Initial commit

author: nfenwick <nfenwick@pglaf.org> 2025-01-25 05:09:21 -0800
committer: nfenwick <nfenwick@pglaf.org> 2025-01-25 05:09:21 -0800
commit: ef63da169a95b0d4ed2afbec99dd71ad44a39497 (patch)
tree: 978fb95ca462ddb59463b084eff136841ffbb514
6 files changed, 14327 insertions, 0 deletions
diff --git a/69495-0.txt b/69495-0.txt
new file mode 100644
index 0000000..ce5cba5
--- /dev/null
+++ b/69495-0.txt
@@ -0,0 +1,5931 @@
+The Project Gutenberg eBook of The professor's experiment, Vol. 2 (of
+3), by Margaret Wolfe Hungerford
+
+This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and
+most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions
+whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms
+of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at
+www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you
+will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before
+using this eBook.
+
+Title: The professor's experiment, Vol. 2 (of 3)
+       A novel
+
+Author: Margaret Wolfe Hungerford
+
+Release Date: December 7, 2022 [eBook #69495]
+
+Language: English
+
+Produced by: Richard Tonsing and the Online Distributed Proofreading
+             Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from
+             images generously made available by The Internet Archive)
+
+*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE PROFESSOR'S EXPERIMENT,
+VOL. 2 (OF 3) ***
+
+
+
+
+
+                       THE PROFESSOR’S EXPERIMENT
+
+
+
+
+                        MRS. HUNGERFORD’S NOVELS
+
+  ‘_Mrs. Hungerford has well deserved the title of being one of the most
+  fascinating novelists of the day. The stories written by her are the
+  airiest, lightest, and brightest imaginable, full of wit, spirit, and
+  gaiety; but they contain, nevertheless, touches of the most exquisite
+  pathos. There is something good in all of them._’—ACADEMY.
+
+  =A MAIDEN ALL FORLORN=, and other Stories. Post 8vo., illustrated
+    boards, 2s.; cloth limp, 2s. 6d.
+
+‘There is no guile in the novels of the authoress of “Molly Bawn,” nor
+any consistency or analysis of character; but they exhibit a faculty
+truly remarkable for reproducing the rapid small-talk, the shallow but
+harmless “chaff” of certain strata of modern fashionable
+society.’—_Spectator._
+
+  =IN DURANCE VILE=, and other Stories. Post 8vo., illustrated boards,
+    2s.; cloth limp, 2s. 6d.
+
+‘Mrs. Hungerford’s Irish girls have always been pleasant to meet upon
+the dusty pathways of fiction. They are flippant, no doubt, and often
+sentimental, and they certainly flirt, and their stories are told often
+in rather ornamental phrase and with a profusion of the first person
+singular. But they are charming all the same.’—_Academy._
+
+  =A MENTAL STRUGGLE.= Post 8vo., illustrated boards, 2s.; cloth limp,
+    2s. 6d.
+
+‘She can invent an interesting story, she can tell it well, and she
+trusts to honest, natural, human emotions and interests of life for her
+materials.’—_Spectator._
+
+  =A MODERN CIRCE.= Post 8vo., illustrated boards, 2s.; cloth limp, 2s.
+    6d.
+
+‘Mrs. Hungerford is a distinctly amusing author.... In all her books
+there is a “healthy absenteeism” of ethical purpose, and we have derived
+more genuine pleasure from them than probably the most earnest student
+has ever obtained from a chapter of “Robert Elsmere.”’—_Saturday
+Review._
+
+  =MARVEL.= Post 8vo., illustrated boards, 2s.; cloth, 2s. 6d.
+
+‘The author has long since created an imaginary world, peopled with more
+or less natural figures; but her many admirers acknowledge the easy
+grace and inexhaustible _verve_ that characterize her scenes of
+Hibernian life, and never tire of the type of national heroine she has
+made her own.’—_Morning Post._
+
+  =LADY VERNER’S FLIGHT.= Crown 8vo., cloth extra, 3s. 6d.; post 8vo.,
+    illustrated boards, 2s.; cloth limp, 2s. 6d.
+
+‘There are in “Lady Verner’s Flight” several of the bright young
+people who are wont to make Mrs. Hungerford’s books such very
+pleasant reading.... In all the novels by the author of “Molly Bawn”
+there is a breezy freshness of treatment which makes them most
+agreeable.’—_Spectator._
+
+  =THE RED-HOUSE MYSTERY.= Crown 8vo., cloth extra, 3s. 6d.
+
+‘Mrs. Hungerford is never seen to the best advantage when not dealing
+with the brighter sides of life, or seeming to enjoy as much as her
+readers the ready sallies and laughing jests of her youthful personages.
+In her present novel, however, the heroine, if not all smiles and mirth,
+is quite as taking as her many predecessors, while the spirit of
+uncontrolled mischief is typified in the American heiress.’—_Morning
+Post._
+
+  =THE THREE GRACES.= 2 vols., crown 8vo., 10s. net.
+
+‘It is impossible to deny that Mrs. Hungerford is capable of writing a
+charming love-story, and that she proves her capacity to do so in “The
+Three Graces.”’—_Academy._
+
+LONDON: CHATTO & WINDUS, PICCADILLY.
+
+
+
+
+                                  THE
+                         PROFESSOR’S EXPERIMENT
+                               =A Novel=
+
+
+                                   BY
+
+                            MRS. HUNGERFORD
+
+                               AUTHOR OF
+    ‘MOLLY BAWN,’ ‘THE RED-HOUSE MYSTERY,’ ‘THE THREE GRACES,’ ‘LADY
+                         VERNER’S FLIGHT,’ ETC.
+
+[Illustration]
+
+                            IN THREE VOLUMES
+
+                                VOL. II.
+
+
+                                =London=
+                      CHATTO & WINDUS, PICCADILLY
+                                  1895
+
+
+
+
+                                  THE
+
+                         PROFESSOR’S EXPERIMENT
+
+
+
+
+                              CHAPTER XXI.
+
+  ‘Confidence imparts a wondrous inspiration to its possessor. It bears
+  him on in security, either to meet no danger or to find matter of
+  glorious trial.’
+
+
+The girl seems powerfully affected by the determination she has come to,
+so much so as to be almost on the point of fainting. Wyndham, catching
+her by the arm, presses her back into the garden-chair.
+
+‘Not a word,’ says he. ‘Why should you tell me?’
+
+‘I must, I will!’ She sits up, and with marvellous strength of will
+recovers herself. ‘There is very little to tell,’ says she faintly. ‘I
+have lived all my life in one house. As a little child I came to it.
+Before that I remember nothing. If’—she looks at him—‘I tell you names
+and places, you will keep them sacred? You will not betray me?’ Her
+glance is now at once wistful and frightened.
+
+‘I shall certainly not do that,’ says he gravely. ‘But why speak if you
+need not?’
+
+‘I don’t know.’ She pauses, clasping her hands tightly together, and
+then at last, ‘I want to tell you.’
+
+‘Well, tell me,’ says Wyndham gently.
+
+‘The name of the people I lived with was Moore,’ says she, speaking at
+once and rapidly, as if eager to get rid of what she has volunteered to
+tell. ‘They called me Moore, too—Ella Moore—though I know, I am sure, I
+did not belong to them.’
+
+‘Ella?’
+
+‘Yes, Ella; I think’—hesitatingly—‘that is my real Christian name,
+because far, far back someone’—pressing her hand to her head, as though
+trying to remember—‘used to call me Elly, someone who was not Mrs.
+Moore. It was not her voice. And Moore—that is not my name, I know.’ Her
+tone has grown quite firm. ‘Mrs. Moore always called herself my aunt;
+but I don’t think she was anything to me. She was kind sometimes,
+however, and I was sorry when she died. She had a husband, and I lived
+with them ever since I can remember anything.’
+
+‘Perhaps you were Mr. Moore’s niece.’
+
+‘Oh, not that!’ She grows very pale, and makes a quick gesture of
+repulsion with her hands. ‘Not that. No, thank God!’ She pauses, and he
+can see that she has begun to tremble as if at some dreadful thought.
+‘She, Mrs. Moore, died two months ago, and after that he—she was hardly
+in her grave—and he—Oh, it is horrible!’—burying her face in her hands.
+‘But he—he told me he wanted to marry me.’ She struggles with herself
+for a moment, and then bursts into wild tears. One can see that the
+tears are composed of past cruel memories, of outraged pride as well as
+grief.
+
+‘Oh, monstrous!’ says Wyndham hurriedly. He begins to pace rapidly up
+and down the walk, coming back to her when he finds her more composed.
+
+‘It is true, though,’ cries she miserably. ‘Oh, how I hate to think of
+it!’—emphatically. ‘When I said no, that I’d rather die than marry
+him—and I would—he was furious. A fortnight afterwards he spoke to me
+again, saying he had ordered the banns to be called; and when I again
+said I would never consent, he locked me in a room, and said he would
+starve me to death unless I gave in. I’—clenching her small white
+teeth—‘told him I would gladly starve in preference to that. And for
+three nights and two days I did starve. He brought me nothing; but I did
+not see him, and that kept me alive. On the third day he came again, and
+again I defied him, and then—then—’ She cowers away from Wyndham, and
+the hot flush of shame dyes her cheek. ‘Then—he beat me.’
+
+‘The — scoundrel!’ says Wyndham between his teeth.
+
+‘He beat me,’ says the girl, dry sobs breaking from her lips, ‘until my
+back and arms were blue and swollen; and then he asked me again if I
+would give in and marry him, and I—’
+
+Here she pauses, and stands back as if confronting someone. She is
+looking past Wyndham and far into space. It is plain that that past
+horrible, degrading scene has come back to her afresh. The gross
+indignity, the abominable affront, is again a present thing. Again the
+blows rain upon her slender arms and shoulders; again the brute is
+demanding her submission; and again, in spite of hunger, and pain, and
+fear, she is defying him. Her head is well upheld, her hands clenched,
+her large eyes ablaze. It is thus she must have looked as she defied the
+cowardly scoundrel, and the effect is magnificent.
+
+‘I said “No” again.’ The fire born of that last conflict dies away, and
+she falls back weakly into the seat behind her. ‘That night I ran away.
+I suppose in his rage he forgot to lock the door after him, and so I
+found the matter easy. It was a wet night and very cold. I was tired,
+half dead with hunger and with bitter pain. That was the night—’
+
+She comes to a dead stop here, and turns her face away from him. A shame
+keener than any she has known before, even in this recital made to him,
+is filling her now. But still she determines to go on.
+
+‘That was the night your servant found me!’
+
+‘Poor child!’ says Wyndham. His sympathy—so unexpected—coming on her
+terrible agitation, breaks her down. She bursts into a storm of sobs.
+
+‘I would to God,’ says she, ‘that I had died before he found me!
+Yes—yes, I would, though I know it was His will, and His alone, that
+kept me alive, half dead from cold and hunger as I was. I can’t bear to
+think of that night, and what you must have thought of me! It was
+dreadful—dreadful! You shrank from me because I courted death so openly.
+Yes—yes, you did’—combating a gesture on his part—‘but you did not know
+how near I was to it at that moment. I was famished, bruised, homeless—I
+was almost senseless. I knew only that I could not return to that man’s
+house, and that there was no other house to go to. That was all I knew,
+through the unconsciousness that was fast overtaking me. To die seemed
+the best thing—and to die in that warm room. I was frozen. Oh, blame me,
+despise me, if you like, but anyone would have been glad to die, if they
+felt as homeless and as starving as I did that night!’
+
+‘Who is blaming you?’ says Wyndham roughly. ‘Good heavens! is there a
+man on earth who could blame you, after hearing so sad a story? Because
+you have met one brute in your life, must you consider all other men
+brutes?’
+
+His manner is so vehement that Ella, thinking he is annoyed with her,
+shrinks from him.
+
+‘Don’t be angry with me,’ says she imploringly.
+
+‘Angry with you!’ says he impatiently. ‘There is only one to be angry
+with, and that is that devil. Where does he live?’
+
+She gives him the road, and the number of the house where she had lived
+with the Moores—a road of small houses, chiefly occupied by artisans and
+clerks; a road not very far from the Zoological Gardens.
+
+‘But what are you going to do?’ asks she nervously. ‘You will not tell
+him I am here?’
+
+‘Of course not. But it is quite necessary that a fellow like that should
+feel there is a law in the land.’
+
+‘But if you say anything about me,’ says she in a tone now thoroughly
+frightened, ‘he will search me out, no matter in what corner of the
+earth I may be.’
+
+‘I don’t think so, once I have spoken to him,’ says the barrister
+grimly.
+
+‘You mean’—she looks at him timidly—‘you think that if—’ She breaks off
+again. ‘He told me that his wife, who he said was my aunt, had made him
+guardian over me, and that he would be my master for ever.’
+
+‘Even supposing all that were true, and Mrs. Moore were your aunt—which
+I doubt—and had left her husband guardian over you, still, there are
+limits to the powers of guardians.’
+
+‘Then if you see him, you think’—with trembling anxiety—‘you can tell
+him that he has no hold over me?’
+
+‘Yes, I think so.’
+
+‘And I shall be free?’
+
+‘Quite free.’
+
+Ella leans forward. Her hands are upon her knees and are tightly
+clenched. She is thinking. Suddenly a soft glow overspreads her face.
+She lifts her eyes to his, and he can see that a wonderful
+brilliance—the light of hope—has come into them.
+
+‘It is too good to be true,’ says she slowly.
+
+‘Oh no, I hope not. But I wish I had a few more particulars, Miss Moore.
+I am afraid’—seeing a shade upon her face—‘I shall be obliged to call
+you that until I have discovered your real name. And to do that you must
+help me. Have you no memory that goes farther back than the Moores? You
+spoke of someone who used to call you Elly—’
+
+‘It was a woman,’ says she quickly. ‘Often—often in my dreams I see her
+again. She used to kiss me—I remember that.’
+
+It is such a sad little saying—once, long ago, so long ago that she can
+scarcely remember it, some woman used to kiss her! But, evidently, since
+that tender kisses had not fallen to the poor child’s lot.
+
+‘But she died. I saw her lying dead. I thought she was asleep. She was
+very beautiful—I remember that, too. I don’t want to see anyone dead
+again. Death,’ says she with a shudder, ‘is horrible!’
+
+This, coming from one who had braved its terrors voluntarily so very
+lately, causes Wyndham to look at her in some surprise.
+
+‘Yes!’ says he. ‘And yet that night when the Professor gave you
+something that might have led to death, were you frightened then?’
+
+‘I think I have explained that,’ says she, with a slight touch of
+dignity.
+
+‘True.’ He continues the slow pacing to and fro upon the garden-path
+that he has taken up occasionally during this interview. ‘There is
+nothing more, then, that you can tell me? The lady of whom you speak,
+who used to kiss you, was perhaps your mother?’
+
+‘I think so—I believe it,’ says the girl. She turns to him a face
+flushed and gratified. ‘Mr. Wyndham, it was kind of you to call her
+that—a lady! To me, too, she seems a lady, and, besides that, an angel.’
+
+A lady! Wyndham’s kindly instincts go out to this poor waif and stray
+with an extreme sense of pity. A lady! Very likely, but perhaps no wife.
+The mother, if a lady, has certainly left the gentle manners of good
+birth to this poor child, but nothing else. A vindictive anger against
+the vices of this life in which he lives, and a still greater anger
+against the _bétises_ of society that would not admit this girl into
+their ranks, however faultless she may be, because of a blot upon her
+birth, stirs his soul. That she is one of the great unknown seems very
+clear to him, but does not prevent his determination to hunt out that
+scoundrel Moore and break his hold over the girl. In the meantime, it
+would be well for her to mix with her kind.
+
+‘About a companion,’ says he. ‘You told me you were anxious to continue
+your studies. I think I know a lady—elderly, refined, and gentle—who
+would be able to help you. You could go out with her.’
+
+‘I shall not go out of this house,’ says the girl. She has begun to
+tremble again. ‘Mr. Wyndham, do not ask me to do that. Even’—slowly, but
+steadily—‘if you did ask me, I should refuse. I will not go where I can
+be found. This lady you speak of, if she will come and live with me, and
+teach me—I should like that; but—’
+
+‘You will require very little teaching, I think,’ says Wyndham, who has
+been struck by the excellence of both her manners and her speech,
+considering her account of her former life.
+
+‘I know nothing,’ says she calmly; ‘but, as I told you, I had read a
+good deal, and for the past three years I used to go as nursery
+governess to a Mrs. Blaquiere, who lived in Westmoreland Road. I used to
+lunch with her and the children, and she was very kind to me; and she
+taught me a good deal in other ways—society ways.’
+
+‘You were an apt pupil,’ says he gravely, a little doubtfully, perhaps.
+
+‘I liked the way she talked, and it seemed to come very easy to me after
+awhile,’ says the girl indifferently, not noticing his keen glance at
+her. ‘But this governess—this companion?’ asks she. ‘Will she want to go
+out—to be amused? If so, I could not have her. I shall never go out of
+this place until—’
+
+‘Until?’ asks he.
+
+‘You tell me that man has no longer any power over me. I’—she looks at
+him, and again terror whitens her face—‘I am sure you are wrong, and
+that he has the power to drag me away from this, if he finds me.’
+
+‘I should advise you not to dwell on that until I have found him,’ says
+Wyndham, a little stiffly. The successful barrister is a little thrown
+back upon himself by being told that he will undoubtedly find himself in
+the wrong. ‘But this Mrs. Blaquiere, who was so kind to you—why do you
+not apply to her for protection?’
+
+‘She and her husband and the children all went to Australia in the early
+part of last spring, and so I lost sight of them.’
+
+‘Lost your situation, too?’—regarding her carefully.
+
+‘Yes; and I had no time to look for another. Mrs. Moore grew ill then,
+and I had to attend her day and night until she died. The rest I have
+told you.’
+
+‘I see,’ says Wyndham. ‘Tell me again this man Moore’s address.’ He
+writes it now in his pocket-book, though it was written well into his
+brain before; but he wished to see if she would falter about it the
+second time.
+
+He bids her good-bye presently, refusing her timid offer of tea.
+
+At the gate he finds Mrs. Denis, presumably tying up a creeper, but most
+undoubtedly on the look-out for him.
+
+‘Good-evening, yer honour.’
+
+‘Good-evening’—shortly. Wyndham is deep in thought, and by no means in a
+good temper. He would have brushed by her; but, armed with a garden
+rake, a spade, and a huge clipper, Mrs. Denis is not lightly to be dealt
+with.
+
+‘Askin’ yer pardon, sir, ’tis just a word I want wid ye. Miss Ella, the
+crathure—ye’re going to let her stay here, aren’t ye?’
+
+‘Yes,’ says Wyndham gruffly.
+
+‘The saints be praised!’ says Mrs. Denis piously. ‘Fegs! ’tis a good
+heart ye have, sir, in spite of it all.’ What the ‘all’ is she leaves
+beautifully indefinite. ‘An’, sure, ’twas meself tould Denis—that ould
+raprobate of a fool o’ mine—that ye’d niver turn her out. “For where
+would she go,” says I, “if he did—a born lady like her?” An’ there’s
+plenty o’ room for her here, sir.’
+
+‘I dare say,’ says Wyndham, feeling furious. ‘But for all that, I can’t
+have all the young women in Ireland staying in my house just because
+there is room for them.’
+
+‘God forbid, yer honour! All thim young women would play the very divil
+wid the Cottage, an’’—thoughtfully—‘aitch other too. Wan at a time, sir,
+is a good plan, an’ I’m glad it’s Miss Ella has had the first of it.’
+
+This remarkable speech is met by Wyndham with a stony glare that goes
+lightly over the head of Mrs. Denis. That worthy woman is too much
+elated with the news she has dragged out of him to care for glares of
+any sort. Childless, though always longing for a child—and especially
+for a daughter—Mrs. Denis’s heart had gone out at once to the pretty
+waif that had been cast into her life in so strange a fashion. And now
+she hastens back to the house to get ‘her Miss Ella a cup o’ tay, the
+crathure!’ and wheedle out of her all the news about the ‘masther.’
+
+
+
+
+                             CHAPTER XXII.
+
+  ‘Tell me how to bear so blandly the assuming ways of wild young
+  people!
+
+  ‘Truly they would be unbearable if I had not also been unbearable
+  myself as well.’—GOETHE.
+
+
+When Mr. Crosby had told the Barrys that he would come down next day for
+a game of tennis, they had not altogether believed in his coming, so
+that when they see him from afar off, through the many holes in the
+hedge, walking towards them down the village street, surprise is their
+greatest sentiment.
+
+‘Susan,’ says Dominick solemnly, pausing racket in hand, ‘it must be
+you. I always told you your face was your fortune, and a very small one
+at that. You’ll have to marry him, and then we’ll all go and live with
+you for ever. That’ll be a treat for you, and will doubtless make up for
+the fact that he is emulating the Great Methuselah. If I can say a good
+word for you, I—Oh, how d’ye do, Mr. Crosby? Brought your racket, too, I
+see. Carew, now we’ll make up a set: Mr. Crosby and—’
+
+‘Miss Susan, if I may,’ says Crosby, looking into Susan’s charming face
+whilst holding her hand in greeting. There are any amount of greetings
+to be got through when you go to see the Barrys. They are all always _en
+évidence_, and all full of life and friendliness. Even little Bonnie
+hurries up on his stick, and gives him a loving greeting. The child’s
+face is so sweet and so happily friendly that Crosby stoops and kisses
+him.
+
+‘Certainly you may,’ says Susan genially; ‘but I’m not so good a player
+as Betty. She can play like anything. But to-day she has got a bad cold
+in her head. Well’—laughing—‘come on; we can try, and, after all, we can
+only be beaten.’
+
+They are, as it happens, and very badly, too, Mr. Crosby, though no
+doubt good at big game, being rather a tyro at tennis.
+
+‘I apologize,’ says he, when the game is at an end, and they have all
+seated themselves upon the ground to rest and gather breath; ‘I’m afraid
+Su—Miss Susan—you will hardly care to play with me again.’
+
+‘I told you you could call me Susan,’ says she calmly. ‘Somehow, I
+dislike the Miss before it. Betty told you Miss Barry sounded like Aunt
+Jemima, but I think Miss Susan sounds like Jane.’
+
+‘Poor old Jane! And she’s got such an awful nose!’ says Betty. ‘I think
+I’d rather be like Aunt Jemima than her.’
+
+‘Susan hasn’t got an awful nose,’ says Bonnie, stroking Susan’s dainty
+little Grecian appendage fondly. ‘It’s a nice one.’
+
+‘Susan is a beauty,’ says Betty; ‘we all know that. Even James went down
+before her. Poor James! I wonder what he is doing now.’
+
+‘Stewing in the Soudan,’ says Carew.
+
+‘He was always in one sort of stew or another,’ says Dominick, ‘so it
+will come kindly to him. And after Susan’s heartless behaviour—’
+
+‘Dom!’ says Susan, in an awful tone. But Mr. Fitzgerald is beyond the
+reach of tones.
+
+‘Oh, it’s all very well your taking it like that now,’ says he; ‘but
+when poor old James was here it was a different thing.’
+
+‘It was not,’ says Susan indignantly.
+
+‘Are you going to deny that he was your abject slave—that he sat in your
+pocket from morning till night—well, very nearly night? That he followed
+you from place to place like a baa-lamb? That you did not encourage him
+in the basest fashion?’
+
+‘I never encouraged him. Encourage him! That boy!’
+
+‘Don’t call him names, Susan, behind his back,’ says Betty, whose
+mischievous nature is now all afire, and who is as keen about the
+baiting of Susan as either Carew or Dom. ‘Besides, what a boy he is! He
+must be twenty-two, at all events.’ This seems quite old to Betty.
+
+‘What did you do with the keepsake he gave you when he was going away?’
+asks Carew. He is lying flat upon the warm grass, his chin upon his
+palms, and looks up at Susan with judicial eyes. ‘What was it? I forget
+now. A lock of his lovely hair?’
+
+‘No,’ says Betty; ‘a little silver brooch—an anchor.’
+
+‘That means hope,’ says Dominick solemnly. ‘Susan, he is coming back
+next year. What are you going to say to him?’
+
+‘Just exactly what everybody else is going to say to him,’ says Susan,
+who is now crimson. ‘And I didn’t want that horrid brooch at all.’
+
+‘Still, you took it,’ says Betty. ‘I call that rather mean, to take it,
+and then say you didn’t want it.’
+
+‘Well, what was I to do?’
+
+‘Refuse it, mildly but firmly,’ says Mr. Fitzgerald. ‘The acceptance of
+it was, in my opinion, as good as the acceptance of James. When he does
+come back, Susan, I don’t see how you are to get out of being Mrs.
+James. That brooch is a regular binder. How does it seem to you, Mr.
+Crosby?’
+
+‘You see, I haven’t heard all the evidence yet,’ says Crosby, who is
+looking at Susan’s flushed, half-angry, wholly-delightful face. James,
+whoever he is, seems to have been a good deal in her society at one
+time.
+
+‘There’s no evidence,’ says she wrathfully, ‘and I wish you boys
+wouldn’t be so stupid! As for the brooch, I hate it; I never wear it.’
+
+‘Well, if ever anyone gives me a present I shall wear it every day and
+all day long,’ says Betty. ‘What’s the good of having a lover if people
+don’t know about it?’
+
+‘Is that so?’ says Mr. Fitzgerald, regarding her with all the air of one
+to whom now the road seems clear. ‘Then the moment I become a
+millionaire—and there seems quite an immediate prospect of it just now—I
+shall buy you the Koh-i-Noor, and you shall wear it on your beauteous
+brow, and proclaim me as your unworthy lover to all the world.’
+
+‘I will when I get it,’ says Betty, with tremendous sarcasm.
+
+‘The reason you won’t wear it,’ says Carew, alluding to Susan’s despised
+brooch, ‘is plain to even the poor innocents around you. Girls, in spite
+of all Betty has said, seldom wear their keepsakes. They get cotton wool
+and wrap them up in it, and peep at them rapturously on Christmas Day or
+Easter Sunday, or on the beloved one’s birthday, or some other sacred
+occasion. What’s James’s birthday, Susan?’
+
+‘I don’t know,’ says Susan; ‘and I don’t know, either, why you tease me
+so much about him. He is quite as little to me as I am to him.’ Her
+voice is trembling now. They have gone a little too far perhaps, or is
+the memory of James ‘stewing in the Soudan’ too much for her? Whichever
+it is, Mr. Crosby is growing anxious for her; but all the youngsters are
+now in full cry, and the proverbial cruelty of brothers and sisters is
+well known to many a long-suffering girl and boy.
+
+‘Oh, Susan,’ says Betty, ‘where does one go to when one tells
+naughty-naughties? Dom; do you remember the evening just before James
+went abroad, when he went into floods of tears because she wouldn’t give
+him a rosebud she had in her dress? It took Dom, and me, and Carew, and
+a pint of water to restore him.’
+
+At this they all laugh, even Susan, though very faintly and very
+shamefacedly. Her pretty eyes are shy and angry.
+
+‘He wanted a specimen to take out with him to astonish the natives,’
+says Carew. ‘You were the real specimen he wanted to take out with him,
+Susan, but as that was impracticable just then (it will probably be
+arranged next time), he decided on taking the rosebud instead.’
+
+‘He wanted nothing,’ says Susan, whose face is now bent over Bonnie’s as
+if to hide it. ‘He didn’t care a bit about me.’
+
+‘Indeed he did, Susan.’
+
+A fresh element has fallen into the situation. Everyone looks round. The
+voice is the voice of Jacky—Jacky, who, up to this, has been as usual
+buried in a book. This time the burial has been deeper than ever, as the
+day before yesterday someone had lent him Mr. Stevenson’s enthralling
+‘Treasure Island,’ from which no one can ever extract themselves until
+the very last page is turned. Jacky, since he first began it, has been
+practically useless, but just now a few fragments of the conversation
+going on around him have filtered to his brain.
+
+Now, in his own peculiarly disagreeable way he adores Susan, and
+something has led him to believe that those around her are now
+depreciating her powers of attraction, and that she is giving in to them
+for want of support. Well, he will support her. Poor old Jacky! he comes
+nobly forward to her rescue, and as usual puts his foot in it.
+
+‘He liked you better than anyone,’ says he, in his slow, ponderous
+fashion, glaring angrily at Betty, with whom he carries on an undying
+feud. ‘Why, don’t you remember how he used to hunt you all over the
+garden to kiss you!’
+
+Tableau!
+
+Betty leads the way after about a moment’s awful pause, and then they
+all go off into shrieks of laughter. Jacky, alone, sullen, silent, not
+understanding, stands as if petrified. Susan has pushed Bonnie from her,
+and has risen to her feet. Her face is crimson now; her eyes are full of
+tears. Involuntarily Crosby rises too.
+
+‘He used not,’ says poor Susan. Alas! this assertion is not quite true.
+‘And even if he did, you’—to the horrified Jacky—‘should not have told
+it. You, Jacky’—trembling with shame—‘I wouldn’t have believed it of
+you! It was hateful of you! You’—with a withering glance around—‘are all
+hateful, and—and—’
+
+She chokes, breaks down, and runs with swift-flying feet into the small
+shrubbery beyond, where lies a little summer-house in which she can hide
+herself.
+
+
+
+
+                             CHAPTER XXIII.
+
+  ‘Tears are often to be found where there is little sorrow.’
+
+
+An embarrassed silence falls upon the group she leaves behind her. It
+had not occurred to them that she would care so much. They had often
+chaffed her before. It must—it must have been Mr. Crosby’s being there
+that had put her out like that. To tell the truth, they are all
+penitent—Betty perhaps more than the others. But even her remorse sinks
+into insignificance before Jacky’s. His takes the nature of a wrathful
+attack upon the others, and ends in a storm of tears.
+
+‘You’ve been teasing her, you know you have—and she’s mad with me now.
+And I didn’t mean anything. And she’s crying, I know she is. And you’re
+all beasts—beasts!’
+
+It is at this point that his own tears break forth, and, like Susan, he
+flees from them—but, unlike Susan, howling.
+
+‘I didn’t know; I didn’t think she’d care,’ says Betty, in a frightened
+tone. ‘We often teased her before;’ and she might have said more, but an
+attack of sneezing lays her low.
+
+‘But before a stranger!’ says Carew anxiously. ‘I am afraid, Mr. Crosby,
+it is because you were here.’
+
+‘It isn’t a bit like Susan to care like that,’ says Dom. ‘I
+say’—contritely—‘I’m awfully sorry. I wonder where she is, Betty.’
+
+‘In the summer-house. She always goes there when she’s vexed or
+worried.’
+
+‘Why don’t you go to her, then?’
+
+‘I can’t. I’ve a cold. I’ll wait awhile,’ says Betty, holding back.
+
+‘I think, as it has been my fault,’ says Crosby quietly, ‘that I had
+better be the one to apologize. Where is this summer-house of which you
+speak?’
+
+‘Right round there,’ says Betty eagerly, pointing to the corner of the
+house.
+
+‘Just behind the rose-trees,’ says Dom, giving him a friendly push
+forward.
+
+‘You can’t miss her,’ says Carew, who is dying to give him an
+encouraging clap on the shoulder. They are all evidently very anxious to
+get the task of ‘making it up’ with Susan on to any other shoulders than
+their own.
+
+‘Well, I think I’ll take a little hostage with me, or shall we say a
+peace-offering?’ says Crosby, catching up Bonnie, and starting with him
+for Susan’s hiding-place. ‘Any way, I’ve got a pioneer,’ says he. ‘He’ll
+show me the way.’
+
+The way is short and very sweet. Along a gravelled pathway, between
+trees of glowing roses, to where in the distance is a tiny house, made
+evidently by young, untutored hands, out of young and very unseasoned
+timber.
+
+A slender figure is inside it—a figure flung miserably into one of the
+corners, and crying perhaps, after all, more angrily than painfully.
+
+‘Now, what on earth are you doing that for?’ says Crosby. He seats
+himself on the rustic bench beside her, and places Bonnie on her knee.
+It seems to him that that will be the best way to bring down her hands
+from her eyes. And he is not altogether wrong. It is impossible to let
+her little beloved one fall off her knees, so quickly, if reluctantly,
+she brings down her right hand so as to clasp him securely.
+
+‘What are you crying about?’ goes on Crosby, very proud of the success
+of his first manœuvre. ‘Because somebody wanted to kiss you? You will
+have a good deal of crying at that rate, Susan, before you come to the
+end of your life.’
+
+He is laughing a little now, and as Bonnie has climbed up on her knees,
+and is pulling away the other hand from her face, Susan feels she may as
+well make the best of a bad situation.
+
+‘It wasn’t so much that,’ says she. ‘Though’—anxiously—‘Jacky
+exaggerated most dreadfully. As to my objecting to their teasing me
+about James McIlveagh—you have not seen him, or you would understand me
+better. It is not only that he is uninteresting, but that he is awful!
+His nose is like an elephant’s trunk, and his eyes are as small as the
+head of a pin. And his clothes—his trousers—I don’t know where he got
+his trousers, but Dom used to say his mother made them in her spare
+moments. Not that one would care about a person’s trousers, of course,’
+says Susan, with intense earnestness, ‘if he was nice himself; but James
+wasn’t nice, and I was never more glad in my life than when he went
+away.’
+
+‘He’s coming back, however.’
+
+‘Yes, I know, and I’m sorry for it, if they are going to tease me all
+day long about him, as they are doing now. I think’—with a hasty glance
+at him, born of the fact that she knows her eyes are disfigured by
+crying—‘you might have tried to stop them.’
+
+‘Well, you see, I hardly knew what to do at first,’ says Crosby, quite
+entering into the argument. ‘And when I did, it was a little too late.
+Of course it seemed to me a very possible thing that you might have
+given your heart to this young man with the nose and the unfortunate
+trousers who is stewing in the Soudan.’
+
+‘You might have known by my manner that I hated them to tease me about
+him,’ says Susan, very little appeased by his apology.
+
+‘I’ll know better next time,’ says Crosby humbly. ‘But when I heard he
+had been following you about like a baa-lamb, and that you had taken
+that anchor from him, and that he used to—’
+
+He is checked by a flash from Susan’s eyes. There is a pause. Then
+suddenly she presses her face into Bonnie’s flaxen hair, and bursts into
+smothered laughter.
+
+‘Well, I don’t care! He did once, all round the gooseberry bushes; and I
+threw a spade at him, and it hit him on the head, and I thought I had
+killed him. I’—with another glance at Crosby, now from between Bonnie’s
+curls—‘was dreadfully frightened then. But now I almost wish I had. Any
+way, he never tried to—he never, I mean’—confusedly—‘hunted me again.’
+
+‘I begin to feel sincerely sorry for James,’ says Crosby. ‘He seems to
+me to have led but a sorry life before he started for the Soudan. When
+he comes home next year, what will you do? He may be quite’—he looks at
+her and smiles—‘a mighty hunter by that time.’
+
+Susan laughs.
+
+‘Like you,’ says she.
+
+Crosby looks at her. It is a ready answer, and with another might convey
+a certain meaning, but with Susan never.
+
+‘Ah, I’m afraid of gooseberry bushes,’ says he. ‘They have thorns in
+them. James, you see, surpasses me in valour. Talking of valour reminds
+me of those you have left behind you, and who have sent me here as their
+plenipotentiary, to extract from you a promise of peace. They are all
+very sorry they annoyed you so much about the redoubtable James; and
+they desired me to say so. I was afraid to come by myself, so I brought
+Bonnie with me. Bonnie, tell her to come back with me now, and say:
+“Peace is restored with honour.” Say it for her, Bonnie.’
+
+‘“Peace is restored with honour,”’ repeats Bonnie sweetly.
+
+‘There, that settles it,’ says Crosby. ‘He knows his lesson. So do you;
+come back and forgive us all.’
+
+‘Oh, I can’t,’ says Susan. ‘They would know I had been crying. Look at
+my eyes; they are quite red.’
+
+‘They are not, indeed,’ says Mr. Crosby, after an exhaustive
+examination. ‘They are quite blue.’
+
+‘Oh yes, that, of course’—impatiently. ‘But, well—really, how are they?’
+She leans towards him, and gazes at him out of the blue eyes with an
+extraordinary calm. ‘Would they know I had been crying?’
+
+‘They would not,’ says Crosby. ‘It is I alone who am in that secret.
+And, by the way, Susan’—stopping her as they both rise—‘that is the
+second secret we have between us; we are becoming quite fashionable—we
+are growing into a society, you and I.’
+
+‘I wish you would forget that first secret,’ says Susan, blushing a
+little. ‘And, anyhow, I hope you won’t tell the others that you found
+me—you know—crying.’
+
+‘Ah, that makes me remember our first secret,’ says Crosby. ‘You know
+that on that never-to-be-forgotten memorable occasion you said you
+trusted me.’
+
+‘Did I?’ Susan is blushing furiously now. ‘How can I recollect all the
+silly things I said then? I have forgotten them all—and I’m sure you
+have, too.’
+
+‘Not one of them,’ says Crosby. ‘They are now classed with my most
+priceless memories. “Go and steal no more,” you said—and I haven’t up to
+this.’
+
+Susan laughs in spite of herself.
+
+‘Well, at all events I can trust you, then, not to betray me to them.’
+She points to the late temple of her tears.
+
+‘You can trust me for that or anything else in the wide world,’ says
+Crosby.
+
+He takes up Bonnie again, and they go slowly back to the others.
+
+
+
+
+                             CHAPTER XXIV.
+
+                   ‘So bright a tear in Beauty’s eye,
+                   Love half regrets to kiss it dry.’
+
+
+As Susan appears, the guilty ones upon the tennis-ground move
+simultaneously towards her, Betty with a shy little rush, and holding
+out to her her racket.
+
+‘Come and have another game, Susan, and you, too, Mr. Crosby.’
+
+‘Yes, do,’ says Carew. ‘Tea will be here in a moment.’ He evidently
+holds this out as an inducement to Crosby to remain. Mr. Fitzgerald
+nobly backs him up.
+
+‘Also Aunt Jemima!’ he says enthusiastically.
+
+This joke, if it is meant for one, is a dead failure. No one even
+smiles. Susan, who is feeling a little shy, and is horribly conscious
+that, in spite of Crosby’s assurances, her eyes are of a very tell-tale
+colour, is fighting with her brain for some light, airy, amusing remark
+that may prove to all present that she had only run away from them in
+mere search of physical exercise, when suddenly the rather forced smile
+dies upon her lips, and her eyes become fixed on some object over there
+on her right.
+
+‘What is it, Susan—a ghost?’ asks Dom, who is equal to most occasions.
+
+‘No,’ says Susan, in a low voice. ‘But—this is the third time. And look
+over there, at that sycamore-tree in the Cottage garden. Do you see
+anything?’
+
+‘See what? “Is there visions about?” asks Dom. ‘Really, Susan, you ought
+to consider our nerves. Is it the “Bogie Man,” or—’
+
+‘It is a girl,’ says Susan. ‘There, there again! Her face is between
+those two big branches. Mr. Crosby’—eagerly—‘don’t you see her?’
+
+‘I do,’ cries Carew suddenly. ‘Oh, what a lovely face!’
+
+It may be remembered that the Rectory and the Cottage are only divided
+by a narrow road and two high walls. At the farthest end of the Cottage
+grounds some tall trees are standing—a beech, two elms, and a sycamore.
+All these uprear themselves well above the walls, and cast their shadows
+in summer, and their leaves in winter, down on the road beneath. They
+can be distinctly seen from the Rectory tennis-court, and, indeed, add a
+good deal of charm to it, the road being so narrow, and the walls so
+much of a height, that strangers often think the trees on the Cottage
+lawn are actually belonging to the Rectory.
+
+‘Yes, I see too,’ says Crosby, leaning forward.
+
+‘Yes, yes!’ cries Betty. ‘But is it a girl?’
+
+And now a little silence falls upon them.
+
+Over there, peeping out between the leaves of the soft sycamore-tree, is
+a face. There is nothing to tell if it be a boy’s or a girl’s face, as
+nothing can be seen but the shapely head; and its soft abundant tresses
+of chestnut hair are so closely drawn back into a knot behind that they
+are hidden by the crowding branches. The eyes are gleaming, the lips
+slightly parted. So might a Hamadryad look, peering through swaying
+leaves.
+
+‘It’s the prisoner,’ says Jacky, in an awestruck tone.
+
+‘The apparition, you mean,’ corrects Mr. Fitzgerald severely.
+‘Prisoners, as a rule, have bodies, spooks have none. Jacky, you lucky
+creature, you have seen a ghost.’
+
+‘Is it a boy or a girl?’ asks Betty in an anxious tone.
+
+‘A most pertinent question?’ says Fitzgerald, who is taking the
+situation with anything but the seriousness that is so evidently
+demanded of it. ‘But, as I have before remarked, there is no body to go
+by, and naturally no clothes. It is therefore unanswerable.’
+
+Crosby has said nothing. He is, indeed, deeply occupied with the face.
+So this is Wyndham’s tenant. A very lovely one.
+
+Again a slight doubt arises in his mind about his friend. And yet
+Wyndham had seemed thoroughly honest in his explanation.
+
+‘I know it’s a girl,’ says Susan, with decision. ‘Jacky has seen her;
+and what a pretty one! Oh, there, she’s gone!’ And, indeed, the
+Hamadryad, as if becoming suddenly conscious of the fact that they are
+looking at her, draws back her head and disappears. ‘I’m afraid she saw
+us,’ says Susan contritely. ‘She must have thought us very rude. I’ll
+ask father to let me call on her, I think. She must be very lonely
+there. And even if she is only Mrs. Moriarty’s niece, still, she must
+have been educated to make her look like that.’
+
+‘Perhaps,’ says Crosby, speaking with apparent carelessness, and looking
+direct at Susan, ‘she might not like to be called upon. I have been
+given to understand that she is not a niece of Mrs. Moriarty’s, and—’
+
+‘No, but what, then?’ asks Carew.
+
+‘A tenant of Mr. Wyndham’s. He is a friend of mine, you know; and he
+told me lately he had grown very tired of the Cottage, and was willing
+to take a tenant for it. This lady is, I presume, the tenant.’
+
+‘The more reason why we should call upon her,’ says Susan.
+
+‘But isn’t she very young,’ says Betty, ‘to be a tenant all by herself?’
+
+This startling suggestion creates a slight pause.
+
+‘To be young is not to be beyond misfortune,’ says Crosby at last, in a
+grave and very general tone. ‘No doubt this young lady has lost her
+father and mother, and is obliged to—er—do without them.’
+
+This is distinctly lame.
+
+‘Poor thing!’ says Susan sympathetically.
+
+‘We might ask her over here sometimes,’ says Carew.
+
+‘But if she has lost her parents lately,’ puts in Crosby hastily, ‘she
+might, perhaps—one should not even with the best intentions force one’s
+self upon people in such deep grief as hers.’
+
+‘She wasn’t in mourning, any way,’ says Betty, who can always tell you
+to a pin what anyone is wearing; ‘she had a little blue bow near her
+neck.’
+
+Crosby recovers from this blow with difficulty.
+
+‘At all events,’ says he, ‘I have heard through Wyndham that she desires
+privacy at present. No doubt when she feels equal to receiving visitors
+she will let us all know.’
+
+‘No doubt,’ says Dominick, who has been studying Mr. Crosby closely, and
+with covert amusement.
+
+‘I’ll ask Mr. Wyndham about her,’ says Susan. ‘I think she would be
+happier if she could tell about her sorrow. One should be roused from
+one’s griefs, father says. And even if out of mourning—I didn’t see any
+blue bow, Betty—still, I am sure she must be sad at heart.’
+
+‘Well, consult your father about it,’ says Crosby, as a last resource.
+In spite of his affection for Wyndham, he has doubts about his tenant.
+
+At this point Jane appears, bringing a tray, on which are cups and
+saucers, teapot and cream ewer, some bread-and-butter and sponge-cake.
+Susan had spent the morning making the sponge-cake on the chance of Mr.
+Crosby’s coming. They had decided in conclave that it would be better to
+have tea out here on the pleasant grass (though there is no table on
+which to put the tray) rather than in the small and rather stuffy
+drawing-room. They had had a distinct fight over it with Miss Barry; but
+Dominick, who can succeed in anything but his exams, overcame her, and
+carried the day.
+
+‘Put the tray down here,’ says Betty, with quite an air, seeing that
+Susan has given way a little beneath the want of the table—‘down here on
+the grass near me. I’ll pour out the tea’—this with a withering glance
+at Susan, who is slightly flushed, and apparently ashamed of herself.
+‘We haven’t any rustic table yet, Mr. Crosby,’ says Betty, with immense
+aplomb, ‘but were going to have one shortly’—this with all the admirable
+assurance of a fashionable dame who has just been ordering a garden
+tea-table from one of the best London houses. She nods and smiles at
+him. ‘Dom is going to make it. Susan’—with a freezing glance at that
+damsel—‘do you think you could manage to cut the sponge-cake?’
+
+‘Cut it!’ says Jacky, who is sharp to see that the idolized Susan is
+being sat upon, and who still feels that he owes her reparation of some
+sort. ‘Why couldn’t she cut it? She made it.’
+
+Susan bursts out laughing. It is too much, and they all follow suit.
+
+‘What! you made it?’ cries Crosby, taking up a knife and beginning a
+vigorous attack upon it. ‘Why didn’t you make it bigger when you were
+about it? The fact that it is your handiwork has, judging by myself,
+made us all frightfully hungry. Thank Heaven, there is still
+bread-and-butter, or I don’t know what would become of us.’
+
+They are all laughing still—indeed, their merriment has quite reached a
+height—when Susan, looking over her shoulder, nearly drops her cup and
+saucer, and sits up as if listening.
+
+‘Someone is coming,’ says she.
+
+‘Aunt Jemima,’ indignantly declares Betty, who is sitting up too.
+
+Tramp, tramp, tramp comes a foot along the gravel path that skirts the
+side of the house away from them. Tramp, tramp; evidently two of the
+heaviest feet in Christendom are approaching.
+
+‘You’re right,’ whispers Dom; ‘’tis “the fa’ o’ her fairy feet.” Aunt
+Jemima, to a moral.’
+
+And Aunt Jemima it is, sweeping round the house with her head well up,
+and the desire to impress, that they all know so fatally well, full upon
+her.
+
+‘Don’t stir, Mr. Crosby; I really beg you won’t. This is a rather
+_al-fresco_ entertainment, but I know you will excuse these wild
+children.’ Here the wild children gave way silently, convulsively.
+
+‘It is the most charming entertainment I have been at for years,’ says
+Crosby pleasantly. ‘Where will you sit? Here?’ He is quite assiduous in
+his attentions, especially about the rug on which she is to sit—not his
+rug, at all events; Susan has half of that.
+
+‘Thank you,’ says Miss Barry, ‘but I need not trouble you; I do not
+intend to stay. I merely came out to see if these remarkably
+ill-mannered young people were taking care of you.’
+
+She speaks with a stiff and laboured smile upon her lips, but an evident
+determination to be amiable at all risks.
+
+‘Won’t you have a cup of tea, Aunt Jemima?’ asks Susan timidly.
+
+‘No, thank you, my love. Pray don’t trouble about me. I’—with a crushing
+glance at poor Susan—‘have no desire whatever to interfere with your
+amusement. I hope’—turning to Crosby—‘later on I may be able to see more
+of you, but to-day I am specially busy. I have many worries, Mr. Crosby,
+that are not exactly on the surface.’
+
+‘Like us all,’ says Crosby, nodding his head gravely. ‘Life is full of
+thorns.’
+
+‘Ah!’ says Miss Barry. She feels that she has now ‘impressed’ him
+indeed, and is satisfied.
+
+‘We travel a thorny road,’ says she.
+
+Crosby sadly acquiesces.
+
+‘True,’ says he.
+
+‘Adieu,’ says she. She makes him an old-fashioned obeisance, and once
+again rounds the corner and disappears.
+
+‘I don’t think it was very nice of you to make fun of her,’ says Susan
+reproachfully to Crosby.
+
+‘Fun of her! What do you take me for?’ says he. ‘Make fun of your aunt
+because I said life was full of thorns? Well’—with argument looming in
+his eye—‘isn’t it?’
+
+‘Thorns?’ She pauses, as if wondering. ‘Oh no,’ says she. It seems a
+pity to disturb so sweet a faith; and Crosby, with a renunciatory wave
+of his hand, gives up the impending argument.
+
+‘Awful lucky she went away so soon!’ says Carew, as the last bit of Aunt
+Jemima’s tail disappears round the corner. ‘She’d have led us a life had
+she stayed. She’s been on the prance all day on account of those
+Brians.’
+
+‘Yes, isn’t it awful?’ says Betty.
+
+‘Who are the Brians?’ asks Crosby.
+
+‘Farmers up on the hill over there’—pointing far away to the south.
+‘Very well-to-do people, you know, with their sons going into the
+Church, and their daughters at a first-class school in Birmingham. Aunt
+Jemima, thinking to help them on their road to civilization, sent them a
+bath—one of the round flat ones, you know—as a present last month,
+hearing that they were expecting the girls home for their holidays,
+and—’
+
+Here Betty breaks off, and goes into what she calls ‘kinks’ of laughter.
+
+‘Well?’ says Crosby, naturally desirous of knowing where the laugh comes
+in.
+
+‘Ah, that’s it!’ says Dom. ‘Really, Betty, I think you might hold on
+long enough to finish your own story. It appears Aunt Jemima went up to
+the farm yesterday, and found that they had taken the bath as an
+ornament, and had nailed it up against the sitting-room wall with four
+long tenpenny nails, and—’ Here, in spite of his lecture to Betty, Mr.
+Fitzgerald himself gives way, and, falling back upon the grass, shouts
+with laughter.
+
+‘They took it,’ gasps Carew, ‘as some curio from some barbarous
+country—a sort of shield, you know; a savage weapon! They had never seen
+a bath before. Oh my!’ He, too, has gone into an ecstasy of mirth. ‘I
+expect they thought it was straight from South Africa.’
+
+‘Poor Aunt Jemima!’ says Betty, when she can speak. ‘It must have been a
+blow to her.’
+
+‘Talking of blows,’ says Carew, turning to her sharply, and somewhat
+indignantly, ‘I never knew anyone blow their nose like you, Betty;
+you’ve been at it now since early dawn.’
+
+‘Well, I can’t help it,’ says Betty, very rightly aggrieved, ‘if I have
+got a cold in my head.’
+
+‘I’ve a cold, too,’ says Jacky dismally—Jacky is always dismal—‘but it
+isn’t as bad as Betty’s. My head is aching, but Betty’s nose is only
+running.’
+
+A frightful silence follows upon this terrific speech. Mr. Fitzgerald,
+who can always be depended upon at a crisis, breaks it.
+
+‘Not far, I trust,’ says he, with exaggerated anxiety. ‘We could hardly
+spare it. Betty’s nose is the one presentable member of that sort in the
+family.’
