land’s

End and St. Ives could testify—and may yet. He had a garden out there,

which he was now on the way to inspect. But he had many gardens—that

was his passion. He was but newly come from one in Cumberland.

He said of himself that he was a pagan suckled in a creed outworn, and

that he was safely weaned. There was a touch of the faun about him; he

had no self-consciousness and occasionally more frankness than was

convenient. The number of his acquaintance was extraordinary, and, in a

sense, so was that of his friends—for he had none at all. Accessible as

he was up to a point, beyond that point I know nobody who could say he

had ever explored Senhouse. That was where the secretiveness of the wild

creature peeped out. Nobody had ever said of him that he had loved,

either because nobody knew—or because nobody told. Yet his way with

women was most effective; it was to ignore their sex. “I liked her,” he

would say meditatively of a woman—and add, “She was a donkey, of

course.” You could make little of a phrase of the sort—yet one would be

glad to know the woman’s opinion. We have seen that he could be a

sympathetic listener, we know that he could be more, in moments of

difficulty—and there we stop.

Lastly, I am not aware that he had any shame. He seems always to have

done exactly as he pleased—until he was stopped by some guardian of

custom or privilege. This frequently happened; but so far as I can learn

the only effect upon Senhouse was to set him sauntering elsewhere—to do

exactly as he pleased. He never lost his temper, was never out of

spirits, drank wine when he could get it, but found water quite

palatable. He was perfectly sincere in his professions, and owned

nothing in the world but his horse and cart, Bingo, the materials of his

trade, and some clothes which had not been renewed for five years. We

leave him at present, pushing to the West.

XVI

THE WEDDING DAY

Saint Saviour’s Church was by many sizes too large for the party—a

modern edifice in the Gothic taste, carried out in pink brick with white

facings. It was large and smelt of damp. The bridegroom wore his

overcoat throughout the ceremony. It was distinctly high, and Mrs.

James’s hands were many times up, and her eyes all about for witness of

the “frippery” they beheld. Stations of the Cross were affixed to the

pillars of the nave, lamps twinkled in the sanctuary; dimly in an aisle

she made out the plaster effigy of a beardless young man in the Capuchin

habit, pink cheeks, and a fringe, who carried lilies in a sheaf. “The

hermaphrodite,” Mrs. James did not scruple to call him for his pains.

“Can we not have some of these things taken out?” she had asked her

lord; but the Rector was precise that they must have a faculty, and that

they were ten minutes late as it was. He was to officiate, that was one

comfort; but it diminished the bridegroom’s party by one.

That occupied, barely, the front pew on the right; the bride’s company

that of the left. Mrs. James, Lady Barbara Rewish, an old friend, Miss

Germain, a pale sister, Mr. Gradeley, Q.C., who was best man, and smiled

at his own thoughts, and the Right Hon. Constantine Jess, like a large

comfortable cat, who had been President of the Board of Trade and hoped

to be again; that was all—but it was too much for the Middleham

connexion, which shrank into a row of ciphers as the rite proceeded.

Jinny Middleham, whose shyness was taken for impudence, would have made

a very handsome appearance if she had not been so painfully aware of it;

the bride, shorter by a head, looked like a child. She wore pale grey

cloth and feathers, and had a black hat. All that art could do for her

had been done; her slight figure was enhanced, her little feet seemed

smaller, her gloves were perfect—and yet, as Mrs. James recognized with

lead in the heart, if John had picked her up in her poppies and white

muslin, and married her then and there one could have understood it. A

man might love a milkmaid—but a little doll in a smart frock, a

suburban miss in masquerade—ah, the pity of it! And yet the girl’s eyes

were like stars, and her face, if it was pale, was serious enough. “It

won’t do—it will not do,” said Mrs. James to herself—“I despair.” She

despaired from the moment of the bride’s entry upon the arm of her

little anxious whiskered father—when she saw old Lady Barbara raise her

lorgnette upon the group for one minute—and drop it again, and snuggle

into her lace. “There’s nothing in it—not even romance,” that look told

Mrs. James. “It’s ridiculous—it's rather low—but here I am. And

Germain’s an old friend.” Lady Barbara Rewish, alone among his equals,

sometimes called Mr. Germain Jack.