+
+Betty, between the pauses of this speech, can be heard threatening
+Jacky. ‘No, no; never! I won’t give it now. You’re a little wretch! Even
+if I promised to give it I don’t care. I’ll take it back. You shan’t
+have it now.’
+
+But all this is so distinctly not meant to be heard that no one takes
+any notice of it, and any serious consequences are prevented by the fact
+that Dominick, rising, throws himself between the puzzled Jacky and the
+irate Betty. In the meantime, Crosby draws himself along the rug until
+he is even closer to Susan, who now again is looking serious.
+
+‘What is troubling you, righteous soul?’ asks he lightly.
+
+‘How do you know I am troubled? I am not, really.’
+
+‘Yet you are thinking, and very gravely, too.’
+
+‘Ah, that is another thing. I was thinking,’ says Susan gently, ‘of the
+girl in there’—nodding towards the Cottage. ‘It must be a very sad thing
+to have no one belonging to you.’
+
+‘Sad indeed! But you must not let your sympathy for her run too far
+afield. If not a father or mother, she must have—other ties.’
+
+‘Brothers, you mean, or sisters?’
+
+‘Yes, just so—brothers or sisters. They’ll turn up presently, no doubt.’
+
+He looks at her as if waiting for an inspiration, and then it comes to
+him.
+
+‘What a sympathetic mind you have!’ says he. ‘And yet you don’t give me
+a share of it. You have known me quite a long time now, and I have no
+father or mother, yet you have not wept with me.’
+
+‘I didn’t know,’ says Susan. ‘And, besides, there was no long time,
+surely. Father told us you had no father or mother, but—have you’—with
+hesitation—‘no people belonging to you, Mr. Crosby?’
+
+‘One sister,’ says he.
+
+‘One sister! And why doesn’t she live with you?’
+
+‘Ah, you must ask her that. Perhaps she wouldn’t care about it.’
+
+‘I should think she would love to live with you,’ says Susan. She utters
+this bold sentiment calmly, kindly, without so much as a blink of her
+long lashes.
+
+Crosby looks at her. Is she real, this pretty child? His inclination to
+laugh dies within him; and so dies, too, the inclination to utter the
+usual society speech, that with most society girls would have been
+considered the thing on an occasion like this. Both are done to death by
+Susan’s eyes, so calm, so sweet, so earnest, and so entirely without a
+second meaning of any sort.
+
+‘Well, you see, she doesn’t,’ says he.
+
+‘But why?’ asks Susan. She is feeling a little angry with the unknown
+sister. To live with Carew, if he were well off enough to have her,
+would, Susan thinks, be a most delightful arrangement.
+
+‘It seems she prefers to live with another fellow,’ says he.
+
+Susan stares at him. He nods back at her.
+
+‘Fact,’ says he. ‘Horrid taste on her part, isn’t it?’
+
+‘Oh, I see,’ says Susan slowly. ‘She’s married.’
+
+‘Very much,’ says Crosby. ‘At all events, her husband is. She doesn’t
+give him much rope. However, you’ll see her soon, as she is coming to
+stay with me. She always makes a point of coming to me for my birthday,
+whenever I chance to be in Ireland or England for it. I suppose I must
+be going now. I say, you two fellows’—turning to Carew and Dom—‘why are
+you so lazy? Why don’t you come up and help me to shoot the rabbits?
+They are getting beyond the keepers’ control.’
+
+Dom and Carew glance at each other.
+
+‘Can we?’ says Carew. They seem a little tongue-tied.
+
+‘As often as ever you like. Look here, be up at six to-morrow morning,
+and we’ll catch them feeding. And if you will stay and breakfast with
+me, it will be a kindness to a solitary man.’
+
+‘Oh, thank you!’ says Dominick rapturously. Carew, however, looks a
+little crestfallen, whereupon Dom begins to whisper in his ear. The
+words ‘every second shot’ reach Mr. Crosby.
+
+‘If either of you wants a gun, I can find you one,’ says he carelessly,
+after which joy unruffled reigns. ‘I make only one stipulation,’ he
+adds: ‘that you won’t shoot me.’
+
+‘Oh, hang it, we are not such duffers as that!’ says Carew.
+
+They all laugh at this, and all, as usual, accompany him to the gate to
+give him a kind send-off.
+
+As he disappears up the road past the little side-gate of the Cottage,
+Dom makes a rush back to the house. ‘I must go and polish up the old
+gun,’ says he. Betty follows him, with Tom and Jacky.
+
+‘How kind he is!’ says Susan, turning to Carew. Her tone is warm and
+grateful. There is no doubt that Carew’s answer would have been equally
+warm, but it never comes.
+
+A little sound—the creaking of a rusty hinge—at this moment attracts his
+attention, and Susan’s also. They glance quickly towards the little
+green gate of the Cottage.
+
+It is slowly opening!
+
+And now a face peeps out—very cautiously, very nervously.
+
+
+
+
+                              CHAPTER XXV.
+
+                ‘Dear, if you knew what tears they shed
+                  Who live apart from home and friend,
+                To pass my house, by pity led,
+                  Your steps would tend.’
+
+
+It is the face that had peeped out of the branches of the sycamore-tree
+a little while ago. A charming face! The eyes glance down the little
+lane, and then, suddenly seeing Susan, rest with a frightened expression
+on her. As this is the first time in all Susan’s experience that anyone
+has ever betrayed the smallest fear of her, she naturally gives herself
+up to the contemplation of her new-born slave. Her eyes and those of the
+mysterious stranger meet.
+
+‘Oh, how pretty!’ thinks Susan to herself, but she says nothing, being
+lost in wonder and admiration; and the girl, peeping out of the doorway,
+as if disheartened, draws back again, and will in another minute
+disappear altogether, but for Carew.
+
+He makes a sharp gesture.
+
+‘Wait!’ cries he, in a low tone, though hardly conscious that he is
+speaking at all. And again the pretty frightened head comes into sight
+between the leaves of the luxuriant ivy that frames the gate.
+
+‘Susan!’ says Carew, in a voice of low and hurried entreaty; and Susan,
+responding to it, speeds quickly up the road and into the little
+gateway.
+
+‘Oh, come in—come in!’ breathes the stranger in a whisper, putting out
+her hands and catching Susan’s in a soft grasp. ‘I have seen you so
+often; I’—flushing and smiling timidly—‘have watched you from the
+sycamore many a day. And it’s very lonely here. You will come in for a
+moment, won’t you?’
+
+Susan smiles back at her, and passes through the small green gate. Ella,
+pleased and palpitating, glances back, to see Carew looking after them
+like a young culprit at the door of a forbidden paradise.
+
+‘Won’t you come too?’ cries she, beneath her breath, in that soft,
+curiously frightened sort of a way that seems to belong to her. ‘Hurry!
+hurry!’ She looks anxious, and it is only, indeed, when Carew has come
+inside the gate, and she has with her own fingers fastened and secured
+it, that the brightness returns to her face.
+
+‘It’s very good of you,’ says she, smiling rather shyly at Susan.
+
+‘Oh no!’ cries Susan, with a charming courtesy that belongs to her; ‘it
+is very good of you to let us come and see you. You know’—softly—‘we had
+heard—understood—that you did not wish to be intruded on. That
+is’—stammering faintly—‘that you didn’t wish to see people, and so—’
+
+‘It is all quite true,’ says the girl distinctly. ‘I don’t want to see
+people—not everyone, you know. But sometimes when I hear your voices
+over there’—pointing towards the Rectory garden—‘laughing and talking, I
+have felt a little lonely.’ She is looking at Susan, and Susan can see
+that her eyes now are a little misty. ‘To-day’—wistfully—‘you were
+laughing a great deal.’
+
+‘Yes, yes; I wish we hadn’t been,’ says Susan, who is beginning to feel
+distinctly contrite, until she remembers that, after all, some tears
+were mingled with her mirth. ‘But now that we have met, you will come
+and join us sometimes, won’t you?—and, indeed, to-day? I wish you had
+come to-day. We should all have been glad to see you—shouldn’t we,
+Carew?’
+
+‘I am sure you know that,’ says Carew to Ella. A warm colour is dyeing
+his handsome young face, and there is the tenderest, most reverential
+expression in his voice. Carew is of that age when ‘the light that lies
+in a lady’s eyes’ can mean heaven to him.
+
+‘I shall never leave this place,’ says Ella quickly. ‘All I want is to
+stay here, in this lovely garden, by myself.’
+
+‘Yet you said you felt lonely,’ says Susan anxiously.
+
+‘Yes—I know.’ She looks down, as if puzzled, uncertain how to go on.
+‘Still, I would rather be lonely than go out into the world again.’
+
+‘Poor thing!’ thinks Susan. ‘I was right; no doubt she has just lost
+everyone that was dear to her.’ She glances at Ella, as if in search of
+crape, but Ella’s navy-blue skirt and pretty pale-blue linen blouse seem
+miles away from woe; and, yes, Betty had seen that blue bow near her
+neck.
+
+‘I know this garden so well,’ says Susan, with a view to changing the
+sad subject. ‘We used to come here often before you came. Mr. Wyndham
+sometimes stayed here for weeks at a time, but now, of course, that is
+all changed. Oh, I see you have planted out some asters in the round
+bed. They will be lovely later on. I suppose’—thoughtfully—‘you like
+gardening?’
+
+‘I love it!’ says Ella, with enthusiasm. ‘Only I don’t know anything
+about it. Mrs. Denis gives me hints.’
+
+‘I love it, too,’ says Susan, ‘but for all that’—as if a little ashamed
+of herself—‘I like to see people sometimes. I couldn’t live on gardening
+alone, and you’ll find you can’t, either. In fact’—gaily—‘you have found
+it out already. That’s why you called us in. Oh, you’ll have to come
+over to our place. Do you like tennis?’
+
+‘I have never played it.’
+
+‘Golf, then?’
+
+‘No.’ Her tone is very sad, and Carew turns sharply upon poor Susan, who
+had only meant to do her best.
+
+‘There are other things in the world besides golf and tennis,’ says he.
+
+‘Oh, of course—of course,’ says Susan hastily. ‘It is only people who
+live in the country who ever really care about things like that, and no
+doubt you—’
+
+‘I don’t believe I know anything at all,’ says Ella, very gently.
+
+‘Well, you know us now, at all events,’ says Carew very happily, with
+the light and ready manner that belongs to all large families. His tone
+is a little shy, perhaps—the tone of the boy to the lovely girl, when
+first love’s young dream dawns upon him; but Susan and Ella take the
+joke very kindly, and the laughter that follows on it clears the
+atmosphere.
+
+‘You are Mr. Wyndham’s tenant, aren’t you?’ says Susan.
+
+‘Yes, now’—in a glad and eager voice—‘though at first I wasn’t.’ She
+pauses here, drawing back, as it were. Has she said too much? Susan,
+however, has evidently seen nothing in the small admission.
+
+‘I like Mr. Wyndham,’ says she. ‘We all do, indeed. What we are afraid
+of now is that, as you have the Cottage, we shan’t see so much of him.
+But perhaps’—gaily—‘you will put him up sometimes, and then we can renew
+our acquaintance with him.’
+
+Here Carew turns an awful crimson, and casts a glance, meant to
+annihilate, upon the innocent Susan.
+
+‘I don’t know; I’m not sure,’ says Ella dejectedly. Evidently she has
+seen as little in Susan’s suggestion as Susan herself. ‘He has only been
+here once since I came, and Mrs. Denis seems to think he won’t come very
+often. I wish he would come, and I’m glad you like him, because I like
+him too.’
+
+Carew here begins to wonder if he ever had liked Wyndham, and on the
+whole thinks not.
+
+Ella has taken a step towards Susan.
+
+‘What is your name?’ asks she timidly, but very sweetly.
+
+‘Susan Barry.’
+
+‘That sounds like the beginning of the Catechism,’ says Carew, who is,
+as we know, a clergyman’s son, and therefore up to little points like
+this.
+
+‘I knew it,’ says Ella, still very shyly, to Susan—‘I knew it in a way.
+Mrs. Denis told me. But I wanted to be quite sure. You are Miss Barry?’
+
+‘Oh no; only Susan,’ says the pretty proprietor of that name. ‘My aunt
+is Miss Barry. But I hope you will call me Susan. It is’—mournfully—‘a
+dreadfully ugly name, isn’t it?’
+
+‘No, no; indeed, I like it.’
+
+‘I hope you will like mine,’ says Carew, breaking into the conversation.
+‘It is Carew. Susan and the others call it Crew, but that’s an
+abbreviation of me to which I object. But your name,’ says he. ‘We
+should like to know that.’
+
+Has he thrown a bomb into the assembly? Something, at all events, has
+stricken the stranger dumb. She shrinks backwards, playing with a branch
+of the Wigelia rosea near her, as if to hide her embarrassment. What is
+her name? She tells herself that she does not know, that she disbelieves
+in the name forced upon her by those dreadful people she had lived with
+after—After what? Even that is vague to her. Was it after her mother’s
+death? Hints and innuendoes from the Moores had given her to believe
+that Moore, at all events, was not her real name. But beyond that she
+knows nothing.
+
+‘My name is Ella,’ says she, in a miserable tone. ‘Call me that if—you
+will.’
+
+‘Such a pretty name!’ says Susan. ‘Why did you think we shouldn’t like
+it? So much nicer than Susan. Isn’t mine horrid? But what is your other
+name?’
+
+Here they all start. A loud ring at the big gate over there has taken
+them from their own immediate concerns—to another. Ella turns deadly
+white, and shows a distinct desire to get behind Susan. Mrs. Denis is to
+be seen in the distance, flying towards the entrance-gate.
+
+Presently it is opened by her, and Wyndham walks in.
+
+
+
+
+                             CHAPTER XXVI.
+
+          ‘“Mark ye,” he sings, “in modest maiden guise
+            The red rose peeping from her leafy nest;
+          Half opening, now half closed, the jewel lies:
+            More bright her beauty seems, the more represt.”’
+
+
+Wyndham pauses in the gateway, and then comes forward. His astonishment
+at seeing the two Barrys here is unbounded, so unbounded, indeed, that
+Ella, who has been the first to see him, and who therefore naturally has
+been the first to notice it, is quite frightened. She goes quickly to
+him.
+
+‘It was my fault. I asked them to come in. Do you mind?’
+
+‘I mind? I quite understood that it was you who would mind,’ says he.
+There is no time for any more. Susan has come forward.
+
+‘How d’ye do, Mr. Wyndham?’ says she.
+
+Wyndham gives her his hand mechanically, murmuring the usual
+meaningless, but courteous, words of greeting that are expected of one,
+no matter what worries lie on the heart, troubling and mystifying it.
+And Wyndham, in spite of his reputation of being one of the smartest
+barristers in Dublin, has, to tell the truth, been considerably
+mystified of late.
+
+The day after he left Ella, he had gone to that part of Dublin described
+by her as the place where the man Moore lived. A squalid place, though
+still with an air of broken respectability about it, and with quite an
+extraordinary number of ill-dressed urchins playing about the hall
+doorsteps. They were of that class, that though their garments were
+almost in rags they had still shoes and stockings, of sorts, on their
+feet, and an attempt at a frayed collar round their necks. It gave
+Wyndham a sense of disgust to think that the girl who was now living in
+his dainty cottage had once lived in such an atmosphere as this; and
+when he had gone down the hideous road twenty yards or so, the certainty
+that had begun at the first yard—that she could never have lived
+there—had deepened. But this idea gave him little comfort. If she had
+ever lived here, it was only, to say the least of it, deplorable. If she
+had not lived here, she had lied to him, and was an impostor. And if the
+latter supposition was true, he had rented his cottage to an impostor,
+and a clever one, too. She had taken him in, beyond all doubt. And he
+was looked upon as rather a bright and shining light amongst his
+_confrères_ at the Bar and at the University Club, and in the various
+other resorts for rising young men in Dublin.
+
+When he knocked at the door of the house mentioned by her, he told
+himself that of course he had come on a fool’s errand; yet, when the
+woman who answered the door—a highly respectable person, and frightfully
+dirty, in a respectable way—told him ‘that no Moores lived here,’ he
+felt as though someone had struck him. He must have looked extremely
+taken back, because the respectably-dirty lady roused herself
+sufficiently from the dignity that seemed to cling to her as closely as
+her grime, and condescended to say she had only been there a short time,
+‘an’ p’raps Mrs. Morgan, nex’ door, could give him the information he
+was lookin’ for.’
+
+Wyndham had taken the hint—he scarcely knew why—and had gone ‘nex’
+door,’ to receive, as he honestly believed, the same answer. But no!
+Mrs. Morgan, in a tight-fitting gown, draggled at the tail, and with her
+sparse front locks in curl-papers (she said ‘curling-tongs an’
+methylated spirit played the very juice wid your hair’), gave him a very
+handsome amount of news about the missing Moore.
+
+She was a very genial person, in spite of the curl-papers—or perhaps
+because of them—and she invited Wyndham into her ‘best front’ in the
+most cordial way—even though she knew he was not going to take it.
+
+Yes; of course she had known Mr. Moore. He used to live next door, but
+some months ago his wife died, and he had seemed a little unsettled like
+since.
+
+‘There was a girl?’
+
+‘Oh yes—Ella Moore.’
+
+‘Their daughter?’
+
+‘Law, no, sir! Her niece, poor Mrs. Moore would call her at times, but I
+don’t think she was even that. I don’t know the truth of it rightly; but
+that girl was “quite the lady,” sir, round here. An’ she found some
+people who took her up an’ had her as governess for their children—big
+people out in some o’ the squares. Mrs. Moore had her with her when she
+took the house nex’ door. Ella was a little creature then, an’ used to
+be cryin’ always for someone—her mother, I used to say. But Mrs. Moore
+was very dark, entirely, an’ never let out. Is it about Ella you’re
+comin’, sir? I’d be glad to hear good of her. But I suppose you know she
+fled out of Moore’s house one night, an’ was never seen again? Some said
+as how Moore wanted to murder her, or did murder her; but he wasn’t a
+man for that, I say. Any way, up he sticks, and disappears after a bit.
+The police looked into it for a while, but nothin’ came of it. They do
+say’—mysteriously—‘that Moore wanted to marry her, and that she’d have
+nothin’ to do with him. But, law, some people would say anythin’! An’,
+of course, he was old enough to be her father. You wouldn’t be likely to
+know anythin’ of her, sir?’—in the wheedling tone of the confirmed
+gossip.
+
+‘No,’ says Wyndham calmly. ‘What I want is the man Moore. You can tell
+me nothing, then?’
+
+‘No, sir.... Get out!’—to two or three little children who have appeared
+on the threshold, anxious, no doubt, for their dinner, and wondering
+what is keeping their mammy. ‘But if you did hear of Miss Ella—we all
+used to call her “Miss Ella,” though she was, as it might be, one of
+ourselves—I’d be glad to get a word from you. She was very good to my
+little Katie, an’ she would come in of an evenin’ an’ give her a lesson,
+just as if I could pay for it. There was very few like her, sir, an’
+that I tell you,’ says Mrs. Morgan, whose eyes, in spite of her
+wonderful dirtiness, are handsome now because of the honest, kindly
+tears that shine in them. ‘An’ it’s me own opinion,’ goes on the grimy
+woman, ‘that she never belonged to them Moores at all—that she was
+stolen like by Mr. Moore.’
+
+‘Or by his wife?’ suggests Wyndham.
+
+‘Oh no, poor soul!’ says Mrs. Morgan. ‘She’—with delicate
+phraseology—‘hadn’t a kick in her. But we often said—my husband and
+I—that perhaps Mrs. Moore had been a servant in some great family, an’
+had taken a—a child, that—beggin’ yer pardon, sir—mightn’t be altogether
+wanted.’
+
+This view of Mrs. Morgan’s takes root in Wyndham’s mind. An illegitimate
+child! An unacknowledged scion of some good family! Poor, poor child!
+poor Ella!
+
+‘You may be right,’ he said. The interview was at an end. Seeing two of
+Mrs. Morgan’s children peeping in again, hungry and disconsolate, he
+beckons them to him, and after awhile they slowly, and with open
+distrust, creep towards him. Was that the Katie—that little dark-eyed,
+handsome child—that she used to teach? Wyndham caught her and drew her
+towards him, and pressed half-a-sovereign into her hand, and then caught
+the little boy hanging on her scanty skirts, and pressed another little
+yellow piece into his soft but unwashed palm, after which he bid the
+grateful Mrs. Morgan adieu, and walked out of their lives for ever.
+
+But what she had told him went with him. Who is this girl Ella
+Moore—this girl who is now his tenant? He had insisted on her being his
+tenant, on her paying him rent. That was as much to satisfy her as to
+satisfy some scruples of his own. She was really, of course, no more to
+him than any other tenant might be—and yet—
+
+For one thing, who is she? One does not, as a rule, rent one’s houses to
+people, not only unknown and without a reference, but actually without a
+name.
+
+                  *       *       *       *       *
+
+‘I quite understood it was you who would mind.’ There was rancour in the
+voice that had spoken those few words, and the rancour had gone to
+Ella’s heart. Was he angry with her?—displeased? Should she not have
+asked the Barrys to come in? She loses her colour and shrinks back a
+little, and Carew, glancing from her to Wyndham, whilst the latter is
+murmuring his greetings to Susan, tells himself that Wyndham is a brute,
+with a big, big B, and that in some way this mysterious girl—this lovely
+girl—has her life made miserable by him. This is, as we know, manifestly
+unfair, as it is really Wyndham whose life is being made distinctly
+uncomfortable by this ‘lovely, mysterious girl.’ But Carew is too young
+to see a second side to any question that has his sympathy.
+
+‘I think we must go now,’ says Susan, holding out her hand to her new
+acquaintance. ‘It is very late—too late’—smiling—‘for a formal visit.’
+Wyndham winces. Is his informal? ‘But we shall pay that soon, now that
+we know we may come. And, of course, you and your—’
+
+She pauses, the thought coming to her that she really does not know if
+Mr. Wyndham is actually this pretty girl’s landlord. And, besides, ‘your
+landlord’—how badly it sounds! ‘You and your landlord!’ Oh, impossible!
+She had been very near making a great mistake.
+
+So she hesitates, and Wyndham misinterprets her pause. He feels furious.
+What was the word she was going to use? ‘Lover,’ no doubt, in the
+innocence of her young and abominably stupid heart. He feels brutal even
+towards the unconscious Susan just now. Yes, that is what all the small
+world round here will think. His colour rises, and he feels all at once
+guilty, as though the very worst facts could be laid to his charge,
+whilst all the time he is innocent. Innocent! Oh, confound it! the
+situation is absolutely maddening ... and if it comes to the old man’s
+ears! Lord Shangarry is not one to be easily entreated, or to be
+convinced, either.... An obstinate old man, who, if he once caught an
+idea into his old brain, would find it very hard to let it go again.
+
+‘And, of course, you and Mr. Wyndham,’ says Susan now, hastily, not
+understanding Wyndham’s frown, ‘have many matters to discuss.’
+
+The speech is wound up very satisfactorily, after all.
+
+‘Certainly not. I beg you won’t go on my account,’ says Wyndham stiffly.
+
+‘Not for that,’ says Susan gaily, ‘but because father will be wondering
+where we are.’ Wyndham, who has already heard a little of the gossip
+that is beginning to circulate around the Cottage, almost groans aloud
+here. Father would be wondering indeed if he only knew. ‘By-the-by, Mr.
+Wyndham, now that’—she looks at Ella and holds out her hand to her—‘she
+tells us she would like to see us here sometimes, we can come, can’t
+we?’
+
+She smiles delightfully at Wyndham, and the wretched man smiles back at
+her in a way that should have moved her to tears had she seen him, but,
+providentially, after a mere passing glance at him, she has given her
+attention to Ella, who pleases her imagination immensely.
+
+‘Certainly, if Miss Moore wishes it,’ says he. ‘You know this place is
+no longer mine. Miss Moore is my tenant now. She is, therefore, at
+liberty to do what she likes with it. You must not ask me what she can
+or cannot do. I am that most disagreeable of all things, a
+landlord—nothing more.’
+
+His tone is even colder than he means it to be. The Rector—what will he
+say when he hears of this visit of Susan’s? The Rector, who is so
+ultra-particular, and this girl without a name—so almost certainly
+illegitimate! Fancy the Rector’s face when he hears of this thoughtless
+visit of Susan’s! Mr. Barry is a good man, and charitable in his own
+line, but to give his countenance to a friendship between his daughter
+and a girl nameless—unknown!
+
+‘We are telling her,’ goes on Susan sweetly, ‘that she must come and see
+us sometimes, too—just across the road, you know. But she says she will
+not. Can’t you persuade her, Mr. Wyndham, though you are only her
+landlord, as you say?’ Is there meaning in her tone? Does she think?
+Wyndham glances at her suspiciously, and then knows he ought to be
+ashamed of himself. ‘Still, landlords have weight, and you know father
+would be so pleased if she would come to us sometimes.’
+
+‘I dare say,’ says Wyndham, who can almost see Mr. Barry’s face when the
+idea is suggested to him. The Rector, with his aristocratic tendencies,
+that the very depths of poverty have not been able to subdue, would
+think it monstrous, Susan’s being here at all with a girl so wrapped in
+mystery—a girl so enveloped in the base gossip that already is arising
+about her in the neighbourhood, because of her strange tenancy of the
+Cottage—a gossip that must inevitably include him, Wyndham, too. How is
+her coming here to be accounted for? Who will hold him guiltless of the
+knowledge of her coming?
+
+‘If you are going,’ says he, turning suddenly to Susan, ‘I shall go with
+you; I wish to speak to your father.’ He has made up his mind on the
+moment to lay the whole affair open to the Rector. It seems the only
+thing to be done, if his tenant has decided on knowing the Barrys. ‘You
+tell me Miss Moore is anxious—’
+
+‘Your name is Moore, then?’ says Susan gently, going a step towards her.
+
+‘It is not!’ says the girl almost passionately.
+
+There is a silence; Wyndham, feeling the water closing over him more and
+more still, with the girl’s troubled eyes upon him, comes to the rescue.
+
+‘It is, at all events, the only name by which she is known at present,’
+says he to Susan. ‘I am looking into her affairs, and hope in time to be
+able to unravel them. That is the good of being a barrister, you see.
+And now—if you are ready?’
+
+Susan bids good-bye again to Ella, who is looking a little subdued and
+uncertain now; Carew does the same, holding her hand lingeringly, as if
+wishing to say something sympathetic to her, but finding words fail him.
+Wyndham, following him and Susan, would have passed through the gate
+into the road outside, but that Ella, with a quick, softly-spoken word,
+full of emotion, stops him.
+
+‘I have done something wrong,’ says she, in a breathless whisper.
+‘Wait—do wait—one moment, and tell me, tell me—’ Tears are standing
+thick within her eyes.
+
+‘There is much to tell you,’ says he impatiently. ‘But no time in which
+to tell it.’
+
+‘About—’ Her face pales, and she looks eagerly at him, laying even a
+restraining hand upon his arm in her growing fear.
+
+‘Yes—about that fellow.’
+
+‘Mr. Moore?’
+
+‘Yes.’
+
+‘Oh, you will stay—you will tell me!’ cries she, in low but panting
+tones. ‘Oh, don’t leave me in suspense. Even if you can’t stay now, you
+can come back again, if only for five minutes! Oh, do! You will? He—’
+She looks as if she were going to faint.
+
+‘There is no need for fear of that sort,’ says he quickly. ‘He knows
+nothing of you, or where you are. Yes, if I can’—reluctantly—‘I will
+come back.’
+
+He follows the others now, and as he reaches Susan and Carew, they all
+three distinctly hear the click of the lock of the garden-gate behind
+them.
+
+Susan looks at Wyndham in a startled way.
+
+‘I—I think someone must have been very unkind to her,’ says she; ‘don’t
+you? To lock herself up like that, and never to want to see anybody. Mr.
+Wyndham, why don’t you try to find out her enemies?’
+
+‘I am trying,’ says Wyndham, looking into the calm, earnest, intelligent
+eyes raised to his.
+
+‘Father would help you,’ says Susan. ‘Was it because of that you wanted
+to see him to-day?’
+
+‘Yes,’ says Wyndham.
+
+There is no time for more.
+
+Mr. Barry is coming up the road. He had evidently seen them all come out
+of the green gate of the Cottage. His face is grave and stern.
+
+
+
+
+                             CHAPTER XXVII.
+
+             ‘Mystery magnifies danger, as a fog the sun.’
+
+
+His greeting to Wyndham is of the coldest. He does not speak to him, but
+turns at once to Susan.
+
+‘Your aunt wants you,’ says he severely. And the girl, a little chilled,
+a little apprehensive, disappears within the Rectory gate, carrying
+Carew, a most unwilling captive, with her.
+
+When she is gone, the Rector faces Wyndham.
+
+‘How is this, Wyndham?’ asks he quietly, yet with unmistakable
+indignation.
+
+‘How is what?’ asks the young man a little haughtily.
+
+‘Was it you who took Susan into that cottage?’
+
+‘No; but even if it had been, I see no cause for the tone you have
+assumed towards me.’
+
+‘That is what I suppose you call “carrying it off,”’ says the Rector,
+his pale face betraying a fine disgust.
+
+‘Mr. Barry!’ says Wyndham, as if the other had struck him.
+
+He has flushed a dark red, and now turns as if to walk straight away up
+the road and out of the Rector’s ken for ever. But suddenly he halts and
+looks back, and Mr. Barry, who has seen many phases of life and is quick
+to discern the truth, however deep in the well it lies, beckons to him
+to return. If this young man cannot clear himself, he may still plead
+circumstances.
+
+‘If you could explain, Wyndham.’
+
+‘That’s what offends me,’ says Wyndham, with some passion. He has
+refused to return an inch, so the Rector has had to go to him. It
+wouldn’t do to shout his conversation, considering all the young people
+who live on one side of the road behind the right-hand wall, and the one
+‘young person’ (the Rector has the gravest suspicions) who lives on the
+other side of it. What if they should all chance to hear?
+
+Wyndham is still talking.
+
+‘Why should I have to explain? You have known me many years, Mr. Barry.
+Of what’—looking him fair in the face—‘do you accuse me?’
+
+‘That hardly requires an answer,’ says Mr. Barry calmly. And all at once
+Wyndham knows that the trouble he had dreamed of is already on him.
+There is gossip rife in the neighbourhood about him and this mysterious
+tenant of his cottage. People are talking—soon it will come to the old
+man’s ears, and to his aunt’s, and to Josephine’s. The last idea is the
+least troublesome. ‘You must surely have heard some rumours yourself. I
+am willing, I am most anxious,’ says the Rector, with growing
+earnestness, ‘to hear the truth of a story that seems, as it now stands,
+to be disastrous to two people. You, Wyndham, are one of them. No, not a
+word. Hear me first. I want to say just this: that if I was a little
+harsh to you a moment ago, it was because of Susan. One’s daughter has
+the first claim. And she—that child—to be—You tell me you did not take
+her to see—’
+
+‘I told you that,’ says Wyndham, ‘and I told you, too’—very
+straightly—‘that if I had done so I should see no reason why I should be
+ashamed of it. However, I had nothing to do with your daughter’s visit
+to Miss Moore. It appears Miss Moore asked her to come into my—her—’
+
+The Rector stops him with an impatient gesture.
+
+‘Whose is it, yours or hers?’ asks he.
+
+‘Mine, yet hers in a sense, too,’ begins and ends the fluent lawyer,
+whose fluency has now, at his need, deserted him.
+
+‘I do not understand your evasions.’
+
+‘If you will let me—’
+
+‘I want no explanations,’ says the Rector coldly. ‘I want only one
+answer to one plain question: Who is this Miss Moore?’
+
+He looks straight at Wyndham. The extenuating circumstances he had
+believed in grow smaller and smaller.
+
+Wyndham hesitates. Who is she, indeed? Who is this tenant of his?
+
+‘You hesitate, I see,’ says Mr. Barry. ‘You have the grace to do even so
+much. But at all events you cannot deny that you permitted the presence
+of my young daughter in that place beyond.’
+
+‘I—’
+
+‘A truce to subterfuges, sir!’ cries the Rector. ‘A plain answer I will
+and must get. Who is this girl who lives in your house and refuses to
+see or know anyone in her neighbourhood?’
+
+‘I don’t know,’ says Wyndham sullenly, angered beyond control.
+
+‘I do,’ says the Rector, ‘and may God forgive you for your sin! She is—’
+
+‘Be silent!’ cries Wyndham, interrupting him so imperiously that the
+older man stops short. ‘She is my tenant—my tenant, I repeat,
+and’—haughtily—‘no more.’
+
+Silence follows upon this. The Rector, lost in thought, stands with
+clasped hands behind his back and his eyes upon the ground. His silence
+incenses Wyndham.
+
+‘You can believe me or not, as you like,’ says he, turning on his heel.
+
+He moves away.
+
+‘Stay, stay,’ cries Mr. Barry suddenly. ‘We must get to the end of this.
+If I have wronged you, Wyndham, I regret it with all my heart; but there
+has been some talk here, and Susan—she is very young, a mere child. I
+could not stand that. You tell me there is nothing to be condemned in
+all this business—that she, this girl in there, is only your tenant. But
+landlords do not visit their tenants except on compulsion, so far as I
+know; and you—what has brought you here to-day?’
+
+‘Just that,’ says Wyndham, who is still at white heat—‘compulsion. If
+you would condescend’—angrily—‘to listen to my explanation, I might,
+perhaps, make you understand.’
+
+‘I shall be only too glad to listen,’ says Mr. Barry, with dignity.
+
+‘But here—how can I explain here?’ says Wyndham, glancing round at the
+open road and the walls. ‘Walls have ears.’
+
+But Mr. Barry does not budge, and Wyndham gives way to rather sardonic
+laughter.
+
+‘I suppose,’ says he, ‘you would not let me under your roof until this
+is perfectly clear?’
+
+The Rector still remains immovable.
+
+‘The roof of heaven is above us always,’ returns he. Whereupon Wyndham,
+who has sympathy with determination, laughs again, but more naturally
+this time, and forthwith tells him the whole story of his acquaintance
+with Ella from that first strange night until to-day.
+
+‘Bless me!’ says the Rector, when the recital is at an end. He strokes
+his clean-shaven chin thoughtfully. ‘What an extraordinary tale!’
+
+‘Not too extraordinary to be believed, I hope?’—stiffly.
+
+‘No, no. I believe you, Wyndham—I believe you thoroughly,’ says the
+Rector gently. ‘I am indeed sorry for my late distrust of you; but you
+will admit that there was cause. That poor girl! You have utterly
+failed, then, to discover those people with whom she had been living
+before that—that dreadful night?’
+
+‘So far, yes. But the fact that they once did live there goes far to
+establish the truth of her—’ He stammers a little, but Mr. Barry takes
+him up:
+
+‘Her story? It entirely, in my opinion, establishes the truth of her
+story.’ Wyndham’s stammer has added to the truth of his declaration so
+far as the Rector is concerned.
+
+‘You have a more liberal mind than mine,’ says Wyndham. ‘I have told you
+so much that I may as well make you my father confessor _in toto_.’ The
+smile that accompanies this is rather strained. ‘As a fact, there was a
+time when I did not believe in her story myself; and now, when I have
+to—well, it makes me feel rather poor, you know.’
+
+‘You have no occasion to feel anything,’ says the Rector, ‘except that
+you have been a kind friend to her. Do you think you will be able to
+trace that fellow Moore?’
+
+‘I hope so. I have engaged a detective—one of the smartest fellows in
+Dublin—and I depend upon him to run down that scoundrel in a month or
+so.’
+
+‘In the meantime I shall make it my business to explain to everybody how
+matters really are,’ says the Rector. ‘To tell the people we know round
+here that—’
+
+‘I beg you won’t,’ says Wyndham hurriedly. ‘Have I not told you how she
+desires privacy above all things, how she dreads her discovery by that
+man? I know it all sounds mysterious, Mr. Barry—that it is asking a
+great deal of your credulity to expect you to believe it all—but I still
+hope you will believe me, and at all events I know her secret is safe in
+your hands. I myself have thought of suggesting to her to face matters
+bravely, and if Moore should prove troublesome, why, to fight it out
+with him. I cannot believe he has any actual claim on her; but she has
+such an almost obstinate determination not to risk the chance of meeting
+him that I fear she will not be moved by what I say. This shutting of
+herself up in that cottage seems a mania with her—such a mania that I
+cannot but think her story true, and that she suffered considerably at
+that fellow’s hands.’
+
+‘It looks like it,’ says the Rector.
+
+‘Perhaps you will be able to combat her fears,’ says Wyndham rather
+awkwardly. ‘I should be very glad if you could, as this mystery
+surrounding her is—er—decidedly uncomfortable for me. You have seen
+that.’
+
+‘I wonder you ever consented to the arrangement.’
+
+‘I never meant to, but she seemed so utterly friendless, and she seemed
+to cling so to this place (a harbour of refuge it was to her,
+evidently), that I found it would be almost brutal to refuse.’
+
+‘It was a charitable deed,’ says the Rector.
+
+‘Not done in a spirit of charity, however. I assure you I regret it more
+and more every day of my life,’ says Wyndham, with a short laugh.
+‘However, in for a penny, in for a pound, you know, and I had promised
+the Professor to look after her. I have now engaged a companion for her.
+I think you may remember Miss Manning. She was a governess of the
+Blakes’ some years ago. You used to know them.’
+
+‘Manning? Oh, of course, of course,’ says the Rector—‘a most worthy
+creature. I never knew what became of her after Mary Blake went to
+India.’
+
+‘Got another situation, and a most miserable one. Left it, and was found
+in direst poverty by the person I got to hunt her up. Her delight at my
+proposal to her to live with Miss Moore was unbounded. It will, at all
+events, be a blessing to get her out of that stuffy room I found her in.
+She looked so out of place in it. You know what a nice-looking woman she
+was, and so well got up always. But yesterday ... I advanced her a
+little of her salary at once—to—to get anything she might want, you
+know; and I expect that next week she will come to the Cottage.’
+
+The Rector has heard this rather halting recital straight through
+without comment. Now he lifts his eyes.
+
+‘You are a good fellow, Wyndham,’ says he slowly.
+
+‘For heaven’s sake, Mr. Barry, not that,’ says Wyndham impatiently. ‘I
+expect I’m about the most grudging devil on earth. And if you think I
+enjoy helping this girl, or Miss Manning, or anyone else, you make a
+mistake. What I really want is to be left alone, to run my life on my
+own rails without the worry of being crossed or stopped by passengers,
+or goods, or extras.’
+
+‘Ah, we can none of us hope for that,’ says the Rector. ‘The most
+selfish of us have to live, not only for ourselves, but for others. You
+spoke of having seen Miss Manning yesterday. Have you—told the young
+lady in there of her coming?’
+
+‘Not yet. I had no time, indeed. When I found your daughter there, I
+felt I ought to take her away as soon as possible, simply because you
+did not know how matters were, and I had a hint—as to gossip. I must go
+back now, however, and tell her before my train leaves.’
+
+‘You have little time,’ says the Rector, glancing at his watch. ‘Go.
+Make haste.’
+
+‘There is one thing more,’ says Wyndham quickly, ‘and I think you should
+hear it. She—I don’t know anything for certain—but I feel almost sure
+that the poor girl is illegitimate. And, of course, you—’
+
+‘I?’
+
+‘You would not like an acquaintance between her and your daughters?’
+
+‘You mistake me there,’ says the Rector; ‘a misfortune is not a fault.
+And the fact that this poor girl has been the victim of others’ vices
+should not be allowed to militate against her.’
+
+‘Hardly a fact,’ says Wyndham quickly. ‘I speak only from very uncertain
+data, and yet—’
+
+‘I know. It seems, unhappily, only too likely, however. There, go; you
+have little time.’
+
+
+
+
+                            CHAPTER XXVIII.
+
+              ‘Weeping and wailing, care and other sorrow,
+              I have enough on even, and on morrow.’
+
+
+Ella is inside, waiting for him, when he returns. She has heard his
+step, and has opened the little gate to let him in.
+
+‘Oh, you have come! How long you have been! I thought you would never
+come!’ cries she, in her agitation. Then, frightened at her own
+impatience: ‘I—I thought perhaps you had gone away—and forgotten.’
+
+‘There were certain things that had to be said to Mr. Barry,’ says
+Wyndham. He slams the gate carelessly behind him, but Ella, passing
+rapidly by him, turns the key in the lock.
+
+‘It is very stupid of me, I know,’ says she, reddening at his glance of
+surprise. ‘But the other day I thought’—paling—‘that I saw him.’
+
+‘Moore?’
+
+‘Yes.’
+
+‘Where could you see him, as you never leave this?’ He is still feeling
+a little sore about her determination to hold herself aloof from
+everyone.
+
+‘I’—reddening—‘was up in that tree over there’—pointing to the sycamore.
+
+‘Up there! What on earth for?’
+
+‘I wanted’—here poor Ella hangs her head—‘to see into the Rectory
+garden. They—they were all laughing there, and I could hear them, and—’
+
+She stops short in her somewhat dismal confession.
+
+‘I see,’ says Wyndham quickly, all his coldness suddenly dying away.
+Poor child! this little picture of her climbing with difficulty into
+that great tree to catch even a glimpse of the gaiety of others goes to
+his heart. ‘Was it there that—’
+
+‘Yes; it was there I thought I saw him. I may—I must’—anxiously—‘have
+been mistaken—don’t you think I must have been mistaken?—but I did see a
+man just like him turning up the corner of the road that leads to the
+village street.’
+
+‘I am sure you were mistaken,’ says Wyndham. ‘As a fact, I know he has
+disappeared altogether. If he wanted to spy upon you here, if he thought
+you were in the country anywhere, what would be more likely than that he
+should live in his old house, and make expeditions round about Dublin
+with a view to coming upon you sooner or later? But I have heard from
+the woman who lived next door to him that—’
+
+‘Mrs. Morgan?’ says Ella eagerly.
+
+‘Yes; Mrs. Morgan.’ He pauses, and is quite conscious of a glow of
+satisfaction at her words. They are, indeed, ‘confirmation strong’ of
+the truth of her story all through. She had known this Mrs. Morgan and
+been known by her. ‘And,’ cries Ella eagerly, ‘she said—’
+
+‘That he had left his house immediately after your disappearance. That
+looks as if your going had frightened him, as if he thought he might be
+made answerable to the law for your safety, as if he feared you had—that
+is—’ He stammers here a little.
+
+‘I know,’ says the girl, interrupting him gently. ‘As if he feared—I had
+put an end to my life. And’—painfully—‘as you know—I was willing to risk
+the chance of losing it, at all events.’
+
+‘Oh, there was no risk,’ says Wyndham hastily. ‘But what I want to say
+is that I believe Moore fancied himself liable to prosecution if he
+could not say what had become of you. He had treated you abominably, and
+no doubt the neighbours were talking, and—’ He himself is talking quite
+at random now. He has not yet got over his late ‘slip.’ ‘Any way, his
+not being seen since points to the fact that he has gone abroad.’
+
+‘No, no,’ says the girl, shaking her head with conviction. She is very
+pale now. ‘To me it seems that he has left home to look for me. I know—I
+know’—affrightedly—‘that he is looking for me.’
+
+‘Just because you saw a fancied resemblance to him in a man going down
+the road?’
+
+‘Not that altogether, though that did give me a shock, and I still
+fancy—’
+
+‘Come, that is being absolutely morbid,’ says Wyndham, with a touch of
+impatience. ‘The man is gone, believe me. And even if not, what claim
+has he on you?’
+
+‘That I don’t know, but he said he had a “hold on me” until I was
+twenty-one, and I am only eighteen’—with a sigh that is evidently full
+of a desire to wish away three good years of her young life.
+
+‘I don’t believe a word of it,’ says Wyndham promptly. ‘And in the
+meantime, now that in my opinion he is well out of the way, why don’t
+you try to enjoy your life—to see people, to—’
+
+‘I am enjoying life. Oh’—with a sudden, quick, happy smile—‘if you only
+knew how much!’
+
+‘Yet you confess to loneliness—to a desire to see those around you.’
+
+‘Yes.’ She colours and taps her foot on the ground, then laughs. ‘And
+now I have seen them,’ says she, with a swift upward glance at him that
+lasts only for a moment.
+
+‘The Barrys, yes; but there are others, and now you know the Barrys you
+can easily know everyone else down here; you can make friends for
+yourself, and go out, and pay visits, and—’
+
+‘Oh no!’ cries she quickly, with a sudden terror, indeed; ‘no,
+no’—putting up her hands—‘I can’t—I won’t—I’ll never go out. Mr.
+Wyndham, don’t—don’t ask me to do that.’
+
+It is in Wyndham’s mind to say to her that it would be of considerable
+benefit to his social look-out if she would only consent to know people,
+and make herself known, and break through this deplorable attitude of
+secrecy that she has taken up; but a glance at her young frightened face
+deters him. He shrugs his shoulders over his own ill-luck, and bears it.
+
+‘I—you are angry with me again,’ says Ella nervously; ‘but I can’t go
+out of this place. I can’t, indeed, unless you could send me somewhere
+across the sea where he could never find me. But to leave this!’ Her
+lips quiver, and she turns aside.
+
+‘Nonsense! Who wants you to leave this?’ says Wyndham roughly. ‘But I
+think you ought to have some common-sense about you. You have no one to
+give you advice of any sort, and you are about the most headstrong girl
+I ever met.’
+
+‘I have taken your advice,’ says she, ‘always—always.’ Her face is still
+turned away, and her voice sounds stifled.
+
+‘Always when it suited you; but not now, when it might be of some use.
+Of course, I can see quite plainly that that old idiot Mrs. Moriarty is
+backing you up in all your nonsensical fears, but there will soon be an
+end to that. I have engaged a lady to come and live with you, and give
+you lessons, and knock some sense into your head, I hope.’
+
+‘A lady to live with me? You have found her, then? You meant it?’
+
+‘Naturally I meant it, and I only hope she will be able to show you the
+folly of your ways—a matter in which I have most signally failed.’
+
+Wyndham has worked himself into quite a righteous fever of wrath against
+her. Good heavens! what a row there is bound to be shortly with his aunt
+about this obstinate recluse! He has gone a little too far. The girl
+turns upon him, gently indeed, but with a certain dignity in her air.
+
+‘As I have told you, I can always leave this,’ says she; ‘but it will be
+for a place where I can live alone, and where I shall never have to
+leave my home, even though it be a garret. I—I have thought of a
+convent’—her voice faltering—‘but I am a Protestant, and—’ She sighs
+heavily. ‘Mr. Wyndham,’ cries she suddenly, ‘why do you want me to go
+out—to know people? Why?’
+
+Wyndham, who could have given one very excellent reason for his wish,
+remains determinedly silent.
+
+‘You see,’ cries she triumphantly, ‘you have no reason at all, and I am
+ever so much happier by myself! I don’t say but that, if I were somebody
+else, I should not like to go into that garden there’—pointing towards
+the Rectory—‘but as it is, it would frighten me to step outside the
+gate.’
+
+‘And how long is this state of things to go on?’ asks Wyndham—‘until you
+are ninety?’
+
+‘Ah, he can’t live till then,’ says she; ‘and, besides, long before that
+I shall be old and ugly, and he won’t care. You know’—growing
+crimson—‘what I told you.’
+
+‘Yes.’ Wyndham frowns. ‘You told me enough to know he was a most
+infernal scoundrel.’
+
+‘I suppose he is that,’ says she thoughtfully. ‘Though I don’t think
+really he would ever murder anybody. You see, he didn’t even murder me.
+He only wanted to marry me! That was what made me so angry. If he had
+made me marry him’—turning to Wyndham with a quick, sharp movement—‘you
+think that would mean that I should have to live with him always?’
+
+She pauses as if eager for an answer, and when he does not speak, she
+says imperatively:
+
+‘Well?’
+
+Wyndham nods his head.
+
+‘It wouldn’t, however,’ says she with angry emphasis. ‘I’d have run away
+after I was married, just the same. Only I thought it better to do it
+before.’
+
+There is so much force, so much girlish venom, in her tone, that Wyndham
+feels inclined to laugh; but the little air mutin she has taken sits so
+curiously, and with such an unexpected charm, upon her, that somehow his
+laughter dies within him. Something about her now, too, as she stands
+there flushed and defiant, strikes him as familiar. Who is she like?
+
+‘For a young lady so very valiant, I wonder you are so afraid to face
+the world,’ says he gravely.
+
+‘Ah, I am not afraid of the world, but of him!’ says she. ‘And’—she
+draws closer to him, and now all her bravery has died away from her, and
+she looks as greatly in want of courage as a mouse—‘I’m afraid of this
+new lady, too! Is she—kind—nice? will she—be angry with me sometimes?’
+
+‘Very likely,’ says Wyndham. He softens this disagreeable answer,
+however, by a smile. ‘No—you must not be afraid of her. She is an old
+friend of mine, and very charming. And she is quite prepared to love
+you.’
+
+‘Ah! Then you have said—’
+
+‘The very prettiest things of you, of course’—sardonically—‘so keep up
+your courage.’
+
+‘She will come?’—nervously.
+
+‘On Thursday.’
+
+‘And you?’
+
+‘When you and she have reached the point of open war, I dare say she
+will drop me a line, to come to her rescue.’
+
+‘It will be to mine,’ says she, smiling, but very faintly. Tears are in
+her eyes. ‘You—you will come with her, won’t you? Don’t let me have to
+see her alone at first. You know her, and I don’t. And you—’
+
+‘Very well, I’ll bring her,’ says Wyndham, with an inward groan. What
+the deuce is going to be the end of it all?
+
+He does not leave by the little green gate this time, but going down at
+a swinging pace (that has a good deal of temper in it) to the principal
+entrance, meets there with Mrs. Moriarty, who has been on the look-out
+for him for the past half-hour.
+
+‘An’ did ye hear what happened to Denis, yer honour?’
+
+‘To Denis?’—abstractedly. Then, recovering himself, and with a good deal
+of his late temper still upon him: ‘Of course I’ve been wondering all
+day where he was. Not a soul to attend to me. He was drunk, as usual, I
+suppose.’
+
+‘Fegs, you’ve guessed it,’ says Mrs. Moriarty, clapping her hands with
+unbounded admiration. ‘Dhrunk he was—the ould reprobate!’
+
+‘Well, I hope he’ll turn up this evening, at all events,’ says Wyndham.
+‘It is extremely uncomfortable, going on like this. If he can’t attend
+to me, I’ll have to get another man. I have borne a good deal already,
+and I hope you will let him fully understand that if he isn’t at my
+rooms at seven I shall dismiss him.’
+
+‘An’ who’d blame ye?’ says Mrs. Moriarty. ‘Faith, I’ve often thought of
+dismissing him meself. But’—slowly—‘he can’t be at yer rooms at seven,
+yer honour.’
+
+‘And why not?’—angrily.
+
+‘He’s bruk his arm, sir.’
+
+‘Broke his arm?’
+
+‘Just that, sir, bad scran to him! An’ the docther says he never saw a
+worse compound fraction in his life. ’Twas all through Timsey Mooney.
+Timsey and him’s at war for a long time, an’ yestherday Timsey said he’d
+break his head, an’ with that Denis said he’d have the life ov him; and
+’twas the divil’s own row they had afther that, only’—with a regretful
+air—‘it was Denis’s arm that got bruk, an’ not Timsey’s head.’
+
+‘So Denis got his arm broken?’
+
+‘Yes, sir. An’ that Timsey Mooney as sound as iver! Not a scratch on
+him. I’ve alwas tould ye that there’s nayther luck nor grace wid Denis.
+But what am I wastin’ words on him at all for? ’Tis about the young lady
+I’m curious. She’s to stay, sir?’
+
+‘Yes—yes. I told you that before. And I have arranged with a friend of
+mine, a very accomplished lady, to come down here and live with her as a
+companion.’
+
+‘A companion is it?’ Mrs. Moriarty strokes her beard. ‘She’s been very
+continted wid me,’ says she.
+
+‘I dare say. But this lady, Miss Manning, is to be a governess to her,
+to teach her—to see to her manners, and—’
+
+‘To tache her her manners is it? She’s got the purtiest manners I ever
+yet see,’ says Mrs. Moriarty, with a smothered indignation. ‘Tache her,
+indeed!’
+
+It is plain that Mrs. Moriarty is already consumed with the pangs of
+jealousy.
+
+‘She is coming, at all events,’ says Wyndham shortly. ‘And I request you
+will treat her with every respect, as one of my oldest friends.’
+
+‘She’s ould, thin?’—anxiously.
+
+‘She is not young.’
+
+Mrs. Moriarty shakes her head with the air of one who would say: ‘We all
+know what that means.’
+
+‘Is she kind-hearted, sir? Miss Ella is terrible timid-like.’
+
+‘Certainly she is kind. But, of course, she will expect “Miss Ella,” as
+you call her, to follow her lead in most ways. I’—with meaning—‘shall
+take care she is not interfered with in any way. I hope you quite
+understand all this.’
+
+‘I understhand, yer honour. She’s ould an’ cross, an’ Miss Ella is to
+follow her about everywhere. But’—with a last lingering remnant of
+hope—‘she won’t be comin’ for a while, sir, will she?’
+
+‘She is coming on Thursday.’
+
+‘Oh, murther!’ says Mrs. Moriarty _sotto voce_, as he shuts the gate
+behind him.
+
+
+
+
+                             CHAPTER XXIX.
+
+  ‘Ther is ful many a man that crieth, “Werre, werre,” that wat ful
+  litel what werre amounteth. Werre at his begynnyng hath so greet an
+  entre and so large, that everywight may entre when him liketh and
+  lightly find werre; but certes what ende schal falle thereof, it is
+  not lightly to knowe!’
+
+
+‘Nothing will do for these beastly hens, it seems, but the garden,’ says
+Betty indignantly. ‘Susan, stand there, you—no, there!’—gasping.
+
+‘Oh, they’ve scratched up all the mignonette,’ cries Susan, rushing to
+the point indicated—an escallonia bush in which three culprit hens are
+lurking. ‘Were there ever such wretches? And plenty of food in the yard,
+too! It isn’t as if they were starved. Cush! cush! Bother them! They
+won’t come out. Have you got a stick, Betty?’
+
+‘Here’s one. I declare I’m out of breath from hunting them. And the cock
+is the worst of all. I hope I’ll live to see the broth he is made into;
+not that I’d touch it—it would be too full of all malice and bitterness.
+Hi! hi!’ with a frantic dab at the hens with her stick beneath the too
+friendly escallonia—‘there is one of them, Susan; run—run to the gate!
+She’s going that way. Ah! you’ve got that, any way.’
+
+‘That,’ I regret to say, is a stone directed with unerring aim by Betty,
+and received by the hen on her shoulder with a shock that makes her
+bound, not only into the air, but ‘over the garden wall’ and into the
+yard beyond, with a haste that perhaps she calls undue. And now Susan
+has routed out the other two, and, with a cackling that would rouse the
+dead, they rush after their companion towards that spot in the wall that
+is easiest for the purposes of ingress and egress from the yard to the
+garden. Susan races after them, ‘shoo-ing’ with all her might,
+generously supported by Betty and her shower of small stones. So ardent,
+so bloodthirsty, is the chase, it is matter for wonder that the hens,
+having once gone through such an encounter, could ever brave it again.
+But hens are amongst the bravest things living—Amazons in their own
+line. It is indeed popularly supposed in our neighbourhood that the
+souls of those defunct termagants have entered into them, and, at all
+events, there does not rest a doubt now in the minds of Susan and Betty
+that in half an hour’s time those hens will have returned to the charge,
+as fresh as ever.
+
+‘We must get a wire netting put up along there,’ says Betty angrily.
+‘What’s the good of our planting seeds and roots and things for the
+amusement of those abominable hens? And why should they think there are
+more grubs under a picotee than under a common daisy?’
+
+‘I wish there was a netting put up,’ says Susan, who is distinctly
+flushed. ‘But who’s going to do it? Father won’t. Wiring costs
+something, and there would be a good bit of it to be put up
+there’—pointing to the long wall.
+
+‘Maybe Dom would, when he gets his next half-year’s allowance.’
+
+‘I don’t think you ought to ask him,’ says Susan. ‘He is not our
+brother, you know.’
+
+‘He’s nearly as good,’ says Betty.
+
+‘Still, he isn’t, and I, for one, wouldn’t ask him.’
+
+‘I would. The only thing is that perhaps father wouldn’t like it.’
+
+‘I know he wouldn’t.’
+
+‘What’s to be done, then? Are we to spend our time hunting these blessed
+hens until the day we die? If so’—tragically—‘I hope that day will come
+full soon. Oh, I declare, there’s the cock! Run, Susan, run! Oh, the
+villain! the ringleader! Catch him, Susan! Oh, there, he’s gone under
+the laurels! Oh, the artful thing!’
+
+‘No he isn’t,’ cries Susan; ‘he’s over there, near you. I see his leg.
+This side—this side, Betty. Ah, now you have him! Hold him—hold him
+tight.’ Betty has caught hold of the king of the yard, and is dragging
+him ruthlessly from his hiding-place. There are yells from the cock, and
+muttered execrations from Betty. But finally the cock has the best of
+it. With a whir and a whoop he makes a last grand sprint, and once again
+knows the splendours of freedom.
+
+Away he goes down the garden-path, and away go the girls after him.
+
+‘Squawk, squawk, squawk!’ cries the cock; and ‘Oh, if I catch you!’
+cries Betty, under her breath. Her breath is, indeed, running very
+short. Susan’s has given way entirely.
+
+‘Oh, he is going to the tennis-ground!’ shrieks Betty distractedly; and,
+indeed, the cock, with a view of circumventing the enemy, is making for
+that broad course.
+
+At the rustic gateway, however, that leads to it from the garden, a
+third enemy appears upon the scene—an enemy that takes off his hat, and
+makes such a magnificent attack with it that the cock, disheartened,
+gives way in turn, retreats, _chassés_ a little, and finally, with a
+wild skirl, swoops over the garden wall after his wives, and is gone.
+
+‘It was a famous victory!’ cries Mr. Crosby, when the defeat of the cock
+is beyond doubt.
+
+He is looking at Susan. Such a lovely, flushed, and laughter-filled
+Susan! A Susan with soft locks flying into her beauteous eyes. A Susan
+with soft parted lips, and breath coming in little merry gasps.
+
+‘You were just in time,’ cries she, running up to him, with happy
+_camaraderie_ in her smile. ‘But for you, we should have been hunting
+him all over the place. What lucky fortune brought you at this
+moment?’—smiling blandly into his eyes and giving him her hand. ‘Just
+happening to be passing by?’
+
+‘No, I was coming to see you all,’ says Crosby. He has nearly stopped at
+the ‘you,’ but she looks so young, so without a thought behind her, that
+he feels it would be useless. She would not understand, and even if she
+did it would only annoy her. A girl of the world—that would be
+different. She would laugh at this suggestion of a flirtation; but
+Susan—
+
+‘Well, come and see us all,’ says Betty gaily. ‘We’re all round the
+corner, I fancy.’
+
+And, indeed, most of them are, the children in the far distance chasing
+butterflies with a net just constructed by Dom, whilst he and Carew are
+listening with apparently engrossed interest to their aunt, who, with
+curls shaking and an air of general excitement about her, is holding
+forth.
+
+‘Is that you at last, Susan?’ says she, shaking her curls more
+vigorously than ever. ‘Where have you been?—How d’ye do, Mr. Crosby?—I
+must say, Susan, you are never to be found when wanted.’
+
+‘The hens got into the garden,’ begins Susan, colouring a little beneath
+this rebuke uttered before Crosby.
+
+‘Oh, hens! What are hens,’ cries Miss Barry tragically, ‘when human
+beings are dying?’
+
+‘Dying?’
+
+‘Yes. I’ve just been to see poor dear Miss Blake, and I really believe
+she is at death’s door.’
+
+‘Oh, I am sorry!’ says Susan.
+
+‘She’s been at that uncomfortable portal for the past year,’ says Betty,
+with distinct scorn. ‘In my opinion, it would take a lot of pushing to
+make her pass it.’
+
+‘Elizabeth, this frivolity is absolutely disgraceful,’ says Miss Barry,
+directing a withering glance at Betty, who, it must be said, bears up
+beneath it with the utmost fortitude. ‘Dr. Mulcahy was with her. I’ve
+always thought him a distinctly vulgar person, and really, after what he
+said of poor Miss Blake to-day, I feel justified in my opinion.’
+
+‘What did he say, auntie?’
+
+‘I hardly like to repeat it. An insult to a poor dying creature seems
+impossible, doesn’t it, Mr. Crosby? But I heard him myself. After all,
+why should not I speak? One ought to expose monsters. My dear’—to
+Susan—‘Lady Millbank had called to ask how Miss Blake was—at least, I
+suppose it was for that purpose—but she mumbles so, on account of those
+false teeth of hers, no doubt, that I scarcely heard what she was
+saying. But I did hear what Dr. Mulcahy said to her a moment afterwards.
+He was speaking of poor dear Kate Blake, and I distinctly heard him say
+she was “low”!’ Miss Barry pauses dramatically, but, beyond a smothered
+sound from Dom, nothing is heard.
+
+‘Aren’t you shocked, Susan, or must I believe that the young people of
+this generation are devoid of feeling. A Mulcahy to call a Blake “low”!
+It struck me as so abominable a piece of impertinence that I went away
+on the instant. I don’t know, of course, how Lady Millbank took it, but
+I hope she put down that insolent man without hesitation. Fancy a Blake
+being called “low”! Why, poor dear Kate! she is as well born as
+ourselves.’
+
+‘But, auntie—’
+
+‘Nonsense, my dear! Don’t talk to me. You children would find an excuse
+for anyone.’
+
+‘It was only that I think he meant that she was not so very well—’
+
+‘Born? Not so well born as the rest of us? You must be mad, Susan! A
+creature like Dr. Mulcahy to talk of birth at all is absurd. Why, his
+father was a draper in Dublin. But that he should cavil at Kate Blake’s
+birth is outrageous. Why, the Blakes—’ She stops, as if overcome by
+wrath, and Dom takes up the parable.
+
+‘I thought you knew, Susan,’ says he reproachfully, but in a cautious
+tone, heard only by the youngsters of the party, ‘that it was poor Miss
+Blake’s forefather who planted that tree of good and evil over which
+Adam came such a cropper.’
+
+After this it is a relief to everybody when Miss Barry, with a
+singularly brief farewell to Crosby, betakes herself to the house. It is
+quite as well she has gone so soon, as Carew and Dominick were in the
+last stages of convulsive laughter, and could not certainly have held
+out much longer.
+
+‘I say, isn’t Aunt Jemima a regular corker?’ says Dom presently,
+addressing everybody in general.
+
+‘She didn’t understand,’ says Susan, who feels a little sorry that her
+aunt should appear in so poor a light before a man like Crosby, who is,
+of course, accustomed to a fashionable world and its ways.
+
+‘I think she has a very kind heart,’ says he promptly, seeing her
+distress and smothering the laughter that is consuming him. ‘Of course,
+she had no idea that the doctor was alluding to Miss Blake’s state of
+health.’
+
+‘You knew,’ says Susan, with a touch of indignation, turning to Carew.
+‘Why didn’t you make it clear to her?’
+
+‘Why, indeed?’ retorts he. ‘You tried to do it, and how did you come
+off? Catch me explaining her mistakes to Aunt Jemima. More kicks than
+ha’pence for my pains.’
+
+Bonnie has come over to Susan, and, casting his crutches aside, has
+slipped into her arms, his head upon her knee—a head that she strokes
+softly, softly, until at last the little lad falls fast asleep.
+
+‘He had such a bad night,’ says Susan, as Crosby now comes up and seats
+himself beside her.
+
+‘I expect that means that you had a bad night too.’
+
+‘Oh no’—reddening—‘I—I’m all right. But he—’
+
+‘It seems absurd,’ says Crosby suddenly, ‘that a child like that should
+be a prey to rheumatism? Are you sure the doctors have told you all the
+truth?’
+
+‘I think so.’
+
+‘But are they reliable authorities?’
+
+‘I’m afraid so,’ says Susan, sighing. ‘But’—gently—‘don’t let me trouble
+you with our sorrows; tell me of yourself. Your sister is coming, you
+say.’
+
+‘For my birthday. Yes, next month.’
+
+‘Your birthday?’
+
+‘I told you, didn’t I? It will be in a few days now.’
+
+‘A few days!’ Susan’s voice is low, as usual, but primed with a
+curiosity that she has much difficulty in suppressing.
+
+‘The third of August. It always makes me feel like Ah Sin, Bret Harte’s
+Chinee—soft, you know. Katherine is coming for the great occasion.
+That’s my sister’s name, Katherine. You will like her, I think.’
+
+‘Is she like you?’ asks Susan.
+
+
+
+
+                              CHAPTER XXX.
+
+                               ‘Ask not her name:
+               The light winds whisper it on every hand.’
+
+
+‘Not a bit,’ says he, shaking his head. ‘Just the reverse. She is young
+and skittish, whilst I am old and dull.’
+
+‘Not dull,’ says Susan.
+
+‘Lazy, then. That comes of age, too, you know.’
+
+‘You weren’t too lazy to hunt the hens just now,’ says Susan, as if
+combating some disagreeable remembrances; ‘and you weren’t too lazy to
+mount a ladder a month or so ago.’
+
+‘Ah, Susan, that’s unkind! You shouldn’t hold up my past misdeeds to me.
+If you do, I’ll hold up your indiscretions to you—your lengthened
+conversation with a thief, for example. You know you did think me a
+thief then.’
+
+Susan makes a gesture.
+
+‘Oh yes, you did; there is no getting out of that. You even made me
+promise never to steal again. And I haven’t, not so much as the
+proverbial pin. That’s good of me, isn’t it? Shows signs of grace, eh?
+Really, Susan, I think you might say something. Give me one word of
+encouragement. But perhaps you don’t believe in my reformation. I know
+ever since that day when I was stealing the cherries you have had the
+lowest opinion of me.’
+
+‘I wish you wouldn’t talk like that,’ says Susan, her charming brows
+drawing together; ‘it is very stupid of you, and you know you don’t mean
+a word of it. Stealing! How could you steal your own cherries? What
+nonsense it all is! If you have nothing better to say than that,
+you’—with a sudden and most unusual discourtesy—‘had better go away.’
+
+‘Never; wild horses wouldn’t draw me from this,’ says Crosby. ‘I’ll say
+something “better” at once. I’m sure you have the highest opinion of me.
+Will that do, and may I stay now?’
+
+Susan gives him a glance from under her long lashes that is still a
+little resentful—a very little—but she says nothing.
+
+‘Must I go, then?’ says Crosby. ‘I wouldn’t have believed it of you,
+Susan, to send a poor lonely creature adrift like this.’
+
+‘You are not so very lonely,’ says she. She gives him another lovely,
+half-angry glance.
+
+‘I am indeed. There is not a soul to speak to me when I go back to my
+silent home, and hours must elapse before I can with any decency go to
+bed. Susan, be merciful. Let me stay here and talk to you of—’ He stops.
+
+‘Of what?’ says Susan, still eminently distrustful. ‘What are you going
+to talk about? That last thing—’
+
+‘I’ll never mention cherries again.’
+
+‘You must keep to that. And now’—lifting her face and smiling at him in
+a little fugitive way—‘go on about your sister. You haven’t told me
+anything about her except her name. Katherine, is it not?’
+
+‘Katherine Forster.’
+
+‘Mrs. Forster?’
+
+‘No, Lady Forster. She married one of the Forsters of Berkshire. The
+eldest one, George Forster, is a very good chap; you’ll like him too.’
+
+Susan had grown thoughtful. Dim recollections of the Forsters as being
+extraordinarily wealthy people have come home to her.
+
+‘I think I told you that Katherine is coming here to celebrate my
+birthday?’ says Crosby.
+
+‘Yes; but your birthday—when is it?’ asks Susan, anxious to know when
+these alarming visitors are to arrive.
+
+‘The third of August. Didn’t I tell you? Katherine likes to think she is
+coming here to do me honour on that day; that’s how she puts it in
+words. To turn my house upside down, however, is what she really means.
+But I submit. The old house will stand it. She isn’t half bad, really,
+and certainly not more than half mad. I think I told you you would like
+her?’
+
+‘Yes,’ says Susan, who has begun to quake at the brother’s description
+of his sister. ‘And she will be here—’
+
+‘In about ten days’ time. George—that’s her husband—is a first-class
+shot, and this place has been pretty well preserved, in spite of its
+absentee landlord. I hope he will enjoy himself. Katherine is bringing a
+lot of her friends with her.’
+
+‘Hers?’ Susan’s tone is a little faint. If only this big society dame’s
+friends—what is going to happen? Mr. Crosby is so kind that he will be
+sure to make his sister ask her up to the Hall. And how could she
+(Susan) hold her own with these clever people of the world, people who—
+
+Crosby breaks into her silent fears.
+
+‘Hers principally; but some of them are mine, too, in a way. I really am
+so little at home that I haven’t time to cultivate lifelong friendships;
+but Lady Muriel Kennedy I have known all my life, and liked. I
+hope’—suddenly—‘when Katherine comes, you will spare her a little of
+your time.’
+
+‘You are very kind. If you would care to have me,’ falters Susan
+disjointedly. Her eyes are on the ground. To spare Lady Forster a little
+of her time! As if Lady Forster would even care to know her! How could
+she (Susan) make herself at home with people like that—people who had
+lived in fashionable circles all their days—frivolous people like Lady
+Forster, and lovely people like Lady Muriel Kennedy? Had he called Lady
+Muriel lovely?
+
+‘That is begging the question,’ says he, laughing. ‘Who wouldn’t care to
+have you? How silent you are, Susan! Not a word out of you. I’ll begin
+to think you are in love presently. People in love are always silent,
+dwelling on the beloved absent, no doubt.’
+
+‘I am not in love,’ says Susan, with singular distinctness.
+
+‘Not even with “James”? I forget his other name. He would be a beloved
+absent, wouldn’t he?’
+
+‘Absent or present, he would not be beloved by me,’ says Susan calmly.
+She pauses. Her head is slightly turned from Crosby, so that only the
+perfect profile can be seen. The fingers of her right hand are lying
+tenderly on Bonnie’s sleeping head. The fingers of the left are plucking
+idly at the grass by her side.
+
+All at once she turns her glance straight on Crosby.
+
+‘Were you ever in love?’ asks she.
+
+‘Susan,’ says Crosby seriously, ‘I don’t think you ought to spring
+things upon one like that. My heart may be weak, for all you know; and,
+really, I begin to think of late that it is.’ He pauses. Susan remaining
+sternly unsympathetic, however, over this leading speech, he goes on.
+‘What was your question?’ asks he.
+
+This sounds like basest subterfuge, and Susan casts a glance of scorn at
+him.
+
+‘I asked you if you had ever been in love. Please don’t answer if you
+don’t want to. After all, I am sure I should not have asked you.’
+
+‘You can ask me anything you like,’ says Crosby with resignation. ‘Yours
+is to command, mine to obey. Yes’—comfortably, if surreptitiously,
+disposing himself on the tail of Susan’s gown—‘I acknowledge it. I have
+had my little disappointment. It was a frightful affair. I don’t believe
+anyone was ever so much in love as I was—then. I was just twenty-one,
+and she was just—something or other. It’s bad to remember a lady’s age.
+Any way, I know I loved her—I loved her,’ says Crosby, rising now to
+tragedy, ‘like anything. I can’t even at this hour speak of it without
+tears.’
+
+‘Oh, nonsense! you’re laughing,’ says Susan, with fine disgust.
+
+‘I am not, indeed. It is hysterics. If only you had gone through half
+what I have, I might expect a little sympathy from you. However, to
+continue. She was lovely, Susan, and she was tall—taller than you. She
+had coal-black eyes, and a nose that I have always considered Roman. I
+adored her. I used to walk about o’ nights looking at the moon (when
+there was one), and telling myself it was the image of her.’
+
+‘The image of her! I must say I think you were hardly complimentary,’
+says Susan, who seems to be on the look-out for slips. ‘There is nothing
+in the moon but a man, and a hideous one too—just like the clown at the
+circus.’
+
+‘True’—reflectively. ‘Then it couldn’t have been the moon I compared her
+to. Perhaps’—thoughtfully—‘it was a star. Ah!’—joyfully—‘that’s it—my
+own particular star. See?’
+
+‘No,’ says Susan contemptuously; and then: ‘I don’t believe you ever
+compared her to anything.’
+
+‘I did—I did indeed, even quite lately,’ says Crosby. But this ambiguous
+speech receiving no recognition, he goes on: ‘If, as your contemptuous
+silence evidently means, Susan, you think me incapable of love, you are
+greatly in the wrong. I assure you I did compare her to that star. There
+was one special one; but somehow I can’t find it lately. It must have
+been removed, I think. And besides the star, I remember quite well being
+under a hallucination that led me to believe that the wettest day under
+heaven was full of sunshine when she was present; and that when she
+wasn’t present, no matter how brilliant the sky might be, that the sun
+never shone. Come, now, Susan; be just. That was real love, wasn’t it?’
+
+‘I really don’t know,’ says Susan. There is a slight pause; then: ‘Go
+on.’
+
+‘Go on?’
+
+‘Did she die?’
+
+‘Die? Not much,’ says Crosby cheerfully. ‘Though of course’—relapsing
+into very suspicious gloom—‘she was dead to me. She’—with deep
+melancholy—‘thought I couldn’t furnish a house up to her form, so she
+threw me over.’
+
+‘What an odious girl!’ says Susan. For the first time a spark of sorrow
+for him lights her eyes. She flushes softly with most genuine
+indignation. Crosby looks at her.
+
+‘She was a very pretty girl,’ says he.
+
+‘For all that’—quickly—‘you must hate her.’
+
+‘On the contrary, I think I love her.’
+
+‘Still?’
+
+Susan’s face grows disdainful.
+
+‘Even more than ever I did.’
+
+‘You are very constant.’
+
+‘That’s the first compliment you ever paid me. But to end my tale—I saw
+her in town last March.’
+
+‘Yes?’ Susan has lifted her flower-like face, and is gazing at him.
+
+‘You met her? And she—she—’
+
+‘Was a widow.’
+
+‘A widow; and so you and she.... It is quite a romance!’ says Susan, in
+her soft voice, speaking hurriedly, almost stammering, indeed, in what
+is perhaps her joyful excitement over this beautiful ending to a sad
+love-story. ‘And she was as beautiful as ever?’
+
+‘Well, hardly,’ said Crosby slowly, as if recalling a late picture to
+mind. ‘She is now, I am sorry to say, all angles. She was once plump.
+Her nose struck me as anything but Roman now; and her eyes were blacker
+than ever—I wonder who blacks them?’
+
+‘Yet when you saw her, you must have thought of the past. You must
+have—’
+
+‘You are quite right: I thought strongly of the past. I thought of
+nothing else. I said to myself: “At this moment this woman might have
+been your wife, but for—” I forget the rest—I believe I fainted. When I
+recovered I knew I loved her as I had never loved her before. She had
+refused me!’
+
+‘I suppose that’s what people call cynicism?’ says Susan, regarding him
+with open distrust.
+
+‘I don’t know what any other fellow would call it,’ says Crosby mildly.
+‘I only know that I call it a blessed relief. I felt quite kindly
+towards her, and went forthwith and bought her tickets for something or
+other, and sent them to her with a line, saying I was going to Africa
+for ten years. But there’s no more animosity. I look upon her now as a
+woman who has done me a really good turn.’
+
+‘I don’t think,’ says Susan, with sweet seriousness, ‘that you ought to
+speak of her like that. I dare say she was really very fond of you, but
+if you were both very poor how could you be married?’
+
+‘Is that the view you take of it?’ says Crosby. ‘What a mercenary one!
+And from a child like you! Susan, I’m ashamed of you!’
+
+‘Oh no, you know what I mean,’ says Susan, blushing divinely whilst
+making her defence. ‘There might be unkind people behind her, you know,
+forbidding her to marry you.’
+
+Crosby stops, and his thoughts run swiftly to the mysterious ‘James.’
+Were there unkind people behind her when that gallant youth declared his
+passion?
+
+‘Might there? And if there were, should she listen, do you think?’
+
+‘Ah, some would,’ says Susan, speaking out of the great wealth of
+worldly lore that can be gathered from eighteen years of life. ‘But
+others’—thoughtfully—‘wouldn’t.’
+
+‘To which section do you belong?’
+
+‘Oh, me! I don’t know,’ says Susan, growing suddenly very shy. ‘I
+shouldn’t do anything—I—I should wait.’
+
+‘Would you?’ says Crosby. There is something in the girl’s soft young
+face, now lowered and turned from him, so full of gentle strength that
+he wonders at it. Yes, she would wait for her lad—‘Though father, an’
+mither, an’ a’ should go mad.’ Is she waiting for James?
+
+‘I’m afraid, after all, I must destroy your illusion,’ says he
+presently. ‘I don’t think she could have been in love with me. Not
+overpoweringly, I mean. She had a little money of her own, and I had a
+little of mine, so that we should not have been altogether paupers. But
+she was dreadfully addicted to diamonds, and man milliners, and bibelots
+of all kinds. I have other reasons, too, Susan, for thinking she did not
+really love me. She never gave me a keepsake! Now you—you have had a
+keepsake.’
+
+‘Mr. Crosby!’ Susan’s face is crimson. ‘I wish—’
+
+‘I know. I beg your pardon. Of course I should not have mentioned it.
+But you and I are old friends now, Susan; and somehow it is permissible
+for me to confide to you the hollow fact that no one ever gave me a
+silver brooch with—’
+
+Susan lifts Bonnie’s head gently, and shows a dignified, but most
+determined, desire to rise.
+
+‘Don’t,’ says Crosby quickly. ‘You’ll wake him.’ He points to Bonnie’s
+lovely little head, and Susan pauses in her flight. ‘Besides, I shan’t
+say another word—not one. I swear it. What I really wanted was your
+compassion. I have never had a keepsake given me in all my life, save
+one.’
+
+‘Surely one is enough,’ says Susan slowly. Curiosity, after a moment,
+overcomes her dignity, and she says unwillingly: ‘Is it a nice one?’
+
+‘I desire no nicer,’ says he. He pulls his watch from his pocket, and on
+the chain close to it—on a tiny silver ring of its own—hangs a silver
+sixpence.
+
+‘That! Only a sixpence!’ Susan’s voice is rather uncertain. What
+sixpence is that? She—she didn’t— ‘Of course,’ says she, ‘I know a
+broken sixpence is a very usual thing between lovers. But this— It is
+not broken, and—and not old, either. I must say when she gave you a
+keepsake she—’
+
+‘She hardly gave it,’ says Crosby. ‘She only laid it on the last rung of
+a ladder that led up to some—’
+
+That sentence is never finished. Bonnie’s head is now lying on Susan’s
+rug. But Susan herself is already far over there, her head very high
+indeed, and her rage and her indignation even higher.
+
+
+
+
+                             CHAPTER XXXI.
+
+                     ‘My love is like the sky—
+                     As distant and as high.
+               Perchance she’s fair and kind and bright,
+               Perchance she’s stormy, tearful quite—
+                     Alas! I scarce know why.’
+
+
+‘Is this Susan?’
+
+Crosby, standing at the little gate leading into the Rectory garden,
+feels a spasm of doubt. He has come down this morning to make it up with
+her, as the children say, after that slight quarrel of yester eve—a
+quarrel that was all on her side. Her remorseless refusal to bid him
+good-bye had left him a little desolate.
+
+Is that really the sedate Susan, that slender nymph flying over there in
+the distance—racing, rather—with Tommy, as a willing prey, running
+before her?
+
+Crosby has, through time, grown accustomed to think of Susan as a demure
+maiden, slightly Puritan in type, though no doubt with a latent
+wilfulness lying beneath the calm exterior. But now that the latent
+wilfulness has broken loose, he finds himself unprepared for it. Susan
+running there in the sunshine, with her hair, apparently just out of the
+tub and hardly yet dry, floating behind her, is another creature
+altogether. And such hair, too! Such glorious waves on waves glinting
+golden in the sun’s bright rays, with Susan’s face peeping out of it now
+and then. How wild, how mad, how soft, the bright hair looks, and how
+sweet are the ringing cries that come from Susan’s parted lips!
+
+‘The bear has you, Tommy. He’s coming. He’—making a dab at the excited
+Tommy—‘will have you soon. In another moment he’ll be on you, tearing
+you—’ Quite a sprint here on the part of Tommy, and increased speed
+accordingly on Susan’s part. ‘And his claws are sharp—sharp!’
+
+Tommy, in his flight, turns terrified eyes on Susan over his shoulder.
+
+‘Oh, Susan, don’t, don’t!’ shrieks he, filled with joy and terror. The
+terror constitutes three-fourths of the joy. And now he flies again for
+his life, the deadly bear, the ruthless pursuer, dashing after him with
+relentless energy.
+
+Crosby, watching, tells himself, with a somewhat grim smile, that it is
+Tommy alone who would flee from such a delightful enemy. Perhaps his
+thoughts are touched with a tinge of disappointment at finding Susan in
+this mad mood. Yesterday she had seemed to him angered and disturbed
+when she left him so abruptly; and he had gone home with a growing sense
+of contrition strong upon him. It had been strong enough to bring him
+down this morning with half a dozen apologies, to find that she has
+forgotten all about this offence and—him.
+
+Here lies the real sting. The Susan he had imagined as being a little
+out of joint with her world—just a very little daintily offended with
+him—is not the Susan who is here now, and who is running round the
+garden in merry pursuit of her little brother, with her eyes gleaming
+like diamonds, and evidently as gay as a lark.
+
+She is close on Tommy now. She has put out a hand to grasp him, but
+Tommy is full of enterprise, doubles like a hare, and is now rushing
+frantically towards the gate on which Crosby is leaning.
+
+This brings Susan, who is still in hot pursuit of him, with her face
+towards Crosby. Now more distinctly he can see her. What a lovely,
+perfect child she is, with her loose hair floating behind her, like that
+of the immortal ‘Damosel,’ and the little soft gasping laughs coming
+from her open lips! _Joie de vivre_ is written in every line of her face
+and every curve of her lissom body.
+
+All at once, even as he watches her, this joy dies out of her face. ‘She
+has seen me,’ says Crosby to himself; and forthwith he opens the gate
+and advances towards her. Tommy, in his race, has reached him, and now,
+breathless, flings himself into his arms, turning to look, with affected
+fright, at the coming of Susan.
+
+It is a very slow coming, and has evidently something to do with her
+hair—as can be seen through the branches of a big escallonia on Crosby’s
+left. He determines to give her time to struggle with that beautiful
+hair. ‘Tommy, you ought to fall on the gravel and embrace your
+preserver’s knees,’ says he. ‘I have evidently saved you from an
+untimely death, if all I heard was true. I think, however, that you
+might have warned me that bears were about.’
+
+He is quite conscious, whilst speaking, that Susan is still making
+frantic, but ineffectual, efforts to do up her hair; so he goes on.
+
+‘Where’s your particular bear?’ asks he.
+
+‘Here,’ says Susan, as she steps in the most unexpected fashion from
+behind the tree. He can see that she is greatly disconcerted, and that
+she would never have come from behind it if remaining there was any
+longer possible. But she had seen and heard him, as he had seen and
+heard her.
+
+She advances now, her expression cold and unkindly, and her hands still
+struggling with her hair, in her desire to reduce it to some sort of
+reason.
+
+‘Why trouble yourself about it?’ says Crosby. ‘It is the prettiest thing
+I ever saw as it is.’
+
+‘It is not pretty to me,’ says Susan crushingly. Her arms are still
+above her head, and, as she speaks to him, she weaves into a superb coil
+the loose strands of her soft hair. In spite of this, however, the
+little locks around her brows, loosened and softened by the late
+washing, are straying wildly, flying here and there of their own sweet
+will, and making an aureole round Susan’s head, out of which her eyes
+gleam at Crosby with anything but friendship in them.
+
+‘How d’ye do?’ says he blandly.
+
+‘How d’ye do?’ says Susan in return. She lets her hand rest in his for
+the barest moment, then withdraws it.
+
+Crosby regards her reproachfully. ‘You are angry with me still,’ says
+he. ‘And after a whole night of reflection.’
+
+‘I am not angry at all,’ says Susan. ‘Why should you think so?’
+
+‘Yes, you are,’ says Crosby. ‘I can see it in your eyes. Your very hair
+is bristly. And all because—’ He stops, as if afraid to go on.
+
+‘Because what?’ asks Susan, with a touch of severity.
+
+‘Because I once got sixpence out of you!’ He is not able to resist it.
+
+‘Tommy,’ says Susan, ‘your collar is dirty, and you must come back to
+the house with me to get another.’ As she speaks she catches Tommy, who
+has not yet got to the years of civilization, and who hates clean
+collars, and prepares to march him off.
+
+‘Tommy,’ says Mr. Crosby, ‘wait a minute; your sister won’t, but perhaps
+you will. There is a photographer in town to-day; he has come down from
+Dublin. And your aunt says she would like to have some of you
+photographed.’ Here there is a distinct slowing in Susan’s march past,
+though she disdains to turn her head, or show further mark of interest.
+‘Don’t you want to be photographed, Tommy? I do, badly.’
+
+‘What is it?’ asks Tommy, whose views of amusement as a rule mean
+lollipops, and those only, and who has no knowledge of cameras or
+kodaks.
+
+‘It’s painful, as a rule,’ says Crosby. ‘But children seldom suffer.
+It’s only people of my age who come out with their noses twisted. Did
+you ever have your nose twisted, Tommy? It hurts awfully, I can tell
+you. But’—with a glance at Susan—‘other things hurt worse. You ought to
+speak to Susan, Tommy—to tell her that prolonged cruelty sometimes ends
+in the death of the victim.’
+
+At this Susan faces round. ‘What I think is,’ says she, ‘that you ought
+to give me back that horrid sixpence.’
+
+‘It isn’t horrid.’
+
+‘You should give it back, at all events.’
+
+‘Oh, Susan, anything but that—my life even.’
+
+‘What’—with mounting indignation—‘can you want it for, except to annoy
+me?’
+
+‘Is thy servant a slave? I want it as a memento of the only occasion on
+record on which I was called a “kind, kind man,” and a “good” and an
+“honest” one besides. You did call me all that, Susan. And yet, now—’
+
+Heaven alone knows what would have been the end of all this, but for the
+providential appearance of Miss Barry and Betty upon the scene.
+
+‘My dear Susan, have you heard? But, of course, Mr. Crosby has told you.
+Good gracious! what is the matter with your head, child?’
+
+And, indeed, Susan’s hair has again found freedom, and is flowing down
+her back in happy, shining waves.
+
+‘I have just washed it,’ says Susan shamefacedly.
+
+‘An admirable deed,’ says Miss Barry, who is in too great a state of
+delight to lecture with her usual fluency, and who, indeed, feels
+inclined to be lenient. ‘But you should not come into publicity, my dear
+child, until it is dry and carefully dressed again. However’—beaming
+upon Crosby, who begins to quite like her—‘youth will be youth, you
+know. And what do you think, Susan? There is a man down from the best
+photographer’s in Dublin—from Chancellor’s, I believe. And I am thinking
+of having our pictures taken, if only to send some copies to your uncle
+in Australia—my brother, you know, my dear. He will be so pleased to get
+them; and, really, it is a grand opportunity. Of course, you, Mr.
+Crosby, have had yours taken in every quarter of the globe, but we
+country mice seldom get the chance of seeing ourselves as others see
+us.’
+
+‘I haven’t been photographed for quite ten years,’ says Crosby, ‘and I
+feel now as if it were my duty to sit again. Miss Barry, if you are
+going to be photographed to-day, will you take me under your wing?’
+
+‘I shall be pleased indeed,’ says Miss Barry, with much dignity.
+
+‘Won’t it be fun!’ cries Betty, clapping her hands.
+
+‘And the hour?’ asks Crosby.
+
+‘About two. What do you think, Susan? Two would be a good hour, eh?’
+
+‘Yes, a good hour,’ says Susan, without interest. Then, suddenly:
+‘Is—are you going to have Bonnie taken?’
+
+‘My dear Susan’—Miss Barry flushes the dull pink of the old when
+shamed—‘why should we send all our pictures to your uncle at once? It—it
+would probably confuse him. Another time we may think of that,’ says
+Miss Barry, who has counted up all her available shillings this morning,
+to see if it would be possible to send all the children, but had found
+they fell decidedly short. She would have died, however, rather than
+confess this to a stranger. ‘Just mine and yours, and—but I am afraid
+your father will never consent to be taken—and Betty’s and Carew’s—just
+the eldest ones. You can see, Mr. Crosby, that just the eldest ones will
+be those most acceptable to their uncle.’
+
+‘Yes, I see,’ says Crosby. He has seen it all, indeed. As if in a dream,
+Miss Barry’s purse has been laid open to him and the contents made bare.
+The two shillings for herself, and the two for Susan, and for Betty, and
+for Carew—eight shillings in all—and after that nothing. He has seen,
+too, the pride of the poor lady, who would not acknowledge the want of
+means wherewith to provide photos of the younger children for their
+uncle abroad, but put her objection to their being taken on the grounds
+of their youth. He has seen, too, Susan’s face as she hears that Bonnie
+is not to be taken. Oh, the quick, pained disappointment of it!
+
+‘At two, then,’ says he, ‘we shall meet at the photographer’s.’
+
+‘Yes; two sharp,’ says Miss Barry, who seems quite excited. ‘Susan, I
+think I shall wear my new lace cap.’
+
+‘I think you ought to wear your hair just as it is now,’ says Crosby to
+Susan in a low tone, as he bids her good-bye. It is impossible for her
+to refuse him her hand with her aunt looking on; and though Crosby is
+aware of this, it is to his shame, I confess, that he takes it and holds
+it in a warm clasp before he lets it go.
+
+
+
+
+                             CHAPTER XXXII.
+
+              ‘But I know best where wringeth me my shoe.’
+
+
+‘Betty, was I looking frightful?’ asks Susan, drawing her sister away as
+soon as Crosby is out of sight. ‘Tell me quite the truth. Don’t gloss
+things over just to please me.’
+
+‘I won’t,’ says Betty, giggling. ‘I’ll be as honest as the sun. You
+looked’—pausing wickedly—‘something between Meg Merrilees and a wild
+Indian, with a bias toward the latter. But that needn’t put you out.
+He’s accustomed to wild Indians; and when one has lived with people
+fifty years or so, one gets to admire them. I shouldn’t wonder if he
+admired you. You must have taken him back to the good old days. Why
+didn’t you sing “Way down upon the Swannee River” for him? That would
+have finished the conquest.’
+
+‘You don’t seem to know what wild Indians are,’ Susan remonstrates
+calmly. ‘They live in North America, and couldn’t sing a nigger song to
+save their lives. You don’t seem to know, either, that it was in Africa
+that Mr. Crosby spent most of his time, and that the blacks there aren’t
+niggers at all.’
+
+‘Oh, it’s all the same,’ says Betty airily. ‘A black’s a black for a’
+that; and if they don’t sing one thing, they sing another. And any way,
+I could see by the gleam in Mr. Crosby’s eye, as he looked at you and
+your flowing locks, that he loves wildness in every form.’
+
+Susan is silent for a time; then:
+
+‘Betty’—in a low tone—‘how old do you think he is?’
+
+‘I don’t think he has beaten Methuselah yet, if you mean that.’
+
+‘No; but really, I mean how old, eh?’
+
+‘Well’—carefully—‘allowing him the fifty years he spent with his blacks,
+and the fact that he told us that he started at twenty-three on an
+adventurous career, he must be now well into the seventies.’
+
+Susan’s laugh—so evidently expected here—sounds to herself a little
+forced, though why she could not have explained.
+
+‘Oh, not so old as that!’
+
+‘Well, perhaps not, by a year or so,’ says Betty, as if determined on
+being absolutely fair and accurate to a fraction.
+
+‘Do you know,’ says Susan, a little reluctantly, but as though she must
+say it, ‘I—of course, I know he is ever so much older than any of us,
+but, for all that, somehow, he doesn’t seem to me to be—well, old, you
+know.’
+
+Betty nods, and Susan, encouraged by this treacherous sign, rashly takes
+a further step.
+
+‘It has even sometimes seemed to me,’ says she nervously, ‘that he is
+quite young.’
+
+‘That reminds me of something I read this morning,’ says Betty, who is
+beginning to enjoy herself. ‘It ran like this: “On the whole, I consider
+him one of the youngest men of my acquaintance.”’
+
+‘Where did you read that?’ asks Susan, with open suspicion.
+
+‘In a book’—smartly.
+
+‘Well, I suppose so. And what book, and who said it?’
+
+‘A frisky duchess.’
+
+‘She was young, of course?’
+
+‘Not very,’ Betty grins. ‘Eighty-two or thereabouts.’
+
+‘Oh, well, then, no doubt she was alluding to a mere boy of her
+acquaintance.’
+
+‘Not at all. To another frisky person of the opposite sex—a young thing
+of one hundred and five or so.’
+
+‘What do you mean, Betty? You don’t suppose that Mr. Crosby is a hundred
+and five or so?’
+
+‘I don’t indeed. I put him in the seventies, if you remember. That would
+make him quite a babe to the duchess I speak of. She said her
+centenarian had the brightest, the most engaging manners, and, of
+course, that reminded me of Mr. Cros— Where are you going now, Susan?’
+
+‘I want to put fresh cuffs on Bonnie’s shirts,’ says Susan. Her tone is
+a little reserved, and there is a deepening of dignity in the delicate
+lightness of her steps, as she turns away, that tells Betty she is in
+some way offended.
+
+Betty, stricken, but with a conscience clear, runs after her and tucks
+her arm into hers.
+
+‘Have I vexed you?’ asks she.
+
+‘Vexed me?’ Susan’s tone is rather exaggerated. ‘No. How could you have
+vexed me?’
+
+‘That’s true,’ says Betty comfortably, who never gets deeper than the
+actual moment. ‘Then I’ll come with you.’
+
+‘But why should I bring you in?’ asks Susan, who has a new queer fancy
+to be alone.
+
+‘To do your hair, for one thing,’ says the tease of the family with
+delightful _bonhomie_. ‘Really, Susan, you can’t appear in public like
+this twice; and you know we are going to be photographed in— What is the
+hour now? Good gracious! it’s growing very late. We must run. Bonnie’s
+shirts can’t be done to-day, but I’ll help you with them to-morrow. Oh,
+there’s auntie—’
+
+‘Susan, you must make haste,’ cries Miss Barry, hurrying round the
+corner. ‘There is no time to be lost. And, my dear, your hair! How
+fortunate you washed it to-day! When neatly done up it will look
+beautiful. Betty, I have been thinking of having you taken with your hat
+on. Your best hat—’
+
+‘Oh, auntie!’ says poor Betty.
+
+‘No; well, perhaps not. What do you think, Susan?’
+
+‘I think she would look nicer without it,’ says Susan, in answer to an
+agonized glance from Betty. ‘And you, auntie? I think we ought to put a
+fresh bow in your cap; that side one is always falling down. You have a
+little bit of ribbon, haven’t you?’
+
+‘Yes, I think so; in the top drawer,’ says Miss Barry.
+‘Susan’—suddenly—‘how could you ask such an uncomfortable question
+before Mr. Crosby!’
+
+‘What question?’ asks Susan, turning very red.
+
+‘Why, as to whether I was going to have Bonnie photographed. I was quite
+taken aback,’ says Miss Barry, shaking her curls; ‘and, indeed, it was
+only the natural _savoir faire_ that belongs to me’—to give Miss Barry’s
+Parisian accent would pass the wit of man—‘that enabled me to conquer
+the situation. You might be quite sure, Susan, that if I had the money
+Bonnie and Tommy too should have been sent to their dear uncle.’
+
+‘I see, auntie. I am sorry,’ says Susan, with honest, deep regret.
+
+‘I suppose,’ says Miss Barry, with the air of one addressing a forlorn
+hope, ‘that you and Betty have nothing?’
+
+It is plain that the poor lady had set her heart originally on having a
+‘full set’ to send to the uncle abroad, but that reasons financial have
+crushed her hopes.
+
+‘I have only sixpence,’ says Susan sadly. ‘You, Betty?’
+
+‘I spent the twopence I had yesterday,’ says Betty, ‘on hairpins.’
+
+‘Hairpins!’ cries Miss Barry indignantly. ‘And your hair not up yet!’
+
+‘They were for Susan,’ explains Betty angrily, who had, indeed, bought
+them for Susan, but who, nevertheless, had spent an enjoyable hour with
+them, doing up her own hair, and seeing how she would look next year
+when ‘grown up.’
+
+‘Well, that’s the end of it,’ says Miss Barry, with the courage of
+despair. ‘I certainly won’t ask your father for a penny, as I know he
+hasn’t one to spare this month; and, indeed’—sighing—‘I only hope that
+those reports about that bank in Scotland are untrue. It is in that he
+has invested the £500 he has laid aside for Carew—for his crammer, you
+know, and his outfit, and all the rest of it. I dare say the scare will
+come to nothing; but, at all events, he is a little pressed just now, so
+that for a mere luxury like this I think we had better not ask him for
+anything.’
+
+‘Of course not,’ says Susan. ‘But, auntie’—slowly and a little
+nervously—‘would you mind very much if—if Bonnie had his picture taken
+instead of me? I have always so longed for one of his. He is so
+delicate, and—’ She stops suddenly, a terrible feeling in her throat
+forbidding another word.
+
+‘My dear Susan! And you the eldest! Why, it would be quite an insult to
+your dear uncle. No, no,’ says Miss Barry; ‘we must depend upon another
+time to get Bonnie and Tom taken.’
+
+Susan turns away. Will there ever be ‘another time’ for Bonnie? So frail
+in the warm summer-time, how will it be with him when the snows and the
+frosts set in?
+
+‘At all events, I think I will take him down with me to see the rest of
+us taken,’ she says presently in a depressed voice. ‘It will amuse and
+interest him. You know how clever he is.’
+
+‘Yes, by all means, and I’ll take Tommy,’ says Betty, ‘though goodness
+knows if after that we shall any of us come out alive.’
+
+                  *       *       *       *       *
+
+Susan has started very early (it is only ten minutes after one), so as
+to give Bonnie plenty of time to get down to the village without
+fatigue. Miss Ricketty will give him a seat in her place; a penny out of
+the last sixpence will buy him a cake or some sweets; and then, with a
+little rest, he can easily go on to the room rented to the photographer
+by Mr. Salter, the hardware Methodist.
+
+She has now reached Miss Ricketty’s, and has been welcomed by that
+excellent if slightly eccentric spinster with open arms. Bonnie is
+literally in her arms—and now is ensconced in the cosiest corner of this
+cosy little shop, behind the tiny gateway. Indeed, Miss Ricketty is
+preparing in a surreptitious manner to bring down a jar of unspeakably
+beautiful bull’s-eyes for Bonnie’s delectation, when Susan intervenes.
+
+‘No—no indeed, dear Miss Ricketty. He has a penny of his own to-day. And
+he loves buying. Don’t you, Bonnie? Another day, perhaps. And I think a
+cake would be better for him, don’t you? You would rather have a Queen
+cake, Bonnie darling, wouldn’t you?’—appealingly.
+
+‘Yes,’ says Bonnie, out of the sweetness of his nature, seeing she
+desires it, though his soft eyes are dwelling on the lollipops. But that
+he can’t have both is a foregone conclusion, as Susan tells herself with
+a sigh. The remaining fivepence will have to do many things until next
+week, when father will give her her tiny weekly allowance again.
+Besides, a cake is ever so much better for him than bull’s-eyes. Thus
+Susan consoles herself.
+
+‘Are you goin’ to be took, Miss Susan?’ asks Miss Ricketty, settling
+herself, as she calls it, for a good chat.
+
+Susan laughs.
+
+‘Not by the sergeant, any way,’ says she.
+
+‘Ah, ye will have yer joke now. An’, sure, I’m a silly old fool. But
+ye’re goin’ to have yer picture done, aren’t ye? Fegs, ’twould be a
+shame if ye didn’t. ’Tis a mighty purty picture would be lost to the
+world if you held back. Why, all the world is crowdin’ to that man’s
+door. I saw Lady Millbank go in just now. An’ at her time o’ life! Law,
+the vanity o’ some folk! D’ye know what me brother said to me to-day?’
+
+‘What?’ asks Susan, who is growing interested.
+
+‘Whether I wouldn’t like to see me own face on a card. An’ I tould him
+as I had seen it for sixty years in a lookin’-glass, an’ that was good
+enough for me.’
+
+‘But, Miss Ricketty,’ says Susan, seeing with her delicate sense of
+sympathy beneath the veil that conceals Miss Ricketty’s real desire to
+be ‘seen on a card,’ ‘why not be taken? It would not give you pleasure,
+perhaps, but see what pleasure it would give to others. And as for me, I
+should love a photograph of you.’
+
+‘Oh now, Miss Susan! Sure, ye know, ye wouldn’t care for a picture of
+the likes of me.’
+
+‘I should like it more than I can say,’ says Susan. ‘Miss Ricketty’—with
+pretty entreaty— ‘you really must make up your mind to it.’
+
+‘Well, I’ll be thinkin’—I’ll be thinkin’,’ says Miss Ricketty, who is
+all agog with excitement and flattery. ‘I suppose, Miss Susan dear, that
+shawl they sent me from America would be too bright?’
+
+‘The very thing,’ says Susan. ‘It would be lovely. And your people in
+America will certainly recognise it, and it will give them great
+pleasure to know that you treasure it so highly.’