That anything possibly low could be set beside Mr. Germain seemed

incredible—but, if credible, then tragic. He wore race in every span of

his tall, thin figure, in every line of his fastidious, patient face.

His simplicity was manifest, his courtesy never at fault. The slight

stoop towards her which he gave his bride as she drew level with

him—the humble appeal, the hope and the asking—should have struck the

word from his old friend’s mind. Thus a man defers to a queen, she might

have said—and yet in that she did not she was wiser, perhaps, in her

generation than the children of light. Germain was really, now and

throughout the ceremony, revelling in the æsthetic. The position, in its

pathos and its triviality at once, appealed to the sensual in him. How

lovely her humility, how exquisite, how pure his pride! Benevolence!

Behold, I stoop and pick for my breast this hedgerow thing! See it for

what it is in all this state—see it trembling here upon the edge of a

new world! Is not this to be loved indeed—where I only give, and she

must look to me alone? To be sought as a mother by a frightened child,

to be source and fountain of all, to give—this is to be happy. And,

incapable of expressing it by a sign, he was at this moment supremely

happy, and, though he would have been aghast at the thought, supremely

luxurious. He was, in fact, indulging appetite in the only way possible

to him.

The Rector of Misperton, safe behind his panoply of shrugging eyebrows,

hardened, too, by use and wont, administered the rite with calm

precision. The words were said:—“I, John, take thee, Mary Susan,” “I,

Mary Susan, take thee, John”—how she murmured them and how he loved

her!—the book was signed—but Mr. Gradeley, Q.C., had no pleasantries

at his command, and Mr. Constantine Jess had never had any. Old Lady

Barbara kissed the cold bride, and hoped she would be happy. “I’m sure

he’s in love with you,” she said, “and you must be good to him. I’ve

been in love with him myself any time these ten years. But he wouldn’t

look at me—and I don’t wonder. I’m such a wicked old woman.” She told

the tale on the way to the Wheatsheaf Hotel, where the bride was to be

sped, of how poor old Lord Morfiter had married his cook—“She was a

Viennese—and, of course, they are wonderful—such tact! Or is it the

stays? There’s a place in Wigmore-street. At any rate, it worked very

well, and really there was nothing else to be done. No one understood

him so well as she had—no one! She always cooked for him when they were

alone—or had one or two people dining. Perhaps it’ll be all right

here.”

Mr. Jess bowed. “I sincerely hope so. But—forgive me—do I

understand—? Was Mrs. Germain——.”

“Lord bless us, no!” cried Lady Barbara. “I don’t suppose she ever saw a

cutlet, off a dish. A Bath bun and a cup of coffee is _her_ standard,

you may be sure. Of course, she’ll be different in a year, you know.

She’ll drop her people and all that.”

“Quite so, quite so,” said Mr. Jess. “And get what you call ‘tact’——.”

“Oh, she’s dressed herself beautifully—or Ninon’s done it for her.

She’ll pay for dressing. I call it a pretty figure. Charming. And she’s

got fine eyes,” Lady Barbara replied. “That’s what did it, no doubt.

Constantia tells me that Tristram Duplessis—.” Mr. Jess grew animated.

“A clever young fellow, Duplessis. I have had him under observation

lately. My secretary is leaving me, and there has been talk—I hear, by

the way, that the Cabinet is hopelessly divided: breaking up,—really,

you know, on the rocks.”

“So poor Lord Quantock was telling me last night, with tears in his

eyes. Then _you_ come in, it seems.”

“Well, well,” said Mr. Jess soothingly, “we shall see what we shall

see.”

“No doubt,” said Lady Barbara, bored with Mr. Jess.

The reception was rather ghastly. Lady Barbara supposed “we ought to

mingle,” and gallantly tried it upon Mrs. Middleham, who had her

daughter Mary’s fine eyes crystallized, as it were, in her head,

stiffened into glass and intensely polished! Mr. Germain, seconding his

friend’s effort while rigidly ignoring that an effort was to be made,

performed the introduction—“Ah—do you know Lady Barbara Rewish? Mrs.

Middleham,” and departed, not without hearing Mrs. Middleham say that

she did _not_ know her ladyship.

“Such a pretty wedding,” said Lady Barbara; “she looked delicious.”