+
+‘There’s a lot in that,’ says Miss Ricketty, musing—she muses
+considerably. ‘Well, perhaps—’ Here she pauses again. ‘It may be,’ says
+she at last. She might, perhaps, have condescended to explain this last
+oracular speech, but that her bright eye catches sight of three young
+ladies going past her window. ‘There they go! there they go! Look at
+them, Miss Susan, my dear! Did ye ever see such quare crathures? May the
+Vargin give them sense! Look at their hats, an’ the strut o’ them!
+They’ve a power o’ money, I’m tould. “Articles of virtue” Mr. Connor
+called them the last day he was in here; but, faith, where the virtue
+comes in—they do say— But that’s not talk for the likes o’ you or me,
+dear. But tell me now, Miss Susan, what of Mr. Crosby? I’ve heard that
+he— Oh, murdher! talk of the divil—’
+
+Miss Ricketty retires behind a huge jar of sweets as Crosby comes into
+the shop.
+
+
+
+
+                            CHAPTER XXXIII.
+
+            ‘Read in Senec, and read eke in Boece,
+            There shall ye see express, that it no drede is,
+            That he is gentle that doth gentle deedes.’
+
+
+Crosby looks a little surprised at finding Susan here.
+
+‘How d’ye do?’ again says he.
+
+Susan, without enthusiasm, gives him her hand. She is busy wondering
+what could have brought him in here, of all places. Fond of chocolates,
+perhaps.
+
+‘Why, there you are, Bonnie,’ says Mr. Crosby gaily. ‘No wonder I didn’t
+see you in that nice big chair. How d’ye do, Miss Ricketty? I hope you
+have been behaving yourself properly since last I saw you.’
+
+‘Oh, Mr. Crosby!’ The old maid shakes her head at him with delight.
+
+‘No fresh flirtations, I trust.’
+
+‘Oh, hear to him!’ Miss Ricketty is laughing like a girl.
+
+‘And how is the giant?’
+
+‘Me brother is very well, thank you, sir. An’ he wants to see ye badly
+about that cricket match in the park. They say that Tim Murphy is goin’
+to be very troublesome over it.’
+
+‘Not a bit of it. Tell your brother that I’ve squared the militant Tim,
+and that he will turn up all right. What charming sweets, Bonnie! I love
+sweets; don’t you?’
+
+He has made a sign to Miss Ricketty, who is now making up a splendid
+parcel.
+
+‘Bonnie has had a cake,’ says Susan. She would have said a great deal
+more if Tommy had been in question. Indeed, then she would have refused
+distinctly; but Bonnie’s little lovely smiling face, and the joy she
+knows it will give the gentle child to share Mr. Crosby’s gift with his
+little brother, stops her. She says nothing more, though it is actual
+pain to her to have to accept these sweets for her brother from Crosby.
+It is a debt she owes to Bonnie to suffer thus. But, then, what does she
+not owe Bonnie?
+
+‘L’appétit vient en mangeant,’ says Crosby. ‘Miss Ricketty, don’t be in
+such a hurry to tie up that parcel. Bonnie and I want something out of
+it first.’ He puts a delightful box of chocolate creams on Bonnie’s knee
+as he speaks, then turns to Susan.
+
+‘I suppose I daren’t offer you anything,’ says he, in a low tone. Miss
+Ricketty becomes at once absorbed in a bottle of bull’s-eyes.
+
+‘No,’ says Susan gently, ‘thank you.’
+
+‘Not even an apology?’
+
+Susan glances quickly at him, and then hesitates. Perhaps she would have
+said something, but at this moment Miss Barry, with Betty and Dom and
+Carew, enter the shop.
+
+‘We saw you through the window,’ cries Betty; and suddenly Susan’s
+thoughts run riot. Had he seen her through the window? ‘And so we came
+in. We must hurry, Susan; all the world is going to have its picture
+taken—even Lady Millbank, though goodness alone knows why. And such a
+guy as she looks in that velvet mantle—that heavy thing—’
+
+‘A regular overmantle,’ says Dom.
+
+‘Bless me!’ says Miss Barry suddenly, breaking off her conversation with
+Miss Ricketty over the proper treatment of young fowls when they come to
+be three months old. ‘Susan, you and Betty are wearing the same frocks.’
+
+‘Yes, it was I who arranged that,’ says Betty calmly. ‘In some way,
+Susan and I have never worn these frocks together before, and I have
+heard that those old Murphy girls—’
+
+‘Not the Murphys, Betty—the Stauntons,’ says Susan.
+
+‘It doesn’t matter; they are all old maids alike,’ says Betty lightly.
+‘Any way, I have heard that some of the weird women of Curraghcloyne
+have said that we were short of clothes, because Susan and I had only
+one dress between us. This’—smoothing down her pretty serge frock—‘is
+the one in question. So I’m going to be photographed with Susan in it,
+if only to upset their theories, and give them some bad half-hours with
+their cronies; cronies never spare one.’
+
+‘You and Susan are going to be photographed together!’ says Miss Barry,
+who is getting a stormy look in her eyes. ‘You will not, then, be taken
+separately?’
+
+‘Oh yes,’ says Betty airily. ‘Separately, too. I hate double pictures as
+a rule, but when duty calls—’
+
+Miss Barry is now making wild pantomimic signs to Susan. ‘Stop her!’ her
+lips are saying—‘stop her at all risks, or we shall be eternally
+disgraced!’
+
+And, indeed, the poor lady had not another penny to spend beyond what
+she had already arranged for. If this double picture that the rash and
+reckless Betty speaks of becomes an accomplished fact, who is to pay for
+it? Not Miss Barry, certainly, because she has nothing with which to
+pay. And, naturally, the photographer will demand his just fees, and
+then all will come out, and—
+
+She is on the point of appealing to Miss Ricketty, when Dom nudges her.
+
+‘It’s all right,’ whispers he. ‘I have enough for that. I’ve settled it
+with Betty.’
+
+Miss Barry gives him a grateful look, greatly interspersed with rebuke.
+Such a throwing away of good money! As if that conceited child could not
+be satisfied with one representation of her face! She must really speak
+to Dom about his folly later—a little later—on.
+
+It doesn’t seem folly at all to Dominick, who is a most generous youth,
+if extravagant, and who would give a great deal more to this
+photographic business if it was in his power. But a great deal has been
+spent of late on cartridges for the murdering of Mr. Crosby’s rabbits—so
+much, indeed, that cigarettes have grown scarce and pipes a luxury,
+spite of even the small sums that Carew has thrown into the common fund.
+Carew has generally a shilling or two in his pockets, the Rector deeming
+it advisable to give to his eldest son, out of his terribly inadequate
+income, a certain amount of pocket-money, to prepare him for the time
+when he will be thrown on his own resources; to teach him to economize
+now, so that when he is gazetted, and has to rely on his own slender
+allowance, he will be able to understand how to make money go as far as
+it can.
+
+All through the boy’s educational course, he had felt it a sort of
+madness to put him into the army at all—a boy who must necessarily live
+entirely on his pay—a forlorn arrangement in these fast days, and one
+out of which only ten per cent. rise successfully. But the last wish of
+his dying wife had been that Carew should enter the army. She had come
+of a good fighting stock herself, poor soul! to which she remained
+faithful, having fought her own fight with poverty most bravely until
+she died; and the Rector, who had cared less and less for earthly things
+since she had gone to heaven, had not the heart or the strength to
+refuse that dying wish.
+
+‘You’re sure you have it?’ whispers back Miss Barry to Dom.
+
+‘Certain.’
+
+‘Then’—sharply—‘it would have been much more to your credit if you had
+kept it.’
+
+‘To my credit, yes,’ says Dom.
+
+‘A more disgraceful display of extravagance—’ Miss Barry, either from
+the forced whispering or indignation, here grows hoarse, and coughs a
+little, whereupon Miss Ricketty, who is now intensely interested, and is
+listening with all her might, holds out to her a jar of jujubes; but
+Miss Barry waves them off.
+
+‘I suppose it is the last penny?’ asks she, still addressing Dom in a
+whisper, but with a magisterial air.
+
+‘Yes—nearly,’ says he.
+
+The ‘nearly’ is a concession to the truth. He has, indeed, three
+shillings left out of his monthly allowance, but these are already
+accounted for. They are to buy three copies of Betty for his own special
+apartment—one to be hung up over his gun, one over his bookcase, and one
+over his study table.
+
+‘That’s the one you’ll never see,’ Betty had said to him tauntingly, and
+most ungratefully, when he told her of the decision he had come to about
+his last three shillings.
+
+Miss Barry, now turning away from him with a heart decidedly heavy,
+directs her conversational powers on Crosby.
+
+‘I congratulate you on being in good time,’ says she. ‘When Betty and I
+started, we had great trouble in getting Carew and Dominick to come with
+us. They were dreadfully late, and we said then—Betty and I—that you
+would surely be late. But you’—smiling and wagging her curls—‘have
+behaved splendidly. I do appreciate a young man who can be punctual.’
+
+Susan glances quickly at her. ‘Young man!’ Is she in earnest, and after
+all that Betty had said?
+
+‘Young man!’ Is he a young man? Well, she has often thought so—she had
+even told Betty so. Here she glances at Betty, but Betty is now enjoying
+a word-to-word dispute with Dominick.
+
+Any way, she had told her. But Betty—what does she know? She has
+declared a man once over thirty, old. But Aunt Jemima thinks otherwise.
+And really, when one comes to think of it, Aunt Jemima at times is very
+clever—almost deep, indeed; and certainly very clever in her
+conclusions.
+
+‘Look! there are the Blakes coming out,’ cries Betty suddenly; she is
+standing on tiptoe at the window, which commands a fine view of the
+entrance to the photographer’s. ‘Auntie, Susan, let us go, before any
+other people come.’
+
+With this they all in a body cross the road, Carew having caught up
+Bonnie, who is all eagerness to see this wonderful thing that will put
+Susan’s face on paper.
+
+Upstairs they march in a body, to find themselves presently in a most
+evil-smelling corridor, out of which the studio opens. Here they wait
+perforce, until at last the studio door opens, and some people of the
+farming class, and very flurried and flushed, walk nervously down the
+little lane between them.
+
+‘Now is your time!’ says Betty, who is really quite irrepressible
+to-day. She takes the lead, and they all swarm after her into the
+studio, to find there an emaciated man in highly respectable clothes
+regarding them with a melancholy eye. Collodion seems to have saturated
+him.
+
+‘Aunt Jemima, you first,’ says Susan.
+
+‘Yes, certainly,’ says Dom. ‘First come, first served. And, you know, in
+spite of Betty’s well-meant endeavours, you entered the room first.’
+
+‘Besides which it is the part of the young to give way to their elders,’
+says Miss Barry, striving to keep up her dignity, whilst dying with
+terror. The photographer and the great big thing over there with dingy
+velvet cloth over it have subdued her almost out of recognition.
+
+‘Now, auntie, come on. He’s looking at you.’ ‘He’ is the photographer,
+who has now, indeed, turned a lack-lustre eye on Miss Barry.
+
+‘We are rather pressed for time,’ says he in a lugubrious tone. ‘Which
+lady wishes to be taken first?’
+
+‘Answer him, auntie,’ says Susan.
+
+‘What impertinence, hurrying us like this!’ says Miss Barry. She has
+recovered something of her old courage now, though still frightened, and
+turns a freezing eye upon the photographer, who is so accustomed to all
+sorts of eyes that it fails to affect him in any way.
+
+‘Really, auntie, you ought to have yours taken first,’ says Dominick
+seriously, ‘and as soon as possible. There’s murder in that man’s eye.
+Don’t incense him further.’
+
+The photographer is now standing in an adamantine attitude, but his eye,
+entreating, cries: ‘Come on, come on!’
+
+But no one stirs.
+
+‘A most insolent creature,’ says Miss Barry, who has unfortunately taken
+a dislike to him. ‘Look at him; one would think we had to have our
+pictures taken by law rather than by choice. Susan, did you ever see so
+villainous a countenance? No, my dear, I—I really feel—I couldn’t have
+my picture sent to your uncle if taken by an assassin like that.’ She
+holds back.
+
+‘Nonsense, Miss Barry!’ says Crosby gaily. ‘You have too much spirit to
+be daunted by a mere cast of countenance. And we—we have no spirit at
+all—so we depend upon you to give us a lead.’
+
+‘I assure you, Mr. Crosby, had it been any other man but this....
+However, I submit.’
+
+Whereupon, with much outward dignity and many inward quakings, she
+approaches the chair before the camera and seats herself upon it.
+
+‘A little more this way, please, ma’am,’ says the photographer.
+
+‘Which way?’ asks Miss Barry, in a distinctly aggressive voice.
+
+‘If you would pose yourself a little more like this,’ and the
+photographer throws himself into a sentimental attitude.
+
+‘Mercy! what ails the man?’ says Miss Barry, turning to Crosby. ‘Do you,
+my dear Mr. Crosby—do you think the wretched being has been imbibing too
+freely?’
+
+‘No, no, not at all,’ says Crosby reassuringly. ‘You must sit like
+this’—coming to the photographer’s help with a will—‘just a little bit
+round here, d’ye see, so as to make a good picture. That will give a
+better effect afterwards; and of course he is anxious to make as good a
+photograph of you as he can.’
+
+At this Miss Barry condescends to move a little in the way directed. She
+clutches hold of Susan, however, during the placing of her, and whispers
+thrillingly:
+
+‘I don’t believe in him, Susan. Look at his eye. It squints! Could a
+squinter give one a good photograph?’
+
+‘Now, madam!’ says the camera man, in a dying tone. He has heard
+nothing, but is annoyed in a dejected fashion by the delay. ‘If you are
+quite ready.’
+
+‘Are you?’ retorts Miss Barry.
+
+‘Yes, ma’am.’ He comes forward to rearrange her draperies and herself,
+her short colloquy with Susan having been sufficiently lively to disturb
+the recent pose. He pulls out her gown, then steps back to further study
+her, and finally takes her head between his hands, with a view to
+putting that into the right position also.
+
+If the poor man had only known the consequences of this rash act, he
+would, perhaps, rather have given up his profession than have committed
+it.
+
+‘How dare you, sir!’ cries Miss Barry, pushing him back, and making
+frightful passes in the air as a defence against another attack of his
+upon her maiden cheek.
+
+‘Carew, where are you? Dominick! Susan, Susan, do you see how I have
+been outraged?’
+
+‘Dear auntie,’ says Susan, in a low tone, Carew and Dominick being
+incapacitated for service, ‘you mistake him. He only wants to arrange
+you for your picture. It is always done. Don’t you see?’
+
+‘I don’t,’ says Miss Barry stoutly. ‘I see only that you are all a silly
+set of children, who do not understand the iniquity of man! This
+creature—’ She points to the photographer, who has gone back in a
+melancholy way to his slides, and is pulling them in and out, by way of
+exercise, perhaps. ‘However, Susan, I’ll go through with it, insolent
+and depraved as this creature evidently is; coming from a huge
+metropolis like Dublin, he scarcely knows how to behave himself with
+decent people. I must request you to tell him, however, that I
+refuse—absolutely refuse—to let him caress my face again!’
+
+Thus peace is restored with honour, for the time being. And the unlucky
+man who has been selected by an unkind Providence to transmit Miss
+Barry’s face to futurity, once again approaches her.
+
+‘Now, ma’am, if you will kindly sit just so, and if you will look at
+this—a little more pleasantly, please’—holding up a photograph of Lord
+Rosebery that he has been carrying about to delight the Irish people.
+‘Ah, that’s better; that earnest expression will—’
+
+‘Who’s that?’ cries Miss Barry, springing to her feet. ‘Is that the
+Radical miscreant who has taken old Gladstone’s place? God bless me,
+man! do you think I’m going to be pleasant when I look at him?’
+
+The wretched photographer, now utterly dumfounded, casts a despairing
+glance at Crosby, who is certainly the oldest, and therefore probably
+the most sensible, of the rest. The noise of the feet of impatient
+customers in the passage outside is rendering the poor man miserable.
+Yet it is impossible to turn this terrible old woman out, when there are
+so many with her waiting to be taken, and to pay their money.
+
+‘I assure you, sir, I thought that picture would please the lady. I’m
+only lately from England, and they told me—’
+
+‘A lot of lies. Ah yes, that’s of course,’ says Crosby, interrupting him
+sympathetically. ‘But what they didn’t teach you was that there are two
+opinions, you know. You can show Lord Rosebery to the people who have
+not a shilling in the world, and not a grandfather amongst them; but I
+think you had better show Miss Barry a photograph of Lord Salisbury, and
+if you haven’t that, one of the Queen. She’s quite devoted to the
+Queen.’
+
+‘I wish I’d been told, sir,’ says the photographer, so wearily that
+Crosby decides on giving him a substantial tip for himself when the
+sittings are over.
+
+‘Now, ma’am,’ says the photographer, returning to the charge with
+splendid courage, seeing Miss Barry has reseated herself in the chair,
+after prolonged persuasion from Carew and Susan. Betty and Dominick, it
+must be confessed, have behaved disgracefully. Retiring behind a huge
+screen, and there stifling their mirth in an extremely insufficient
+manner, gurgles and, indeed, gasps, have come from between its joints to
+the terrified Susan.
+
+‘And now, ma’am, will you kindly turn a little more this way?’ The poor
+man’s voice has grown quite apologetic. ‘Ah, that’s better! Thank you,
+ma’am. And if I might pull out your dress? Yes, that’s all right. And
+your elbow, ma’am, please.’
+
+‘Good gracious! why can’t he stop,’ thinks poor Susan, who sees wrath
+growing again within Miss Barry’s eye.
+
+‘It is just a little, a very little, too pointed. Ah, yes. There! And
+your foot, ma’am—under your dress, if you please.’
+
+Here Miss Barry snorts audibly, and the photographer starts back; but
+hearing is not seeing, and he rashly regains his courage and rushes to
+his destruction.
+
+‘That’s well, very well,’ says he, not being sufficiently acquainted
+with Miss Barry to note the signs of coming war upon her face; ‘and if
+you will now please shut your mouth—’
+
+Miss Barry rises once more like a whirlwind.
+
+‘Shut your own, sir!’ cries she, shaking her fist at him.
+
+There is one awful moment, a moment charged with electricity; then it is
+all over. The worst has come, there can be nothing more. Miss Barry is
+again pressed into her chair. The photographer, having come to the
+comforting conclusion that she is a confirmed lunatic, takes no more
+pains over her, refuses to adjust her robe, to put her face into
+position or revise her expression, and simply takes her as she is. The
+result is that he turns out the very best photograph he has taken for
+many a year.
+
+After this things go smooth enough, until at last even Betty—who has
+proved a troublesome customer, if a very charming one—declares herself
+satisfied.
+
+‘No more, sir?’ says the photographer to Crosby, whom he has elected to
+address as being the principal member of the party. To speak to Miss
+Barry would have been beyond the poor man.
+
+‘Oh yes, one more,’ says Crosby.
+
+
+
+
+                             CHAPTER XXXIV.
+
+                                   ‘If Sorrow stole
+               A charm awhile from Beauty, Beauty’s self
+               Might envy well the charm that Sorrow lent
+               To every perfect feature.’
+
+
+He draws Bonnie forward—Bonnie, who has been sitting so quietly in his
+corner for the past thirty minutes, enchanted with the strange scene. He
+has cared nothing for his aunt’s eccentricities; he has thought only of
+the wonderful things that were done behind that dingy black velvet
+curtain. Oh, if he could only get behind it too, and find out! The
+sickly child’s frame was weak, but his mind was fresh and strong, and
+ran freely into regions far beyond his ken.
+
+With the boy’s hand in his, Crosby turns courteously to Miss Barry.
+
+‘I hope you will let me have this charming face taken, if only for my
+own gratification,’ says he. ‘I have long wished it. And as he is
+here—if you will allow me. It is quite an ideal type, you know—I may
+have him photographed?’
+
+‘Yes—yes,’ says Miss Barry, with slow acquiescence, uttered with a pause
+between. And then all at once, as if she has come to the end of her
+hesitation, ‘Yes, certainly.’ She looks at Susan as if for approval, but
+Susan does not return her glance. She has cast down her eyes, and is
+distinctly pale.
+
+Poor Susan! So delighted at the thought of having a picture of her
+Bonnie given her, yet so sorry for the occasion of it. She has lowered
+her eyes so that no one may see what she is thinking about, or what she
+is suffering; the quick beating of her heart is also a secret known only
+to herself.
+
+The throbs run like this: Oh, how good of him! Oh, no matter what he is
+or whom he loves, he will surely give her one of Bonnie’s pictures—a
+picture of her lovely, pretty Bonnie!
+
+Meantime, Bonnie is being taken by the photographer, and so still, so
+calm a little subject he is, that his picture is, perhaps, the best of
+all, after Miss Barry’s, which is unique. Just Bonnie’s head—only that.
+But so sweet, so perfect, and the earnest eyes—
+
+The photographer tells them that they shall have them all in a week or
+so. The photographer’s ‘week or so’ is so well understanded of the
+people, that the Barrys tell themselves in whispers in the little studio
+that if they get them in a fortnight they may thank their lucky stars.
+
+‘A fortnight with that man!’ says Miss Barry, with ill-subdued wrath. ‘A
+month, you mean. I tell you he’s got the evil eye.’
+
+Having thus relieved herself, and the photographer having vanished into
+a room beyond, she rises into happier ways.
+
+‘Any way, in spite of him,’ says she, pointing towards the dark doorway
+into which he has vanished, ‘this must be called a most happy
+occasion—an auspicious one even, indeed.’ Miss Barry is always on
+immense terms with her dictionary. ‘I really think’—with sudden
+sprightliness—‘we should all exchange photos. I hope, Mr.
+Crosby’—turning pleasantly to him—‘that you will give us one of yours.’
+
+‘I shall give you one with pleasure, Miss Barry,’ says Crosby, ‘and feel
+very proud about your wanting to have it. I shall, however, demand one
+of yours in return. As to your suggestion about a general exchange, I
+think it delightful.’ He turns suddenly to Susan. ‘I hope you will give
+me one of yours,’ says he.
+
+Susan hesitates. To give her picture to him, when he thinks Lady Muriel
+Kennedy so lovely? Why, if he thinks a girl is so very lovely—she has
+described Lady Muriel to herself as a mere girl—why should he want a
+photograph of herself?
+
+Miss Barry has noticed Susan’s hanging back, and, wondering that she
+should refuse her photograph to so good a friend, comes quickly forward.
+
+‘Susan, I really think you might give Mr. Crosby your picture. You know,
+Mr. Crosby, I have always kept the girls a little strict, and perhaps
+Susan thinks—’
+
+‘I don’t,’ says Susan, with sudden vehemence. She has shrunk back a
+little; her lovely eyes have suddenly grown shamed. ‘It—isn’t that,
+auntie.’
+
+‘Oh, my dear, if it isn’t that—’ says Miss Barry; and being now called
+by Dominick, she turns away.
+
+‘Auntie takes such queer views of things,’ says Susan, pale and unhappy.
+‘It seems, however, that she would like me to give you my photograph.
+Well’—grudgingly—‘you can have it.’
+
+‘I didn’t want it on those terms,’ says Crosby. ‘And yet’—quickly—‘I do
+on any terms.’
+
+‘Oh no,’ says Susan; ‘auntie is right. Why should I refuse it to you?’
+
+‘Susan,’ says he, ‘is the feud so strong as all that? Will you refuse me
+your picture?’
+
+‘No, I shall give it,’ says she, faintly smiling; ‘but I shall make a
+bargain with you. If you will give me one of Bonnie’s, you shall have
+one of mine.’
+
+‘I gain, but you do not,’ says he; ‘for you should have had one of
+Bonnie all the same. But what has come between us, Susan? I thought I
+was quite a friend of yours. Why am I to be dismissed like this, without
+even a character? You must remember one great occasion when you said
+that anyone who was allowed to go through my grounds would be sure to
+treat me with respect, or something like that. Now, you have often gone
+through my grounds, Susan, and is this respect that you are offering
+me?’
+
+‘I thought,’ says Susan gravely, ‘that you promised never to speak of
+that again.’
+
+‘Of what—respect?’
+
+‘No, of that’—reluctantly—‘that day in the garden.’ The dawn of a blush
+appears upon her face, and her eyes rest on him reproachfully. ‘You are
+not to be depended on,’ says she.
+
+‘Oh, Susan!’
+
+His air is so abject that, in spite of herself, Susan laughs, and
+presently she holds out her hand to him with the sweetest air. ‘Any way,
+I have to thank you a thousand times for having had my Bonnie’s picture
+taken,’ says she. ‘And I know you knew that I wished for it.’ She gives
+him her hand. Tears rise to her eyes. ‘You could never know how I wished
+for it,’ says she.
+
+
+
+
+                             CHAPTER XXXV.
+
+            ‘Words would but wrong the gratitude I owe you;
+            Should I begin to speak, my soul’s so full
+            That I should talk of nothing else all day.’
+
+
+‘Now, Miss Manning,’ says Wyndham, in his quick, alert, business-like
+way. He steps back, and motions her to go through the gateway that Mrs.
+Denis had opened about three inches a minute ago.
+
+Miss Manning, a tall, thin, rather nervous-looking lady of very decided
+age, steps inside the gate, and glances from Wyndham to Mrs. Denis and
+back again interrogatively.
+
+‘This is Miss Moore’s housekeeper, cook, and general factotum,’ says
+Wyndham, making a hasty introduction, and with a warning glance towards
+Mrs. Denis, who has dropped a rather stiff curtsy. ‘Yours too. She will
+remove all troubles from your shoulders, and will take excellent care of
+you, I don’t doubt.’ He pauses to give Mrs. Denis—who is looking glum,
+to say the least of it—room for one of her always only too ready
+speeches, but nothing comes. ‘Eh?’ says he, in a sharp metallic voice
+that brings Mrs. Denis to her senses with a jump.
+
+‘Yes, sir,’ says she, and no more—no promises of obedience.
+
+Wyndham hurries Miss Manning past her.
+
+‘The other maid you can manage,’ says he, in a low tone, ‘and no doubt
+Mrs. Denis after awhile. She is a highly respectable woman, if a little
+unreasonable, and a little too devoted to your pupil. About the
+latter’—hastily—‘you know everything—her whole history—that is, so far
+as I know it—even to her peculiarities. You quite understand that she
+refuses to leave these grounds, and you know, too, her reasons for
+refusing—reasons not to be combated. They seem absurd to me, as I don’t
+believe that fellow has the slightest claim upon her; but she thinks
+otherwise. And—well, they are her reasons’—he pauses—‘and therefore to
+be respected.’
+
+‘Certainly,’ says Miss Manning, in a low, very gentle voice, ‘and I
+shall respect them.’ Her voice is charming. Wyndham tells himself that
+he could hardly have made a better choice of a companion for this
+strange girl who has been so inconveniently flung into his life. Miss
+Manning’s face, too, is one to inspire instant confidence. Her eyes are
+earnest and thoughtful; her mouth kind, if sad. That she has endured
+much sorrow is written on every feature; but troubles have failed to
+embitter a spirit made up of Nature’s sweetest graces. And now, indeed,
+joy is lighting up her gentle eyes, and happy expectancy is making warm
+her heart. A month ago she had been in almost abject poverty—scarce
+knowing where to find the next day’s bread—when a most merciful God had
+sent her Paul Wyndham to lift her from her Slough of Despond to such a
+state of prosperity as she had never dared to dream of since as a child
+she ran gaily in her father’s meadows.
+
+‘I am sure of that,’ says Wyndham heartily. ‘I am certain I can give her
+into your hands in all safety. I know very little of her, but she seems
+a good girl, not altogether tractable, perhaps, but I hope you will be
+able to get on with her. If, however, the dulness, the enforced
+solitude, becomes too much for you, you must let me know.’
+
+‘I shall never have to let you know that,’ says Miss Manning, in a low,
+tremulous tone. ‘A home in the country, a young companion, a garden to
+tend—for long and very sad years I have dreamt of such things, but never
+with a hope of seeing them. And now, if I have seemed poor in my thanks,
+Paul—’
+
+She breaks off, turning her head aside.
+
+‘Yes, yes; I understand,’ says Wyndham hurriedly, dreading, yet feeling
+very tenderly towards her emotion. Once again he congratulates himself
+on having thought of this sweet woman in his difficulty.
+
+‘And for myself,’ says she, calmly now again, ‘I should never like to
+stir from this lovely garden.’ They are walking by one of the paths
+bordered with flowers. ‘I have been so long accustomed to solitude that,
+like my pupil, I shrink from breaking it. To see no one but her
+and’—delicately—‘you occasionally, I hope, is all I ask.’
+
+‘You may perhaps have to see the Barrys now and then—the Rector’s
+people. They live over the way,’ says Wyndham, pointing towards where
+the Rectory trees can be seen. ‘I found the last time I was here that
+Susan, the eldest girl, had come in, or been brought in here by Miss
+Moore, so that there is already a slight acquaintance; and with girls,’
+says the barrister, somewhat contemptuously, ‘that means an immediate,
+if not altogether undying, friendship.’
+
+‘Yes,’ says Miss Manning. She feels a faint surprise. ‘It is not so
+much, then, that she does not desire to know people, as that she refuses
+to stir out of this place?’
+
+‘That is how I take it. I wanted her very much to move about, to let
+herself be known. Honestly’—colouring slightly—‘it is rather awkward for
+me to have a tenant so very mysterious as she seems bent on being. I
+urged her to declare herself at once as my tenant and wait events; but
+she seemed so terrified at the idea of leaving these four walls that I
+gave up the argument. Perhaps you may bring her to reason, or perhaps
+the Rector and his youngsters may have the desired effect of putting an
+end to this morbidity. By-the-by, I am going over to the Rectory after I
+have introduced you to—’
+
+‘Ella’ was on the tip of his tongue, but he substitutes ‘Miss Moore’ in
+time.
+
+The very near slip renders him thoughtful for a moment or two. Why
+should he have called her Ella? Had he ever thought of her as Ella? Most
+positively never.
+
+He is so absorbed in his introspection that he fails to see a slight,
+timid figure coming down the steps of the Cottage. Miss Manning touches
+his arm.
+
+‘Is this Miss Moore?’ cries she, in an excited whisper. ‘Oh, what a
+charming face!’
+
+And, indeed, Ella is charming as she now advances—very pale, as if
+frightened, and with her dark eyes glancing anxiously from Wyndham to
+the stranger and back again. She has no hat on her head, and a sunbeam
+has caught her chestnut hair and turned it to glistening gold.
+
+‘I hope you received my letter last night,’ says Wyndham, calling out to
+her and hastening his footsteps. ‘You see’—awkwardly—‘I have
+brought—brought you—’ He stops, waiting for Miss Manning to come up, and
+growing hopelessly embarrassed.
+
+‘Your friend, my dear, I trust,’ says Miss Manning gently, taking the
+girl’s hand in both her own and regarding her with anxious eyes.
+
+Ella flushes crimson. She has so dreaded, so feared, this moment, and
+now this gentle, sad-eyed woman, with her soft voice and pretty
+impulsive speech! Tears rise to the girl’s eyes. Nervously, yet eagerly,
+she leans forward and presses her lips to Miss Manning’s fair, if
+withered, cheek.
+
+Wyndham, congratulating himself on the success of his latest enterprise,
+takes himself off presently to inspect a farm five miles farther out in
+the country, that had been left to him by his mother, with the Cottage.
+He has determined on taking the Rectory on his way back to meet the
+evening train—to enlist further Mr. Barry’s sympathy for his tenant. He
+tells himself, with a glow of self-satisfaction, that he is uncommonly
+good to his tenant; but so, of course, he ought to be, that dying
+promise to the Professor being sacred; and if it were not for the
+affection he had always felt for that great dead man, he would beyond
+doubt never have thought of her again.... There is much moral support in
+this conclusion.
+
+Yes, he will spend half an hour at the Rectory. He can get back from the
+farm in plenty of time for that, and Miss Manning being an old friend of
+the Rector’s, the latter will be even more inclined to take up her
+pupil, which will be a good thing for the poor girl. He repeats the
+words ‘poor girl,’ and finds satisfaction in them. They seem to show how
+entirely indifferent he is to her and her fortunes. That mental slip of
+his awhile ago had alarmed him slightly. But ‘poor girl,’ to call her
+that precludes the idea of anything like—pshaw!
+
+He dismisses the ‘poor girl’ from his mind forthwith, and succeeds
+admirably in getting rid of her, whilst blowing up his other tenants on
+the farm. But on his way back again to Curraghcloyne her memory once
+more becomes troublesome.
+
+To-day, so far, things have gone well. She has seemed satisfied with
+Miss Manning, and Miss Manning with her. And as for the fear of an
+immediate scandal, that seems quite at rest. But in time the old worry
+is sure to mount to the surface again. For example, when Mrs. Prior
+hears of her—he wishes now, trudging grimly over the uneven road, that
+he had not led that astute woman to believe his tenant was a man—as she
+inevitably must, there will be a row on somewhere that will make the
+welkin ring; and after that, good-bye to his chances with Lord
+Shangarry, who has very special views about the right and the wrong.
+
+If only this silly girl could be persuaded to come out of her shell and
+mingle with her kind, all might be got over after a faint wrestle or
+two. But no! Angrily he tells himself that there is no chance of that.
+Soft as she looks, and gentle, and lov—h’m—he kicks a stone out of his
+way—and pleasant-looking, and all that, he feels absolutely sure that
+nobody will be able to drag her out of her self-imposed imprisonment.
+
+                  *       *       *       *       *
+
+After this diatribe, it is only natural that he should, on entering the
+Rectory garden, feel himself a prey to astonishment on seeing, amongst a
+turbulent group upon the edges of the tennis-court, the ‘poor girl’
+laughing with all her heart.
+
+He stands still, within the shelter of the laurels, to ask himself if
+his eyesight has failed him thus early in life. But his eyesight still
+continues excellent, and when he sees the ‘poor girl’ pick up Tommy and
+plant him on her knee, he knows that all is well with his visual organs.
+
+The fact is that, almost as he left the Cottage by the front-gate, Susan
+had run across the road and hammered loudly at the little green one.
+This primitive knocking had become a signal now with the Barrys and
+Ella, and soon the latter had rushed to open the door. There had been
+entreaties from Susan that she would come over now—now, at once—and have
+a game of tennis with them. She did not know tennis. All the more reason
+why she should begin to learn; and Aunt Jemima was quite pining to know
+her.
+
+‘Yes, do come!’
+
+‘No—no, I can’t. I have said I would never leave this place.’
+
+‘Oh, that, of course; but—oh!—’
+
+Here Susan breaks off abruptly. Who is that pretty, tall lady coming
+down the path? It is Miss Manning, and Ella very shyly introduces Susan
+to her.
+
+‘Miss Manning, tell her to come and play tennis with us this afternoon,’
+says Susan. ‘Not a soul but ourselves, and she’s very lonely here.
+Father says she ought to see people.’
+
+‘I think as your father does,’ says Miss Manning gently.
+
+‘And will you come too?’ asks Susan. ‘Aunt Jemima’—with born
+courtesy—‘will come and see you to-morrow, but in the meantime—’
+
+‘I am afraid I have some unpacking to do,’ says Miss Manning, smiling,
+having fallen in love with Susan’s soft, flushed face and childish air.
+‘But if you can persuade Ella—I know, my dear’—to Ella, who has turned a
+sad face to hers, a face that has yet the longing for larger life upon
+it—‘that you wish never to leave this place. But to go just across the
+road.... And there is no one there, Miss Barry tells you; and it is only
+a step or two, and’—smiling again—‘if you wish it, I’ll go over in an
+hour and bring you back again.’
+
+‘No, don’t do that,’ says Ella. ‘You are tired.’ She hesitates, then
+looks out of the gateway, and up and down the lane. It is quite empty.
+‘Well, I’ll come,’ says she, giving her hand to Susan.
+
+It is evidently a desperate resolve. Even as she says it, she makes a
+last drawback, but Susan clings to her hand, and pulls her forward, and
+together the girls run down the lane to the Rectory gate and into it,
+Ella all the time holding Susan tightly, as if for protection.
+
+This was how it happened that Ella first left the shelter of the
+Cottage. She was most kindly received by the Rector, who spared a moment
+from his precious books to welcome her—and even agreeably by Aunt
+Jemima. Ella had gone through the ordeal of these two introductions
+shyly but quietly. She had, however, been a little startled at finding
+that, added to the Barrys congregated on the lawn (a goodly number in
+themselves), there was a strange gentleman. Crosby struck her at first
+sight as being formidable—an idea that, if the young Barrys had known
+it, would have sent them into hysterics of mirth.
+
+Crosby had strolled down early in the afternoon, and now Wyndham,
+standing gazing amongst the shrubberies, can see him turn from Susan to
+say something or other to Ella.
+
+Wyndham, in his voluntary confinement, feels a sharp pang clutch at his
+breast. He stands still, as if unable to go on, watching the little
+pantomime.
+
+Tommy is speaking now. The child’s voice rings clear and low.
+
+‘I’ll tell you a story.’ He has put up a little fat hand, and is
+pinching Ella’s cheek. Ella has caught the little hand, and is kissing
+it. How pretty!
+
+‘Silence!’ cries Crosby gaily. ‘Tommy is going to tell Miss Moore a
+story.’
+
+There seems something significant to Wyndham in his tone. Why should he
+demand silence in that imperative manner, just because Miss Moore wishes
+a story to be told to her? He hesitates no longer. He comes quickly
+forward and up to the group.
+
+
+
+
+                             CHAPTER XXXVI.
+
+                 ‘To feel every prompting of pleasure,
+                   To know every pulsing of pain;
+                 To dream of Life’s happiest measure,
+                   And find all her promises vain.’
+
+
+Susan sees him first, and, pushing Bonnie gently from her, rises to meet
+him.
+
+‘How do you do?’ says she.
+
+‘That you, Wyndham?’ cries Crosby. ‘You are just in time to hear Tommy’s
+story. Miss Moore has promised to lend him her support during the
+recital.’
+
+For all Crosby’s lightness of tone, there is a strange, scrutinizing
+expression in his clever eyes as he looks at Wyndham. He knows that Ella
+Moore’s presence here must prove a surprise to him; and how will he take
+it? The girl seems well enough, but—And if Wyndham has been capable of
+placing so close to this family of young, young people someone who—
+
+He is studying Wyndham very acutely. But all that he can make out of
+Wyndham’s face is surprise, and something that might be termed
+relief—nothing more. As for the girl, she is the one that looks
+confused. She rises, holding Tommy by her side, and looks appealingly at
+Wyndham. She would have spoken, perhaps, but that the Rector, who has
+not yet gone back to his study, takes up the parable.
+
+‘We are very glad to have persuaded Miss Moore to come here to-day,’
+says he, in a tone to be heard by everyone. ‘She has told me that you
+came down this morning, bringing Miss Manning with you. That will be a
+source of pleasure to us all, I am quite sure.’
+
+He bows his courteous old head as amiably as though Miss Manning over
+the road could hear him. It is a tribute to her perfections. After this
+he buttonholes Wyndham, and draws him apart a bit.
+
+‘She’s a nice girl, Wyndham—a nice girl, I really think. A most
+guileless countenance! But not educated, you know. Betty and Susan—mere
+children as they are—could almost teach her.’
+
+The Rector sighs. He always regards his girls as having stood still
+since his wife’s death. Children they were then, children they are now.
+He has not seemed to live himself since her death. Since that, indeed,
+all things have stood still for him.
+
+‘Yes. But she seems intelligent—clever,’ says Wyndham, a little coldly.
+
+‘I dare say. And now you have secured Miss Manning for her! That is a
+wise step,’ says the Rector thoughtfully. ‘She owes you much, Wyndham. I
+was glad when Susan persuaded her to come over here to-day. But I doubt
+if she will consent to go further. She seems terrified at the thought of
+being far from your—her home. Have you not yet discovered any trace of
+that scoundrel Moore? The bond between them might surely be broken.’
+
+‘There is no bond between them. Of that I am convinced,’ says Wyndham.
+
+‘I trust not—I trust not,’ says the Rector. He makes a little gesture of
+farewell, and goes back to his beloved study, his head bent, his hands
+clasped behind his back, as usual.
+
+‘We’re waiting for you, Mr. Wyndham,’ calls out Betty, arching her
+slender neck to look over Dominick’s shoulder. The wind has caught her
+fair, fluffy hair, and is ruffling it.
+
+‘Yes; come along, Wyndham,’ says Crosby. ‘Tommy’s story is yet to tell.’
+
+‘Better have one from you instead, Mr. Crosby,’ says Susan hastily. She
+knows Tommy. ‘You can tell us all about lions and niggers and things.
+You’d like to hear of lions and niggers, Tommy’—in a wheedling
+tone—‘wouldn’t you?’
+
+Wyndham by this time has joined the group, and, scarcely knowing how,
+finds himself sitting on half of a rug, the other half of which belongs
+to his tenant.
+
+‘I want to tell my own story,’ says Tommy with determination. He is
+evidently a boy possessed of much firmness, and one not to be ‘done’ by
+anyone if he can help it.
+
+‘But, Tommy,’ persists Susan, who has dismal reasons for dreading his
+literary efforts, ‘I think you had better not tell one just now. We—that
+is—’
+
+‘Oh, do let him tell it!’ says Ella softly.
+
+‘My dear Susan,’ says Crosby, ‘would you deprive us of an entertainment
+so unique—one we may never enjoy again?’
+
+‘Well, go on, Tommy,’ says Susan, resigning herself to the worst.
+
+‘There once was a man,’ begins Tommy; and pauses. Silence reigns around.
+‘An’ he fell into a big bit of water.’ The silence grows profounder.
+‘’Twas as big as this’—making a movement of his short arms a foot or so
+from the ground. At this there are distinct groans of fear. ‘An’ he was
+drownded—a little fish ate him.’
+
+‘Oh, Tommy!’ says Susan, in woeful tones. She can now pretend to be
+frightened with a free heart. Evidently Tommy’s story this time is going
+to be of the mildest order. ‘He didn’t really eat him?’
+
+‘He did—he did!’ says Tommy, delighted at Susan’s fright. ‘He ate him
+all up—every bit of him!’
+
+Here Susan lets her face fall into her hands, and Tommy relents.
+
+‘But he wasn’t killed,’ says he. He looks anxiously at Susan’s bowed
+head. ‘No, he wasn’t.’ Susan lifts her head, and shakes it at him
+reproachfully. ‘Well, he wasn’t, really,’ says Tommy again. This
+repetition is not only meant as a help to Susan to mitigate her extreme
+grief, but to give him pause whilst he makes up another chapter.
+
+‘Oh, are you sure?’ asks Susan tragically.
+
+‘I am. The fish swallowed him, but he came up again.’
+
+‘Who gave the emetic?’ asks Dominick; but very properly no one attends
+to him.
+
+‘Yes; well, what’s after that?’ asks Betty.
+
+‘Well—’ Tommy stares at the earth, and then, with happy inspiration,
+adds: ‘The nasty witch got him.’
+
+‘Poor old soul!’ says Carew.
+
+‘The witch, Tommy? But—’
+
+‘Yes, the witch’—angrily. ‘An’ then the goat said—’
+
+‘Goat! What goat?’ asks Ella very naturally, considering all things.
+
+‘That goat,’ says Tommy, who really is wonderful. He points his lovely
+fat thumb down to where, in the distant field, a goat is browsing. His
+wandering eye had caught it as he vaguely talked, and he had at once
+embezzled it and twisted it into his imagination.
+
+‘Yes?’ says Susan, seeing the child pause, and trying to help him. ‘The
+goat?’
+
+‘The goat an’ the witch—’ Long pause here, and plain incapacity to
+proceed. Tommy has evidently come face to face with a _cul de sac_.
+
+‘Hole in the ballad,’ says Dominick to Betty in a low tone.
+
+‘Go on, Tommy,’ says Susan encouragingly. Really, Tommy’s story is so
+presentable this time that she quite likes to give him a lift, as it
+were.
+
+‘Well, the witch fell down,’ says Tommy, goaded to endeavour, ‘an’ the
+goat sat on her.’
+
+‘Not on her,’ says Susan, with dainty protest. ‘You know you frightened
+me once, Tommy, but now—’
+
+‘Yes, they did, Susan—they did.’ In his excitement he has duplicated the
+enemy. ‘They all sat down on her—every one of them, twenty of them.’
+
+‘But, Tommy, you said there was only one goat.’
+
+This is rash of Susan.
+
+‘I don’t care,’ cries Tommy, who is of a liberal disposition. ‘There was
+twenty of them. An’ they all sat down on her, first on her stomach,
+an’’—solemnly turning himself and clasping both his fat hands over the
+seat of his small breeches—‘an’ then on her here.’ He lifts his hands
+and smacks them down again. He indeed most graphically illustrates his
+‘here.’
+
+There is an awful silence. Susan, stricken dumb, sits silent. She knew
+how it would be if she let that wretched child speak.
+
+Shamed and horrified, she draws back, almost praying that the earth may
+open and swallow her up quick. She casts a despairing glance at Crosby,
+to see how he has taken this horrible fiasco, before following Dathan
+and Abiram; but what she sees in his face stops her prayers, and, in
+fact, reverses them.
+
+Crosby is shaking with laughter, and now, as she looks, catches Tommy in
+his arms and hugs him.
+
+Another moment and Betty breaks into a wild burst of laughter, after
+which everyone else follows suit.
+
+‘I’m going to publish your story, Tommy, at any price,’ says Mr. Crosby,
+putting Tommy back from him upon his knee, and gazing with interest at
+that tiny astonished child. ‘There will be trouble with the publishers.
+But I’ll get it done at all risks to life and limb. I don’t suppose I
+shall be spoken to afterwards by any respectable person, but that is of
+little moment when a literary gem is in question.’
+
+Tommy, not understanding, but scenting fun, laughs gaily.
+
+‘I don’t think you ought to encourage him like that,’ says Susan, whose
+pretty mouth, however, is sweet with smiles.
+
+‘One should always encourage a genius,’ says Crosby, undismayed.
+
+There is a little stir here. Tommy has wriggled out of Crosby’s lap and
+has gone back to Ella, who receives him with—literally—open arms.
+
+Wyndham is watching her curiously. Her manner all through Tommy’s
+absorbingly interesting tale has been a revelation to him. He has found
+out for one thing that he has never heard her laugh before—at all
+events, not like that. No, he has never heard her really laugh before,
+and, indeed, perhaps poor Ella, in all her sad young life, has never
+laughed like that until now. It has been to the shrewd young barrister
+as though he has looked upon her for the first time to-day after quite
+two months of acquaintance—he who prides himself, and has often been
+complimented, on his knowledge of character, his grasp of a client’s
+real mind from his first half-hour with him or her.
+
+Her mirth has astonished him. She, the pale, frightened girl, to laugh
+like that! There has been no loudness in her mirth, either; it has been
+soft and refined, if very gay and happy. She has laughed as a girl might
+who has been born to happiness in every way—to silken robes and delicate
+surroundings, and all the paraphernalia that go to make up the life of
+those born into families that can count their many grandfathers.
+
+Once or twice he has told himself half impatiently—angry with the charge
+laid upon his unwitting shoulders—that the girl is good-looking. Now he
+tells himself something more: that she is lovely, with that smile upon
+her face, as she sits—all unconscious of his criticism—with Tommy in her
+arms, and
+
+                                      ‘Eyes
+              Upglancing brightly mischievous, a spring
+              Of brimming laughter welling on the brink
+              Of lips like flowers, small caressing hands
+              Tight locked,’
+
+around the lucky Tommy’s waist.
+
+But now she puts Tommy (who has evidently fallen a slave to her charms,
+and repudiates loudly her right to give him away like this) down on his
+sturdy feet, and comes a little forward to where Susan is standing.
+
+‘I’m afraid I must go now,’ says she.
+
+‘Oh, not yet,’ says Susan; ‘there is plenty of time. It isn’t as if you
+had to drive five miles to get to your home.’
+
+‘Still—I think—’ She looks so anxious that Susan, who is always
+charming, understands her.
+
+‘If you must go,’ whispers she sweetly—‘if you would rather—well, then,
+do go. But to-morrow, and every other day, you must come back to us.
+Carew—’
+
+‘I’m here,’ says Carew, coming up, and blushing as well as the best of
+girls as he takes Ella’s hand. ‘I’ll see you home,’ says he.
+
+‘I don’t think it will be necessary,’ says Wyndham shortly. Then he
+stops, confounded at his own imprudence, considering all the
+circumstances. Yet the words have fallen from him without volition of
+his own. ‘The fact is,’ says he quickly, ‘I too am going now, and will
+be able to see Miss Moore safely within her gate.’
+
+Carew frowns, and Susan comes to the rescue.
+
+‘We’ll all go,’ cries she gaily.
+
+‘The very thing,’ says Crosby. ‘That will give me a little more of your
+society, as I also must drag myself away.’
+
+The ‘your’ is so very general that nobody takes any notice of it, and
+they all go up the small avenue together.
+
+‘You were surprised to see me here?’ says Ella in a nervous whisper to
+Wyndham, who has doggedly taken possession of her, in spite of the
+knowledge that such a proceeding will in the end tell against him.
+
+‘I confess I was’—stiffly.
+
+‘You are displeased?’
+
+‘On the contrary, you know I always advised you to show yourself—to defy
+your enemies. You can defy them, you know.’
+
+‘Yes; but—I mean that, after all I said to you about my dislike, my
+fear, of leaving the Cottage, you must think it queer of me to be here
+to-day.’
+
+‘I do not, indeed. I think it only natural that you should break through
+such a melancholy determination. Besides, no doubt’—with increasing
+coldness—‘you had an inducement.’
+
+‘Yes, yes; I had,’ says she quickly.
+
+‘Ah!’ A pause. ‘Someone you have seen lately?’
+
+‘Quite lately.’
+
+Second pause, and prolonged.
+
+‘I suppose you will soon see a way out of all your difficulties?’
+
+No doubt she had fallen in love with Crosby, and he with her, and—
+
+‘No; I don’t think there is any chance of that,’ says she mournfully.
+‘But when Su—Miss Barry asked me to come here, I couldn’t resist it. You
+can see for yourself what an inducement she is.’
+
+Susan! is it only Susan? He pulls himself up sharply. Well, and if so,
+where is the matter for rejoicing? Of course, being left in a sense her
+guardian by the Professor, he is bound to feel an interest in her; but a
+vague interest such as that should not be accompanied by this quick
+relief, this sudden sensation of—of what?
+
+Dominick, just behind him, is singing at the top of his lungs—sound
+ones:
+
+                      ‘As I walked out wid Dinah,
+                        De other afternoon,
+                      De day could not be finer,
+                        Ho! de ring-tailed coon!’
+
+He is evidently pointing this nigger melody at Betty, who has been rash
+enough to go walking out with him. She has gone even farther. She has
+condescended to sing a second to his exceedingly loud first, a stroke of
+genius on her part, as it has taken the wind out of his sails so far as
+his belief in his powers of teasing her (on this occasion, at all
+events) are concerned.