Mrs. Middleham, who was not without character, said that Mary was a very

good girl. She had her “back up,” as her daughter Jinny said, and

neither gave nor took any odds. Lady Barbara replied that we were _all_

good at that age—and then found herself stranded. To see Jinny with Mr.

Gradeley, Q.C., had been a cure for the spleen. She ignored him, till he

perspired in her service.

Mary was cutting the cake while Mr. Germain was engaged in the very

unpleasant task of watching his sister-in-law “put things on a proper

footing” before Mr. Middleham. He could tell by the quivering eyelids of

the poor man that things were being put there with vigour. “No, madam,

no,” Mr. Middleham was heard to say. “I don’t know that we could fairly

expect more than that.”

“Nor do I,” said Mrs. James, with the air of one who adds, “I should

think not.”

“Mr. Germain has been more than kind,” he ventured to proceed;

“princely, indeed—and we should not presume——.”

“Of course not,” said Mrs. James, and was echoed, somewhat to her

discomfiture, by Mrs. Middleham, who had escaped from Lady Barbara by

the simple means of walking away.

“I think that Mrs. Germain may take for granted that nobody from our

house will intrude where he is not wanted,” said Mrs. Middleham with

dignity. “Whenever Mary comes to see us she will be welcome. That she

knows. We shall go where we are welcome—and nowhere else.”

“Then we quite understand each other, I see,” said Mrs. James.

“I hope we do,” said the other. “It shan’t be my fault if we do not.”

Mr. Germain was very uncomfortable, but there was now none too much time

for the train, according to his calculations. While Mary was “changing

her hat”—as it was put—the wedding party, rigidly segregated, stood

astare, each at its window, upon the gusty vagaries of a late autumn

day.

Mary was at the glass, flushed and on the edge of tears. Her hands were

at her hat, while her eyes searched Jinny’s stony pair for a sign of

melting. But Jinny was immovable. In vain did the pretty bride turn this

way and that, invite criticism, invoke it: Jinny’s disapproval

persisted. This was not to be borne—with a little whimper the victim

turned, clasped Medusa round the waist; with one hand to her chin she

coaxed for kindness. She stroked Jinny’s cheek, tiptoed for a kiss.

Presently she fairly sobbed on Jinny’s bosom.

“Oh, you are unkind to me—you hurt me dreadfully! What have I done,

that you won’t love me?”

“Done!” cried Jinny. “Hear her!” Then with blazing wrath she scorned her

sister. “I’ll tell you what you’ve done, my dear. You’ve married a

gravestone. Sacred to the Memory of John Germain, Esquire—that’s what

you’ve sold yourself to—take your joy of that. The price of a kissed

hand! You’ll find out before morning, my beauty. If I marry a

crossing-sweeper, he shall be a man.”

“You liked him, you know you liked him——.”

“Yes, for a grandfather, my dear; but for a husband, if you please, I’ll

have a man. And so might you—over and over. You’ve been as good as

promised half-a-dozen times——.”

“Jinny, you know that’s not true.” She was ruthlessly put away to arm’s

length.

“But it _is_ true. There was Rudd—what do you say of him?”

Rudd must be owned to. So far off he showed so dim a speck in the

distance, there seemed nothing in it.

“Young Stainer—you forget him, too, I suppose——.”

“Stainer?” said poor Mary. “He was a boy, Jinny.”

“He had a pair of arms, I believe. And I should like to hear your

opinion of Fred Wimple. You were never at Folkestone in your life, I

suppose? You never talked to Sandgate by moonlight? Never met any one in

your life by moonlight?”

The remembrance of a meeting by moonlight, more recent than any at

Folkestone, enabled Mary to consider Mr. Wimple’s case.

“I don’t think you need drag up flirtations against me. You’re not very

generous, Jinny. Of course I flirted.”

“Did you flirt with Mr. Ambrose Perivale? Was that what made him follow

you home across England? Did you flirt with Mr. Dup—.” But now Mary

clung to her.

“Stop, Jinny, oh, stop! If I’ve been wicked I must pay for it—it’s

always the girl that pays. But I have never been wicked—you know it,

oh, you must know it of your sister. I’ve told him everything,

Jinny—all that he would hear. But he’s too good to believe anything

against me; he’ll protect me, he’ll never let me come to any harm. Oh,

Jinny, Jinny, don’t be cruel to me any more! If ever a girl meant to do

her duty in life I mean it now. Dearest, you must help me—I’m afraid of

him, you know.”