+
+Mr. Wyndham takes the opportunity of the second verse coming to a
+thrilling conclusion to break off his conversation with Ella. And now,
+indeed, they are all at the little green gate, and are saying their
+adieus to her. And presently they have all gone away again, and Ella,
+standing inside, feels as if life and joy and all things have been shut
+off from her with the locking of that small green gate.
+
+                  *       *       *       *       *
+
+‘Isn’t she pretty?’ cries Susan enthusiastically, when they have bidden
+good-bye to Crosby and Wyndham too, and are back again on their own
+small lawn.
+
+‘She’s a regular bud,’ says Dom, striking a tragic attitude. He doesn’t
+mean anything really, but Carew, with darkling brow, goes up to him.
+
+‘I think you ought to speak more respectfully of her,’ says he. ‘It
+isn’t because she is alone in the world that one should throw stones at
+her.’
+
+‘Betty, I appeal to you,’ says Dominick. ‘Did I throw a stone? Come,
+speak up. I take this as a distinct insult. The man who would throw a
+stone at a woman—He’s gone!’ says Mr. Fitzgerald, staring at Carew’s
+disappearing form. ‘Well, I do call that mean. And I had arranged a
+peroration that would have astonished the natives. Anyway,
+Susan’—turning—‘what did I say to offend him? Called her a bud. Isn’t a
+bud a nice thing? I declare he’s as touchy about her as though she were
+his best girl.’
+
+‘What’s a best girl?’ asks Betty.
+
+‘The one you like best.’
+
+‘Well, perhaps she’s his’—growing interested. ‘Susan, I do believe he is
+in love with her.’
+
+‘Do you?’ says Susan thoughtfully. And then: ‘Oh no! Boys never fall in
+love.’
+
+‘Dom thinks they do,’ says Betty, turning a saucy glance on Fitzgerald.
+She flings a rose at him. ‘Who’s your best girl?’ asks she.
+
+‘Need you ask?’ returns that youth with his most sentimental air.
+
+‘I don’t think I quite approve of her,’ says Miss Barry, joining in the
+conversation at this moment, and shaking her curls severely; ‘I thought
+her a little free this afternoon.’
+
+‘Oh, auntie!’
+
+‘Certainly, Susan! Most distinctly free.’
+
+‘I thought her one of the gentlest and quietest girls I ever met,’ says
+Carew, who has strolled back to them after his short ebullition of
+temper—unable, indeed, to keep away.
+
+‘What do you know of girls?’ says Miss Barry scornfully.
+
+‘I’m sure she’s gentle,’ says Dominick, who is so devoted to Carew that
+he would risk a great deal—even his friendship—to keep him out of
+trouble, ‘and very, very good; because she is beyond all doubt most
+femininely dull.’
+
+‘Pig!’ says Betty, in a whisper. She makes a little movement towards
+him, and a second later gets a pinch and a wild yell out of him.
+
+‘What I say I maintain,’ says Miss Barry magisterially. ‘She may be a
+nice girl, a gentle girl, the grandest girl that was ever known—I’m the
+last in the world to depreciate anyone—but who is she? That’s what I
+want to know. And no one knows who she is. Perhaps of the lower classes,
+for all we know. And, indeed, I noticed a few queer turns of speech. And
+when I said she was free, Susan, I meant it. I heard her distinctly call
+that child’—pointing to him—‘“Tommy.” Now, if she is, as I firmly
+believe—your father is a person of no discrimination, you know—a person
+of a lower grade than ourselves, didn’t it show great freedom to do
+that? Yes, she distinctly said “Tommy.”’
+
+‘Well, she didn’t say “Hell and Tommy,” any way,’ says Dominick, who
+sometimes runs over to London to see the theatres.
+
+‘If she had,’ says Miss Barry with dignity—she has never seen the
+outside of a theatre—‘I should have had no hesitation whatsoever in
+sending for the sergeant and giving her in charge.’
+
+
+
+
+                            CHAPTER XXXVII.
+
+                                  ‘She is outwardly
+              All that bewitches sense, all that entices,
+              Nor is it in our virtue to uncharm it.’
+
+
+It is a week later, and the village is now stirred to its depth. Such
+gaieties! Such gaddings to and fro! Such wonderful tales of what Lady
+Forster wore and Sir William said, and how Miss Prior looked. Gossip is
+flowing freely, delightfully, and Miss Ricketty, whose shop is a general
+meeting-place, is doing a roaring business in buns and biscuits.
+
+The Park, in fact, is full of guests.
+
+‘Every corner,’ says Miss Blake to Mrs. Hennessy, in a mysterious
+whisper, ‘is full to overflowing. I hear that some of the servants have
+to be accommodated outside the house, and that Mr. Crosby has painted
+and papered and done up the loft over the stables in the latest Parisian
+style for the maids and valets.’
+
+‘My dear!’ says Mrs. Hennessy, in an awful tone—very justly shocked;
+then, ‘You forget yourself, Maria!’
+
+‘Faith I did,’ says Miss Blake, bursting into an irrepressible giggle.
+‘Law, how funny y’are! But they’re safely divided, I’m told, one at one
+side o’ the yard, the other at this, as it were. Like the High churches
+we hear of in England. The goats and the sheep—ha, ha!’
+
+‘But where are the maids?’
+
+‘Over the stables at the western side, some of them.’
+
+‘You don’t say so!’ says Mrs. Hennessy. ‘Bless me, but they wouldn’t
+like—you know, the—er—the atmosphere!’
+
+‘Oh, there’s ways of doing away with that too,’ says Miss Blake, with a
+knowing air. ‘But you’ll come in for a cup of tea, won’t you? Jane’s
+dyin’ to have a chat with you.’
+
+Miss Blake is hardly to be trusted in matters such as these, her
+imagination being extraordinarily strong. And, indeed, the idea of those
+stables rose alone from her great mind. But although there are still
+corners in the splendid old Hall to let, it must be confessed that it is
+pretty full at present.
+
+Guests at the Park! Such a thing had not been heard of for many years.
+Not for the last eight years, at all events.
+
+Then Crosby, who was about twenty-five, came home from Thibet, and his
+sister Katherine, who was quite a girl—being six years his junior—had
+been brought over from England by her aunt to freshen up her old love
+for him, and to stay with him for his birthday. Not longer. The birthday
+came off within the week of their arriving. Lady Melland was a woman of
+Society, who hated earwigs, and early birds, and baa-lambs, and insisted
+on bringing quite a big company ‘on tour’ with her on this
+re-introduction of the brother to the sister, and had organized a
+distinct rout at the Hall during her memorable stay. It had created a
+fearful, if pleasurable, impression at the time, and people are
+beginning now to wonder in this little village if Lady Forster will be a
+worthy representative of her aunt. Or if perchance the aunt will again
+take up the deal; for Lady Melland has, they say, come here with her.
+
+However, for once ‘they say’ is wrong. Katherine Crosby had married Sir
+William Forster two years after the termination of that remarkable
+visit, and nothing had been seen of her since that, until now. She had,
+however, in between shaken off Lady Melland.
+
+She has brought an innumerable company in her train, thus justifying the
+idea of Curraghcloyne that she would probably follow in her aunt’s
+footsteps, and, as I have said, the village has waked to find itself no
+longer deserted, but the centre of a very brilliant crowd.
+
+Yesterday was the first of August, Saturday, and a most unendurable one
+on the small platform of the railway-station. Possibly during its brief
+existence so many basket-trunks have never been laid upon its modest
+flags before. To-day is Sunday, and possibly also the parish church has
+never had so large a congregation within its whitewashed walls. Even the
+Methodists, quite a large portion of the Curraghcloyne people, have
+deserted their chapel for the orthodox church. Even Miss Ricketty has
+been heard to say with distinct regret that she ‘wished she was a
+Protestant for once.’
+
+The Hall pews, which number four, and for which Mr. Crosby, during all
+his wanderings, has paid carefully, are all filled, and the three seats
+behind them again, that have vacant sittings in them, are all filled
+also with the servants of the people in the four front seats. Never was
+there such a display in the small church of Curraghcloyne! And it was
+acknowledged afterwards by everyone in the town that though the Rector
+did not ‘stir a hair,’ the curate was decidedly ‘onaisy.’ The curate was
+unnerved beyond a doubt. He grew fatter and stouter as the service went
+on, and he does not know to this day how he got through his sermon. He
+says now, that people oughtn’t to spring people on one without a word of
+preparation.
+
+Susan tried to keep her eyes off the Hall pews, but in spite of herself
+her eyes wandered. Betty did not try to keep her eyes off at all, so
+they wandered freely. She was able, half an hour later, to tell Susan
+not only the number of guests Mr. Crosby had, but the exact colour of
+each gown the women wore, and she told Susan privately that she thought,
+if ever she were a rich woman, she would never let her servants wear red
+ribbons in their bonnets in church.
+
+Mr. Haldane rushes through his sermon at the rate of an American liner,
+and presently the service is over, and all move, with the cultivated
+leisurely steps that are meant to hide the desire to run, towards the
+open door.
+
+Some of the other Rectory people have gone through the side-door, and,
+with Bonnie’s hand fast clasped in hers, Susan is following after them,
+when a well-known voice calls to her:
+
+‘Susan, my sister wants very much to know you. Will you let me introduce
+you to her?’
+
+Susan turns her face, now delicately pink, and she sees a small, dainty,
+pretty creature holding out her hand to her with the prettiest smile in
+the world.
+
+Is this Mr. Crosby’s sister?
+
+‘How d’ye do?’ says Lady Forster, in a very clear if low voice. ‘George
+was chanting your praises all last night, so naturally I have been
+longing to see you. George’s friends, as a rule, are frauds; but—’
+
+She pauses, evidently amused at the girl’s open surprise, not so much at
+her words as at her appearance.
+
+‘I’m not a bit like George, am I?’ says she.
+
+No, she is not. Crosby is a big man, if anything, and she is the tiniest
+creature. Her features are tiny too, but exquisitely moulded. The
+coquettish mouth, the nose ‘tip-tilted like a flower,’ the well-poised
+dainty head, the hands, the feet—all are small, and her figure slender
+as a fairy’s. She is wonderfully pretty in a brilliant fashion, and her
+bright eyes are alight with intelligence. She is altogether the last
+person in the world Susan would have imagined as Crosby’s sister. And
+yet there is certainly a likeness between them—a strange likeness—but,
+of course, his sister should have been large and massive, not a little
+thing like this. Susan has always told herself that she should be
+dreadfully afraid of his sister—but to be afraid of this sister!
+
+Lady Forster, indeed, is one of those women who look as if they ought to
+be called ‘Baby’ or ‘Birdie,’ but in reality she was named Katherine at
+her birth, with a big and a stern K, not a C—which we all know is much
+milder—and never did Susan hear her called anything less majestic by
+anyone. Not even by her brother or her husband. And this was probably
+because, beneath her charming butterfly air, there lay a good deal of
+character and a strength of will hardly to be suspected in so slight a
+creature.
+
+‘No,’ says Susan shyly. She smiles, and involuntarily tightens her
+fingers on those she is holding—Lady Forster’s fingers. ‘But—’ A still
+greater shyness overcomes her here, and she grows quite silent. The
+‘but,’ however, is eloquent.
+
+‘You see, George! She thinks I am infinitely superior to you. How lovely
+of her!’ She laughs at Susan and pats her hand. ‘You will come up and
+lunch with us to-morrow, won’t you? It is George’s birthday. And
+considering the slap you have given him just now, you can hardly refuse.
+It will be a little sop to his pride, and that’s frightful! He thinks
+himself a perfect joy! I’m told that in Darkest Africa the belles—’
+
+Here Crosby gives her a surreptitious but vigorous nudge, and she breaks
+off her highly-spiced and distinctly interesting, if slightly
+unveracious, account of his doings in Uganda.
+
+‘What’s the matter with you?’ asks she, whispering, of her brother, who
+whispers back to her many admonitory things. She turns again to Susan:
+‘We shall expect you to-morrow, then. It will be a charity to enliven
+us, as we hardly know what to do with ourselves, being strangers in a
+strange land.’
+
+‘Thank you,’ says Susan faintly. How on earth can she ever summon up
+courage enough to go and lunch up there with all these fashionable
+people? It is she who will be the stranger in a strange land.
+
+‘That is settled then,’ says Crosby quickly. Had he feared she would go
+on to say something more—to say that she had an engagement? ‘I will call
+for you at twelve.’
+
+‘Oh no,’ says Susan. ‘I’—confusedly—‘I can walk up. It—it is too much
+trouble.’
+
+‘George doesn’t think so,’ says Lady Forster, with a faint grimace. ‘Is
+this your brother?’
+
+She bends in her quick way, and turns up Bonnie’s beautiful little face
+and looks at it earnestly.
+
+‘What a face!’ cries she. ‘Is everyone beautiful down here? I shall come
+and live here, George—no use in your putting me off! I’m determined. It
+is a promise, then’—to Susan, smiling vivaciously—‘that you will come
+to-morrow, and another day. We must arrange another day—you will bring
+me up this small Adonis,’ patting Bonnie’s cheek as he smiles at her
+(children love all things pretty) ‘to see me?’
+
+‘I shall be very glad,’ says Susan tremulously. Then Lady Forster trips
+away to rejoin her friends, who are standing beside the different
+carriages, and quarrelling gaily as to who shall go home with whom, and
+for a second Crosby is alone with Susan.
+
+‘You said it was a promise.’
+
+‘Yes,’ says Susan, ‘but—I have not known any very—very—’
+
+‘Smart folk,’ says Crosby, laughing. ‘Well, you’ll know them to-morrow,
+and I expect you’ll be surprised how very little smart they are.’
+
+‘But—’
+
+‘There shan’t be a “but” in the world.’
+
+‘It is only this’—miserably—‘that I shall be shy, and—’
+
+‘Not a bit of it. And even if you are’—he looks at her—‘you may depend
+on me. I’ll pull you through. But don’t be too shy, Susan. Extremes are
+attractive things—fatally attractive sometimes.’ He pauses. ‘Well, so
+much for the shyness, but what did your “and” mean?’
+
+‘It meant,’ says Susan, with deep depression, ‘that they will all hate
+me.’
+
+‘I almost wish I could believe that.’ He laughs again as he says this,
+and gives Bonnie’s ear a pinch, and follows his sister. Two minutes
+later, as Susan rejoins her own people at the little gate that leads by
+a short-cut to the Rectory, she sees him again, talking gaily, and
+handing into one of the carriages a tall and very handsome girl, dressed
+as Susan had never seen anyone dressed in all her life. It seems the
+very perfection of dressing. She lingers a moment—a bare moment—but it
+is long enough to see that he has seated himself beside the handsome
+girl, and that he is still laughing—but this time with her—over some
+reminiscence, as the carriage drives away.
+
+
+
+
+                            CHAPTER XXXVIII.
+
+                 ‘Anxiety is the poison of human life.’
+
+
+‘I suppose I’ll have to go,’ says Susan, who is evidently terrified at
+the idea, crumpling up a small note between her fingers—a most courteous
+little note sent by Lady Forster this morning, Monday, the third of
+August, to ask Miss Barry’s permission for Susan to lunch at the Park.
+She—Lady Forster—had met her charming niece yesterday, and had induced
+her to promise to come to them on this, her brother’s birthday. And she
+hoped Miss Barry had not quite forgotten her, but would remember that
+she was quite an old friend, and let her come and see her soon.
+
+It is a pretty little note, and delights Miss Barry; yet Susan finds no
+pleasure in it, and now sits glum and miserable.
+
+‘Go!’ cries Betty. ‘I should think so. Oh, you lucky girl!’
+
+‘Would you like to go, Betty, if it were your case?’—this wistfully. Oh
+that it were Betty’s case!
+
+‘Is there anything on earth that would keep me away?’ cries Betty
+enthusiastically. ‘What fun you will have there! I know by Lady
+Forster’s eyes that you are safe to have a good time. I
+think’—gloomily—‘she might have asked me too.’
+
+‘I wish she had,’ says Susan fervently. ‘If—I had one of you with me, I
+should not feel half so nervous.’
+
+‘What makes you nervous?’ asks Carew.
+
+‘Well, they are all strangers, for one thing—and besides’—rather
+shamefacedly—‘they will be very big people, of course, and at luncheon
+there will be entrées, and dishes, and things I have never even heard
+of, and’—almost tearfully now—‘I shan’t know what to do.’
+
+‘There are only two things to be remembered really,’ says Mr. Fitzgerald
+slowly but forcibly. ‘One is not to pick your teeth with your fork, and
+the other is even more important: for goodness’ sake, Susan, whatever
+you do, don’t eat your peas with your knife. All that sort of thing has
+gone out—has been unfashionable for quite a year or more.’
+
+‘Oh, it’s all very well for you to make fun of it,’ says Susan
+resentfully. ‘You haven’t to go there.’
+
+‘And is that what you call “well for me”? I wish I was going there, if
+only to look after your manners, which evidently, by your own account of
+them, leave a great deal to be desired. By-the-by, there is one thing
+more I should like to impress upon you before you start: never, Susan—no
+matter how sorely tempted—put your feet on the table-cloth. It is quite
+a solecism nowadays, and—’
+
+‘If you won’t go away, I shall,’ says Susan, rising with extreme
+dignity. But he leans forward, and catching the tail of her gown just as
+she is gaining her feet, brings her with a jerk to her sitting position
+again. After which they all laugh irrepressibly, and the _émeute_ is at
+an end.
+
+‘What a lot of servants they had in church!’ says Betty, alluding to the
+all-absorbing guests at the Park. ‘I suppose that tall woman was Lady
+Forster’s maid?’ ‘Yes, and the little woman was Mrs. Prior’s. By the
+way, that squares matters. Mrs. Prior has grown several yards since last
+year.’
+
+‘It seemed to me that each maid sat behind her own mistress.’
+
+‘So as to keep her eye on her. And very necessary too, no doubt.’
+
+‘Did you see that pale young man, ever so thin and wretched-looking, but
+so conceited? His hair was nearly down to his waist, and he hadn’t any
+chin to speak of.’
+
+‘Oh, that!’ cries Betty eagerly. ‘That’s the poet. Yes, he is, Susan.
+He’s a real poet. Miss Ricketty told me about him yesterday. He has
+written sonnets and whole volumes of things, and is quite a poet. Miss
+Ricketty says that’s why his hair grows like that.’
+
+‘Samson must have been the laureate of his time,’ says Dominick
+thoughtfully.
+
+‘So that was the poet,’ says Susan, who had heard of his coming from
+Crosby. ‘Well, he certainly looked queer enough for anything. I
+wonder’—nervously—‘who was the tall girl sitting next to Mr. Crosby?’
+
+This was the tall girl with whom Crosby had driven away.
+
+‘I don’t know,’ says Betty. ‘Wasn’t she pretty? And wasn’t she
+beautifully dressed? Oh, Susan, didn’t you want to see yourself in a
+gown like that?’
+
+‘No,’ says Susan shortly.
+
+‘Well, I did. I wanted to know how I’d look.’
+
+‘As if you didn’t know,’ says Dominick encouragingly. ‘Like Venus
+herself!’
+
+‘I never heard she had her frocks from Paris,’ says Betty, hunching up
+an unkind little shoulder against him.
+
+‘You’ve heard so little, you see,’ says Dom, with gentle protest. ‘Now,
+as a fact, Venus had her frocks made by—’
+
+‘Well?’ with a threatening air.
+
+‘Miss Fogerty,’ naming Betty’s own dressmaker.
+
+‘Pshaw!’ says that slim damsel contemptuously. ‘However, Susan, that
+girl was pretty, any way. I wonder who she was? Had she a maid, I
+wonder? There was a dark-looking woman amongst the servants farther on,
+just behind the poet. Perhaps it was hers.’
+
+‘Oh no,’ says Dom gravely, ‘that was his.’
+
+‘His?’
+
+‘The poet’s. Yes.’
+
+‘Nonsense!’ says Betty. ‘What would he want a maid for?’
+
+‘To comb his locks and copy his sonnets,’ says Dom, without blinking.
+
+‘Nonsense! Men don’t have maids,’ says Betty, who seems to know all
+about it.
+
+‘Oh, here is someone from the Park,’ cries Jacky suddenly.
+
+‘Is it Mr. Crosby or Lady Forster?’ asks Susan anxiously.
+
+‘Both of ’em,’ says Jacky, in his own sweet laconic style.
+
+The smart little cart, with its wonderful pair of ponies, rattled up to
+the door, and Miss Barry, who had known that someone would come to fetch
+Susan, and had therefore put on her best bib and tucker, emerged from
+the flower-crowned porch of the Rectory to receive Lady Forster, her old
+face wreathed in smiles. It was sweet to her to see Susan accepted and
+admired by the Park people. ‘Our own sort of people’ proudly thought the
+poor old maid, who had struggled with much poverty all her life.
+
+And Lady Forster was quite charming to her, insisting on going to see
+the old garden again, ‘which she quite remembered.’ Lady Forster had
+never stuck at a tarradiddle or two, and was, after seeing it, genuinely
+enthusiastic over its old-fashioned charms. Might she bring her friends
+to see it? They had never, never seen anything so lovely! It would be a
+charity to show them something human, these benighted town-people. To
+hear her, one would imagine she despised the town herself, whereas, as a
+fact, she could never live for six months out of it.
+
+Miss Barry was elated—so elated, indeed, that she took a dreadful step.
+She invited Lady Forster and all her friends to tea the next Friday,
+without a thought as to the consequences—until afterwards! Lady Forster
+accepted the invitation with effusion. There was no getting out of it,
+Miss Barry felt during that dreadful ‘afterwards.’
+
+Meantime Susan had found herself, comparatively speaking, alone with
+Crosby, when she came downstairs after putting on her best gown and hat.
+She had brought something with her besides the best gown and hat; a
+little silken bag, made out of a bit of lovely old brocade she had
+begged from Miss Barry a month ago. She had cut it out, and stitched it,
+and filled it with lavender-seeds, and worked on it at odd moments when
+no one but Betty could see her (she was afraid of the boys’ jokes) the
+words: ‘Mr. Crosby, from Susan.’
+
+At first she had thought of buying something for him—something at Miss
+Ricketty’s, who really had, at times, quite wonderful things down from
+Dublin, but her soul revolted from that. What could she buy him that he
+would care for? And besides, to buy a thing for a person one liked, and
+one who had been so good to Bonnie! No; she could not. It seemed cold,
+unkind. So she decided on the little bag that was to lie in his drawer
+and perfume his handkerchiefs, and tell him sometimes of her—yes, her
+love for him! Because she did love him, if only for his goodness to the
+children, and to her Bonnie first of all.
+
+She had been afraid to run the gauntlet of the boys’ criticisms, but
+Betty she clung to. A confidante one must have sometimes, or die.
+
+‘You know he told me, Betty, when his birthday would be.’
+
+‘Yes. So clever of him!’ said Betty, who, if she were at the point of
+death, could not have refrained from a joke.
+
+‘Well, he has been good to the chicks, hasn’t he? To darling Bonnie
+especially.’
+
+‘Oh, he has—he has indeed,’ Betty declared remorsefully, melting at the
+thought of the little crippled brother who is so inexpressibly dear to
+them all.
+
+                  *       *       *       *       *
+
+Betty had hurried up with Susan to get her into her best things, and
+then had given her sound advice.
+
+‘Give it to him now, Susan. Lady Forster’—glancing out of the window—‘is
+talking to Aunt Jemima. Hurry down and give it to him at once. It is the
+sweetest bag. No one’—giggling—‘can say less than that for it. It’s
+quite crammed with lavender.’
+
+‘Yes, I will,’ says Susan valiantly.
+
+She doesn’t, however. She hesitates, and is, as usual, lost. She tries
+and tries to take that little bag out of her pocket and give it to him,
+but her courage fails her. And presently Lady Forster carries her off,
+and now the Park is reached, and she finds herself in the lovely, sunny
+drawing-room, and after a while in the dining-room, and still that
+little fragrant bag lies perdu.
+
+Susan glances shyly round her. Sir William Forster, a tall young man
+with a kindly eye, takes her fancy at once, and there is a big girl over
+there and a big woman here (they must be mother and daughter), who make
+her wonder a great deal about their strange garments. Mrs. Prior is
+here, too, and Miss Prior—Mr. Wyndham’s people. And at the opposite side
+of the table Mr. Wyndham himself. Beside him sits the poet, a lachrymose
+young man with long hair and a crooked eye, and the name of Jones. No
+wonder he looks depressed!
+
+He has got his best eye fixed immovably on Susan, who seems to appeal
+even to his high ideal of beauty—and, indeed, throughout the day she
+suffers a good deal, off and on, from his unspoken, but quite open,
+adoration of her. Poets never admire: they adore. And for a simple
+country maiden this style is somewhat embarrassing. On Mr. Crosby’s
+right hand is sitting the tall and beautiful girl, with the pale roses
+near her throat, with whom he had driven home from church on Sunday. It
+seems all quite clear to Susan. Yes, this is the girl he is going to
+marry. But a girl so beautiful as that could make anyone happy. She had
+heard someone call her Lady Muriel. Rank and beauty and sweetness—all
+are for him. And surely he deserves them all; and that is why she is at
+his right hand.
+
+
+
+
+                             CHAPTER XXXIX.
+
+                     ‘Thou didst delight mine ear,
+                       Ah! little praise; thy voice
+                       Makes other hearts rejoice,
+                     Makes all ears glad that hear,
+                       And shout my joy. But yet,
+                       O song, do not forget.’
+
+
+Susan is seated beside a very fashionably-dressed girl with an extremely
+good-humoured face, and Captain Lennox—a man of about thirty or
+thereabouts—who seems to find pleasure in an every two minutes’
+contemplation of her young and charming face. In this, the good-humoured
+looking girl—Miss Forbes—is not a whit behind Captain Lennox, she too
+seeming to be delighted with Susan. And, indeed, everyone seems to have
+fallen in love with pretty Susan, for presently the stately young beauty
+sitting next to Crosby, who has come in a little late for luncheon,
+whispers something to him, and then looks smilingly at Susan. Crosby, in
+answer to her words, says quietly:
+
+‘Susan—Lady Muriel Kennedy is very anxious to know you. Miss Barry, Lady
+Muriel.’
+
+‘I went past your charming old home yesterday,’ says Lady Muriel, in
+tones barely above a whisper, but which seem to carry a long distance.
+‘I quite wanted to go in, but I was afraid.’
+
+‘Well, you’ll be able to satiate your curiosity on Friday,’ says Lady
+Forster, ‘as we have been asked to tea on that day at the Rectory.’
+
+‘How delightful!’ says Lady Muriel.
+
+‘Your house is quite close to the Cottage, is it not, Miss Barry?’ asks
+Mrs. Prior. ‘My nephew’s place, you know’—nodding at Wyndham, who
+changes colour perceptibly. Good heavens! what is going to happen next?
+
+‘Yes,’ says Susan; ‘only the road divides us.’
+
+‘Then you can tell us about Mr. Wyndham’s new tenant. You’—smiling
+archly—‘are quite an old friend of my nephew’s, eh?’ It is quite safe to
+make a jest of the friendship with this insignificant little country
+girl, as, of course, Paul, or any other man of consequence, would not
+waste a thought over her.
+
+‘Almost, indeed,’ says Susan. ‘But as to the tenant—’
+
+Crosby drops a spoon, and Susan, a little startled, turns her head. It
+is not on him, however, her eyes rest, but on Wyndham, who is looking at
+her with a strange expression. Is it imploring, despairing, or what? It
+checks her, at all events.
+
+‘I know very little,’ she murmurs faintly.
+
+‘Been flirting with him,’ thinks Mrs. Prior promptly. ‘All country girls
+are so vulgar. Any new man.... And I dare say this tenant of Paul’s is
+by no means a nice man either.’
+
+There might have been a slight awkwardness here, but providentially Lady
+Forster, who is never silent for two minutes together, breaks into the
+gap.
+
+‘What’s this, George?’ asks she, peering into a dish before her. ‘Are
+you prepared to guarantee it? It’s your cook, you know, not mine. Looks
+dangerous, and therefore tempting; and any way, one can only die once.
+Oh! is that you?’—to a late man who has strolled in. ‘Been losing
+yourself as usual? Come over here and sit beside me, you innocent
+lamb’—patting the empty chair near her—‘and I’ll look after you. I’ll
+give you one of these’—pointing to the dish—‘I hate to die alone. What
+on earth are they?’—glancing at the little brown curled-up things that
+seem filled with burnt crumbs. ‘Will they go off, George? Bombs, eh?’
+
+Here the butler murmurs something to her in a discreet tone.
+
+‘Oh, mushrooms! Good gracious, then why don’t they try to look like
+them!’
+
+‘Have you any brothers?’ asks Miss Forbes, turning to Susan.
+
+‘Don’t answer,’ says Captain Lennox. ‘She’s always asking after one’s
+brothers. Tell me, instead, how many sisters you have. Much more
+interesting. I love people’s sisters.’
+
+‘I’m George’s sister,’ says Lady Forster, glancing at him thoughtfully.
+
+‘And my wife!’ says Sir William, with such an over-assumption of marital
+authority that they all laugh, and his wife throws a pellet of bread at
+him.
+
+Susan grows thoughtful, filled with a slight amazement. She had been
+nervous, almost distressed, at the idea of having to lunch at the Park.
+Its habitués, she told herself, would be very grand folk, and clever,
+and learned, and would talk very far above her little countrified head.
+And now how is it? Why, after all, they are more like Dom in his
+queerest moods than anything else.
+
+‘What shall we do after luncheon?’ says Lady Forster. ‘I am willing to
+chaperon anybody.’ She glances at Lady Muriel, and Susan intercepts the
+glance.
+
+Is it Lady Muriel and Mr. Crosby she is thinking of chaperoning?
+
+‘Oh, I like your idea of supervision,’ says the Guardsman who has come
+in late, and who is called Lord Jack by everybody, only because, as
+Susan discovers afterwards, his name is Jack Lord. This, naturally, is
+inevitable. ‘You once undertook to chaperon me, and let me in for about
+the most _risqué_ situation of my life. I came out of it barely alive,
+and very nearly maimed.’
+
+‘Yes—I don’t think Katherine would make a very excellent chaperon,’ says
+Mrs. Prior, who likes Crosby, but cordially detests his sister.
+
+‘What a slander!’ cries Lady Forster; ‘easy to see you don’t understand
+me! I’m a splendid chaperon—a born one. Always half a mile ahead—or else
+in the rear. One should always be ahead if possible, as it gives the
+poor creatures a chance of getting up to you in an honourable way, if
+the enemy should come in sight. Whereas the turning and running back
+business always looks so bad. No, better be in front of them. I’m going
+to write a little treatise on the art of chaperoning for all
+right-minded married women—and I hope you will accept a copy, dear Mrs.
+Prior.’
+
+‘I don’t expect I shall get one,’ says Mrs. Prior, with a distinct
+sneer.
+
+‘Oh, you shall indeed, “honest Injun,”’ says Lady Forster. ‘You’ll be
+delighted with it.’
+
+‘I feel sure of that,’ says Captain Lennox in an aside to Miss Forbes.
+
+‘But really what shall we do this afternoon, George?’ asks his sister;
+‘ride—drive?’ She has left her seat, and has perched herself on the arm
+of the handsome old chair in which her husband is sitting at the foot of
+the table.
+
+‘What about the Abbey, Bill?’ asks Crosby, addressing his
+brother-in-law.
+
+‘No use in asking “Billee Barlow” anything,’ says that young man’s wife.
+‘He hasn’t an idea on earth. Have you, Billee? And the Abbey is miles
+off, and— Do you ride, Susan? I am going to call you Susan, if I may.’
+
+She pauses just long enough to give Susan time to smile a pleased, if
+shy, assent.
+
+‘Susan is so pretty,’ says Captain Lennox absently.
+
+‘Eh?’ says Crosby quickly, and with a suspicion of a frown.
+
+‘Very, very pretty,’ repeats Lennox fervently.
+
+Crosby glances at Susan. This absurd joke, this jest on her name—with
+anyone else here it would be a jest only, but Susan—would she.... Her
+colour is faintly, very faintly accentuated, and she is looking straight
+at Lennox.
+
+‘My name?’ says she, taking up the meaning he had not meant. ‘Do you
+really think it pretty? The boys and Betty despise it.’
+
+Her gentle dignity goes home to all. Crosby is indignant with Lennox,
+and, indeed, so is Sir William. Sir William’s wife, however, I regret to
+say, is convulsed with laughter.
+
+‘It is certainly not a name to be despised,’ says Lennox courteously,
+who is now a little ashamed of himself.
+
+‘I like to be called by my Christian name,’ says a singularly
+young-looking married woman. ‘Puts people out so. They never know
+whether you are married or not for the first half-hour, at all events.’
+
+They are now in a body strolling into the drawing-rooms, and Miss Forbes
+has gone back to her cross-examination of Susan.
+
+‘Four brothers? So many? And all grown up?’
+
+‘Oh no! Carew is the eldest, and he is only seventeen. But we have a
+cousin living with us, and he is twenty.’
+
+‘What lovely ages!’ cries Lady Forster. ‘George, why didn’t you tell me
+about Susan’s boys? You know I adore boys. Susan, you must bring them up
+to-morrow. Do you hear?’
+
+‘They will be so glad,’ says Susan; ‘do you know’—blushing shyly and
+divinely—‘they were quite envious of me because I was coming here
+to-day.’
+
+‘Oh! why didn’t you bring them with you? Seventeen and twenty—the nicest
+ages in the world!’
+
+‘Certainly not the nicest,’ says Lennox, who is a born tease. ‘You, Miss
+Barry’—looking at Susan—‘are thirteen, aren’t you?’
+
+‘Oh no; much, much more than that!’ says Susan, laughing. Strangely
+enough, she has begun to feel quite a liking for her tormentor, divining
+with the wisdom of youth that his saucy sallies are filled with mischief
+only, and no venom. ‘I was eighteen last May.’
+
+‘How very candid!’ says Miss Prior, whose own age is growing uncertain,
+and who is feeling a little bitter over the attention paid to Susan. If
+Paul should prove inconstant, there is always the master of the Park to
+fall back upon, or so she has fondly hoped till now. But there is no
+denying the fact that Crosby has been very anxious all this afternoon
+about Susan’s happiness.
+
+‘Nonsense!’ says Lennox. ‘Tell that to—well, to somebody else.’
+
+‘But that’s what I am really,’ says Susan, who is secretly disgusted at
+being thought thirteen. ‘I was born in—’
+
+‘Don’t tell that,’ says Lady Forster, putting up her finger. ‘It will be
+fatal twenty years hence.’
+
+‘Still, I’m not thirteen,’ says Susan, with gentle protest. ‘And I think
+anyone could see that I’m not.’
+
+‘I could, certainly,’ says Crosby, coming to the rescue. ‘In my opinion,
+anyone that looked at you would know at once that you were forty.’
+
+At this they laugh, and Susan casts her so very unusual ire behind her.
+
+‘You will bring up the boys to-morrow, then?’ says Lady Forster, who is
+always chattering. ‘And we’ll go for a long drive, and have a gipsy tea.
+That will be better than nothing. And as we go Susan shall show us the
+bits. No use in depending on George for that. He knows nothing of the
+scenery round here, or any other scenery for the matter of that, except
+African interiors, kraals, and nasty naked nigger women, and that. So
+immodest of him! He’ll come to grief some day. We can go somewhere for a
+gipsy tea to-morrow, can’t we, George? I’m dying to light a fire.’
+
+‘What, another!’ says Lord Jack, regarding her with a would-be
+woe-begone air. He lays his hand lightly on his heart.
+
+‘It’s going to rain, I think,’ says Sir William presently; he is
+standing in one of the windows.
+
+‘“Ruin seize thee, ruthless king!”’ exclaims Miss Forbes. ‘What a thing
+to say!’
+
+‘It always rains in Ireland, doesn’t it?’ asks Lady Muriel, in her soft,
+low voice.
+
+‘Oh no—no indeed!’ cries Susan eagerly. ‘Does it, Mr. Crosby?’
+
+‘Certainly not. Lady Muriel must prolong her stay here’—smiling at the
+beautiful girl leaning in a picturesque attitude against the
+window-shutter—‘and take back with her a more kindly view of our
+climate.’
+
+Yes; it is quite settled, thinks Susan. He loves her, and she—of course
+she loves him. And he wants her to prolong her stay, most naturally. And
+most naturally, too, he would like her to take back to England a kindly
+impression of her future home, of her future climate. Oh, how pretty,
+how lovely she is!
+
+Heavily, heavily beat the raindrops on the window-pane.
+
+‘Never mind,’ says Lady Forster, whom nothing daunts; ‘we’ll have a
+dance. You love dancing, Susan, don’t you? Come along, then. Take your
+partners all, and let’s waltz into the music-room.’
+
+In a second Susan finds Captain Lennox’s arm round her waist, and
+through the halls and the library they dance right into the music-room
+beyond. After her comes Crosby with Lady Muriel, and after them Lady
+Forster with—no, not Lord Jack, after all, but Sir William.
+
+And now the big woman whom Susan had noticed at luncheon has seated
+herself at the piano, and the poet has caught up a fiddle, and if the
+big woman can do nothing else on earth, she can at least play dance
+music to perfection, and the poet, ‘poor little fellow,’ as Susan calls
+him to herself—if he could only have heard her!—does not make too many
+false notes on the fiddle, so that she dances very gaily, feeling as if
+her feet are treading on air, and answering Captain Lennox’s whispered
+honeyed words with soft smiles and hurried breathing. Oh, how lovely it
+all is! And, oh, how happy Lady Muriel is going to be!
+
+The waltz has come to an end, and now Crosby is standing before her. And
+now his arm is round her waist, and he—oh yes, there is no doubt of
+it—he dances even better than Captain Lennox, and it is good of him,
+too, to spare so much time from the lovely Lady Muriel.
+
+‘Susan,’ says Crosby, as they pause at the end of the room, ‘I consider
+your conduct distinctly immoral! The way you have been going on—’
+
+‘Who—I?’
+
+‘Yes, you! Don’t attempt to deny it. Your open flirtation with Lennox—’
+
+‘What?’ Susan lifts her dewy eyes to his. Suddenly she breaks into the
+merriest laughter. ‘You’re too funny for anything,’ says she.
+
+‘Not for another dance, I hope.’ He laughs too, and so gaily. And again
+his arm is round her, and away they go once more, dancing to the big
+lady’s happiest strains. There is a conservatory off the music-room, and
+into this he leads her presently.
+
+‘You have no flowers,’ says he. ‘I must give you some. These roses will
+suit you.’
+
+‘They suit Lady Muriel too,’ says Susan, remembering.
+
+‘Yes? Oh yes! I gave them to her this morning. Well, it shan’t be roses,
+then. These pink begonias?’
+
+‘I should like those better,’ says Susan; she takes them tranquilly. It
+is, of course, quite right that he should wish to give her flowers
+different from those he has just given his _fiancée_. She had reminded
+him just in time.
+
+Crosby is thankful for her suggestion, but for very different reasons.
+He had forgotten about Lady Muriel’s roses, and to give her the same—
+
+‘The rain is clearing away,’ says he, looking out of the window.
+‘Still’—as if to himself—‘I think we had better take an umbrella.’
+
+‘An umbrella?’
+
+‘On our way home.’
+
+‘Mr. Crosby’—eagerly—‘you need not take me home. You must not. There is
+really no necessity. Oh!’—anxiously, thinking of Lady Muriel and his
+desire to be with her—‘I hope you won’t come.’
+
+‘That is not very civil, Susan, is it?’ says he, smiling. He pauses and
+looks suddenly at her, a new expression growing in his eyes. ‘Of course,
+if you have arranged to go home with anyone else—’
+
+‘No—no indeed. But to take you away from your guests—’
+
+‘My guests will live without me for half an hour, I have no doubt.’ His
+tone is quite its old joyous self again. ‘And I promised your aunt to
+see that you got safely back to her, and, as the children say, “a
+promise is a promise.” Here are your begonias. Shall I fasten them in
+for you?’
+
+He arranges them under her pretty chin, she holding up her head to let
+him do it, and then they go back to the music-room, where Sir William
+catches him and carries him off for something or other. Susan, sinking
+into a chair, finds Josephine Prior almost immediately beside her.
+
+‘Those pretty begonias!’ says she. ‘How they suit you, though hardly
+your frock! Of course’—with elephantine archness—‘I need not ask who
+gave them to you. Mr. Crosby is always showering little favours on his
+women friends. Those roses to Lady Muriel’—Susan holds her breath a
+moment—‘and these begonias to you, and opera-tickets to others, and last
+night such a delicious box of _marron glaces_ to me.’ She forgets to add
+that he gave a similar box to each of his lady guests, having run up to
+Dublin in the morning and brought them back with him from Mitchell’s.
+
+‘I declare the sun is coming out at last,’ says Lady Forster. ‘It is
+going to be a glorious evening. What a swindle! We have been quite done
+out of our day. I do call that maddening. Never mind, we must make up
+for it to-night. We will have—what shall we have, Dolly?’—to Miss
+Forbes. ‘A pillow scuffle? Yes; that will be the very thing. And, Susan,
+you shall stay and sleep and help us. And we’ll get the boys up. They
+would be splendid at it, and give even us points, I shouldn’t wonder.’
+
+‘I have promised Miss Barry,’ says Crosby, in a distinct tone, ‘to take
+Susan home this evening at six, and I’m afraid it is rather after that
+now. Will you go and put on your hat, Susan?’
+
+
+                            END OF VOL. II.
+
+
+                 BILLING AND SONS, PRINTERS, GUILDFORD.
+
+------------------------------------------------------------------------
+
+
+
+
+                          TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES
+
+
+ 1. Silently corrected obvious typographical errors and variations in
+      spelling.
+ 2. Retained archaic, non-standard, and uncertain spellings as printed.
+ 3. Enclosed italics font in _underscores_.
+
+*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE PROFESSOR'S EXPERIMENT,
+VOL. 2 (OF 3) ***
+
+Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will
+be renamed.
+
+Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright
+law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works,
+so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the
+United States without permission and without paying copyright
+royalties. Special rules, set forth in the General Terms of Use part
+of this license, apply to copying and distributing Project
+Gutenberg-tm electronic works to protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm
+concept and trademark. Project Gutenberg is a registered trademark,
+and may not be used if you charge for an eBook, except by following
+the terms of the trademark license, including paying royalties for use
+of the Project Gutenberg trademark. If you do not charge anything for
+copies of this eBook, complying with the trademark license is very
+easy. You may use this eBook for nearly any purpose such as creation
+of derivative works, reports, performances and research. Project
+Gutenberg eBooks may be modified and printed and given away--you may
+do practically ANYTHING in the United States with eBooks not protected
+by U.S. copyright law. Redistribution is subject to the trademark
+license, especially commercial redistribution.
+
+START: FULL LICENSE
+
+THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE
+PLEASE READ THIS BEFORE YOU DISTRIBUTE OR USE THIS WORK
+
+To protect the Project Gutenberg-tm mission of promoting the free
+distribution of electronic works, by using or distributing this work
+(or any other work associated in any way with the phrase "Project
+Gutenberg"), you agree to comply with all the terms of the Full
+Project Gutenberg-tm License available with this file or online at
+www.gutenberg.org/license.
+
+Section 1. General Terms of Use and Redistributing Project
+Gutenberg-tm electronic works
+
+1.A. By reading or using any part of this Project Gutenberg-tm
+electronic work, you indicate that you have read, understand, agree to
+and accept all the terms of this license and intellectual property
+(trademark/copyright) agreement. If you do not agree to abide by all
+the terms of this agreement, you must cease using and return or
+destroy all copies of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works in your
+possession. If you paid a fee for obtaining a copy of or access to a
+Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work and you do not agree to be bound
+by the terms of this agreement, you may obtain a refund from the
+person or entity to whom you paid the fee as set forth in paragraph
+1.E.8.
+
+1.B. "Project Gutenberg" is a registered trademark. It may only be
+used on or associated in any way with an electronic work by people who
+agree to be bound by the terms of this agreement. There are a few
+things that you can do with most Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works
+even without complying with the full terms of this agreement. See
+paragraph 1.C below. There are a lot of things you can do with Project
+Gutenberg-tm electronic works if you follow the terms of this
+agreement and help preserve free future access to Project Gutenberg-tm
+electronic works. See paragraph 1.E below.
+
+1.C. The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation ("the
+Foundation" or PGLAF), owns a compilation copyright in the collection
+of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works. Nearly all the individual
+works in the collection are in the public domain in the United
+States. If an individual work is unprotected by copyright law in the
+United States and you are located in the United States, we do not
+claim a right to prevent you from copying, distributing, performing,
+displaying or creating derivative works based on the work as long as
+all references to Project Gutenberg are removed. Of course, we hope
+that you will support the Project Gutenberg-tm mission of promoting
+free access to electronic works by freely sharing Project Gutenberg-tm
+works in compliance with the terms of this agreement for keeping the
+Project Gutenberg-tm name associated with the work. You can easily
+comply with the terms of this agreement by keeping this work in the
+same format with its attached full Project Gutenberg-tm License when
+you share it without charge with others.
+
+1.D. The copyright laws of the place where you are located also govern
+what you can do with this work. Copyright laws in most countries are
+in a constant state of change. If you are outside the United States,
+check the laws of your country in addition to the terms of this
+agreement before downloading, copying, displaying, performing,
+distributing or creating derivative works based on this work or any
+other Project Gutenberg-tm work. The Foundation makes no
+representations concerning the copyright status of any work in any
+country other than the United States.
+
+1.E. Unless you have removed all references to Project Gutenberg:
+
+1.E.1. The following sentence, with active links to, or other
+immediate access to, the full Project Gutenberg-tm License must appear
+prominently whenever any copy of a Project Gutenberg-tm work (any work
+on which the phrase "Project Gutenberg" appears, or with which the
+phrase "Project Gutenberg" is associated) is accessed, displayed,
+performed, viewed, copied or distributed:
+
+  This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and
+  most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no
+  restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it
+  under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this
+  eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the
+  United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where
+  you are located before using this eBook.
+
+1.E.2. If an individual Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work is
+derived from texts not protected by U.S. copyright law (does not
+contain a notice indicating that it is posted with permission of the
+copyright holder), the work can be copied and distributed to anyone in
+the United States without paying any fees or charges. If you are
+redistributing or providing access to a work with the phrase "Project
+Gutenberg" associated with or appearing on the work, you must comply
+either with the requirements of paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 or
+obtain permission for the use of the work and the Project Gutenberg-tm
+trademark as set forth in paragraphs 1.E.8 or 1.E.9.
+
+1.E.3. If an individual Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work is posted
+with the permission of the copyright holder, your use and distribution
+must comply with both paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 and any
+additional terms imposed by the copyright holder. Additional terms
+will be linked to the Project Gutenberg-tm License for all works
+posted with the permission of the copyright holder found at the
+beginning of this work.
+
+1.E.4. Do not unlink or detach or remove the full Project Gutenberg-tm
+License terms from this work, or any files containing a part of this
+work or any other work associated with Project Gutenberg-tm.
+
+1.E.5. Do not copy, display, perform, distribute or redistribute this
+electronic work, or any part of this electronic work, without
+prominently displaying the sentence set forth in paragraph 1.E.1 with
+active links or immediate access to the full terms of the Project
+Gutenberg-tm License.
+
+1.E.6. You may convert to and distribute this work in any binary,
+compressed, marked up, nonproprietary or proprietary form, including
+any word processing or hypertext form. However, if you provide access
+to or distribute copies of a Project Gutenberg-tm work in a format
+other than "Plain Vanilla ASCII" or other format used in the official
+version posted on the official Project Gutenberg-tm website
+(www.gutenberg.org), you must, at no additional cost, fee or expense
+to the user, provide a copy, a means of exporting a copy, or a means
+of obtaining a copy upon request, of the work in its original "Plain
+Vanilla ASCII" or other form. Any alternate format must include the
+full Project Gutenberg-tm License as specified in paragraph 1.E.1.
+
+1.E.7. Do not charge a fee for access to, viewing, displaying,
+performing, copying or distributing any Project Gutenberg-tm works
+unless you comply with paragraph 1.E.8 or 1.E.9.
+
+1.E.8. You may charge a reasonable fee for copies of or providing
+access to or distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works
+provided that:
+
+* You pay a royalty fee of 20% of the gross profits you derive from
+  the use of Project Gutenberg-tm works calculated using the method
+  you already use to calculate your applicable taxes. The fee is owed
+  to the owner of the Project Gutenberg-tm trademark, but he has
+  agreed to donate royalties under this paragraph to the Project
+  Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation. Royalty payments must be paid
+  within 60 days following each date on which you prepare (or are
+  legally required to prepare) your periodic tax returns. Royalty
+  payments should be clearly marked as such and sent to the Project
+  Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation at the address specified in
+  Section 4, "Information about donations to the Project Gutenberg
+  Literary Archive Foundation."
+
+* You provide a full refund of any money paid by a user who notifies
+  you in writing (or by e-mail) within 30 days of receipt that s/he
+  does not agree to the terms of the full Project Gutenberg-tm
+  License. You must require such a user to return or destroy all
+  copies of the works possessed in a physical medium and discontinue
+  all use of and all access to other copies of Project Gutenberg-tm
+  works.
+
+* You provide, in accordance with paragraph 1.F.3, a full refund of
+  any money paid for a work or a replacement copy, if a defect in the
+  electronic work is discovered and reported to you within 90 days of
+  receipt of the work.
+
+* You comply with all other terms of this agreement for free
+  distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm works.
+
+1.E.9. If you wish to charge a fee or distribute a Project
+Gutenberg-tm electronic work or group of works on different terms than
+are set forth in this agreement, you must obtain permission in writing
+from the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the manager of
+the Project Gutenberg-tm trademark. Contact the Foundation as set
+forth in Section 3 below.
+
+1.F.
+
+1.F.1. Project Gutenberg volunteers and employees expend considerable
+effort to identify, do copyright research on, transcribe and proofread
+works not protected by U.S. copyright law in creating the Project
+Gutenberg-tm collection. Despite these efforts, Project Gutenberg-tm
+electronic works, and the medium on which they may be stored, may
+contain "Defects," such as, but not limited to, incomplete, inaccurate
+or corrupt data, transcription errors, a copyright or other
+intellectual property infringement, a defective or damaged disk or
+other medium, a computer virus, or computer codes that damage or
+cannot be read by your equipment.
+
+1.F.2. LIMITED WARRANTY, DISCLAIMER OF DAMAGES - Except for the "Right
+of Replacement or Refund" described in paragraph 1.F.3, the Project
+Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the owner of the Project
+Gutenberg-tm trademark, and any other party distributing a Project
+Gutenberg-tm electronic work under this agreement, disclaim all
+liability to you for damages, costs and expenses, including legal
+fees. YOU AGREE THAT YOU HAVE NO REMEDIES FOR NEGLIGENCE, STRICT
+LIABILITY, BREACH OF WARRANTY OR BREACH OF CONTRACT EXCEPT THOSE
+PROVIDED IN PARAGRAPH 1.F.3. YOU AGREE THAT THE FOUNDATION, THE
+TRADEMARK OWNER, AND ANY DISTRIBUTOR UNDER THIS AGREEMENT WILL NOT BE
+LIABLE TO YOU FOR ACTUAL, DIRECT, INDIRECT, CONSEQUENTIAL, PUNITIVE OR
+INCIDENTAL DAMAGES EVEN IF YOU GIVE NOTICE OF THE POSSIBILITY OF SUCH
+DAMAGE.