Jinny folded her arms tightly over her chest. “Yes, I can believe

it—and you may be afraid of your husband before long—for the same

reason. You go out of your own walk—and you get lost. Your Tristram

Duplessis, who looks at a girl as if he wanted to eat her! You can’t be

expected to understand such ways. And it’s my belief that your John

Germain, Esquire, is no better—except for one thing, that he hasn’t any

teeth. If you ask me, I would rather be eaten any day by Mr. Duplessis.

He’d make a cleaner job of it.”

Mary was not crying. On the contrary, her eyes were hard. She was pale

and serious.

“I know that I’ve done a thing which you don’t approve. You think that

I’m going to leave you all for good. I hope that I shall show you soon

that you are wrong. Do me justice, Jinny. You have never seen me try to

get out of my station. I shall do whatever Mr.—, my husband, wishes, of

course—but I will never turn my back on my people. Nor would he ask it

of me—be sure of that. I can’t say any more—except that you have hurt

me by what you have said—and that five minutes after I’ve gone away,

you’ll be sorry.” Then she choked down something, and Jinny was sorry.

“Molly, I’ve been a brute——”

“No, no.”

“But I have. I’m proud of you, really—you looked quite a beauty in your

French clothes——”

“Jinny! Beside you I’m a little brown mouse.”

“You’re not, my dear. You’re as sharp as any needle. You’ll be one of

them in a month, and they’ll be the first to own it. I could see that

old Lady Rewish look you over—and nod her wicked old head. _She_ knows,

bless you! Little Moll, forgive your tiresome sister—kiss me now——”

“Darling Jinny, darling Jinny——”

They clung, wept, and kissed; and presently a radiant bride went down to

meet her lord.

Good-byes were said in haste. Jinny promised there should be no rice. A

momentary flush of cordiality warmed the unhappy guests. Lady Barbara

kissed the bride on both cheeks; Jinny hovered about her, eager now to

show her contrition. Wonder of all, Mr. Germain, saluted her fair cheek.

Jinny was seen to blush. Riceless, slipperless they went their way—and

the party dissolved like smoke.

It was afterwards agreed at Blackheath that Mr. Germain and the Rector

were gentlemen.

XVII

THE WEDDING NIGHT

Torquay was the place for the honeymoon; but Exeter was to be the end of

that day’s stage. Mr. Germain’s valet put them into the train, handed

his master the tickets, Mary her jewelcase, took off his hat and retired

to an adjoining compartment. Everything was very easy, done with an

absence of enthusiasm which might have chilled a more resolute heart

than this bride’s. It was done, she reflected, as if a wedding was a

matter of every day. Why, a budget of evening papers, _Punch_, _Truth_,

and other things had been laid in order upon the opposite seat. Was he

going to read all these? It was almost incredible—but after the events

of the afternoon she could have believed anything. She felt her ring to

make sure, and then her eye caught sight of the paper on the

window—Reserved to Exeter—J. Germain, Esquire. Perhaps great people

always reserved carriages when they travelled—perhaps a carriage would

always be reserved for her when she went about alone. There would have

been a maid if she had chosen; it had been proposed to her. She had

laughed and said, “Of course not!” But he had taken his man-servant—and

how could he? On his wedding journey! Had he taken him before—? This

was his second wedding, she remembered.

Anxiety as to whether the train could be caught might account for the

bridegroom’s silence during the carriage journey. His watch was open in

his hand. For some time, too, after the train moved, he kept silence.

She found herself looking soberly at the little pointed toe of her shoe

when her thoughts were broken in upon by the capture of her hand. The

sudden attack made her heart beat; she blushed hotly, lost her command

of experience. As if it had been the first advance he had ever made, she

dared not raise her eyes. She must be wooed from the beginning if she

was to be won.

This was the way to charm him; he was charmed. He called her his Mary,

and asked, of what she was thinking? She didn’t know, couldn’t say. Was

she thinking of their coming life together? No, not then. “I think

constantly of that,” he told her and put his arm about her. She let him

draw her closer as he developed his plans for their joint happiness.

“Calm spaces for work together, my love—there is so much in which your

help will be a pride to me—and something I do believe, in which I can

be useful to you. We must keep up our languages—French, Italian, even

Spanish (quite worth your while for Cervantes’ sake): I do think I can

help you there. Then your music—I could not bear you to abandon that. I

have a little surprise for you when I bring you to Southover—you shall

see. Then riding. I think you don’t ride? You shall be under Musters’s

care. Musters is an admirable fellow—you will like him. We ride

together daily, I hope. Will you like that?”

“Yes, yes, I shall like everything. It will all be very wonderful to

me—all quite new.”

He smiled, as if tolerant of a simplicity which could find daily

horse-exercise wonderful—and she felt it. In her present state of acute

sensibility she needed anything but this treatment. He should have taken

her as an adorable dunce and laughed at her outright between his kisses,

or he should have whirled her off her balance in the torrent of his

ecstasy. But Mr. Germain never laughed—it was not a Germain’s

habit—and ecstasy at four in the afternoon was not possible to him. He

liked his cup of tea at a quarter past, and when that hour came proposed

to Mary that she should give it him from her tea basket—Lady Barbara’s

present.

She was thankful for the relief, and almost herself again in the bustle

of preparation; she forgot her dumps, and when he burnt his fingers and

said “Tut-tut!” she fairly laughed at him and took, and even returned,

his kisses. Things were better; but he very nearly imperilled the

position thus hardly won, by wiping his mouth with a silk pocket

handkerchief. True, she had been eating bread and butter—but was this a

time—?

They chatted after tea—first of Berkshire where her home was to be. He

spoke of his “riverine property.” She could almost see the edge of his

estate as they slipped away from the ragged fringe of Reading. Then, by

natural stages, he was led to reflect upon the society she would meet

about Southover. The Chaveneys—he thought she would like the Chaveneys;

they were her nearest neighbours, five miles off. Sir George was

asthmatic—a sufferer; but Lady Chaveney was a charming woman, a woman

of the world. She had been a Scrope of Harfleet. The girls were quite

pleasant young women; and there was a son—rather wild—an anxiety

occasionally. Then there were—but her eyes were wide. Five miles off!

Were those the nearest people? She had thought there was a town—was not

Farlingbridge the post town? He considered Farlingbridge. Yes,

Farlingbridge was a mile and a half from the Park gates—a market town

of 2,000 souls. There was a Vicar, a worthy man, of the name of Burgess.

He met Burgess, of course—on the Board of Guardians, for instance.

There was a Colonel Dermott, too; yes, he had forgotten Dermott. Nobody

else. Her “Oh, I see,” was his reproof; he was ashamed of himself. “Two

thousand other people, of course! Everybody will be delighted to see

you, my dearest. Don’t misunderstand me. They won’t call,

probably—Foolish old customs die hard with us. But there won’t be a

door in Farlingbridge which won’t be open to you. I shall go with you,

if you will allow me. I have long wished to know more of my

neighbours—but you know how sadly I have lived.” He drew her closely to

him—“How I have lived so long without my Mary passes my comprehension!

Do you remember that last July was not the first time I saw you?”

She was pleased, and showed that she was. She questioned him shyly. Had

he seen her before this year? What had he thought? What made him notice

her this time? His answers were in the right vein. He was allowed to be

the lover—and so the moments passed, and Swindon with them. The train

swung slowly by a crowded platform. He released her.

Silence succeeding, she relapsed at once into her desponding mood. She

was embarked indeed—but on what a cruise! The Chaveneys—five miles

away—Sir George and Lady Chaveney—She knew what that meant; how the

County reckoned, from one great house to another. Why, if a Colonel

Dermott, a Reverend Burgess were as nothing—from what a depth of

blackness had _she_ been dragged up! . . . A toy, an old man’s

plaything, Jinny had called her . . . picked out of a village and put in

a great house . . . five miles from anybody. . . .

During this time of long silence, of reverie, in the which, though his

arm embraced her and his hand was against her side, his eyes were

placidly shut, while hers gazed out of window, fixed and sombre, at the

flying country, she suddenly started and became alert. Misgivings faded,

a wash of warm colour—as of setting suns—stole comfortably about her.