+
+1.F.3. LIMITED RIGHT OF REPLACEMENT OR REFUND - If you discover a
+defect in this electronic work within 90 days of receiving it, you can
+receive a refund of the money (if any) you paid for it by sending a
+written explanation to the person you received the work from. If you
+received the work on a physical medium, you must return the medium
+with your written explanation. The person or entity that provided you
+with the defective work may elect to provide a replacement copy in
+lieu of a refund. If you received the work electronically, the person
+or entity providing it to you may choose to give you a second
+opportunity to receive the work electronically in lieu of a refund. If
+the second copy is also defective, you may demand a refund in writing
+without further opportunities to fix the problem.
+
+1.F.4. Except for the limited right of replacement or refund set forth
+in paragraph 1.F.3, this work is provided to you 'AS-IS', WITH NO
+OTHER WARRANTIES OF ANY KIND, EXPRESS OR IMPLIED, INCLUDING BUT NOT
+LIMITED TO WARRANTIES OF MERCHANTABILITY OR FITNESS FOR ANY PURPOSE.
+
+1.F.5. Some states do not allow disclaimers of certain implied
+warranties or the exclusion or limitation of certain types of
+damages. If any disclaimer or limitation set forth in this agreement
+violates the law of the state applicable to this agreement, the
+agreement shall be interpreted to make the maximum disclaimer or
+limitation permitted by the applicable state law. The invalidity or
+unenforceability of any provision of this agreement shall not void the
+remaining provisions.
+
+1.F.6. INDEMNITY - You agree to indemnify and hold the Foundation, the
+trademark owner, any agent or employee of the Foundation, anyone
+providing copies of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works in
+accordance with this agreement, and any volunteers associated with the
+production, promotion and distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm
+electronic works, harmless from all liability, costs and expenses,
+including legal fees, that arise directly or indirectly from any of
+the following which you do or cause to occur: (a) distribution of this
+or any Project Gutenberg-tm work, (b) alteration, modification, or
+additions or deletions to any Project Gutenberg-tm work, and (c) any
+Defect you cause.
+
+Section 2. Information about the Mission of Project Gutenberg-tm
+
+Project Gutenberg-tm is synonymous with the free distribution of
+electronic works in formats readable by the widest variety of
+computers including obsolete, old, middle-aged and new computers. It
+exists because of the efforts of hundreds of volunteers and donations
+from people in all walks of life.
+
+Volunteers and financial support to provide volunteers with the
+assistance they need are critical to reaching Project Gutenberg-tm's
+goals and ensuring that the Project Gutenberg-tm collection will
+remain freely available for generations to come. In 2001, the Project
+Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation was created to provide a secure
+and permanent future for Project Gutenberg-tm and future
+generations. To learn more about the Project Gutenberg Literary
+Archive Foundation and how your efforts and donations can help, see
+Sections 3 and 4 and the Foundation information page at
+www.gutenberg.org
+
+Section 3. Information about the Project Gutenberg Literary
+Archive Foundation
+
+The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation is a non-profit
+501(c)(3) educational corporation organized under the laws of the
+state of Mississippi and granted tax exempt status by the Internal
+Revenue Service. The Foundation's EIN or federal tax identification
+number is 64-6221541. Contributions to the Project Gutenberg Literary
+Archive Foundation are tax deductible to the full extent permitted by
+U.S. federal laws and your state's laws.
+
+The Foundation's business office is located at 809 North 1500 West,
+Salt Lake City, UT 84116, (801) 596-1887. Email contact links and up
+to date contact information can be found at the Foundation's website
+and official page at www.gutenberg.org/contact
+
+Section 4. Information about Donations to the Project Gutenberg
+Literary Archive Foundation
+
+Project Gutenberg-tm depends upon and cannot survive without
+widespread public support and donations to carry out its mission of
+increasing the number of public domain and licensed works that can be
+freely distributed in machine-readable form accessible by the widest
+array of equipment including outdated equipment. Many small donations
+($1 to $5,000) are particularly important to maintaining tax exempt
+status with the IRS.
+
+The Foundation is committed to complying with the laws regulating
+charities and charitable donations in all 50 states of the United
+States. Compliance requirements are not uniform and it takes a
+considerable effort, much paperwork and many fees to meet and keep up
+with these requirements. We do not solicit donations in locations
+where we have not received written confirmation of compliance. To SEND
+DONATIONS or determine the status of compliance for any particular
+state visit www.gutenberg.org/donate
+
+While we cannot and do not solicit contributions from states where we
+have not met the solicitation requirements, we know of no prohibition
+against accepting unsolicited donations from donors in such states who
+approach us with offers to donate.
+
+International donations are gratefully accepted, but we cannot make
+any statements concerning tax treatment of donations received from
+outside the United States. U.S. laws alone swamp our small staff.
+
+Please check the Project Gutenberg web pages for current donation
+methods and addresses. Donations are accepted in a number of other
+ways including checks, online payments and credit card donations. To
+donate, please visit: www.gutenberg.org/donate
+
+Section 5. General Information About Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works
+
+Professor Michael S. Hart was the originator of the Project
+Gutenberg-tm concept of a library of electronic works that could be
+freely shared with anyone. For forty years, he produced and
+distributed Project Gutenberg-tm eBooks with only a loose network of
+volunteer support.
+
+Project Gutenberg-tm eBooks are often created from several printed
+editions, all of which are confirmed as not protected by copyright in
+the U.S. unless a copyright notice is included. Thus, we do not
+necessarily keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper
+edition.
+
+Most people start at our website which has the main PG search
+facility: www.gutenberg.org
+
+This website includes information about Project Gutenberg-tm,
+including how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary
+Archive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to
+subscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks.
diff --git a/69495-0.zip b/69495-0.zip
new file mode 100644
index 0000000..6f445ab
--- /dev/null
+++ b/69495-0.zip
diff --git a/69495-h.zip b/69495-h.zip
new file mode 100644
index 0000000..b1d993a
--- /dev/null
+++ b/69495-h.zip
diff --git a/69495-h/69495-h.htm b/69495-h/69495-h.htm
new file mode 100644
index 0000000..6525392
--- /dev/null
+++ b/69495-h/69495-h.htm
@@ -0,0 +1,8396 @@
+<!DOCTYPE html>
+<html lang="en">
+  <head>
+    <meta charset="UTF-8">
+    <title>The Project Gutenberg eBook of The professor’s experiment (Vol. 2 of 3), by Mrs. Hungerford</title>
+    <link rel="icon" href="images/cover.jpg" type="image/x-cover">
+    <style>
+       body { margin-left: 8%; margin-right: 10%; }
+       h1 { text-align: center; font-weight: bold; font-size: xx-large; }
+       h2 { text-align: center; font-weight: bold; font-size: x-large; }
+       .pageno { right: 1%; font-size: x-small; background-color: inherit; color: silver; 
+               text-indent: 0em; text-align: right; position: absolute; 
+               border: thin solid silver; padding: .1em .2em; font-style: normal; 
+               font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; }
+       p { text-indent: 0; margin-top: 0.5em; margin-bottom: 0.5em; text-align: justify; }
+       .sc { font-variant: small-caps; }
+       .large { font-size: large; }
+       .xlarge { font-size: x-large; }
+       .xxlarge { font-size: xx-large; }
+       .small { font-size: small; }
+       .lg-container-b { text-align: center; }
+       .x-ebookmaker .lg-container-b { clear: both; }
+       .linegroup { display: inline-block; text-align: justify; }
+       .x-ebookmaker .linegroup { display: block; margin-left: 1.5em; }
+       .linegroup .group { margin: 1em auto; }
+       .linegroup .line { text-indent: -3em; padding-left: 3em; }
+       div.linegroup > :first-child { margin-top: 0; }
+       .linegroup .in16 { padding-left: 11.0em; }
+       .linegroup .in2 { padding-left: 4.0em; }
+       .linegroup .in20 { padding-left: 13.0em; }
+       .linegroup .in24 { padding-left: 15.0em; }
+       .linegroup .in6 { padding-left: 6.0em; }
+       .ol_1 li {padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em; }
+       ol.ol_1 {padding-left: 0; margin-left: 2.78%; margin-top: .5em;
+               margin-bottom: .5em; list-style-type: decimal; }
+       div.pbb { page-break-before: always; }
+       hr.pb { border: none; border-bottom: thin solid; margin-bottom: 1em; }
+       .x-ebookmaker hr.pb { display: none; }
+       .chapter { clear: both; page-break-before: always; }
+       .figcenter { clear: both; max-width: 100%; margin: 2em auto; text-align: center; }
+       .figcenter img { max-width: 100%; height: auto; }
+       .id001 { width:10%; }
+       .x-ebookmaker  .id001 { margin-left:45%; width:10%; }
+       .ig001 { width:100%; } 
+       .nf-center { text-align: center; }
+       .nf-center-c0 { text-align: justify; margin: 0.5em 0; }
+       .c000 { margin-top: 0.5em; margin-bottom: 0.5em; }
+       .c001 { margin-top: 4em; }
+       .c002 { font-size: .9em; text-indent: 1em; margin-top: 0.25em;
+               margin-bottom: 0.25em; }
+       .c003 { margin-left: 5.56%; text-indent: -2.78%; margin-top: 0.5em;
+               margin-bottom: 0.5em; }
+       .c004 { text-indent: 1em; margin-top: 0.25em; margin-bottom: 0.25em; }
+       .c005 { page-break-before: always; margin-top: 4em; }
+       .c006 { margin-top: 2em; }
+       .c007 { margin-top: 1em; }
+       .c008 { page-break-before:auto; margin-top: 4em; }
+       .c009 { margin-top: 2em; font-size: .9em; text-indent: 1em; margin-bottom: 0.25em;
+               }
+       .c010 { margin-top: 2em; text-indent: 1em; margin-bottom: 0.25em; }
+       .c011 { margin-top: 2em; font-size: .9em; }
+       .c012 { border: none; border-bottom: thin solid; margin-top: 0.8em;
+               margin-bottom: 0.8em; margin-left: 35%; margin-right: 35%; width: 30%; }
+       .c013 { margin-top: 1em; font-size: .9em; }
+       .c014 { text-indent: 0; margin-top: 0.25em; margin-bottom: 0.25em; }
+       div.tnotes { padding-left:1em;padding-right:1em;background-color:#E3E4FA;
+              border:thin solid silver; margin:2em 10% 0 10%; font-family: Georgia, serif;
+               clear: both; }
+       .covernote { visibility: hidden; display: none; }
+       div.tnotes p { text-align: justify; }
+       .x-ebookmaker .covernote { visibility: visible; display: block; }
+       .figcenter {font-size: .9em; page-break-inside: avoid; max-width: 100%; }
+       .x-ebookmaker img {max-height: 30em; max-width: 100%; }
+       .chapter  { clear: both; page-break-before: always; }
+       .ol_1 li {font-size: .9em; }
+       .x-ebookmaker .ol_1 li {padding-left: 1em; text-indent: 0em; }
+       body {font-family: Georgia, serif; text-align: justify; }
+       table {font-size: .9em; padding: 1.5em .5em 1em; page-break-inside: avoid;
+               clear: both; }
+       div.titlepage {text-align: center; page-break-before: always;
+               page-break-after: always; }
+       div.titlepage p {text-align: center; text-indent: 0em; font-weight: bold;
+               line-height: 1.5; margin-top: 3em; }
+       .ph2 { text-indent: 0em; font-weight: bold; font-size: x-large; margin: .75em auto;
+               page-break-before: always; }
+       .fixed {font-family: 'Old English Text MT', serif; font-weight:bold; }
+       .x-ebookmaker p.dropcap:first-letter { float: left; }
+</style>
+  </head>
+  <body>   
+<p style='text-align:center; font-size:1.2em; font-weight:bold'>The Project Gutenberg eBook of The professor&#039;s experiment, Vol. 2 (of 3), by Margaret Wolfe Hungerford</p>
+<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>
+This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and
+most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions
+whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms
+of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online
+at <a href="https://www.gutenberg.org">www.gutenberg.org</a>. If you
+are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the
+country where you are located before using this eBook.
+</div>
+
+<p style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:0; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Title: The professor&#039;s experiment, Vol. 2 (of 3)</p>
+<p style='display:block; margin-left:2em; text-indent:0; margin-top:0; margin-bottom:1em;'>A novel</p>
+<p style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:0; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Author: Margaret Wolfe Hungerford</p>
+<p style='display:block; text-indent:0; margin:1em 0'>Release Date: December 7, 2022 [eBook #69495]</p>
+<p style='display:block; text-indent:0; margin:1em 0'>Language: English</p>
+  <p style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:0; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em; text-align:left'>Produced by: Richard Tonsing and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive)</p>
+<div style='margin-top:2em; margin-bottom:4em'>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE PROFESSOR&#039;S EXPERIMENT, VOL. 2 (OF 3) ***</div>
+
+<div class='tnotes covernote'>
+
+<p class='c000'><strong>Transcriber’s Note:</strong></p>
+
+<p class='c000'>The cover image was created by the transcriber and is placed in the public domain.</p>
+
+</div>
+
+<div class='nf-center-c0'>
+<div class='nf-center c001'>
+    <div><span class='xxlarge'>THE PROFESSOR’S EXPERIMENT</span></div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<div class='nf-center-c0'>
+<div class='nf-center c001'>
+    <div><span class='xxlarge'>MRS. HUNGERFORD’S NOVELS</span></div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<p class='c002'>‘<em>Mrs. Hungerford has well deserved the title of being one of the most
+fascinating novelists of the day. The stories written by her are the airiest,
+lightest, and brightest imaginable, full of wit, spirit, and gaiety; but they contain,
+nevertheless, touches of the most exquisite pathos. There is something
+good in all of them.</em>’—<span class='sc'>Academy.</span></p>
+
+<p class='c003'><strong>A MAIDEN ALL FORLORN</strong>, and other Stories. Post
+8vo., illustrated boards, 2s.; cloth limp, 2s. 6d.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘There is no guile in the novels of the authoress of “Molly Bawn,” nor any
+consistency or analysis of character; but they exhibit a faculty truly remarkable
+for reproducing the rapid small-talk, the shallow but harmless “chaff” of certain
+strata of modern fashionable society.’—<cite>Spectator.</cite></p>
+
+<p class='c003'><strong>IN DURANCE VILE</strong>, and other Stories. Post 8vo.,
+illustrated boards, 2s.; cloth limp, 2s. 6d.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Mrs. Hungerford’s Irish girls have always been pleasant to meet upon the
+dusty pathways of fiction. They are flippant, no doubt, and often sentimental,
+and they certainly flirt, and their stories are told often in rather ornamental
+phrase and with a profusion of the first person singular. But they are charming
+all the same.’—<cite>Academy.</cite></p>
+
+<p class='c003'><strong>A MENTAL STRUGGLE.</strong> Post 8vo., illustrated boards,
+2s.; cloth limp, 2s. 6d.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘She can invent an interesting story, she can tell it well, and she trusts to
+honest, natural, human emotions and interests of life for her materials.’—<cite>Spectator.</cite></p>
+
+<p class='c003'><strong>A MODERN CIRCE.</strong> Post 8vo., illustrated boards, 2s.;
+cloth limp, 2s. 6d.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Mrs. Hungerford is a distinctly amusing author.... In all her books there
+is a “healthy absenteeism” of ethical purpose, and we have derived more genuine
+pleasure from them than probably the most earnest student has ever obtained
+from a chapter of “Robert Elsmere.”’—<cite>Saturday Review.</cite></p>
+
+<p class='c003'><strong>MARVEL.</strong> Post 8vo., illustrated boards, 2s.; cloth, 2s. 6d.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘The author has long since created an imaginary world, peopled with more or
+less natural figures; but her many admirers acknowledge the easy grace and inexhaustible
+<i><span lang="fr">verve</span></i> that characterize her scenes of Hibernian life, and never tire of
+the type of national heroine she has made her own.’—<cite>Morning Post.</cite></p>
+
+<p class='c003'><strong>LADY VERNER’S FLIGHT.</strong> Crown 8vo., cloth extra,
+3s. 6d.; post 8vo., illustrated boards, 2s.; cloth limp, 2s. 6d.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘There are in “Lady Verner’s Flight” several of the bright young people who
+are wont to make Mrs. Hungerford’s books such very pleasant reading.... In
+all the novels by the author of “Molly Bawn” there is a breezy freshness of treatment
+which makes them most agreeable.’—<cite>Spectator.</cite></p>
+
+<p class='c003'><strong>THE RED-HOUSE MYSTERY.</strong> Crown 8vo., cloth
+extra, 3s. 6d.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Mrs. Hungerford is never seen to the best advantage when not dealing with
+the brighter sides of life, or seeming to enjoy as much as her readers the ready
+sallies and laughing jests of her youthful personages. In her present novel, however,
+the heroine, if not all smiles and mirth, is quite as taking as her many predecessors,
+while the spirit of uncontrolled mischief is typified in the American
+heiress.’—<cite>Morning Post.</cite></p>
+
+<p class='c003'><strong>THE THREE GRACES.</strong> 2 vols., crown 8vo., 10s. net.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘It is impossible to deny that Mrs. Hungerford is capable of writing a charming
+love-story, and that she proves her capacity to do so in “The Three Graces.”’—<cite>Academy.</cite></p>
+
+<p class='c004'><span class='sc'>London</span>: CHATTO &#38; WINDUS, <span class='sc'>Piccadilly</span>.</p>
+
+<div class='titlepage'>
+
+<div>
+  <h1 class='c005'><span class='large'>THE</span><br> PROFESSOR’S EXPERIMENT<br> <span class='large'><span class='fixed'>A Novel</span></span></h1>
+</div>
+
+<div class='nf-center-c0'>
+<div class='nf-center c006'>
+    <div>BY</div>
+    <div class='c007'><span class='xlarge'>MRS. HUNGERFORD</span></div>
+    <div class='c007'><span class='small'>AUTHOR OF</span></div>
+    <div><span class='small'>‘MOLLY BAWN,’ ‘THE RED-HOUSE MYSTERY,’ ‘THE THREE GRACES,’ ‘LADY VERNER’S FLIGHT,’ ETC.</span></div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<div  class='figcenter id001'>
+<img src='images/i_title.jpg' alt='' class='ig001'>
+</div>
+
+<div class='nf-center-c0'>
+  <div class='nf-center'>
+    <div>IN THREE VOLUMES</div>
+    <div class='c007'>VOL. II.</div>
+    <div class='c006'><span class='fixed'>London</span></div>
+    <div><span class='large'>CHATTO &#38; WINDUS, PICCADILLY</span></div>
+    <div>1895</div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+</div>
+
+<div class='nf-center-c0'>
+<div class='nf-center c001'>
+    <div><span class='large'>THE</span></div>
+    <div class='c007'><span class='xxlarge'><span class='sc'>Professor’s Experiment</span></span></div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<div>
+  <span class='pageno' id='Page_1'>1</span>
+  <h2 class='c008'>CHAPTER XXI.</h2>
+</div>
+<p class='c009'>‘Confidence imparts a wondrous inspiration to its
+possessor. It bears him on in security, either to meet
+no danger or to find matter of glorious trial.’</p>
+
+<p class='c010'>The girl seems powerfully affected by the
+determination she has come to, so much so
+as to be almost on the point of fainting.
+Wyndham, catching her by the arm, presses
+her back into the garden-chair.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Not a word,’ says he. ‘Why should you
+tell me?’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘I must, I will!’ She sits up, and with
+marvellous strength of will recovers herself.
+‘There is very little to tell,’ says she faintly.
+‘I have lived all my life in one house. As a
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_2'>2</span>little child I came to it. Before that I
+remember nothing. If’—she looks at him—‘I
+tell you names and places, you will keep
+them sacred? You will not betray me?’
+Her glance is now at once wistful and
+frightened.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘I shall certainly not do that,’ says he
+gravely. ‘But why speak if you need not?’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘I don’t know.’ She pauses, clasping her
+hands tightly together, and then at last, ‘I
+want to tell you.’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Well, tell me,’ says Wyndham gently.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘The name of the people I lived with was
+Moore,’ says she, speaking at once and
+rapidly, as if eager to get rid of what she
+has volunteered to tell. ‘They called me
+Moore, too—Ella Moore—though I know, I
+am sure, I did not belong to them.’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Ella?’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Yes, Ella; I think’—hesitatingly—‘that
+is my real Christian name, because far, far
+back someone’—pressing her hand to her head,
+as though trying to remember—‘used to call
+me Elly, someone who was not Mrs. Moore.
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_3'>3</span>It was not her voice. And Moore—that is
+not my name, I know.’ Her tone has grown
+quite firm. ‘Mrs. Moore always called herself
+my aunt; but I don’t think she was
+anything to me. She was kind sometimes,
+however, and I was sorry when she died.
+She had a husband, and I lived with them
+ever since I can remember anything.’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Perhaps you were Mr. Moore’s niece.’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Oh, not that!’ She grows very pale, and
+makes a quick gesture of repulsion with her
+hands. ‘Not that. No, thank God!’ She
+pauses, and he can see that she has begun to
+tremble as if at some dreadful thought.
+‘She, Mrs. Moore, died two months ago, and
+after that he—she was hardly in her grave—and
+he—Oh, it is horrible!’—burying
+her face in her hands. ‘But he—he told me
+he wanted to marry me.’ She struggles with
+herself for a moment, and then bursts into
+wild tears. One can see that the tears are
+composed of past cruel memories, of outraged
+pride as well as grief.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Oh, monstrous!’ says Wyndham hurriedly.
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_4'>4</span>He begins to pace rapidly up and down the
+walk, coming back to her when he finds her
+more composed.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘It is true, though,’ cries she miserably.
+‘Oh, how I hate to think of it!’—emphatically.
+‘When I said no, that I’d rather die
+than marry him—and I would—he was
+furious. A fortnight afterwards he spoke
+to me again, saying he had ordered the
+banns to be called; and when I again said
+I would never consent, he locked me in a
+room, and said he would starve me to death
+unless I gave in. I’—clenching her small
+white teeth—‘told him I would gladly starve
+in preference to that. And for three nights
+and two days I did starve. He brought me
+nothing; but I did not see him, and that kept
+me alive. On the third day he came again,
+and again I defied him, and then—then—’
+She cowers away from Wyndham, and the
+hot flush of shame dyes her cheek. ‘Then—he
+beat me.’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘The — scoundrel!’ says Wyndham between
+his teeth.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'><span class='pageno' id='Page_5'>5</span>‘He beat me,’ says the girl, dry sobs
+breaking from her lips, ‘until my back and
+arms were blue and swollen; and then he
+asked me again if I would give in and marry
+him, and I—’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>Here she pauses, and stands back as if
+confronting someone. She is looking past
+Wyndham and far into space. It is plain
+that that past horrible, degrading scene has
+come back to her afresh. The gross indignity,
+the abominable affront, is again a present
+thing. Again the blows rain upon her
+slender arms and shoulders; again the brute
+is demanding her submission; and again, in
+spite of hunger, and pain, and fear, she is
+defying him. Her head is well upheld, her
+hands clenched, her large eyes ablaze. It is
+thus she must have looked as she defied the
+cowardly scoundrel, and the effect is magnificent.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘I said “No” again.’ The fire born of
+that last conflict dies away, and she falls
+back weakly into the seat behind her. ‘That
+night I ran away. I suppose in his rage he
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_6'>6</span>forgot to lock the door after him, and so
+I found the matter easy. It was a wet night
+and very cold. I was tired, half dead with
+hunger and with bitter pain. That was the
+night—’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>She comes to a dead stop here, and turns
+her face away from him. A shame keener
+than any she has known before, even in this
+recital made to him, is filling her now. But
+still she determines to go on.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘That was the night your servant found
+me!’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Poor child!’ says Wyndham. His sympathy—so
+unexpected—coming on her terrible
+agitation, breaks her down. She bursts into
+a storm of sobs.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘I would to God,’ says she, ‘that I had
+died before he found me! Yes—yes, I would,
+though I know it was His will, and His
+alone, that kept me alive, half dead from
+cold and hunger as I was. I can’t bear to
+think of that night, and what you must
+have thought of me! It was dreadful—dreadful!
+You shrank from me because I
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_7'>7</span>courted death so openly. Yes—yes, you did’—combating
+a gesture on his part—‘but you
+did not know how near I was to it at that
+moment. I was famished, bruised, homeless—I
+was almost senseless. I knew only that
+I could not return to that man’s house, and
+that there was no other house to go to.
+That was all I knew, through the unconsciousness
+that was fast overtaking me. To
+die seemed the best thing—and to die in
+that warm room. I was frozen. Oh, blame
+me, despise me, if you like, but anyone
+would have been glad to die, if they felt
+as homeless and as starving as I did that
+night!’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Who is blaming you?’ says Wyndham
+roughly. ‘Good heavens! is there a man on
+earth who could blame you, after hearing so
+sad a story? Because you have met one
+brute in your life, must you consider all other
+men brutes?’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>His manner is so vehement that Ella,
+thinking he is annoyed with her, shrinks
+from him.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'><span class='pageno' id='Page_8'>8</span>‘Don’t be angry with me,’ says she imploringly.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Angry with you!’ says he impatiently.
+‘There is only one to be angry with, and
+that is that devil. Where does he live?’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>She gives him the road, and the number of
+the house where she had lived with the
+Moores—a road of small houses, chiefly
+occupied by artisans and clerks; a road not
+very far from the Zoological Gardens.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘But what are you going to do?’ asks she
+nervously. ‘You will not tell him I am
+here?’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Of course not. But it is quite necessary
+that a fellow like that should feel there is a
+law in the land.’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘But if you say anything about me,’ says
+she in a tone now thoroughly frightened, ‘he
+will search me out, no matter in what corner
+of the earth I may be.’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘I don’t think so, once I have spoken to
+him,’ says the barrister grimly.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘You mean’—she looks at him timidly—‘you
+think that if—’ She breaks off
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_9'>9</span>again. ‘He told me that his wife, who he
+said was my aunt, had made him guardian
+over me, and that he would be my master for
+ever.’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Even supposing all that were true, and
+Mrs. Moore were your aunt—which I doubt—and
+had left her husband guardian over
+you, still, there are limits to the powers of
+guardians.’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Then if you see him, you think’—with
+trembling anxiety—‘you can tell him that
+he has no hold over me?’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Yes, I think so.’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘And I shall be free?’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Quite free.’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>Ella leans forward. Her hands are upon
+her knees and are tightly clenched. She is
+thinking. Suddenly a soft glow overspreads
+her face. She lifts her eyes to his, and he
+can see that a wonderful brilliance—the light
+of hope—has come into them.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘It is too good to be true,’ says she
+slowly.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Oh no, I hope not. But I wish I had a
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_10'>10</span>few more particulars, Miss Moore. I am
+afraid’—seeing a shade upon her face—‘I
+shall be obliged to call you that until I have
+discovered your real name. And to do that
+you must help me. Have you no memory
+that goes farther back than the Moores?
+You spoke of someone who used to call you
+Elly—’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘It was a woman,’ says she quickly. ‘Often—often
+in my dreams I see her again. She
+used to kiss me—I remember that.’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>It is such a sad little saying—once, long
+ago, so long ago that she can scarcely remember
+it, some woman used to kiss her!
+But, evidently, since that tender kisses had
+not fallen to the poor child’s lot.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘But she died. I saw her lying dead. I
+thought she was asleep. She was very
+beautiful—I remember that, too. I don’t
+want to see anyone dead again. Death,’
+says she with a shudder, ‘is horrible!’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>This, coming from one who had braved
+its terrors voluntarily so very lately, causes
+Wyndham to look at her in some surprise.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'><span class='pageno' id='Page_11'>11</span>‘Yes!’ says he. ‘And yet that night
+when the Professor gave you something that
+might have led to death, were you frightened
+then?’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘I think I have explained that,’ says she,
+with a slight touch of dignity.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘True.’ He continues the slow pacing to
+and fro upon the garden-path that he has
+taken up occasionally during this interview.
+‘There is nothing more, then, that you can
+tell me? The lady of whom you speak, who
+used to kiss you, was perhaps your mother?’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘I think so—I believe it,’ says the girl.
+She turns to him a face flushed and gratified.
+‘Mr. Wyndham, it was kind of you to call
+her that—a lady! To me, too, she seems a
+lady, and, besides that, an angel.’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>A lady! Wyndham’s kindly instincts go
+out to this poor waif and stray with an
+extreme sense of pity. A lady! Very likely,
+but perhaps no wife. The mother, if a lady,
+has certainly left the gentle manners of good
+birth to this poor child, but nothing else. A
+vindictive anger against the vices of this life
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_12'>12</span>in which he lives, and a still greater anger
+against the <i><span lang="fr">bétises</span></i> of society that would not
+admit this girl into their ranks, however
+faultless she may be, because of a blot upon
+her birth, stirs his soul. That she is one of
+the great unknown seems very clear to him,
+but does not prevent his determination to
+hunt out that scoundrel Moore and break his
+hold over the girl. In the meantime, it
+would be well for her to mix with her kind.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘About a companion,’ says he. ‘You told
+me you were anxious to continue your studies.
+I think I know a lady—elderly, refined,
+and gentle—who would be able to help you.
+You could go out with her.’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘I shall not go out of this house,’ says the
+girl. She has begun to tremble again.
+‘Mr. Wyndham, do not ask me to do that.
+Even’—slowly, but steadily—‘if you did ask
+me, I should refuse. I will not go where
+I can be found. This lady you speak of, if
+she will come and live with me, and teach
+me—I should like that; but—’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘You will require very little teaching, I
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_13'>13</span>think,’ says Wyndham, who has been struck
+by the excellence of both her manners and
+her speech, considering her account of her
+former life.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘I know nothing,’ says she calmly; ‘but,
+as I told you, I had read a good deal, and
+for the past three years I used to go as
+nursery governess to a Mrs. Blaquiere, who
+lived in Westmoreland Road. I used to
+lunch with her and the children, and she was
+very kind to me; and she taught me a good
+deal in other ways—society ways.’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘You were an apt pupil,’ says he gravely,
+a little doubtfully, perhaps.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘I liked the way she talked, and it seemed
+to come very easy to me after awhile,’ says
+the girl indifferently, not noticing his keen
+glance at her. ‘But this governess—this
+companion?’ asks she. ‘Will she want to go
+out—to be amused? If so, I could not have
+her. I shall never go out of this place
+until—’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Until?’ asks he.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘You tell me that man has no longer any
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_14'>14</span>power over me. I’—she looks at him, and
+again terror whitens her face—‘I am sure
+you are wrong, and that he has the power to
+drag me away from this, if he finds me.’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘I should advise you not to dwell on that
+until I have found him,’ says Wyndham, a
+little stiffly. The successful barrister is a
+little thrown back upon himself by being told
+that he will undoubtedly find himself in the
+wrong. ‘But this Mrs. Blaquiere, who was
+so kind to you—why do you not apply to
+her for protection?’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘She and her husband and the children all
+went to Australia in the early part of last
+spring, and so I lost sight of them.’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Lost your situation, too?’—regarding her
+carefully.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Yes; and I had no time to look for
+another. Mrs. Moore grew ill then, and I
+had to attend her day and night until she
+died. The rest I have told you.’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘I see,’ says Wyndham. ‘Tell me again
+this man Moore’s address.’ He writes it now
+in his pocket-book, though it was written
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_15'>15</span>well into his brain before; but he wished to
+see if she would falter about it the second
+time.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>He bids her good-bye presently, refusing
+her timid offer of tea.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>At the gate he finds Mrs. Denis, presumably
+tying up a creeper, but most undoubtedly
+on the look-out for him.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Good-evening, yer honour.’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Good-evening’—shortly. Wyndham is
+deep in thought, and by no means in a good
+temper. He would have brushed by her;
+but, armed with a garden rake, a spade, and
+a huge clipper, Mrs. Denis is not lightly to
+be dealt with.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Askin’ yer pardon, sir, ’tis just a word
+I want wid ye. Miss Ella, the crathure—ye’re
+going to let her stay here, aren’t
+ye?’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Yes,’ says Wyndham gruffly.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘The saints be praised!’ says Mrs. Denis
+piously. ‘Fegs! ’tis a good heart ye have,
+sir, in spite of it all.’ What the ‘all’ is she
+leaves beautifully indefinite. ‘An’, sure,
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_16'>16</span>’twas meself tould Denis—that ould raprobate
+of a fool o’ mine—that ye’d niver turn her
+out. “For where would she go,” says I, “if
+he did—a born lady like her?” An’ there’s
+plenty o’ room for her here, sir.’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘I dare say,’ says Wyndham, feeling
+furious. ‘But for all that, I can’t have
+all the young women in Ireland staying in
+my house just because there is room for
+them.’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘God forbid, yer honour! All thim young
+women would play the very divil wid the
+Cottage, an’’—thoughtfully—‘aitch other
+too. Wan at a time, sir, is a good plan, an’
+I’m glad it’s Miss Ella has had the first
+of it.’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>This remarkable speech is met by Wyndham
+with a stony glare that goes lightly over the
+head of Mrs. Denis. That worthy woman is
+too much elated with the news she has
+dragged out of him to care for glares of any
+sort. Childless, though always longing for a
+child—and especially for a daughter—Mrs.
+Denis’s heart had gone out at once to the
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_17'>17</span>pretty waif that had been cast into her life in
+so strange a fashion. And now she hastens
+back to the house to get ‘her Miss Ella a cup
+o’ tay, the crathure!’ and wheedle out of her
+all the news about the ‘masther.’</p>
+
+<div class='chapter'>
+  <span class='pageno' id='Page_18'>18</span>
+  <h2 class='c008'>CHAPTER XXII.</h2>
+</div>
+<p class='c009'>‘Tell me how to bear so blandly the assuming ways
+of wild young people!</p>
+
+<p class='c002'>‘Truly they would be unbearable if I had not also
+been unbearable myself as well.’—<span class='sc'>Goethe.</span></p>
+
+<p class='c010'>When Mr. Crosby had told the Barrys that
+he would come down next day for a game
+of tennis, they had not altogether believed
+in his coming, so that when they see him
+from afar off, through the many holes in the
+hedge, walking towards them down the
+village street, surprise is their greatest sentiment.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Susan,’ says Dominick solemnly, pausing
+racket in hand, ‘it must be you. I always
+told you your face was your fortune, and a
+very small one at that. You’ll have to
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_19'>19</span>marry him, and then we’ll all go and live
+with you for ever. That’ll be a treat for
+you, and will doubtless make up for the fact
+that he is emulating the Great Methuselah.
+If I can say a good word for you, I—Oh,
+how d’ye do, Mr. Crosby? Brought
+your racket, too, I see. Carew, now we’ll
+make up a set: Mr. Crosby and—’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Miss Susan, if I may,’ says Crosby, looking
+into Susan’s charming face whilst holding
+her hand in greeting. There are any
+amount of greetings to be got through when
+you go to see the Barrys. They are all
+always <i><span lang="fr">en évidence</span></i>, and all full of life and
+friendliness. Even little Bonnie hurries up
+on his stick, and gives him a loving greeting.
+The child’s face is so sweet and so happily
+friendly that Crosby stoops and kisses him.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Certainly you may,’ says Susan genially;
+‘but I’m not so good a player as Betty.
+She can play like anything. But to-day
+she has got a bad cold in her head. Well’—laughing—‘come
+on; we can try, and,
+after all, we can only be beaten.’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'><span class='pageno' id='Page_20'>20</span>They are, as it happens, and very badly,
+too, Mr. Crosby, though no doubt good at
+big game, being rather a tyro at tennis.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘I apologize,’ says he, when the game is
+at an end, and they have all seated themselves
+upon the ground to rest and gather
+breath; ‘I’m afraid Su—Miss Susan—you
+will hardly care to play with me again.’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘I told you you could call me Susan,’ says
+she calmly. ‘Somehow, I dislike the Miss
+before it. Betty told you Miss Barry
+sounded like Aunt Jemima, but I think
+Miss Susan sounds like Jane.’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Poor old Jane! And she’s got such an
+awful nose!’ says Betty. ‘I think I’d rather
+be like Aunt Jemima than her.’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Susan hasn’t got an awful nose,’ says
+Bonnie, stroking Susan’s dainty little Grecian
+appendage fondly. ‘It’s a nice one.’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Susan is a beauty,’ says Betty; ‘we all
+know that. Even James went down before
+her. Poor James! I wonder what he is
+doing now.’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Stewing in the Soudan,’ says Carew.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'><span class='pageno' id='Page_21'>21</span>‘He was always in one sort of stew or
+another,’ says Dominick, ‘so it will come
+kindly to him. And after Susan’s heartless
+behaviour—’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Dom!’ says Susan, in an awful tone.
+But Mr. Fitzgerald is beyond the reach of
+tones.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Oh, it’s all very well your taking it like
+that now,’ says he; ‘but when poor old
+James was here it was a different thing.’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘It was not,’ says Susan indignantly.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Are you going to deny that he was your
+abject slave—that he sat in your pocket
+from morning till night—well, very nearly
+night? That he followed you from place to
+place like a baa-lamb? That you did not
+encourage him in the basest fashion?’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘I never encouraged him. Encourage
+him! That boy!’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Don’t call him names, Susan, behind his
+back,’ says Betty, whose mischievous nature
+is now all afire, and who is as keen about
+the baiting of Susan as either Carew or
+Dom. ‘Besides, what a boy he is! He
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_22'>22</span>must be twenty-two, at all events.’ This
+seems quite old to Betty.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘What did you do with the keepsake he
+gave you when he was going away?’ asks
+Carew. He is lying flat upon the warm
+grass, his chin upon his palms, and looks up
+at Susan with judicial eyes. ‘What was it?
+I forget now. A lock of his lovely hair?’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘No,’ says Betty; ‘a little silver brooch—an
+anchor.’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘That means hope,’ says Dominick solemnly.
+‘Susan, he is coming back next year. What
+are you going to say to him?’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Just exactly what everybody else is
+going to say to him,’ says Susan, who is now
+crimson. ‘And I didn’t want that horrid
+brooch at all.’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Still, you took it,’ says Betty. ‘I call
+that rather mean, to take it, and then say
+you didn’t want it.’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Well, what was I to do?’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Refuse it, mildly but firmly,’ says Mr.
+Fitzgerald. ‘The acceptance of it was, in
+my opinion, as good as the acceptance of
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_23'>23</span>James. When he does come back, Susan,
+I don’t see how you are to get out of being
+Mrs. James. That brooch is a regular
+binder. How does it seem to you, Mr.
+Crosby?’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘You see, I haven’t heard all the evidence
+yet,’ says Crosby, who is looking at Susan’s
+flushed, half-angry, wholly-delightful face.
+James, whoever he is, seems to have been
+a good deal in her society at one time.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘There’s no evidence,’ says she wrathfully,
+‘and I wish you boys wouldn’t be so stupid!
+As for the brooch, I hate it; I never
+wear it.’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Well, if ever anyone gives me a present
+I shall wear it every day and all day long,’
+says Betty. ‘What’s the good of having a
+lover if people don’t know about it?’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Is that so?’ says Mr. Fitzgerald, regarding
+her with all the air of one to whom now
+the road seems clear. ‘Then the moment I
+become a millionaire—and there seems quite
+an immediate prospect of it just now—I
+shall buy you the Koh-i-Noor, and you shall
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_24'>24</span>wear it on your beauteous brow, and proclaim
+me as your unworthy lover to all the world.’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘I will when I get it,’ says Betty, with
+tremendous sarcasm.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘The reason you won’t wear it,’ says
+Carew, alluding to Susan’s despised brooch,
+‘is plain to even the poor innocents around
+you. Girls, in spite of all Betty has said,
+seldom wear their keepsakes. They get
+cotton wool and wrap them up in it, and
+peep at them rapturously on Christmas Day
+or Easter Sunday, or on the beloved one’s
+birthday, or some other sacred occasion.
+What’s James’s birthday, Susan?’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘I don’t know,’ says Susan; ‘and I don’t
+know, either, why you tease me so much
+about him. He is quite as little to me as
+I am to him.’ Her voice is trembling now.
+They have gone a little too far perhaps, or
+is the memory of James ‘stewing in the
+Soudan’ too much for her? Whichever it
+is, Mr. Crosby is growing anxious for her;
+but all the youngsters are now in full cry,
+and the proverbial cruelty of brothers and
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_25'>25</span>sisters is well known to many a long-suffering
+girl and boy.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Oh, Susan,’ says Betty, ‘where does one
+go to when one tells naughty-naughties?
+Dom; do you remember the evening just
+before James went abroad, when he went
+into floods of tears because she wouldn’t give
+him a rosebud she had in her dress? It
+took Dom, and me, and Carew, and a pint of
+water to restore him.’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>At this they all laugh, even Susan, though
+very faintly and very shamefacedly. Her
+pretty eyes are shy and angry.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘He wanted a specimen to take out with
+him to astonish the natives,’ says Carew.
+‘You were the real specimen he wanted to
+take out with him, Susan, but as that was
+impracticable just then (it will probably be
+arranged next time), he decided on taking
+the rosebud instead.’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘He wanted nothing,’ says Susan, whose
+face is now bent over Bonnie’s as if to hide
+it. ‘He didn’t care a bit about me.’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Indeed he did, Susan.’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'><span class='pageno' id='Page_26'>26</span>A fresh element has fallen into the situation.
+Everyone looks round. The voice is
+the voice of Jacky—Jacky, who, up to this,
+has been as usual buried in a book. This
+time the burial has been deeper than ever,
+as the day before yesterday someone had lent
+him Mr. Stevenson’s enthralling ‘Treasure
+Island,’ from which no one can ever extract
+themselves until the very last page is turned.
+Jacky, since he first began it, has been
+practically useless, but just now a few
+fragments of the conversation going on
+around him have filtered to his brain.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>Now, in his own peculiarly disagreeable
+way he adores Susan, and something has led
+him to believe that those around her are
+now depreciating her powers of attraction,
+and that she is giving in to them for want
+of support. Well, he will support her. Poor
+old Jacky! he comes nobly forward to her
+rescue, and as usual puts his foot in it.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘He liked you better than anyone,’ says
+he, in his slow, ponderous fashion, glaring
+angrily at Betty, with whom he carries on
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_27'>27</span>an undying feud. ‘Why, don’t you remember
+how he used to hunt you all over
+the garden to kiss you!’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>Tableau!</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>Betty leads the way after about a
+moment’s awful pause, and then they all go
+off into shrieks of laughter. Jacky, alone,
+sullen, silent, not understanding, stands as
+if petrified. Susan has pushed Bonnie from
+her, and has risen to her feet. Her face is
+crimson now; her eyes are full of tears.
+Involuntarily Crosby rises too.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘He used not,’ says poor Susan. Alas!
+this assertion is not quite true. ‘And even
+if he did, you’—to the horrified Jacky—‘should
+not have told it. You, Jacky’—trembling
+with shame—‘I wouldn’t have
+believed it of you! It was hateful of you!
+You’—with a withering glance around—‘are
+all hateful, and—and—’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>She chokes, breaks down, and runs with
+swift-flying feet into the small shrubbery
+beyond, where lies a little summer-house in
+which she can hide herself.</p>
+
+<div class='chapter'>
+  <span class='pageno' id='Page_28'>28</span>
+  <h2 class='c008'>CHAPTER XXIII.</h2>
+</div>
+<p class='c009'>‘Tears are often to be found where there is little
+sorrow.’</p>
+
+<p class='c010'>An embarrassed silence falls upon the group
+she leaves behind her. It had not occurred
+to them that she would care so much. They
+had often chaffed her before. It must—it
+must have been Mr. Crosby’s being there
+that had put her out like that. To tell the
+truth, they are all penitent—Betty perhaps
+more than the others. But even her remorse
+sinks into insignificance before Jacky’s. His
+takes the nature of a wrathful attack upon
+the others, and ends in a storm of tears.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘You’ve been teasing her, you know you
+have—and she’s mad with me now. And I
+didn’t mean anything. And she’s crying, I
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_29'>29</span>know she is. And you’re all beasts—beasts!’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>It is at this point that his own tears break
+forth, and, like Susan, he flees from them—but,
+unlike Susan, howling.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘I didn’t know; I didn’t think she’d care,’
+says Betty, in a frightened tone. ‘We often
+teased her before;’ and she might have said
+more, but an attack of sneezing lays her low.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘But before a stranger!’ says Carew
+anxiously. ‘I am afraid, Mr. Crosby, it is
+because you were here.’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘It isn’t a bit like Susan to care like that,’
+says Dom. ‘I say’—contritely—‘I’m awfully
+sorry. I wonder where she is, Betty.’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘In the summer-house. She always goes
+there when she’s vexed or worried.’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Why don’t you go to her, then?’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘I can’t. I’ve a cold. I’ll wait awhile,’
+says Betty, holding back.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘I think, as it has been my fault,’ says
+Crosby quietly, ‘that I had better be the
+one to apologize. Where is this summer-house
+of which you speak?’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'><span class='pageno' id='Page_30'>30</span>‘Right round there,’ says Betty eagerly,
+pointing to the corner of the house.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Just behind the rose-trees,’ says Dom,
+giving him a friendly push forward.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘You can’t miss her,’ says Carew, who is
+dying to give him an encouraging clap on
+the shoulder. They are all evidently very
+anxious to get the task of ‘making it up’
+with Susan on to any other shoulders than
+their own.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Well, I think I’ll take a little hostage
+with me, or shall we say a peace-offering?’
+says Crosby, catching up Bonnie, and starting
+with him for Susan’s hiding-place. ‘Any way,
+I’ve got a pioneer,’ says he. ‘He’ll show me
+the way.’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>The way is short and very sweet. Along
+a gravelled pathway, between trees of glowing
+roses, to where in the distance is a tiny
+house, made evidently by young, untutored
+hands, out of young and very unseasoned
+timber.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>A slender figure is inside it—a figure
+flung miserably into one of the corners, and
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_31'>31</span>crying perhaps, after all, more angrily than
+painfully.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Now, what on earth are you doing that
+for?’ says Crosby. He seats himself on the
+rustic bench beside her, and places Bonnie on
+her knee. It seems to him that that will
+be the best way to bring down her hands
+from her eyes. And he is not altogether
+wrong. It is impossible to let her little
+beloved one fall off her knees, so quickly,
+if reluctantly, she brings down her right
+hand so as to clasp him securely.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘What are you crying about?’ goes on
+Crosby, very proud of the success of his
+first manœuvre. ‘Because somebody wanted
+to kiss you? You will have a good deal of
+crying at that rate, Susan, before you come
+to the end of your life.’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>He is laughing a little now, and as Bonnie
+has climbed up on her knees, and is pulling
+away the other hand from her face, Susan
+feels she may as well make the best of a
+bad situation.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘It wasn’t so much that,’ says she.
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_32'>32</span>‘Though’—anxiously—‘Jacky exaggerated
+most dreadfully. As to my objecting to
+their teasing me about James McIlveagh—you
+have not seen him, or you would understand
+me better. It is not only that he is
+uninteresting, but that he is awful! His
+nose is like an elephant’s trunk, and his
+eyes are as small as the head of a pin. And
+his clothes—his trousers—I don’t know where
+he got his trousers, but Dom used to say his
+mother made them in her spare moments.
+Not that one would care about a person’s
+trousers, of course,’ says Susan, with intense
+earnestness, ‘if he was nice himself; but
+James wasn’t nice, and I was never more
+glad in my life than when he went away.’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘He’s coming back, however.’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Yes, I know, and I’m sorry for it, if they
+are going to tease me all day long about him,
+as they are doing now. I think’—with a
+hasty glance at him, born of the fact that
+she knows her eyes are disfigured by crying—‘you
+might have tried to stop them.’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Well, you see, I hardly knew what to do
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_33'>33</span>at first,’ says Crosby, quite entering into the
+argument. ‘And when I did, it was a little
+too late. Of course it seemed to me a very
+possible thing that you might have given
+your heart to this young man with the nose
+and the unfortunate trousers who is stewing
+in the Soudan.’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘You might have known by my manner
+that I hated them to tease me about him,’
+says Susan, very little appeased by his
+apology.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘I’ll know better next time,’ says Crosby
+humbly. ‘But when I heard he had been
+following you about like a baa-lamb, and
+that you had taken that anchor from him,
+and that he used to—’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>He is checked by a flash from Susan’s eyes.
+There is a pause. Then suddenly she presses
+her face into Bonnie’s flaxen hair, and bursts
+into smothered laughter.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Well, I don’t care! He did once, all
+round the gooseberry bushes; and I threw a
+spade at him, and it hit him on the head,
+and I thought I had killed him. I’—with
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_34'>34</span>another glance at Crosby, now from between
+Bonnie’s curls—‘was dreadfully frightened
+then. But now I almost wish I had. Any
+way, he never tried to—he never, I mean’—confusedly—‘hunted
+me again.’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘I begin to feel sincerely sorry for James,’
+says Crosby. ‘He seems to me to have led
+but a sorry life before he started for the
+Soudan. When he comes home next year,
+what will you do? He may be quite’—he
+looks at her and smiles—‘a mighty hunter
+by that time.’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>Susan laughs.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Like you,’ says she.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>Crosby looks at her. It is a ready answer,
+and with another might convey a certain
+meaning, but with Susan never.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Ah, I’m afraid of gooseberry bushes,’ says
+he. ‘They have thorns in them. James,
+you see, surpasses me in valour. Talking
+of valour reminds me of those you have left
+behind you, and who have sent me here as
+their plenipotentiary, to extract from you a
+promise of peace. They are all very sorry
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_35'>35</span>they annoyed you so much about the redoubtable
+James; and they desired me to
+say so. I was afraid to come by myself, so
+I brought Bonnie with me. Bonnie, tell her
+to come back with me now, and say: “Peace
+is restored with honour.” Say it for her,
+Bonnie.’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘“Peace is restored with honour,”’ repeats
+Bonnie sweetly.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘There, that settles it,’ says Crosby. ‘He
+knows his lesson. So do you; come back
+and forgive us all.’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Oh, I can’t,’ says Susan. ‘They would
+know I had been crying. Look at my eyes;
+they are quite red.’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘They are not, indeed,’ says Mr. Crosby,
+after an exhaustive examination. ‘They are
+quite blue.’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Oh yes, that, of course’—impatiently.
+‘But, well—really, how are they?’ She
+leans towards him, and gazes at him out of
+the blue eyes with an extraordinary calm.
+‘Would they know I had been crying?’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘They would not,’ says Crosby. ‘It is I
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_36'>36</span>alone who am in that secret. And, by the
+way, Susan’—stopping her as they both
+rise—‘that is the second secret we have between
+us; we are becoming quite fashionable—we
+are growing into a society, you
+and I.’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘I wish you would forget that first secret,’
+says Susan, blushing a little. ‘And, anyhow,
+I hope you won’t tell the others that you
+found me—you know—crying.’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Ah, that makes me remember our first
+secret,’ says Crosby. ‘You know that on
+that never-to-be-forgotten memorable occasion
+you said you trusted me.’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Did I?’ Susan is blushing furiously now.
+‘How can I recollect all the silly things I
+said then? I have forgotten them all—and
+I’m sure you have, too.’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Not one of them,’ says Crosby. ‘They
+are now classed with my most priceless
+memories. “Go and steal no more,” you
+said—and I haven’t up to this.’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>Susan laughs in spite of herself.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Well, at all events I can trust you, then,
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_37'>37</span>not to betray me to them.’ She points to
+the late temple of her tears.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘You can trust me for that or anything
+else in the wide world,’ says Crosby.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>He takes up Bonnie again, and they go
+slowly back to the others.</p>
+
+<div class='chapter'>
+  <span class='pageno' id='Page_38'>38</span>
+  <h2 class='c008'>CHAPTER XXIV.</h2>
+</div>
+<div class='lg-container-b c011'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>‘So bright a tear in Beauty’s eye,</div>
+      <div class='line'>Love half regrets to kiss it dry.’</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<p class='c010'>As Susan appears, the guilty ones upon the
+tennis-ground move simultaneously towards
+her, Betty with a shy little rush, and holding
+out to her her racket.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Come and have another game, Susan, and
+you, too, Mr. Crosby.’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Yes, do,’ says Carew. ‘Tea will be here
+in a moment.’ He evidently holds this out
+as an inducement to Crosby to remain. Mr.
+Fitzgerald nobly backs him up.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Also Aunt Jemima!’ he says enthusiastically.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>This joke, if it is meant for one, is a dead
+failure. No one even smiles. Susan, who is
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_39'>39</span>feeling a little shy, and is horribly conscious
+that, in spite of Crosby’s assurances, her eyes
+are of a very tell-tale colour, is fighting with
+her brain for some light, airy, amusing remark
+that may prove to all present that she had
+only run away from them in mere search of
+physical exercise, when suddenly the rather
+forced smile dies upon her lips, and her eyes
+become fixed on some object over there on
+her right.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘What is it, Susan—a ghost?’ asks Dom,
+who is equal to most occasions.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘No,’ says Susan, in a low voice. ‘But—this
+is the third time. And look over there,
+at that sycamore-tree in the Cottage garden.
+Do you see anything?’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘See what? “Is there visions about?”
+asks Dom. ‘Really, Susan, you ought to
+consider our nerves. Is it the “Bogie Man,”
+or—’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘It is a girl,’ says Susan. ‘There, there
+again! Her face is between those two big
+branches. Mr. Crosby’—eagerly—‘don’t
+you see her?’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'><span class='pageno' id='Page_40'>40</span>‘I do,’ cries Carew suddenly. ‘Oh, what
+a lovely face!’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>It may be remembered that the Rectory
+and the Cottage are only divided by a narrow
+road and two high walls. At the farthest
+end of the Cottage grounds some tall trees
+are standing—a beech, two elms, and a
+sycamore. All these uprear themselves well
+above the walls, and cast their shadows in
+summer, and their leaves in winter, down on
+the road beneath. They can be distinctly
+seen from the Rectory tennis-court, and,
+indeed, add a good deal of charm to it, the
+road being so narrow, and the walls so much
+of a height, that strangers often think the
+trees on the Cottage lawn are actually belonging
+to the Rectory.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Yes, I see too,’ says Crosby, leaning
+forward.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Yes, yes!’ cries Betty. ‘But is it a
+girl?’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>And now a little silence falls upon them.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>Over there, peeping out between the leaves
+of the soft sycamore-tree, is a face. There is
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_41'>41</span>nothing to tell if it be a boy’s or a girl’s face,
+as nothing can be seen but the shapely head;
+and its soft abundant tresses of chestnut
+hair are so closely drawn back into a knot
+behind that they are hidden by the crowding
+branches. The eyes are gleaming, the lips
+slightly parted. So might a Hamadryad
+look, peering through swaying leaves.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘It’s the prisoner,’ says Jacky, in an awestruck
+tone.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘The apparition, you mean,’ corrects Mr.
+Fitzgerald severely. ‘Prisoners, as a rule,
+have bodies, spooks have none. Jacky, you
+lucky creature, you have seen a ghost.’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Is it a boy or a girl?’ asks Betty in an
+anxious tone.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘A most pertinent question?’ says Fitzgerald,
+who is taking the situation with anything
+but the seriousness that is so evidently
+demanded of it. ‘But, as I have before
+remarked, there is no body to go by, and
+naturally no clothes. It is therefore unanswerable.’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>Crosby has said nothing. He is, indeed,
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_42'>42</span>deeply occupied with the face. So this is
+Wyndham’s tenant. A very lovely one.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>Again a slight doubt arises in his mind
+about his friend. And yet Wyndham had
+seemed thoroughly honest in his explanation.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘I know it’s a girl,’ says Susan, with
+decision. ‘Jacky has seen her; and what
+a pretty one! Oh, there, she’s gone!’ And,
+indeed, the Hamadryad, as if becoming
+suddenly conscious of the fact that they
+are looking at her, draws back her head
+and disappears. ‘I’m afraid she saw us,’ says
+Susan contritely. ‘She must have thought
+us very rude. I’ll ask father to let me call
+on her, I think. She must be very lonely
+there. And even if she is only Mrs.
+Moriarty’s niece, still, she must have been
+educated to make her look like that.’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Perhaps,’ says Crosby, speaking with
+apparent carelessness, and looking direct
+at Susan, ‘she might not like to be called
+upon. I have been given to understand
+that she is not a niece of Mrs. Moriarty’s,
+and—’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'><span class='pageno' id='Page_43'>43</span>‘No, but what, then?’ asks Carew.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘A tenant of Mr. Wyndham’s. He is a
+friend of mine, you know; and he told me
+lately he had grown very tired of the
+Cottage, and was willing to take a tenant
+for it. This lady is, I presume, the tenant.’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘The more reason why we should call upon
+her,’ says Susan.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘But isn’t she very young,’ says Betty, ‘to
+be a tenant all by herself?’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>This startling suggestion creates a slight
+pause.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘To be young is not to be beyond misfortune,’
+says Crosby at last, in a grave
+and very general tone. ‘No doubt this
+young lady has lost her father and mother,
+and is obliged to—er—do without them.’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>This is distinctly lame.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Poor thing!’ says Susan sympathetically.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘We might ask her over here sometimes,’
+says Carew.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘But if she has lost her parents lately,’
+puts in Crosby hastily, ‘she might, perhaps—one
+should not even with the best intentions
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_44'>44</span>force one’s self upon people in such deep
+grief as hers.’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘She wasn’t in mourning, any way,’ says
+Betty, who can always tell you to a pin
+what anyone is wearing; ‘she had a little
+blue bow near her neck.’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>Crosby recovers from this blow with difficulty.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘At all events,’ says he, ‘I have heard
+through Wyndham that she desires privacy
+at present. No doubt when she feels equal
+to receiving visitors she will let us all know.’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘No doubt,’ says Dominick, who has been
+studying Mr. Crosby closely, and with covert
+amusement.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘I’ll ask Mr. Wyndham about her,’ says
+Susan. ‘I think she would be happier if she
+could tell about her sorrow. One should be
+roused from one’s griefs, father says. And
+even if out of mourning—I didn’t see any blue
+bow, Betty—still, I am sure she must be sad
+at heart.’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Well, consult your father about it,’ says
+Crosby, as a last resource. In spite of his
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_45'>45</span>affection for Wyndham, he has doubts about
+his tenant.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>At this point Jane appears, bringing a
+tray, on which are cups and saucers, teapot
+and  cream ewer, some bread-and-butter and
+sponge-cake. Susan had spent the morning
+making the sponge-cake on the chance of
+Mr. Crosby’s coming. They had decided in
+conclave that it would be better to have tea
+out here on the pleasant grass (though there
+is no table on which to put the tray) rather
+than in the small and rather stuffy drawing-room.
+They had had a distinct fight over it
+with Miss Barry; but Dominick, who can
+succeed in anything but his exams, overcame
+her, and carried the day.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Put the tray down here,’ says Betty, with
+quite an air, seeing that Susan has given way
+a little beneath the want of the table—‘down
+here on the grass near me. I’ll pour out the
+tea’—this with a withering glance at Susan,
+who is slightly flushed, and apparently
+ashamed of herself. ‘We haven’t any rustic
+table yet, Mr. Crosby,’ says Betty, with immense
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_46'>46</span>aplomb, ‘but were going to have one
+shortly’—this with all the admirable assurance
+of a fashionable dame who has just
+been ordering a garden tea-table from one of
+the best London houses. She nods and smiles
+at him. ‘Dom is going to make it. Susan’—with
+a freezing glance at that damsel—‘do
+you think you could manage to cut the
+sponge-cake?’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Cut it!’ says Jacky, who is sharp to see
+that the idolized Susan is being sat upon, and
+who still feels that he owes her reparation of
+some sort. ‘Why couldn’t she cut it? She
+made it.’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>Susan bursts out laughing. It is too much,
+and they all follow suit.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘What! you made it?’ cries Crosby, taking
+up a knife and beginning a vigorous attack
+upon it. ‘Why didn’t you make it bigger
+when you were about it? The fact that it is
+your handiwork has, judging by myself, made
+us all frightfully hungry. Thank Heaven,
+there is still bread-and-butter, or I don’t
+know what would become of us.’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'><span class='pageno' id='Page_47'>47</span>They are all laughing still—indeed, their
+merriment has quite reached a height—when
+Susan, looking over her shoulder, nearly
+drops her cup and saucer, and sits up as if
+listening.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Someone is coming,’ says she.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Aunt Jemima,’ indignantly declares Betty,
+who is sitting up too.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>Tramp, tramp, tramp comes a foot along
+the gravel path that skirts the side of the
+house away from them. Tramp, tramp;
+evidently two of the heaviest feet in Christendom
+are approaching.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘You’re right,’ whispers Dom; ‘’tis “the fa’
+o’ her fairy feet.” Aunt Jemima, to a moral.’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>And Aunt Jemima it is, sweeping round
+the house with her head well up, and the
+desire to impress, that they all know so
+fatally well, full upon her.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Don’t stir, Mr. Crosby; I really beg you
+won’t. This is a rather <i><span lang="es">al-fresco</span></i> entertainment,
+but I know you will excuse these wild
+children.’ Here the wild children gave way
+silently, convulsively.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'><span class='pageno' id='Page_48'>48</span>‘It is the most charming entertainment I
+have been at for years,’ says Crosby pleasantly.
+‘Where will you sit? Here?’ He is quite
+assiduous in his attentions, especially about
+the rug on which she is to sit—not his rug,
+at all events; Susan has half of that.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Thank you,’ says Miss Barry, ‘but I need
+not trouble you; I do not intend to stay. I
+merely came out to see if these remarkably
+ill-mannered young people were taking care of
+you.’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>She speaks with a stiff and laboured smile
+upon her lips, but an evident determination
+to be amiable at all risks.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Won’t you have a cup of tea, Aunt
+Jemima?’ asks Susan timidly.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘No, thank you, my love. Pray don’t
+trouble about me.  I’—with a crushing
+glance at poor Susan—‘have no desire whatever
+to interfere with your amusement. I
+hope’—turning to Crosby—‘later on I may
+be able to see more of you, but to-day I am
+specially busy. I have many worries, Mr.
+Crosby, that are not exactly on the surface.’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'><span class='pageno' id='Page_49'>49</span>‘Like us all,’ says Crosby, nodding his
+head gravely. ‘Life is full of thorns.’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Ah!’ says Miss Barry. She feels that she
+has now ‘impressed’ him indeed, and is
+satisfied.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘We travel a thorny road,’ says she.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>Crosby sadly acquiesces.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘True,’ says he.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Adieu,’ says she. She makes him an old-fashioned
+obeisance, and once again rounds
+the corner and disappears.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘I don’t think it was very nice of you to
+make fun of her,’ says Susan reproachfully to
+Crosby.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Fun of her! What do you take me for?’
+says he. ‘Make fun of your aunt because I
+said life was full of thorns? Well’—with
+argument looming in his eye—‘isn’t it?’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Thorns?’ She pauses, as if wondering.
+‘Oh no,’ says she. It seems a pity to disturb
+so sweet a faith; and Crosby, with a
+renunciatory wave of his hand, gives up the
+impending argument.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Awful lucky she went away so soon!’ says
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_50'>50</span>Carew, as the last bit of Aunt Jemima’s tail
+disappears round the corner. ‘She’d have
+led us a life had she stayed. She’s been
+on the prance all day on account of those
+Brians.’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Yes, isn’t it awful?’ says Betty.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Who are the Brians?’ asks Crosby.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Farmers up on the hill over there’—pointing
+far away to the south. ‘Very well-to-do
+people, you know, with their sons going into
+the Church, and their daughters at a first-class
+school in Birmingham. Aunt Jemima,
+thinking to help them on their road to civilization,
+sent them a bath—one of the round
+flat ones, you know—as a present last month,
+hearing that they were expecting the girls
+home for their holidays, and—’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>Here Betty breaks off, and goes into what
+she calls ‘kinks’ of laughter.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Well?’ says Crosby, naturally desirous of
+knowing where the laugh comes in.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Ah, that’s it!’ says Dom. ‘Really, Betty,
+I think you might hold on long enough to
+finish your own story. It appears Aunt
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_51'>51</span>Jemima went up to the farm yesterday, and
+found that they had taken the bath as an
+ornament, and had nailed it up against the
+sitting-room wall with four long tenpenny
+nails, and—’ Here, in spite of his lecture
+to Betty, Mr. Fitzgerald himself gives way,
+and, falling back upon the grass, shouts with
+laughter.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘They took it,’ gasps Carew, ‘as some
+curio from some barbarous country—a sort of
+shield, you know; a savage weapon! They
+had never seen a bath before. Oh my!’
+He, too, has gone into an ecstasy of mirth.
+‘I expect they thought it was straight from
+South Africa.’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Poor Aunt Jemima!’ says Betty, when
+she can speak. ‘It must have been a blow
+to her.’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Talking of blows,’ says Carew, turning to
+her sharply, and somewhat indignantly, ‘I
+never knew anyone blow their nose like you,
+Betty; you’ve been at it now since early
+dawn.’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Well, I can’t help it,’ says Betty, very
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_52'>52</span>rightly aggrieved, ‘if I have got a cold in my
+head.’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘I’ve a cold, too,’ says Jacky dismally—Jacky
+is always dismal—‘but it isn’t as bad
+as Betty’s. My head is aching, but Betty’s
+nose is only running.’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>A frightful silence follows upon this terrific
+speech. Mr. Fitzgerald, who can always be
+depended upon at a crisis, breaks it.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Not far, I trust,’ says he, with exaggerated
+anxiety. ‘We could hardly spare it. Betty’s
+nose is the one presentable member of that
+sort in the family.’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>Betty, between the pauses of this speech,
+can be heard threatening Jacky. ‘No, no;
+never! I won’t give it now. You’re a little
+wretch! Even if I promised to give it I
+don’t care. I’ll take it back. You shan’t
+have it now.’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>But all this is so distinctly not meant to be
+heard that no one takes any notice of it, and
+any serious consequences are prevented by
+the fact that Dominick, rising, throws himself
+between the puzzled Jacky and the irate
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_53'>53</span>Betty. In the meantime, Crosby draws himself
+along the rug until he is even closer
+to Susan, who now again is looking serious.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘What is troubling you, righteous soul?’
+asks he lightly.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘How do you know I am troubled? I am
+not, really.’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Yet you are thinking, and very gravely,
+too.’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Ah, that is another thing. I was thinking,’
+says Susan gently, ‘of the girl in there’—nodding
+towards the Cottage. ‘It must be
+a very sad thing to have no one belonging to
+you.’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Sad indeed! But you must not let your
+sympathy for her run too far afield. If not
+a father or mother, she must have—other
+ties.’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Brothers, you mean, or sisters?’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Yes, just so—brothers or sisters. They’ll
+turn up presently, no doubt.’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>He looks at her as if waiting for an inspiration,
+and then it comes to him.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘What a sympathetic mind you have!’ says
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_54'>54</span>he. ‘And yet you don’t give me a share of
+it. You have known me quite a long time
+now, and I have no father or mother, yet
+you have not wept with me.’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘I didn’t know,’ says Susan. ‘And, besides,
+there was no long time, surely. Father told
+us you had no father or mother, but—have
+you’—with hesitation—‘no people belonging
+to you, Mr. Crosby?’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘One sister,’ says he.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘One sister! And why doesn’t she live
+with you?’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Ah, you must ask her that. Perhaps she
+wouldn’t care about it.’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘I should think she would love to live with
+you,’ says Susan. She utters this bold sentiment
+calmly, kindly, without so much as a
+blink of her long lashes.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>Crosby looks at her. Is she real, this
+pretty child? His inclination to laugh dies
+within him; and so dies, too, the inclination
+to utter the usual society speech, that with
+most society girls would have been considered
+the thing on an occasion like this. Both are
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_55'>55</span>done to death by Susan’s eyes, so calm, so
+sweet, so earnest, and so entirely without
+a second meaning of any sort.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Well, you see, she doesn’t,’ says he.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘But why?’ asks Susan. She is feeling
+a little angry with the unknown sister. To
+live with Carew, if he were well off enough
+to have her, would, Susan thinks, be a most
+delightful arrangement.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘It seems she prefers to live with another
+fellow,’ says he.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>Susan stares at him. He nods back at
+her.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Fact,’ says he. ‘Horrid taste on her
+part, isn’t it?’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Oh, I see,’ says Susan slowly. ‘She’s
+married.’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Very much,’ says Crosby. ‘At all events,
+her husband is. She doesn’t give him much
+rope. However, you’ll see her soon, as she is
+coming to stay with me. She always makes
+a point of coming to me for my birthday,
+whenever I chance to be in Ireland or England
+for it. I suppose I must be going now. I
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_56'>56</span>say, you two fellows’—turning to Carew and
+Dom—‘why are you so lazy? Why don’t
+you come up and help me to shoot the rabbits?
+They are getting beyond the keepers’ control.’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>Dom and Carew glance at each other.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Can we?’ says Carew. They seem a little
+tongue-tied.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘As often as ever you like. Look here, be
+up at six to-morrow morning, and we’ll catch
+them feeding. And if you will stay and
+breakfast with me, it will be a kindness to a
+solitary man.’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Oh, thank you!’ says Dominick rapturously.
+Carew, however, looks a little crestfallen,
+whereupon Dom begins to whisper in his ear.
+The words ‘every second shot’ reach Mr.
+Crosby.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘If either of you wants a gun, I can find
+you one,’ says he carelessly, after which joy
+unruffled reigns. ‘I make only one stipulation,’
+he adds: ‘that you won’t shoot me.’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Oh, hang it, we are not such duffers as
+that!’ says Carew.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>They all laugh at this, and all, as usual,
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_57'>57</span>accompany him to the gate to give him a
+kind send-off.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>As he disappears up the road past the
+little side-gate of the Cottage, Dom makes
+a rush back to the house. ‘I must go and
+polish up the old gun,’ says he. Betty
+follows him, with Tom and Jacky.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘How kind he is!’ says Susan, turning to
+Carew. Her tone is warm and grateful.
+There is no doubt that Carew’s answer would
+have been equally warm, but it never comes.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>A little sound—the creaking of a rusty
+hinge—at this moment attracts his attention,
+and Susan’s also. They glance quickly
+towards the little green gate of the Cottage.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>It is slowly opening!</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>And now a face peeps out—very cautiously,
+very nervously.</p>
+
+<div class='chapter'>
+  <span class='pageno' id='Page_58'>58</span>
+  <h2 class='c008'>CHAPTER XXV.</h2>
+</div>
+<div class='lg-container-b c011'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>‘Dear, if you knew what tears they shed</div>
+      <div class='line in2'>Who live apart from home and friend,</div>
+      <div class='line'>To pass my house, by pity led,</div>
+      <div class='line in2'>Your steps would tend.’</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<p class='c010'>It is the face that had peeped out of the
+branches of the sycamore-tree a little while
+ago. A charming face! The eyes glance
+down the little lane, and then, suddenly seeing
+Susan, rest with a frightened expression
+on her. As this is the first time in all
+Susan’s experience that anyone has ever
+betrayed the smallest fear of her, she
+naturally gives herself up to the contemplation
+of her new-born slave. Her eyes and
+those of the mysterious stranger meet.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Oh, how pretty!’ thinks Susan to herself,
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_59'>59</span>but she says nothing, being lost in wonder
+and admiration; and the girl, peeping out
+of the doorway, as if disheartened, draws
+back again, and will in another minute disappear
+altogether, but for Carew.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>He makes a sharp gesture.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Wait!’ cries he, in a low tone, though
+hardly conscious that he is speaking at all.
+And again the pretty frightened head comes
+into sight between the leaves of the luxuriant
+ivy that frames the gate.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Susan!’ says Carew, in a voice of low
+and hurried entreaty; and Susan, responding
+to it, speeds quickly up the road and
+into the little gateway.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Oh, come in—come in!’ breathes the
+stranger in a whisper, putting out her hands
+and catching Susan’s in a soft grasp. ‘I
+have seen you so often; I’—flushing and
+smiling timidly—‘have watched you from
+the sycamore many a day. And it’s very
+lonely here. You will come in for a moment,
+won’t you?’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>Susan smiles back at her, and passes
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_60'>60</span>through the small green gate. Ella, pleased
+and palpitating, glances back, to see Carew
+looking after them like a young culprit at
+the door of a forbidden paradise.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Won’t you come too?’ cries she, beneath
+her breath, in that soft, curiously frightened
+sort of a way that seems to belong to her.
+‘Hurry! hurry!’ She looks anxious, and it
+is only, indeed, when Carew has come inside
+the gate, and she has with her own fingers
+fastened and secured it, that the brightness
+returns to her face.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘It’s very good of you,’ says she, smiling
+rather shyly at Susan.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Oh no!’ cries Susan, with a charming
+courtesy that belongs to her; ‘it is very
+good of you to let us come and see you.
+You know’—softly—‘we had heard—understood—that
+you did not wish to be intruded
+on. That is’—stammering faintly—‘that
+you didn’t wish to see people, and so—’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘It is all quite true,’ says the girl distinctly.
+‘I don’t want to see people—not
+everyone, you know. But sometimes when
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_61'>61</span>I hear your voices over there’—pointing
+towards the Rectory garden—‘laughing and
+talking, I have felt a little lonely.’ She is
+looking at Susan, and Susan can see that
+her eyes now are a little misty. ‘To-day’—wistfully—‘you
+were laughing a great
+deal.’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Yes, yes; I wish we hadn’t been,’ says
+Susan, who is beginning to feel distinctly
+contrite, until she remembers that, after all,
+some tears were mingled with her mirth.
+‘But now that we have met, you will come
+and join us sometimes, won’t you?—and,
+indeed, to-day? I wish you had come to-day.
+We should all have been glad to see
+you—shouldn’t we, Carew?’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘I am sure you know that,’ says Carew
+to Ella. A warm colour is dyeing his handsome
+young face, and there is the tenderest,
+most reverential expression in his voice.
+Carew is of that age when ‘the light that
+lies in a lady’s eyes’ can mean heaven to
+him.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘I shall never leave this place,’ says Ella
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_62'>62</span>quickly. ‘All I want is to stay here, in this
+lovely garden, by myself.’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Yet you said you felt lonely,’ says Susan
+anxiously.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Yes—I know.’ She looks down, as if
+puzzled, uncertain how to go on. ‘Still, I
+would rather be lonely than go out into the
+world again.’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Poor thing!’ thinks Susan. ‘I was right;
+no doubt she has just lost everyone that was
+dear to her.’ She glances at Ella, as if in
+search of crape, but Ella’s navy-blue skirt
+and pretty pale-blue linen blouse seem miles
+away from woe; and, yes, Betty had seen
+that blue bow near her neck.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘I know this garden so well,’ says Susan,
+with a view to changing the sad subject.
+‘We used to come here often before you
+came. Mr. Wyndham sometimes stayed
+here for weeks at a time, but now, of course,
+that is all changed. Oh, I see you have
+planted out some asters in the round bed.
+They will be lovely later on. I suppose’—thoughtfully—‘you
+like gardening?’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'><span class='pageno' id='Page_63'>63</span>‘I love it!’ says Ella, with enthusiasm.
+‘Only I don’t know anything about it.
+Mrs. Denis gives me hints.’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘I love it, too,’ says Susan, ‘but for all
+that’—as if a little ashamed of herself—‘I
+like to see people sometimes. I couldn’t
+live on gardening alone, and you’ll find you
+can’t, either. In fact’—gaily—‘you have
+found it out already. That’s why you called
+us in. Oh, you’ll have to come over to our
+place. Do you like tennis?’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘I have never played it.’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Golf, then?’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘No.’ Her tone is very sad, and Carew
+turns sharply upon poor Susan, who had
+only meant to do her best.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘There are other things in the world
+besides golf and tennis,’ says he.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Oh, of course—of course,’ says Susan
+hastily. ‘It is only people who live in the
+country who ever really care about things
+like that, and no doubt you—’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘I don’t believe I know anything at all,’
+says Ella, very gently.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'><span class='pageno' id='Page_64'>64</span>‘Well, you know us now, at all events,’
+says Carew very happily, with the light and
+ready manner that belongs to all large
+families. His tone is a little shy, perhaps—the
+tone of the boy to the lovely girl, when
+first love’s young dream dawns upon him;
+but Susan and Ella take the joke very kindly,
+and the laughter that follows on it clears
+the atmosphere.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘You are Mr. Wyndham’s tenant, aren’t
+you?’ says Susan.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Yes, now’—in a glad and eager voice—‘though
+at first I wasn’t.’ She pauses here,
+drawing back, as it were. Has she said too
+much? Susan, however, has evidently seen
+nothing in the small admission.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘I like Mr. Wyndham,’ says she. ‘We
+all do, indeed. What we are afraid of now
+is that, as you have the Cottage, we shan’t
+see so much of him. But perhaps’—gaily—‘you
+will put him up sometimes, and
+then we can renew our acquaintance with
+him.’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>Here Carew turns an awful crimson, and
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_65'>65</span>casts a glance, meant to annihilate, upon the
+innocent Susan.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘I don’t know; I’m not sure,’ says Ella
+dejectedly. Evidently she has seen as little
+in Susan’s suggestion as Susan herself. ‘He
+has only been here once since I came, and
+Mrs. Denis seems to think he won’t come
+very often. I wish he would come, and I’m
+glad you like him, because I like him too.’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>Carew here begins to wonder if he ever
+had liked Wyndham, and on the whole
+thinks not.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>Ella has taken a step towards Susan.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘What is your name?’ asks she timidly,
+but very sweetly.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Susan Barry.’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘That sounds like the beginning of the
+Catechism,’ says Carew, who is, as we know,
+a clergyman’s son, and therefore up to little
+points like this.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘I knew it,’ says Ella, still very shyly, to
+Susan—‘I knew it in a way. Mrs. Denis
+told me. But I wanted to be quite sure.
+You are Miss Barry?’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'><span class='pageno' id='Page_66'>66</span>‘Oh no; only Susan,’ says the pretty
+proprietor of that name. ‘My aunt is Miss
+Barry. But I hope you will call me Susan.
+It is’—mournfully—‘a dreadfully ugly name,
+isn’t it?’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘No, no; indeed, I like it.’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘I hope you will like mine,’ says Carew,
+breaking into the conversation. ‘It is
+Carew. Susan and the others call it Crew,
+but that’s an abbreviation of me to which
+I object. But your name,’ says he. ‘We
+should like to know that.’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>Has he thrown a bomb into the assembly?
+Something, at all events, has stricken the
+stranger dumb. She shrinks backwards,
+playing with a branch of the Wigelia rosea
+near her, as if to hide her embarrassment.
+What is her name? She tells herself that
+she does not know, that she disbelieves in
+the name forced upon her by those dreadful
+people she had lived with after—After
+what? Even that is vague to her. Was
+it after her mother’s death? Hints and
+innuendoes from the Moores had given her
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_67'>67</span>to believe that Moore, at all events, was not
+her real name. But beyond that she knows
+nothing.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘My name is Ella,’ says she, in a miserable
+tone. ‘Call me that if—you will.’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Such a pretty name!’ says Susan. ‘Why
+did you think we shouldn’t like it? So
+much nicer than Susan. Isn’t mine horrid?
+But what is your other name?’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>Here they all start. A loud ring at the
+big gate over there has taken them from
+their own immediate concerns—to another.
+Ella turns deadly white, and shows a distinct
+desire to get behind Susan. Mrs. Denis is
+to be seen in the distance, flying towards the
+entrance-gate.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>Presently it is opened by her, and Wyndham
+walks in.</p>
+
+<div class='chapter'>
+  <span class='pageno' id='Page_68'>68</span>
+  <h2 class='c008'>CHAPTER XXVI.</h2>
+</div>
+<div class='lg-container-b c011'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>‘“Mark ye,” he sings, “in modest maiden guise</div>
+      <div class='line in2'>The red rose peeping from her leafy nest;</div>
+      <div class='line'>Half opening, now half closed, the jewel lies:</div>
+      <div class='line in2'>More bright her beauty seems, the more represt.”’</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<p class='c010'>Wyndham pauses in the gateway, and then
+comes forward. His astonishment at seeing
+the two Barrys here is unbounded, so unbounded,
+indeed, that Ella, who has been
+the first to see him, and who therefore
+naturally has been the first to notice it, is
+quite frightened. She goes quickly to him.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘It was my fault. I asked them to come
+in. Do you mind?’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘I mind? I quite understood that it was
+you who would mind,’ says he. There is
+no time for any more. Susan has come
+forward.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'><span class='pageno' id='Page_69'>69</span>‘How d’ye do, Mr. Wyndham?’ says she.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>Wyndham gives her his hand mechanically,
+murmuring the usual meaningless,
+but courteous, words of greeting that are
+expected of one, no matter what worries
+lie on the heart, troubling and mystifying it.
+And Wyndham, in spite of his reputation of
+being one of the smartest barristers in Dublin,
+has, to tell the truth, been considerably
+mystified of late.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>The day after he left Ella, he had gone to
+that part of Dublin described by her as the
+place where the man Moore lived. A squalid
+place, though still with an air of broken
+respectability about it, and with quite an extraordinary
+number of ill-dressed urchins
+playing about the hall doorsteps. They
+were of that class, that though their garments
+were almost in rags they had still
+shoes and stockings, of sorts, on their feet,
+and an attempt at a frayed collar round their
+necks. It gave Wyndham a sense of disgust
+to think that the girl who was now living in
+his dainty cottage had once lived in such an
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_70'>70</span>atmosphere as this; and when he had gone
+down the hideous road twenty yards or so,
+the certainty that had begun at the first
+yard—that she could never have lived there—had
+deepened. But this idea gave him
+little comfort. If she had ever lived here, it
+was only, to say the least of it, deplorable.
+If she had not lived here, she had lied to him,
+and was an impostor. And if the latter
+supposition was true, he had rented his
+cottage to an impostor, and a clever one, too.
+She had taken him in, beyond all doubt.
+And he was looked upon as rather a bright
+and shining light amongst his <i><span lang="fr">confrères</span></i> at the
+Bar and at the University Club, and in the
+various other resorts for rising young men in
+Dublin.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>When he knocked at the door of the house
+mentioned by her, he told himself that of
+course he had come on a fool’s errand; yet,
+when the woman who answered the door—a
+highly respectable person, and frightfully
+dirty, in a respectable way—told him ‘that
+no Moores lived here,’ he felt as though
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_71'>71</span>someone had struck him. He must have
+looked extremely taken back, because the
+respectably-dirty lady roused herself sufficiently
+from the dignity that seemed to cling
+to her as closely as her grime, and condescended
+to say she had only been there a
+short time, ‘an’ p’raps Mrs. Morgan, nex’
+door, could give him the information he was
+lookin’ for.’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>Wyndham had taken the hint—he scarcely
+knew why—and had gone ‘nex’ door,’ to
+receive, as he honestly believed, the same
+answer. But no! Mrs. Morgan, in a tight-fitting
+gown, draggled at the tail, and with
+her sparse front locks in curl-papers (she said
+‘curling-tongs an’ methylated spirit played
+the very juice wid your hair’), gave him a
+very handsome amount of news about the
+missing Moore.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>She was a very genial person, in spite of
+the curl-papers—or perhaps because of them—and
+she invited Wyndham into her ‘best
+front’ in the most cordial way—even though
+she knew he was not going to take it.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'><span class='pageno' id='Page_72'>72</span>Yes; of course she had known Mr. Moore.
+He used to live next door, but some months
+ago his wife died, and he had seemed a little
+unsettled like since.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘There was a girl?’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Oh yes—Ella Moore.’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Their daughter?’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Law, no, sir! Her niece, poor Mrs. Moore
+would call her at times, but I don’t think she
+was even that. I don’t know the truth of it
+rightly; but that girl was “quite the lady,”
+sir, round here. An’ she found some people
+who took her up an’ had her as governess for
+their children—big people out in some o’ the
+squares. Mrs. Moore had her with her when
+she took the house nex’ door. Ella was a
+little creature then, an’ used to be cryin’
+always for someone—her mother, I used to
+say. But Mrs. Moore was very dark, entirely,
+an’ never let out. Is it about Ella you’re
+comin’, sir? I’d be glad to hear good of her.
+But I suppose you know she fled out of
+Moore’s house one night, an’ was never seen
+again? Some said as how Moore wanted to
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_73'>73</span>murder her, or did murder her; but he
+wasn’t a man for that, I say. Any way, up
+he sticks, and disappears after a bit. The
+police looked into it for a while, but nothin’
+came of it. They do say’—mysteriously—‘that
+Moore wanted to marry her, and that
+she’d have nothin’ to do with him. But, law,
+some people would say anythin’! An’, of
+course, he was old enough to be her father.
+You wouldn’t be likely to know anythin’ of
+her, sir?’—in the wheedling tone of the confirmed
+gossip.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘No,’ says Wyndham calmly. ‘What I
+want is the man Moore. You can tell me
+nothing, then?’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘No, sir.... Get out!’—to two or three
+little children who have appeared on the
+threshold, anxious, no doubt, for their dinner,
+and wondering what is keeping their mammy.
+‘But if you did hear of Miss Ella—we all
+used to call her “Miss Ella,” though she was,
+as it might be, one of ourselves—I’d be glad
+to get a word from you. She was very good
+to my little Katie, an’ she would come in of
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_74'>74</span>an evenin’ an’ give her a lesson, just as if
+I could pay for it. There was very few like
+her, sir, an’ that I tell you,’ says Mrs. Morgan,
+whose eyes, in spite of her wonderful dirtiness,
+are handsome now because of the honest,
+kindly tears that shine in them. ‘An’ it’s
+me own opinion,’ goes on the grimy woman,
+‘that she never belonged to them Moores at
+all—that she was stolen like by Mr. Moore.’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Or by his wife?’ suggests Wyndham.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Oh no, poor soul!’ says Mrs. Morgan.
+‘She’—with delicate phraseology—‘hadn’t a
+kick in her. But we often said—my husband
+and I—that perhaps Mrs. Moore had been a
+servant in some great family, an’ had taken a—a
+child, that—beggin’ yer pardon, sir—mightn’t
+be altogether wanted.’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>This view of Mrs. Morgan’s takes root in
+Wyndham’s mind. An illegitimate child!
+An unacknowledged scion of some good
+family! Poor, poor child! poor Ella!</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘You may be right,’ he said. The interview
+was at an end. Seeing two of Mrs.
+Morgan’s children peeping in again, hungry
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_75'>75</span>and disconsolate, he beckons them to him,
+and after awhile they slowly, and with open
+distrust, creep towards him. Was that the
+Katie—that little dark-eyed, handsome child—that
+she used to teach? Wyndham caught
+her and drew her towards him, and pressed
+half-a-sovereign into her hand, and then
+caught the little boy hanging on her scanty
+skirts, and pressed another little yellow piece
+into his soft but unwashed palm, after which
+he bid the grateful Mrs. Morgan adieu, and
+walked out of their lives for ever.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>But what she had told him went with him.
+Who is this girl Ella Moore—this girl who
+is now his tenant? He had insisted on her
+being his tenant, on her paying him rent.
+That was as much to satisfy her as to satisfy
+some scruples of his own. She was really, of
+course, no more to him than any other tenant
+might be—and yet—</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>For one thing, who is she? One does not,
+as a rule, rent one’s houses to people, not only
+unknown and without a reference, but actually
+without a name.</p>
+
+<hr class='c012'>
+
+<p class='c004'><span class='pageno' id='Page_76'>76</span>‘I quite understood it was you who would
+mind.’ There was rancour in the voice that
+had spoken those few words, and the rancour
+had gone to Ella’s heart. Was he angry
+with her?—displeased? Should she not
+have asked the Barrys to come in? She
+loses her colour and shrinks back a little, and
+Carew, glancing from her to Wyndham,
+whilst the latter is murmuring his greetings
+to Susan, tells himself that Wyndham is
+a brute, with a big, big B, and that in some
+way this mysterious girl—this lovely girl—has
+her life made miserable by him. This
+is, as we know, manifestly unfair, as it is
+really Wyndham whose life is being made
+distinctly uncomfortable by this ‘lovely,
+mysterious girl.’ But Carew is too young to
+see a second side to any question that has his
+sympathy.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘I think we must go now,’ says Susan,
+holding out her hand to her new acquaintance.
+‘It is very late—too late’—smiling—‘for
+a formal visit.’ Wyndham winces. Is
+his informal? ‘But we shall pay that soon,
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_77'>77</span>now that we know we may come. And, of
+course, you and your—’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>She pauses, the thought coming to her that
+she really does not know if Mr. Wyndham is
+actually this pretty girl’s landlord. And,
+besides, ‘your landlord’—how badly it
+sounds! ‘You and your landlord!’ Oh,
+impossible! She had been very near making
+a great mistake.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>So she hesitates, and Wyndham misinterprets
+her pause. He feels furious. What
+was the word she was going to use? ‘Lover,’
+no doubt, in the innocence of her young and
+abominably stupid heart. He feels brutal
+even towards the unconscious Susan just
+now. Yes, that is what all the small world
+round here will think. His colour rises, and
+he feels all at once guilty, as though the very
+worst facts could be laid to his charge, whilst
+all the time he is innocent. Innocent! Oh,
+confound it! the situation is absolutely
+maddening&#160;... and if it comes to the old
+man’s ears! Lord Shangarry is not one to
+be easily entreated, or to be convinced,
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_78'>78</span>either.... An obstinate old man, who, if
+he once caught an idea into his old brain,
+would find it very hard to let it go again.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘And, of course, you and Mr. Wyndham,’
+says Susan now, hastily, not understanding
+Wyndham’s frown, ‘have many matters to
+discuss.’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>The speech is wound up very satisfactorily,
+after all.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Certainly not. I beg you won’t go on
+my account,’ says Wyndham stiffly.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Not for that,’ says Susan gaily, ‘but
+because father will be wondering where we
+are.’ Wyndham, who has already heard a
+little of the gossip that is beginning to
+circulate around the Cottage, almost groans
+aloud here. Father would be wondering
+indeed if he only knew. ‘By-the-by, Mr.
+Wyndham, now that’—she looks at Ella
+and holds out her hand to her—‘she tells us
+she would like to see us here sometimes, we
+can come, can’t we?’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>She smiles delightfully at Wyndham, and
+the wretched man smiles back at her in a
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_79'>79</span>way that should have moved her to tears had
+she seen him, but, providentially, after a
+mere passing glance at him, she has given her
+attention to Ella, who pleases her imagination
+immensely.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Certainly, if Miss Moore wishes it,’ says
+he. ‘You know this place is no longer mine.
+Miss Moore is my tenant now. She is, therefore,
+at liberty to do what she likes with it.
+You must not ask me what she can or cannot
+do. I am that most disagreeable of all things,
+a landlord—nothing more.’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>His tone is even colder than he means it to
+be. The Rector—what will he say when he
+hears of this visit of Susan’s? The Rector,
+who is so ultra-particular, and this girl without
+a name—so almost certainly illegitimate!
+Fancy the Rector’s face when he hears of
+this thoughtless visit of Susan’s! Mr. Barry
+is a good man, and charitable in his own line,
+but to give his countenance to a friendship
+between his daughter and a girl nameless—unknown!</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘We are telling her,’ goes on Susan sweetly,
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_80'>80</span>‘that she must come and see us sometimes,
+too—just across the road, you know. But
+she says she will not. Can’t you persuade
+her, Mr. Wyndham, though you are only her
+landlord, as you say?’ Is there meaning in
+her tone? Does she think? Wyndham
+glances at her suspiciously, and then knows
+he ought to be ashamed of himself. ‘Still,
+landlords have weight, and you know father
+would be so pleased if she would come to us
+sometimes.’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘I dare say,’ says Wyndham, who can
+almost see Mr. Barry’s face when the idea
+is suggested to him. The Rector, with his
+aristocratic tendencies, that the very depths
+of poverty have not been able to subdue,
+would think it monstrous, Susan’s being here
+at all with a girl so wrapped in mystery—a
+girl so enveloped in the base gossip that
+already is arising about her in the neighbourhood,
+because of her strange tenancy of
+the Cottage—a gossip that must inevitably
+include him, Wyndham, too. How is her
+coming here to be accounted for? Who will
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_81'>81</span>hold him guiltless of the knowledge of her
+coming?</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘If you are going,’ says he, turning
+suddenly to Susan, ‘I shall go with you; I
+wish to speak to your father.’ He has made
+up his mind on the moment to lay the whole
+affair open to the Rector. It seems the only
+thing to be done, if his tenant has decided
+on knowing the Barrys. ‘You tell me Miss
+Moore is anxious—’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Your name is Moore, then?’ says Susan
+gently, going a step towards her.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘It is not!’ says the girl almost passionately.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>There is a silence; Wyndham, feeling the
+water closing over him more and more still,
+with the girl’s troubled eyes upon him, comes
+to the rescue.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘It is, at all events, the only name by
+which she is known at present,’ says he to
+Susan. ‘I am looking into her affairs, and
+hope in time to be able to unravel them.
+That is the good of being a barrister, you
+see. And now—if you are ready?’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'><span class='pageno' id='Page_82'>82</span>Susan bids good-bye again to Ella, who is
+looking a little subdued and uncertain now;
+Carew does the same, holding her hand
+lingeringly, as if wishing to say something
+sympathetic to her, but finding words fail
+him. Wyndham, following him and Susan,
+would have passed through the gate into the
+road outside, but that Ella, with a quick,
+softly-spoken word, full of emotion, stops him.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘I have done something wrong,’ says she,
+in a breathless whisper. ‘Wait—do wait—one
+moment, and tell me, tell me—’ Tears
+are standing thick within her eyes.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘There is much to tell you,’ says he impatiently.
+‘But no time in which to tell it.’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘About—’ Her face pales, and she
+looks eagerly at him, laying even a restraining
+hand upon his arm in her growing
+fear.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Yes—about that fellow.’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Mr. Moore?’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Yes.’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Oh, you will stay—you will tell me!’
+cries she, in low but panting tones. ‘Oh,
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_83'>83</span>don’t leave me in suspense. Even if you
+can’t stay now, you can come back again, if
+only for five minutes! Oh, do! You will?
+He—’ She looks as if she were going to
+faint.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘There is no need for fear of that sort,’
+says he quickly. ‘He knows nothing of
+you, or where you are. Yes, if I can’—reluctantly—‘I
+will come back.’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>He follows the others now, and as he
+reaches Susan and Carew, they all three
+distinctly hear the click of the lock of the
+garden-gate behind them.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>Susan looks at Wyndham in a startled
+way.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘I—I think someone must have been very
+unkind to her,’ says she; ‘don’t you? To
+lock herself up like that, and never to want
+to see anybody. Mr. Wyndham, why don’t
+you try to find out her enemies?’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘I am trying,’ says Wyndham, looking
+into the calm, earnest, intelligent eyes raised
+to his.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Father would help you,’ says Susan.
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_84'>84</span>‘Was it because of that you wanted to see
+him to-day?’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Yes,’ says Wyndham.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>There is no time for more.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>Mr. Barry is coming up the road. He
+had evidently seen them all come out of
+the green gate of the Cottage. His face is
+grave and stern.</p>
+
+<div class='chapter'>
+  <span class='pageno' id='Page_85'>85</span>
+  <h2 class='c008'>CHAPTER XXVII.</h2>
+</div>
+<div class='lg-container-b c011'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>‘Mystery magnifies danger, as a fog the sun.’</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<p class='c010'>His greeting to Wyndham is of the coldest.
+He does not speak to him, but turns at once
+to Susan.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Your aunt wants you,’ says he severely.
+And the girl, a little chilled, a little apprehensive,
+disappears within the Rectory gate,
+carrying Carew, a most unwilling captive,
+with her.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>When she is gone, the Rector faces
+Wyndham.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘How is this, Wyndham?’ asks he quietly,
+yet with unmistakable indignation.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘How is what?’ asks the young man a
+little haughtily.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'><span class='pageno' id='Page_86'>86</span>‘Was it you who took Susan into that
+cottage?’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘No; but even if it had been, I see no
+cause for the tone you have assumed towards
+me.’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘That is what I suppose you call “carrying
+it off,”’ says the Rector, his pale face betraying
+a fine disgust.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Mr. Barry!’ says Wyndham, as if the
+other had struck him.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>He has flushed a dark red, and now turns
+as if to walk straight away up the road and
+out of the Rector’s ken for ever. But suddenly
+he halts and looks back, and Mr. Barry,
+who has seen many phases of life and is quick
+to discern the truth, however deep in the
+well it lies, beckons to him to return. If this
+young man cannot clear himself, he may still
+plead circumstances.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘If you could explain, Wyndham.’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘That’s what offends me,’ says Wyndham,
+with some passion. He has refused to return
+an inch, so the Rector has had to go to him.
+It wouldn’t do to shout his conversation, considering
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_87'>87</span>all the young people who live on one
+side of the road behind the right-hand wall,
+and the one ‘young person’ (the Rector has
+the gravest suspicions) who lives on the
+other side of it. What if they should all
+chance to hear?</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>Wyndham is still talking.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Why should I have to explain? You
+have known me many years, Mr. Barry. Of
+what’—looking him fair in the face—‘do you
+accuse me?’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘That hardly requires an answer,’ says Mr.
+Barry calmly. And all at once Wyndham
+knows that the trouble he had dreamed of is
+already on him. There is gossip rife in the
+neighbourhood about him and this mysterious
+tenant of his cottage. People are talking—soon
+it will come to the old man’s ears, and
+to his aunt’s, and to Josephine’s. The last
+idea is the least troublesome. ‘You must
+surely have heard some rumours yourself. I
+am willing, I am most anxious,’ says the
+Rector, with growing earnestness, ‘to hear
+the truth of a story that seems, as it now
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_88'>88</span>stands, to be disastrous to two people. You,
+Wyndham, are one of them. No, not a
+word. Hear me first. I want to say just
+this: that if I was a little harsh to you a
+moment ago, it was because of Susan. One’s
+daughter has the first claim. And she—that
+child—to be—You tell me you did not
+take her to see—’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘I told you that,’ says Wyndham, ‘and I
+told you, too’—very straightly—‘that if I
+had done so I should see no reason why I
+should be ashamed of it. However, I had
+nothing to do with your daughter’s visit to
+Miss Moore. It appears Miss Moore asked
+her to come into my—her—’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>The Rector stops him with an impatient
+gesture.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Whose is it, yours or hers?’ asks he.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Mine, yet hers in a sense, too,’ begins and
+ends the fluent lawyer, whose fluency has
+now, at his need, deserted him.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘I do not understand your evasions.’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘If you will let me—’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘I want no explanations,’ says the Rector
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_89'>89</span>coldly. ‘I want only one answer to one
+plain question: Who is this Miss Moore?’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>He looks straight at Wyndham. The
+extenuating circumstances he had believed
+in grow smaller and smaller.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>Wyndham hesitates. Who is she, indeed?
+Who is this tenant of his?</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘You hesitate, I see,’ says Mr. Barry.
+‘You have the grace to do even so much.
+But at all events you cannot deny that you
+permitted the presence of my young daughter
+in that place beyond.’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘I—’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘A truce to subterfuges, sir!’ cries the
+Rector. ‘A plain answer I will and must
+get. Who is this girl who lives in your
+house and refuses to see or know anyone in
+her neighbourhood?’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘I don’t know,’ says Wyndham sullenly,
+angered beyond control.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘I do,’ says the Rector, ‘and may God
+forgive you for your sin! She is—’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Be silent!’ cries Wyndham, interrupting
+him so imperiously that the older man stops
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_90'>90</span>short. ‘She is my tenant—my tenant, I
+repeat, and’—haughtily—‘no more.’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>Silence follows upon this. The Rector,
+lost in thought, stands with clasped hands
+behind his back and his eyes upon the
+ground. His silence incenses Wyndham.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘You can believe me or not, as you like,’
+says he, turning on his heel.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>He moves away.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Stay, stay,’ cries Mr. Barry suddenly.
+‘We must get to the end of this. If I have
+wronged you, Wyndham, I regret it with all
+my heart; but there has been some talk
+here, and Susan—she is very young, a mere
+child. I could not stand that. You tell me
+there is nothing to be condemned in all this
+business—that she, this girl in there, is only
+your tenant. But landlords do not visit
+their tenants except on compulsion, so far as
+I know; and you—what has brought you
+here to-day?’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Just that,’ says Wyndham, who is still at
+white heat—‘compulsion. If you would
+condescend’—angrily—‘to listen to my explanation,
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_91'>91</span>I might, perhaps, make you understand.’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘I shall be only too glad to listen,’ says
+Mr. Barry, with dignity.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘But here—how can I explain here?’ says
+Wyndham, glancing round at the open road
+and the walls. ‘Walls have ears.’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>But Mr. Barry does not budge, and Wyndham
+gives way to rather sardonic laughter.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘I suppose,’ says he, ‘you would not let
+me under your roof until this is perfectly
+clear?’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>The Rector still remains immovable.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘The roof of heaven is above us always,’
+returns he. Whereupon Wyndham, who has
+sympathy with determination, laughs again,
+but more naturally this time, and forthwith
+tells him the whole story of his acquaintance
+with Ella from that first strange night until
+to-day.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Bless me!’ says the Rector, when the
+recital is at an end. He strokes his clean-shaven
+chin thoughtfully. ‘What an extraordinary
+tale!’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'><span class='pageno' id='Page_92'>92</span>‘Not too extraordinary to be believed, I
+hope?’—stiffly.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘No, no. I believe you, Wyndham—I
+believe you thoroughly,’ says the Rector
+gently. ‘I am indeed sorry for my late
+distrust of you; but you will admit that
+there was cause. That poor girl! You have
+utterly failed, then, to discover those people
+with whom she had been living before that—that
+dreadful night?’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘So far, yes. But the fact that they once
+did live there goes far to establish the truth
+of her—’ He stammers a little, but Mr.