For a moment, it may be, she was conscious again of wide horizons. The

train was rolling smoothly—so smoothly that its swiftness had to be

felt for—over an open common backed by a green down. Furze-bushes

dotted it, clumps of bramble; there was a pond, a dusty road, geese on

the pond, a cottage by the road, with a woman taking linen from the

hedge. Along the road, pushing to the West, went a cart, drawn by a

white horse; the driver sat on the tilt, smoking, his elbows on his

knees; a grey dog ran diligently beside. Could this be—? Could it be

other? Oh, the great, free life! Oh, the beating heart! Oh, the long,

long look! Mary strained against the arm of her husband; his hand felt

her heart beat. He opened his eyes, looked at her, and smiled to see her

eager gazing. But what mystery of change in women! The next moment she

had turned to him, her eyes filled with wet. She turned, she looked

wistfully upon him; her lip quivered. “My darling?”—and then she flung

herself upon his breast. “Oh, take me, take me, keep me safe!” she

cried. “I will be good to you, I will, I will! But you must love me

always——”

“My sweet wife, can you doubt it? What has frightened my pet?” She hid

her face on his shoulder. “Nothing—nothing—only thoughts. I’m not

good, you know. I told you so—often.”

He pressed her closely to him. “Who is good? Who dares to ask for love?

We ask for mercy—not love. But we can always give it. It is our blessed

privilege. You have the whole of mine.” He kissed her hair—all that he

could reach of her, and she lay with hidden face for a long time. The

unknown resumed its chilly grip—the horizon narrowed again, the fog

hung about the hedgerows which hemmed it in. But the outlook was not

quite the same—or the out-looker was changed. The tilt-cart was

journeying to the West, and so was the train. . . . But Mr. Germain

exulted in every mile which he could watch out with that dear head upon

his shoulder. The tired child slept!

“Exeter, my love!” he awoke her with a kiss; she blushed, looked dazed,

and snuggled to him in an adorable way. But for that unlucky servant of

his it is possible that the day might have been saved yet. But

inexorable order resumed its hold, and she chilled fatally between

station and hotel. A carriage and pair was waiting for them, a cockaded

coachman touched his hat; the porters touched theirs; the luggage

followed with Villiers; up the stairs of the hotel there was quite a

stately procession. . . . They were shown their rooms; sitting-room,

dining-room, two bed-rooms, all _en suite_. Mr. Germain disappeared with

anxious Villiers; a gigantic chambermaid, old, stately, with a bosom fit

for triplets, superintended the unpacking of Madam’s trunk, which was

plundered by two smart underlings with velvet bows very far back upon

their sleek heads. Would Madam require a dresser? Madam said, Oh, no,

thank you—and then had to ring in confusion for somebody to fasten her

bodice. Madam looked charming, when all was done, in a gown of dangerous

simplicity, and Madam knew it—but there beat a wild little heart under

the tulle, and a cry had to be stifled, a cry to a friend on the open

road—for good fellowship, sage counsel, and trust to float between eyes

and eyes. Her treadings had well-nigh slipped; she felt herself to be

drowning—as it were, in three feet of water.

She sat at his table, and ravished his delicate fancies with her pretty

embarrassments, her assumed dignity, her guarded eyes and lips. King

Cophetua lived again in this honest man, who had no need to protest to

Heaven that he would cherish his elected bride. He was now perfectly

happy, wallowing in sentiment, bathing every sense. The exquisite

antithesis he had made! From nothing she was become this! Sweet before,

and now all dainty sweet; rare unknown, now known to be the rarest. Her

white neck with a jewel upon it, her scented hair with a star, rings

glittering on her fingers, her gown as dainty as her untried soul—and

through the clouded windows of her eyes that shrinking soul looking

out—wistful, appealing, crying for help. Ah, what loyal help should be

hers! Complacent, benevolent gentleman.

She sipped his champagne, she watched everything, missed nothing, gave

no chances, knew herself on her trial. She was strung up to the last

pitch, and staked all her future upon the hazard of this night. If she

was cold in her responses, slow to take up, quick to abandon positions

in the talk, she may be excused. She could be bright enough when she was

at ease—but who is at ease with his honour at proof? Great honour had

been done her, she knew; and it required all her honour in return. That

prompted her to a curious requital. She burned to cry out to this

courteous gentleman in black and fair white, and to these noiseless,

prompt attendants—“Look at me well—I am nothing, a shred from the

wilderness. He has chosen me for his breast, decked me out—I am a

slave-girl—my ignorance is hired. How dare you wait upon me, you who

would pass me in the street, and nudge, and tell each other with a wink

what I was, and how you found my looks? Was I so low that I must be thus

lower? Can you not spare me this?” She burned with shame, was

dangerously near to panic. More than once she must bite her lip to hold

back these words—and as she bit, he looked at her and adored her

splendid colour and lovely frugality of glance and speech. . . . She

left him to his port, and sat alone in the drawing-room, a prey to all

the misgivings.

When he took her in his arms and struggled with himself to tell her all

he had found in her of excellence and beauty, she could only hide her

face. But she clung to him at last, sobbing out her protest that she

would serve him utterly. “Oh, you are good to me, you are good! Oh, help

me to be what you wish. I am so ignorant—I cannot tell you—” She broke

off here, and, holding herself stiffly in his arms, looked strangely in

his face. “Do you know—have you thought—that—that—I cannot be what

you think me?” she said; and when she saw that he was taken aback,

“Listen,” she said, “let me sit by you.” He took her on his knee and

held her swinging hand. Her eyes were veiled as she tried to speak to

him. “I have been—I began to work, you know, when I was sixteen. I went

away from home——”

She caught him unawares, or she hit by some fatal telepathy the centre

of his thought. He flinched at the blow, but she could not know that,

being too full of her own affair. She must discharge her heart at all

costs—and at this eleventh hour, if so must be. Now let him be generous

if he is to be accounted wise!

Once too often he was tried. This time, at the crisis, he did not

respond. Generosity, which is Love’s flag of victory, was not at

command. The hand that shaded his eyes made a deeper shadow. His voice

was small and still. “Yes, my dear, yes?”

She lifted her head and looked up, not at him, but over the room. She

went on as if she was reading her story off the wall. But she was

reading it from Jinny’s eyes of scorn.

“You must know me as I really am before you—before to-morrow. I was

engaged—once—before I knew you. He was a farmer’s son—Mr. Rudd. He

thought—I thought—he gave me a ring. That was soon after I had gone to

Misperton. I was twenty-two.”

He sat very still, hiding his face. It looked as if he were crouching

from a storm. “Yes, yes, my child. Why not?” She was pitiless.

“Oh, but— . . . I have more to tell you.”

He seemed to shrivel. “You wish to speak of these things? You were very

young.” And yet his voice said, Tell me all—all.

“At sixteen? Yes. Of course I was very foolish.”

“There had been—Before you went to Mr. Nunn’s—before you went to

Misperton?”

She left his knee, and sat opposite to him upon a straight chair. She

folded her hands in her lap and began her tale. As if she had been in

the dock she rehearsed her poor tale. He neither stirred nor spoke.

She made no excuses, did not justify herself, nor accuse herself. She

did not say—it never entered her head to say—You, too, have made

mistakes. There was a Lady Diana for your bitterness. But she knew what

she was doing only too well; and a force within her said, “Go on—spare

nothing—go on. Whatever it cost you, be done with it. No peace for you

else.” . . . “I must tell you that there was a gentleman—you will not

ask me his name. I think that you know it. He gave me a book—and—other

things. I have not seen him since—since you spoke to me at the

school-feast.”

He stirred, but did not look up. “I will ask you not to see him.”

“I will never see him. I have refused——”

“He has tried to see you?”

“I took care that he should not.”

“I don’t wish to seem unreasonable,” he said slowly; “I cannot bear to

seem so to you. But—it would be for our happiness.”

“I assure you that I have no intention. I hope you will believe me.” His

lips moved, but he did not look up. She rose. “I am very tired,” she

said; “I think I will go now.” He got up immediately; the fog seemed in

the room. She came and stood before him.

“Be patient with me,” she said. “Be kind to me. I shall try to do

everything you wish.”

He made as if he would take her, but she drew back quickly.

“I should have told you all this before if I could have thought you

would care—would allow it. Indeed, I have tried more than once, but

you—Now, I am glad that you know me—but I am very tired.”

“Mary,” he said, and held out his hands to her. She looked into his

face, then shut her eyes.

“I am very tired. Please let me go. Good-night.”

He held open the door for her.