+Barry takes him up:</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Her story? It entirely, in my opinion,
+establishes the truth of her story.’ Wyndham’s
+stammer has added to the truth of his
+declaration so far as the Rector is concerned.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘You have a more liberal mind than mine,’
+says Wyndham. ‘I have told you so much
+that I may as well make you my father
+confessor <i><span lang="it">in toto</span></i>.’ The smile that accompanies
+this is rather strained. ‘As a fact,
+there was a time when I did not believe in
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_93'>93</span>her story myself; and now, when I have to—well,
+it makes me feel rather poor, you
+know.’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘You have no occasion to feel anything,’
+says the Rector, ‘except that you have been
+a kind friend to her. Do you think you will
+be able to trace that fellow Moore?’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘I hope so. I have engaged a detective—one
+of the smartest fellows in Dublin—and I
+depend upon him to run down that scoundrel
+in a month or so.’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘In the meantime I shall make it my business
+to explain to everybody how matters
+really are,’ says the Rector. ‘To tell the
+people we know round here that—’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘I beg you won’t,’ says Wyndham hurriedly.
+‘Have I not told you how she desires privacy
+above all things, how she dreads her discovery
+by that man? I know it all sounds
+mysterious, Mr. Barry—that it is asking a
+great deal of your credulity to expect you to
+believe it all—but I still hope you will believe
+me, and at all events I know her secret is
+safe in your hands. I myself have thought
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_94'>94</span>of suggesting to her to face matters bravely,
+and if Moore should prove troublesome, why,
+to fight it out with him. I cannot believe he
+has any actual claim on her; but she has
+such an almost obstinate determination not
+to risk the chance of meeting him that I fear
+she will not be moved by what I say. This
+shutting of herself up in that cottage seems
+a mania with her—such a mania that I
+cannot but think her story true, and that she
+suffered considerably at that fellow’s hands.’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘It looks like it,’ says the Rector.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Perhaps you will be able to combat her
+fears,’ says Wyndham rather awkwardly.
+‘I should be very glad if you could, as this
+mystery surrounding her is—er—decidedly
+uncomfortable for me. You have seen that.’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘I wonder you ever consented to the
+arrangement.’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘I never meant to, but she seemed so
+utterly friendless, and she seemed to cling
+so to this place (a harbour of refuge it was to
+her, evidently), that I found it would be
+almost brutal to refuse.’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'><span class='pageno' id='Page_95'>95</span>‘It was a charitable deed,’ says the
+Rector.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Not done in a spirit of charity, however.
+I assure you I regret it more and more every
+day of my life,’ says Wyndham, with a short
+laugh. ‘However, in for a penny, in for a
+pound, you know, and I had promised the
+Professor to look after her. I have now
+engaged a companion for her. I think you
+may remember Miss Manning. She was a
+governess of the Blakes’ some years ago.
+You used to know them.’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Manning? Oh, of course, of course,’ says
+the Rector—‘a most worthy creature. I
+never knew what became of her after Mary
+Blake went to India.’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Got another situation, and a most
+miserable one. Left it, and was found in
+direst poverty by the person I got to hunt
+her up. Her delight at my proposal to her
+to live with Miss Moore was unbounded. It
+will, at all events, be a blessing to get her
+out of that stuffy room I found her in. She
+looked so out of place in it. You know what
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_96'>96</span>a nice-looking woman she was, and so well
+got up always. But yesterday&#160;... I
+advanced her a little of her salary at once—to—to
+get anything she might want, you
+know; and I expect that next week she will
+come to the Cottage.’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>The Rector has heard this rather halting
+recital straight through without comment.
+Now he lifts his eyes.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘You are a good fellow, Wyndham,’ says
+he slowly.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘For heaven’s sake, Mr. Barry, not that,’
+says Wyndham impatiently. ‘I expect I’m
+about the most grudging devil on earth.
+And if you think I enjoy helping this girl,
+or Miss Manning, or anyone else, you make
+a mistake. What I really want is to be left
+alone, to run my life on my own rails without
+the worry of being crossed or stopped by
+passengers, or goods, or extras.’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Ah, we can none of us hope for that,’
+says the Rector. ‘The most selfish of us
+have to live, not only for ourselves, but for
+others. You spoke of having seen Miss
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_97'>97</span>Manning yesterday. Have you—told the
+young lady in there of her coming?’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Not yet. I had no time, indeed. When
+I found your daughter there, I felt I ought
+to take her away as soon as possible, simply
+because you did not know how matters were,
+and I had a hint—as to gossip. I must go
+back now, however, and tell her before my
+train leaves.’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘You have little time,’ says the Rector,
+glancing at his watch. ‘Go. Make haste.’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘There is one thing more,’ says Wyndham
+quickly, ‘and I think you should hear it.
+She—I don’t know anything for certain—but
+I feel almost sure that the poor girl is
+illegitimate. And, of course, you—’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘I?’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘You would not like an acquaintance
+between her and your daughters?’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘You mistake me there,’ says the Rector;
+‘a misfortune is not a fault. And the fact
+that this poor girl has been the victim of
+others’ vices should not be allowed to militate
+against her.’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'><span class='pageno' id='Page_98'>98</span>‘Hardly a fact,’ says Wyndham quickly.
+‘I speak only from very uncertain data, and
+yet—’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘I know. It seems, unhappily, only too
+likely, however. There, go; you have little
+time.’</p>
+
+<div class='chapter'>
+  <span class='pageno' id='Page_99'>99</span>
+  <h2 class='c008'>CHAPTER XXVIII.</h2>
+</div>
+<div class='lg-container-b c011'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>‘Weeping and wailing, care and other sorrow,</div>
+      <div class='line'>I have enough on even, and on morrow.’</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<p class='c010'>Ella is inside, waiting for him, when he
+returns. She has heard his step, and has
+opened the little gate to let him in.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Oh, you have come! How long you
+have been! I thought you would never
+come!’ cries she, in her agitation. Then,
+frightened at her own impatience: ‘I—I
+thought perhaps you had gone away—and
+forgotten.’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘There were certain things that had to
+be said to Mr. Barry,’ says Wyndham. He
+slams the gate carelessly behind him, but
+Ella, passing rapidly by him, turns the key
+in the lock.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'><span class='pageno' id='Page_100'>100</span>‘It is very stupid of me, I know,’ says she,
+reddening at his glance of surprise. ‘But
+the other day I thought’—paling—‘that I
+saw him.’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Moore?’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Yes.’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Where could you see him, as you never
+leave this?’ He is still feeling a little sore
+about her determination to hold herself aloof
+from everyone.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘I’—reddening—‘was up in that tree over
+there’—pointing to the sycamore.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Up there! What on earth for?’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘I wanted’—here poor Ella hangs her
+head—‘to see into the Rectory garden.
+They—they were all laughing there, and I
+could hear them, and—’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>She stops short in her somewhat dismal
+confession.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘I see,’ says Wyndham quickly, all his
+coldness suddenly dying away. Poor child!
+this little picture of her climbing with difficulty
+into that great tree to catch even a
+glimpse of the gaiety of others goes to his
+heart. ‘Was it there that—’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'><span class='pageno' id='Page_101'>101</span>‘Yes; it was there I thought I saw him.
+I may—I must’—anxiously—‘have been
+mistaken—don’t you think I must have been
+mistaken?—but I did see a man just like
+him turning up the corner of the road that
+leads to the village street.’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘I am sure you were mistaken,’ says
+Wyndham. ‘As a fact, I know he has
+disappeared altogether. If he wanted to
+spy upon you here, if he thought you were
+in the country anywhere, what would be
+more likely than that he should live in his
+old house, and make expeditions round about
+Dublin with a view to coming upon you
+sooner or later? But I have heard from
+the woman who lived next door to him
+that—’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Mrs. Morgan?’ says Ella eagerly.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Yes; Mrs. Morgan.’ He pauses, and is
+quite conscious of a glow of satisfaction at
+her words. They are, indeed, ‘confirmation
+strong’ of the truth of her story all through.
+She had known this Mrs. Morgan and been
+known by her. ‘And,’ cries Ella eagerly,
+‘she said—’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'><span class='pageno' id='Page_102'>102</span>‘That he had left his house immediately
+after your disappearance. That looks as if
+your going had frightened him, as if he
+thought he might be made answerable to
+the law for your safety, as if he feared you
+had—that is—’ He stammers here a
+little.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘I know,’ says the girl, interrupting him
+gently. ‘As if he feared—I had put an end
+to my life. And’—painfully—‘as you know—I
+was willing to risk the chance of losing
+it, at all events.’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Oh, there was no risk,’ says Wyndham
+hastily. ‘But what I want to say is that
+I believe Moore fancied himself liable to
+prosecution if he could not say what had
+become of you. He had treated you
+abominably, and no doubt the neighbours
+were talking, and—’ He himself is talking
+quite at random now. He has not yet
+got over his late ‘slip.’ ‘Any way, his not
+being seen since points to the fact that he
+has gone abroad.’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘No, no,’ says the girl, shaking her head
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_103'>103</span>with conviction. She is very pale now.
+‘To me it seems that he has left home to
+look for me. I know—I know’—affrightedly—‘that
+he is looking for me.’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Just because you saw a fancied resemblance
+to him in a man going down the
+road?’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Not that altogether, though that did
+give me a shock, and I still fancy—’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Come, that is being absolutely morbid,’
+says Wyndham, with a touch of impatience.
+‘The man is gone, believe me. And even if
+not, what claim has he on you?’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘That I don’t know, but he said he had
+a “hold on me” until I was twenty-one, and
+I am only eighteen’—with a sigh that is
+evidently full of a desire to wish away three
+good years of her young life.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘I don’t believe a word of it,’ says Wyndham
+promptly. ‘And in the meantime, now
+that in my opinion he is well out of the way,
+why don’t you try to enjoy your life—to see
+people, to—’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘I am enjoying life. Oh’—with a sudden,
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_104'>104</span>quick, happy smile—‘if you only knew how
+much!’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Yet you confess to loneliness—to a desire
+to see those around you.’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Yes.’ She colours and taps her foot on
+the ground, then laughs. ‘And now I have
+seen them,’ says she, with a swift upward
+glance at him that lasts only for a moment.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘The Barrys, yes; but there are others,
+and now you know the Barrys you can easily
+know everyone else down here; you can
+make friends for yourself, and go out, and
+pay visits, and—’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Oh no!’ cries she quickly, with a sudden
+terror, indeed; ‘no, no’—putting up her
+hands—‘I can’t—I won’t—I’ll never go out.
+Mr. Wyndham, don’t—don’t ask me to do
+that.’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>It is in Wyndham’s mind to say to her
+that it would be of considerable benefit to
+his social look-out if she would only consent
+to know people, and make herself known,
+and break through this deplorable attitude
+of secrecy that she has taken up; but a
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_105'>105</span>glance at her young frightened face deters
+him. He shrugs his shoulders over his own
+ill-luck, and bears it.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘I—you are angry with me again,’ says
+Ella nervously; ‘but I can’t go out of this
+place. I can’t, indeed, unless you could
+send me somewhere across the sea where
+he could never find me. But to leave this!’
+Her lips quiver, and she turns aside.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Nonsense! Who wants you to leave
+this?’ says Wyndham roughly. ‘But I
+think you ought to have some common-sense
+about you. You have no one to give you
+advice of any sort, and you are about the
+most headstrong girl I ever met.’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘I have taken your advice,’ says she,
+‘always—always.’ Her face is still turned
+away, and her voice sounds stifled.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Always when it suited you; but not
+now, when it might be of some use. Of
+course, I can see quite plainly that that old
+idiot Mrs. Moriarty is backing you up in all
+your nonsensical fears, but there will soon
+be an end to that. I have engaged a lady
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_106'>106</span>to come and live with you, and give you
+lessons, and knock some sense into your
+head, I hope.’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘A lady to live with me? You have
+found her, then? You meant it?’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Naturally I meant it, and I only hope
+she will be able to show you the folly of
+your ways—a matter in which I have most
+signally failed.’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>Wyndham has worked himself into quite
+a righteous fever of wrath against her.
+Good heavens! what a row there is bound
+to be shortly with his aunt about this
+obstinate recluse! He has gone a little too
+far. The girl turns upon him, gently indeed,
+but with a certain dignity in her air.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘As I have told you, I can always leave
+this,’ says she; ‘but it will be for a place
+where I can live alone, and where I shall
+never have to leave my home, even though
+it be a garret. I—I have thought of a
+convent’—her voice faltering—‘but I am a
+Protestant, and—’ She sighs heavily.
+‘Mr. Wyndham,’ cries she suddenly, ‘why
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_107'>107</span>do you want me to go out—to know people?
+Why?’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>Wyndham, who could have given one very
+excellent reason for his wish, remains determinedly
+silent.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘You see,’ cries she triumphantly, ‘you
+have no reason at all, and I am ever so much
+happier by myself! I don’t say but that, if
+I were somebody else, I should not like to go
+into that garden there’—pointing towards
+the Rectory—‘but as it is, it would frighten
+me to step outside the gate.’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘And how long is this state of things to go
+on?’ asks Wyndham—‘until you are ninety?’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Ah, he can’t live till then,’ says she;
+‘and, besides, long before that I shall be old
+and ugly, and he won’t care. You know’—growing
+crimson—‘what I told you.’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Yes.’ Wyndham frowns. ‘You told me
+enough to know he was a most infernal
+scoundrel.’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘I suppose he is that,’ says she thoughtfully.
+‘Though I don’t think really he would
+ever murder anybody. You see, he didn’t
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_108'>108</span>even murder me. He only wanted to marry
+me! That was what made me so angry. If
+he had made me marry him’—turning to
+Wyndham with a quick, sharp movement—‘you
+think that would mean that I should
+have to live with him always?’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>She pauses as if eager for an answer, and
+when he does not speak, she says imperatively:</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Well?’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>Wyndham nods his head.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘It wouldn’t, however,’ says she with
+angry emphasis. ‘I’d have run away after
+I was married, just the same. Only I
+thought it better to do it before.’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>There is so much force, so much girlish
+venom, in her tone, that Wyndham feels
+inclined to laugh; but the little air mutin
+she has taken sits so curiously, and with
+such an unexpected charm, upon her, that
+somehow his laughter dies within him.
+Something about her now, too, as she stands
+there flushed and defiant, strikes him as
+familiar. Who is she like?</p>
+
+<p class='c004'><span class='pageno' id='Page_109'>109</span>‘For a young lady so very valiant, I
+wonder you are so afraid to face the world,’
+says he gravely.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Ah, I am not afraid of the world, but of
+him!’ says she. ‘And’—she draws closer
+to him, and now all her bravery has died
+away from her, and she looks as greatly in
+want of courage as a mouse—‘I’m afraid
+of this new lady, too! Is she—kind—nice?
+will she—be angry with me sometimes?’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Very likely,’ says Wyndham. He softens
+this disagreeable answer, however, by a smile.
+‘No—you must not be afraid of her. She is
+an old friend of mine, and very charming.
+And she is quite prepared to love you.’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Ah! Then you have said—’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘The very prettiest things of you, of
+course’—sardonically—‘so keep up your
+courage.’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘She will come?’—nervously.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘On Thursday.’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘And you?’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘When you and she have reached the point
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_110'>110</span>of open war, I dare say she will drop me a
+line, to come to her rescue.’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘It will be to mine,’ says she, smiling, but
+very faintly. Tears are in her eyes. ‘You—you
+will come with her, won’t you? Don’t
+let me have to see her alone at first. You
+know her, and I don’t. And you—’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Very well, I’ll bring her,’ says Wyndham,
+with an inward groan. What the deuce is
+going to be the end of it all?</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>He does not leave by the little green gate
+this time, but going down at a swinging pace
+(that has a good deal of temper in it) to the
+principal entrance, meets there with Mrs.
+Moriarty, who has been on the look-out for
+him for the past half-hour.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘An’ did ye hear what happened to Denis,
+yer honour?’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘To Denis?’—abstractedly. Then, recovering
+himself, and with a good deal of his late
+temper still upon him: ‘Of course I’ve been
+wondering all day where he was. Not a soul
+to attend to me. He was drunk, as usual, I
+suppose.’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'><span class='pageno' id='Page_111'>111</span>‘Fegs, you’ve guessed it,’ says Mrs. Moriarty,
+clapping her hands with unbounded
+admiration. ‘Dhrunk he was—the ould
+reprobate!’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Well, I hope he’ll turn up this evening,
+at all events,’ says Wyndham. ‘It is extremely
+uncomfortable, going on like this.
+If he can’t attend to me, I’ll have to get
+another man. I have borne a good deal
+already, and I hope you will let him fully
+understand that if he isn’t at my rooms at
+seven I shall dismiss him.’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘An’ who’d blame ye?’ says Mrs. Moriarty.
+‘Faith, I’ve often thought of dismissing him
+meself. But’—slowly—‘he can’t be at yer
+rooms at seven, yer honour.’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘And why not?’—angrily.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘He’s bruk his arm, sir.’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Broke his arm?’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Just that, sir, bad scran to him! An’
+the docther says he never saw a worse compound
+fraction in his life. ’Twas all through
+Timsey Mooney. Timsey and him’s at war
+for a long time, an’ yestherday Timsey said
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_112'>112</span>he’d break his head, an’ with that Denis said
+he’d have the life ov him; and ’twas the
+divil’s own row they had afther that, only’—with
+a regretful air—‘it was Denis’s arm
+that got bruk, an’ not Timsey’s head.’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘So Denis got his arm broken?’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Yes, sir. An’ that Timsey Mooney as
+sound as iver! Not a scratch on him. I’ve
+alwas tould ye that there’s nayther luck nor
+grace wid Denis. But what am I wastin’
+words on him at all for? ’Tis about the
+young lady I’m curious. She’s to stay,
+sir?’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Yes—yes. I told you that before. And
+I have arranged with a friend of mine, a
+very accomplished lady, to come down here
+and live with her as a companion.’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘A companion is it?’ Mrs. Moriarty
+strokes her beard. ‘She’s been very continted
+wid me,’ says she.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘I dare say. But this lady, Miss Manning,
+is to be a governess to her, to teach her—to
+see to her manners, and—’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘To tache her her manners is it? She’s
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_113'>113</span>got the purtiest manners I ever yet see,’
+says Mrs. Moriarty, with a smothered indignation.
+‘Tache her, indeed!’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>It is plain that Mrs. Moriarty is already
+consumed with the pangs of jealousy.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘She is coming, at all events,’ says Wyndham
+shortly. ‘And I request you will treat
+her with every respect, as one of my oldest
+friends.’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘She’s ould, thin?’—anxiously.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘She is not young.’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>Mrs. Moriarty shakes her head with the
+air of one who would say: ‘We all know
+what that means.’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Is she kind-hearted, sir? Miss Ella is
+terrible timid-like.’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Certainly she is kind. But, of course,
+she will expect “Miss Ella,” as you call her,
+to follow her lead in most ways. I’—with
+meaning—‘shall take care she is not interfered
+with in any way. I hope you quite
+understand all this.’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘I understhand, yer honour. She’s ould
+an’ cross, an’ Miss Ella is to follow her about
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_114'>114</span>everywhere. But’—with a last lingering
+remnant of hope—‘she won’t be comin’ for
+a while, sir, will she?’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘She is coming on Thursday.’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Oh, murther!’ says Mrs. Moriarty <i><span lang="it">sotto
+voce</span></i>, as he shuts the gate behind him.</p>
+
+<div class='chapter'>
+  <span class='pageno' id='Page_115'>115</span>
+  <h2 class='c008'>CHAPTER XXIX.</h2>
+</div>
+<p class='c009'>‘Ther is ful many a man that crieth, “Werre,
+werre,” that wat ful litel what werre amounteth.
+Werre at his begynnyng hath so greet an entre and
+so large, that everywight may entre when him liketh
+and lightly find werre; but certes what ende schal
+falle thereof, it is not lightly to knowe!’</p>
+
+<p class='c010'>‘Nothing will do for these beastly hens, it
+seems, but the garden,’ says Betty indignantly.
+‘Susan, stand there, you—no,
+there!’—gasping.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Oh, they’ve scratched up all the mignonette,’
+cries Susan, rushing to the point
+indicated—an escallonia bush in which three
+culprit hens are lurking. ‘Were there ever
+such wretches? And plenty of food in the
+yard, too! It isn’t as if they were
+starved. Cush! cush! Bother them! They
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_116'>116</span>won’t come out. Have you got a stick,
+Betty?’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Here’s one. I declare I’m out of breath
+from hunting them. And the cock is the
+worst of all. I hope I’ll live to see the broth
+he is made into; not that I’d touch it—it
+would be too full of all malice and bitterness.
+Hi! hi!’ with a frantic dab at the hens with
+her stick beneath the too friendly escallonia—‘there
+is one of them, Susan; run—run to
+the gate! She’s going that way. Ah! you’ve
+got that, any way.’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘That,’ I regret to say, is a stone directed
+with unerring aim by Betty, and received by
+the hen on her shoulder with a shock that
+makes her bound, not only into the air, but
+‘over the garden wall’ and into the yard
+beyond, with a haste that perhaps she calls
+undue. And now Susan has routed out the
+other two, and, with a cackling that would
+rouse the dead, they rush after their companion
+towards that spot in the wall that is
+easiest for the purposes of ingress and egress
+from the yard to the garden. Susan races
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_117'>117</span>after them, ‘shoo-ing’ with all her might,
+generously supported by Betty and her
+shower of small stones. So ardent, so bloodthirsty,
+is the chase, it is matter for wonder
+that the hens, having once gone through
+such an encounter, could ever brave it again.
+But hens are amongst the bravest things
+living—Amazons in their own line. It is
+indeed popularly supposed in our neighbourhood
+that the souls of those defunct termagants
+have entered into them, and, at all
+events, there does not rest a doubt now in
+the minds of Susan and Betty that in half an
+hour’s time those hens will have returned to
+the charge, as fresh as ever.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘We must get a wire netting put up along
+there,’ says Betty angrily. ‘What’s the
+good of our planting seeds and roots and
+things for the amusement of those abominable
+hens? And why should they think there
+are more grubs under a picotee than under a
+common daisy?’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘I wish there was a netting put up,’ says
+Susan, who is distinctly flushed. ‘But who’s
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_118'>118</span>going to do it? Father won’t. Wiring costs
+something, and there would be a good bit of
+it to be put up there’—pointing to the long
+wall.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Maybe Dom would, when he gets his next
+half-year’s allowance.’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘I don’t think you ought to ask him,’ says
+Susan. ‘He is not our brother, you know.’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘He’s nearly as good,’ says Betty.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Still, he isn’t, and I, for one, wouldn’t ask
+him.’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘I would. The only thing is that perhaps
+father wouldn’t like it.’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘I know he wouldn’t.’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘What’s to be done, then? Are we to
+spend our time hunting these blessed hens
+until the day we die? If so’—tragically—‘I
+hope that day will come full soon. Oh, I
+declare, there’s the cock! Run, Susan, run!
+Oh, the villain! the ringleader! Catch him,
+Susan! Oh, there, he’s gone under the
+laurels! Oh, the artful thing!’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘No he isn’t,’ cries Susan; ‘he’s over there,
+near you. I see his leg. This side—this
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_119'>119</span>side, Betty. Ah, now you have him! Hold
+him—hold him tight.’ Betty has caught
+hold of the king of the yard, and is dragging
+him ruthlessly from his hiding-place. There
+are yells from the cock, and muttered execrations
+from Betty. But finally the cock has
+the best of it. With a whir and a whoop
+he makes a last grand sprint, and once again
+knows the splendours of freedom.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>Away he goes down the garden-path, and
+away go the girls after him.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Squawk, squawk, squawk!’ cries the cock;
+and ‘Oh, if I catch you!’ cries Betty, under
+her breath. Her breath is, indeed, running
+very short. Susan’s has given way entirely.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Oh, he is going to the tennis-ground!’
+shrieks Betty distractedly; and, indeed, the
+cock, with a view of circumventing the enemy,
+is making for that broad course.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>At the rustic gateway, however, that leads
+to it from the garden, a third enemy appears
+upon the scene—an enemy that takes off his
+hat, and makes such a magnificent attack
+with it that the cock, disheartened, gives way
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_120'>120</span>in turn, retreats, <i><span lang="fr">chassés</span></i> a little, and finally,
+with a wild skirl, swoops over the garden
+wall after his wives, and is gone.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘It was a famous victory!’ cries Mr. Crosby,
+when the defeat of the cock is beyond doubt.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>He is looking at Susan. Such a lovely,
+flushed, and laughter-filled Susan! A Susan
+with soft locks flying into her beauteous
+eyes. A Susan with soft parted lips, and
+breath coming in little merry gasps.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘You were just in time,’ cries she, running
+up to him, with happy <i><span lang="fr">camaraderie</span></i> in her
+smile. ‘But for you, we should have been
+hunting him all over the place. What lucky
+fortune brought you at this moment?’—smiling
+blandly into his eyes and giving him
+her hand. ‘Just happening to be passing
+by?’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘No, I was coming to see you all,’ says
+Crosby. He has nearly stopped at the
+‘you,’ but she looks so young, so without a
+thought behind her, that he feels it would be
+useless. She would not understand, and even
+if she did it would only annoy her. A girl
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_121'>121</span>of the world—that would be different. She
+would laugh at this suggestion of a flirtation;
+but Susan—</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Well, come and see us all,’ says Betty
+gaily. ‘We’re all round the corner, I fancy.’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>And, indeed, most of them are, the children
+in the far distance chasing butterflies with a
+net just constructed by Dom, whilst he and
+Carew are listening with apparently engrossed
+interest to their aunt, who, with
+curls shaking and an air of general excitement
+about her, is holding forth.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Is that you at last, Susan?’ says she,
+shaking her curls more vigorously than ever.
+‘Where have you been?—How d’ye do, Mr.
+Crosby?—I must say, Susan, you are never
+to be found when wanted.’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘The hens got into the garden,’ begins
+Susan, colouring a little beneath this rebuke
+uttered before Crosby.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Oh, hens! What are hens,’ cries Miss
+Barry tragically, ‘when human beings are
+dying?’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Dying?’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'><span class='pageno' id='Page_122'>122</span>‘Yes. I’ve just been to see poor dear Miss
+Blake, and I really believe she is at death’s
+door.’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Oh, I am sorry!’ says Susan.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘She’s been at that uncomfortable portal
+for the past year,’ says Betty, with distinct
+scorn. ‘In my opinion, it would take a lot
+of pushing to make her pass it.’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Elizabeth, this frivolity is absolutely disgraceful,’
+says Miss Barry, directing a withering
+glance at Betty, who, it must be said,
+bears up beneath it with the utmost fortitude.
+‘Dr. Mulcahy was with her. I’ve always
+thought him a distinctly vulgar person, and
+really, after what he said of poor Miss Blake
+to-day, I feel justified in my opinion.’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘What did he say, auntie?’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘I hardly like to repeat it. An insult to
+a poor dying creature seems impossible,
+doesn’t it, Mr. Crosby? But I heard him
+myself. After all, why should not I speak?
+One ought to expose monsters. My dear’—to
+Susan—‘Lady Millbank had called to ask
+how Miss Blake was—at least, I suppose
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_123'>123</span>it was for that purpose—but she mumbles so,
+on account of those false teeth of hers, no
+doubt, that I scarcely heard what she was
+saying. But I did hear what Dr. Mulcahy
+said to her a moment afterwards. He was
+speaking of poor dear Kate Blake, and I
+distinctly heard him say she was “low”!’
+Miss Barry pauses dramatically, but, beyond
+a smothered sound from Dom, nothing is
+heard.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Aren’t you shocked, Susan, or must I
+believe that the young people of this generation
+are devoid of feeling. A Mulcahy to
+call a Blake “low”! It struck me as so
+abominable a piece of impertinence that I
+went away on the instant. I don’t know, of
+course, how Lady Millbank took it, but I
+hope she put down that insolent man without
+hesitation. Fancy a Blake being called
+“low”! Why, poor dear Kate! she is as
+well born as ourselves.’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘But, auntie—’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Nonsense, my dear! Don’t talk to me.
+You children would find an excuse for anyone.’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'><span class='pageno' id='Page_124'>124</span>‘It was only that I think he meant that
+she was not so very well—’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Born? Not so well born as the rest of
+us? You must be mad, Susan! A creature
+like Dr. Mulcahy to talk of birth at all
+is absurd. Why, his father was a draper in
+Dublin. But that he should cavil at Kate
+Blake’s birth is outrageous. Why, the
+Blakes—’ She stops, as if overcome by
+wrath, and Dom takes up the parable.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘I thought you knew, Susan,’ says he
+reproachfully, but in a cautious tone, heard
+only by the youngsters of the party, ‘that it
+was poor Miss Blake’s forefather who planted
+that tree of good and evil over which Adam
+came such a cropper.’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>After this it is a relief to everybody when
+Miss Barry, with a singularly brief farewell
+to Crosby, betakes herself to the house. It
+is quite as well she has gone so soon, as Carew
+and Dominick were in the last stages of convulsive
+laughter, and could not certainly
+have held out much longer.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘I say, isn’t Aunt Jemima a regular corker?’
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_125'>125</span>says Dom presently, addressing everybody in
+general.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘She didn’t understand,’ says Susan, who
+feels a little sorry that her aunt should
+appear in so poor a light before a man like
+Crosby, who is, of course, accustomed to a
+fashionable world and its ways.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘I think she has a very kind heart,’ says
+he promptly, seeing her distress and smothering
+the laughter that is consuming him. ‘Of
+course, she had no idea that the doctor was
+alluding to Miss Blake’s state of health.’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘You knew,’ says Susan, with a touch of
+indignation, turning to Carew. ‘Why didn’t
+you make it clear to her?’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Why, indeed?’ retorts he. ‘You tried to
+do it, and how did you come off? Catch me
+explaining her mistakes to Aunt Jemima.
+More kicks than ha’pence for my pains.’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>Bonnie has come over to Susan, and, casting
+his crutches aside, has slipped into her
+arms, his head upon her knee—a head that
+she strokes softly, softly, until at last the
+little lad falls fast asleep.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'><span class='pageno' id='Page_126'>126</span>‘He had such a bad night,’ says Susan, as
+Crosby now comes up and seats himself
+beside her.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘I expect that means that you had a bad
+night too.’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Oh no’—reddening—‘I—I’m all right.
+But he—’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘It seems absurd,’ says Crosby suddenly,
+‘that a child like that should be a prey to
+rheumatism? Are you sure the doctors have
+told you all the truth?’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘I think so.’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘But are they reliable authorities?’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘I’m afraid so,’ says Susan, sighing. ‘But’—gently—‘don’t
+let me trouble you with
+our sorrows; tell me of yourself. Your sister
+is coming, you say.’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘For my birthday. Yes, next month.’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Your birthday?’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘I told you, didn’t I? It will be in a few
+days now.’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘A few days!’ Susan’s voice is low, as
+usual, but primed with a curiosity that she
+has much difficulty in suppressing.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'><span class='pageno' id='Page_127'>127</span>‘The third of August. It always makes
+me feel like Ah Sin, Bret Harte’s Chinee—soft,
+you know. Katherine is coming for the
+great occasion. That’s my sister’s name,
+Katherine. You will like her, I think.’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Is she like you?’ asks Susan.</p>
+
+<div class='chapter'>
+  <span class='pageno' id='Page_128'>128</span>
+  <h2 class='c008'>CHAPTER XXX.</h2>
+</div>
+<div class='lg-container-b c011'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line in16'>‘Ask not her name:</div>
+      <div class='line'>The light winds whisper it on every hand.’</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<p class='c010'>‘Not a bit,’ says he, shaking his head.
+‘Just the reverse. She is young and
+skittish, whilst I am old and dull.’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Not dull,’ says Susan.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Lazy, then. That comes of age, too, you
+know.’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘You weren’t too lazy to hunt the hens
+just now,’ says Susan, as if combating some
+disagreeable remembrances; ‘and you weren’t
+too lazy to mount a ladder a month or
+so ago.’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Ah, Susan, that’s unkind! You shouldn’t
+hold up my past misdeeds to me. If you do,
+I’ll hold up your indiscretions to you—your
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_129'>129</span>lengthened conversation with a thief, for
+example. You know you did think me a
+thief then.’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>Susan makes a gesture.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Oh yes, you did; there is no getting out
+of that. You even made me promise never
+to steal again. And I haven’t, not so much
+as the proverbial pin. That’s good of me,
+isn’t it? Shows signs of grace, eh? Really,
+Susan, I think you might say something.
+Give me one word of encouragement. But
+perhaps you don’t believe in my reformation.
+I know ever since that day when I was
+stealing the cherries you have had the lowest
+opinion of me.’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘I wish you wouldn’t talk like that,’ says
+Susan, her charming brows drawing together;
+‘it is very stupid of you, and you know you
+don’t mean a word of it. Stealing! How
+could you steal your own cherries? What
+nonsense it all is! If you have nothing
+better to say than that, you’—with a
+sudden and most unusual discourtesy—‘had
+better go away.’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'><span class='pageno' id='Page_130'>130</span>‘Never; wild horses wouldn’t draw me
+from this,’ says Crosby. ‘I’ll say something
+“better” at once. I’m sure you have
+the highest opinion of me. Will that do,
+and may I stay now?’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>Susan gives him a glance from under her
+long lashes that is still a little resentful—a
+very little—but she says nothing.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Must I go, then?’ says Crosby. ‘I
+wouldn’t have believed it of you, Susan, to
+send a poor lonely creature adrift like this.’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘You are not so very lonely,’ says she.
+She gives him another lovely, half-angry
+glance.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘I am indeed. There is not a soul to
+speak to me when I go back to my silent
+home, and hours must elapse before I can
+with any decency go to bed. Susan, be
+merciful. Let me stay here and talk to you
+of—’ He stops.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Of what?’ says Susan, still eminently
+distrustful. ‘What are you going to talk
+about? That last thing—’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘I’ll never mention cherries again.’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'><span class='pageno' id='Page_131'>131</span>‘You must keep to that. And now’—lifting
+her face and smiling at him in a little
+fugitive way—‘go on about your sister. You
+haven’t told me anything about her except
+her name. Katherine, is it not?’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Katherine Forster.’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Mrs. Forster?’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘No, Lady Forster. She married one of
+the Forsters of Berkshire. The eldest one,
+George Forster, is a very good chap; you’ll
+like him too.’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>Susan had grown thoughtful. Dim recollections
+of the Forsters as being extraordinarily
+wealthy people have come home
+to her.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘I think I told you that Katherine is
+coming here to celebrate my birthday?’ says
+Crosby.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Yes; but your birthday—when is it?’
+asks Susan, anxious to know when these
+alarming visitors are to arrive.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘The third of August. Didn’t I tell you?
+Katherine likes to think she is coming here
+to do me honour on that day; that’s how
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_132'>132</span>she puts it in words. To turn my house
+upside down, however, is what she really
+means. But I submit. The old house will
+stand it. She isn’t half bad, really, and
+certainly not more than half mad. I think
+I told you you would like her?’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Yes,’ says Susan, who has begun to quake
+at the brother’s description of his sister.
+‘And she will be here—’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘In about ten days’ time. George—that’s
+her husband—is a first-class shot, and this
+place has been pretty well preserved, in spite
+of its absentee landlord. I hope he will enjoy
+himself. Katherine is bringing a lot of her
+friends with her.’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Hers?’ Susan’s tone is a little faint. If
+only this big society dame’s friends—what
+is going to happen? Mr. Crosby is so kind
+that he will be sure to make his sister ask
+her up to the Hall. And how could she
+(Susan) hold her own with these clever
+people of the world, people who—</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>Crosby breaks into her silent fears.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Hers principally; but some of them are
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_133'>133</span>mine, too, in a way. I really am so little at
+home that I haven’t time to cultivate lifelong
+friendships; but Lady Muriel Kennedy I
+have known all my life, and liked. I hope’—suddenly—‘when
+Katherine comes, you
+will spare her a little of your time.’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘You are very kind. If you would care to
+have me,’ falters Susan disjointedly. Her
+eyes are on the ground. To spare Lady
+Forster a little of her time! As if Lady
+Forster would even care to know her! How
+could she (Susan) make herself at home with
+people like that—people who had lived in
+fashionable circles all their days—frivolous
+people like Lady Forster, and lovely people
+like Lady Muriel Kennedy? Had he called
+Lady Muriel lovely?</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘That is begging the question,’ says he,
+laughing. ‘Who wouldn’t care to have you?
+How silent you are, Susan! Not a word
+out of you. I’ll begin to think you are in
+love presently. People in love are always
+silent, dwelling on the beloved absent, no
+doubt.’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'><span class='pageno' id='Page_134'>134</span>‘I am not in love,’ says Susan, with
+singular distinctness.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Not even with “James”? I forget his
+other name. He would be a beloved absent,
+wouldn’t he?’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Absent or present, he would not be beloved
+by me,’ says Susan calmly. She pauses.
+Her head is slightly turned from Crosby, so
+that only the perfect profile can be seen.
+The fingers of her right hand are lying
+tenderly on Bonnie’s sleeping head. The
+fingers of the left are plucking idly at the
+grass by her side.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>All at once she turns her glance straight
+on Crosby.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Were you ever in love?’ asks she.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Susan,’ says Crosby seriously, ‘I don’t
+think you ought to spring things upon one
+like that. My heart may be weak, for all
+you know; and, really, I begin to think of
+late that it is.’ He pauses. Susan remaining
+sternly unsympathetic, however, over
+this leading speech, he goes on. ‘What was
+your question?’ asks he.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'><span class='pageno' id='Page_135'>135</span>This sounds like basest subterfuge, and
+Susan casts a glance of scorn at him.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘I asked you if you had ever been in love.
+Please don’t answer if you don’t want to.
+After all, I am sure I should not have asked
+you.’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘You can ask me anything you like,’ says
+Crosby with resignation. ‘Yours is to command,
+mine to obey. Yes’—comfortably, if
+surreptitiously, disposing himself on the tail
+of Susan’s gown—‘I acknowledge it. I have
+had my little disappointment. It was a
+frightful affair. I don’t believe anyone was
+ever so much in love as I was—then. I was
+just twenty-one, and she was just—something
+or other. It’s bad to remember a
+lady’s age. Any way, I know I loved her—I
+loved her,’ says Crosby, rising now to tragedy,
+‘like anything. I can’t even at this hour
+speak of it without tears.’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Oh, nonsense! you’re laughing,’ says
+Susan, with fine disgust.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘I am not, indeed. It is hysterics. If
+only you had gone through half what I have,
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_136'>136</span>I might expect a little sympathy from you.
+However, to continue. She was lovely,
+Susan, and she was tall—taller than you.
+She had coal-black eyes, and a nose that I
+have always considered Roman. I adored
+her. I used to walk about o’ nights looking
+at the moon (when there was one), and telling
+myself it was the image of her.’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘The image of her! I must say I think
+you were hardly complimentary,’ says Susan,
+who seems to be on the look-out for slips.
+‘There is nothing in the moon but a man,
+and a hideous one too—just like the clown at
+the circus.’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘True’—reflectively. ‘Then it couldn’t
+have been the moon I compared her to.
+Perhaps’—thoughtfully—‘it was a star.
+Ah!’—joyfully—‘that’s it—my own particular
+star. See?’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘No,’ says Susan contemptuously; and
+then: ‘I don’t believe you ever compared
+her to anything.’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘I did—I did indeed, even quite lately,’
+says Crosby. But this ambiguous speech
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_137'>137</span>receiving no recognition, he goes on: ‘If,
+as your contemptuous silence evidently
+means, Susan, you think me incapable of
+love, you are greatly in the wrong. I assure
+you I did compare her to that star. There
+was one special one; but somehow I can’t
+find it lately. It must have been removed, I
+think. And besides the star, I remember
+quite well being under a hallucination that
+led me to believe that the wettest day under
+heaven was full of sunshine when she was
+present; and that when she wasn’t present,
+no matter how brilliant the sky might be,
+that the sun never shone. Come, now,
+Susan; be just. That was real love, wasn’t
+it?’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘I really don’t know,’ says Susan. There
+is a slight pause; then: ‘Go on.’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Go on?’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Did she die?’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Die? Not much,’ says Crosby cheerfully.
+‘Though of course’—relapsing into very suspicious
+gloom—‘she was dead to me. She’—with
+deep melancholy—‘thought I couldn’t
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_138'>138</span>furnish a house up to her form, so she threw
+me over.’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘What an odious girl!’ says Susan. For
+the first time a spark of sorrow for him
+lights her eyes. She flushes softly with
+most genuine indignation. Crosby looks
+at her.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘She was a very pretty girl,’ says he.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘For all that’—quickly—‘you must hate
+her.’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘On the contrary, I think I love her.’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Still?’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>Susan’s face grows disdainful.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Even more than ever I did.’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘You are very constant.’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘That’s the first compliment you ever paid
+me. But to end my tale—I saw her in town
+last March.’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Yes?’ Susan has lifted her flower-like
+face, and is gazing at him.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘You met her? And she—she—’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Was a widow.’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘A widow; and so you and she.... It is
+quite a romance!’ says Susan, in her soft
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_139'>139</span>voice, speaking hurriedly, almost stammering,
+indeed, in what is perhaps her joyful
+excitement over this beautiful ending to a
+sad love-story. ‘And she was as beautiful
+as ever?’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Well, hardly,’ said Crosby slowly, as if
+recalling a late picture to mind. ‘She is
+now, I am sorry to say, all angles. She was
+once plump. Her nose struck me as anything
+but Roman now; and her eyes were
+blacker than ever—I wonder who blacks
+them?’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Yet when you saw her, you must have
+thought of the past. You must have—’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘You are quite right: I thought strongly
+of the past. I thought of nothing else. I
+said to myself: “At this moment this woman
+might have been your wife, but for—” I
+forget the rest—I believe I fainted. When
+I recovered I knew I loved her as I had never
+loved her before. She had refused me!’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘I suppose that’s what people call cynicism?’
+says Susan, regarding him with open
+distrust.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'><span class='pageno' id='Page_140'>140</span>‘I don’t know what any other fellow would
+call it,’ says Crosby mildly. ‘I only know
+that I call it a blessed relief. I felt quite
+kindly towards her, and went forthwith and
+bought her tickets for something or other,
+and sent them to her with a line, saying I
+was going to Africa for ten years. But
+there’s no more animosity. I look upon her
+now as a woman who has done me a really
+good turn.’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘I don’t think,’ says Susan, with sweet
+seriousness, ‘that you ought to speak of her
+like that. I dare say she was really very
+fond of you, but if you were both very poor
+how could you be married?’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Is that the view you take of it?’ says
+Crosby. ‘What a mercenary one! And
+from a child like you! Susan, I’m ashamed
+of you!’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Oh no, you know what I mean,’ says
+Susan, blushing divinely whilst making her
+defence. ‘There might be unkind people
+behind her, you know, forbidding her to
+marry you.’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'><span class='pageno' id='Page_141'>141</span>Crosby stops, and his thoughts run swiftly
+to the mysterious ‘James.’ Were there unkind
+people behind her when that gallant
+youth declared his passion?</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Might there? And if there were, should
+she listen, do you think?’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Ah, some would,’ says Susan, speaking
+out of the great wealth of worldly lore that
+can be gathered from eighteen years of life.
+‘But others’—thoughtfully—‘wouldn’t.’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘To which section do you belong?’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Oh, me! I don’t know,’ says Susan, growing
+suddenly very shy. ‘I shouldn’t do anything—I—I
+should wait.’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Would you?’ says Crosby. There is
+something in the girl’s soft young face, now
+lowered and turned from him, so full of gentle
+strength that he wonders at it. Yes, she
+would wait for her lad—‘Though father, an’
+mither, an’ a’ should go mad.’ Is she waiting
+for James?</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘I’m afraid, after all, I must destroy your
+illusion,’ says he presently. ‘I don’t think
+she could have been in love with me. Not
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_142'>142</span>overpoweringly, I mean. She had a little
+money of her own, and I had a little of
+mine, so that we should not have been altogether
+paupers. But she was dreadfully
+addicted to diamonds, and man milliners, and
+bibelots of all kinds. I have other reasons,
+too, Susan, for thinking she did not really
+love me. She never gave me a keepsake!
+Now you—you have had a keepsake.’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Mr. Crosby!’ Susan’s face is crimson.
+‘I wish—’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘I know. I beg your pardon. Of course
+I should not have mentioned it. But you
+and I are old friends now, Susan; and somehow
+it is permissible for me to confide to you
+the hollow fact that no one ever gave me a
+silver brooch with—’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>Susan lifts Bonnie’s head gently, and shows
+a dignified, but most determined, desire to rise.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Don’t,’ says Crosby quickly. ‘You’ll
+wake him.’ He points to Bonnie’s lovely
+little head, and Susan pauses in her flight.
+‘Besides, I shan’t say another word—not
+one. I swear it. What I really wanted
+was your compassion. I have never had
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_143'>143</span>a keepsake given me in all my life, save
+one.’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Surely one is enough,’ says Susan slowly.
+Curiosity, after a moment, overcomes her
+dignity, and she says unwillingly: ‘Is it a
+nice one?’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘I desire no nicer,’ says he. He pulls his
+watch from his pocket, and on the chain close
+to it—on a tiny silver ring of its own—hangs
+a silver sixpence.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘That! Only a sixpence!’ Susan’s voice
+is rather uncertain. What sixpence is that?
+She—she didn’t— ‘Of course,’ says she, ‘I
+know a broken sixpence is a very usual thing
+between lovers. But this— It is not
+broken, and—and not old, either. I must
+say when she gave you a keepsake she—’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘She hardly gave it,’ says Crosby. ‘She
+only laid it on the last rung of a ladder that
+led up to some—’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>That sentence is never finished. Bonnie’s
+head is now lying on Susan’s rug. But Susan
+herself is already far over there, her head
+very high indeed, and her rage and her indignation
+even higher.</p>
+
+<div class='chapter'>
+  <span class='pageno' id='Page_144'>144</span>
+  <h2 class='c008'>CHAPTER XXXI.</h2>
+</div>
+<div class='lg-container-b c011'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line in6'>‘My love is like the sky—</div>
+      <div class='line in6'>As distant and as high.</div>
+      <div class='line'>Perchance she’s fair and kind and bright,</div>
+      <div class='line'>Perchance she’s stormy, tearful quite—</div>
+      <div class='line in6'>Alas! I scarce know why.’</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<p class='c010'>‘Is this Susan?’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>Crosby, standing at the little gate leading
+into the Rectory garden, feels a spasm of
+doubt. He has come down this morning to
+make it up with her, as the children say,
+after that slight quarrel of yester eve—a
+quarrel that was all on her side. Her remorseless
+refusal to bid him good-bye had
+left him a little desolate.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>Is that really the sedate Susan, that
+slender nymph flying over there in the
+distance—racing, rather—with Tommy, as a
+willing prey, running before her?</p>
+
+<p class='c004'><span class='pageno' id='Page_145'>145</span>Crosby has, through time, grown accustomed
+to think of Susan as a demure maiden,
+slightly Puritan in type, though no doubt
+with a latent wilfulness lying beneath the
+calm exterior. But now that the latent wilfulness
+has broken loose, he finds himself unprepared
+for it. Susan running there in the
+sunshine, with her hair, apparently just out of
+the tub and hardly yet dry, floating behind
+her, is another creature altogether. And
+such hair, too! Such glorious waves on
+waves glinting golden in the sun’s bright
+rays, with Susan’s face peeping out of it now
+and then. How wild, how mad, how soft, the
+bright hair looks, and how sweet are the
+ringing cries that come from Susan’s parted
+lips!</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘The bear has you, Tommy. He’s coming.
+He’—making a dab at the excited Tommy—‘will
+have you soon. In another moment
+he’ll be on you, tearing you—’ Quite a
+sprint here on the part of Tommy, and increased
+speed accordingly on Susan’s part.
+‘And his claws are sharp—sharp!’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'><span class='pageno' id='Page_146'>146</span>Tommy, in his flight, turns terrified eyes
+on Susan over his shoulder.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Oh, Susan, don’t, don’t!’ shrieks he, filled
+with joy and terror. The terror constitutes
+three-fourths of the joy. And now he flies
+again for his life, the deadly bear, the ruthless
+pursuer, dashing after him with relentless
+energy.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>Crosby, watching, tells himself, with a
+somewhat grim smile, that it is Tommy
+alone who would flee from such a delightful
+enemy. Perhaps his thoughts are touched
+with a tinge of disappointment at finding
+Susan in this mad mood. Yesterday she had
+seemed to him angered and disturbed when
+she left him so abruptly; and he had gone
+home with a growing sense of contrition
+strong upon him. It had been strong enough
+to bring him down this morning with half a
+dozen apologies, to find that she has forgotten
+all about this offence and—him.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>Here lies the real sting. The Susan he
+had imagined as being a little out of joint
+with her world—just a very little daintily
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_147'>147</span>offended with him—is not the Susan who is
+here now, and who is running round the
+garden in merry pursuit of her little brother,
+with her eyes gleaming like diamonds, and
+evidently as gay as a lark.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>She is close on Tommy now. She has put
+out a hand to grasp him, but Tommy is full
+of enterprise, doubles like a hare, and is now
+rushing frantically towards the gate on
+which Crosby is leaning.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>This brings Susan, who is still in hot pursuit
+of him, with her face towards Crosby.
+Now more distinctly he can see her. What
+a lovely, perfect child she is, with her
+loose hair floating behind her, like that of
+the immortal ‘Damosel,’ and the little soft
+gasping laughs coming from her open lips!
+<i><span lang="fr">Joie de vivre</span></i> is written in every line of
+her face and every curve of her lissom body.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>All at once, even as he watches her, this
+joy dies out of her face. ‘She has seen me,’
+says Crosby to himself; and forthwith he
+opens the gate and advances towards her.
+Tommy, in his race, has reached him, and
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_148'>148</span>now, breathless, flings himself into his arms,
+turning to look, with affected fright, at the
+coming of Susan.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>It is a very slow coming, and has evidently
+something to do with her hair—as can be
+seen through the branches of a big escallonia
+on Crosby’s left. He determines to give her
+time to struggle with that beautiful hair.
+‘Tommy, you ought to fall on the gravel and
+embrace your preserver’s knees,’ says he. ‘I
+have evidently saved you from an untimely
+death, if all I heard was true. I think, however,
+that you might have warned me that
+bears were about.’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>He is quite conscious, whilst speaking, that
+Susan is still making frantic, but ineffectual,
+efforts to do up her hair; so he goes on.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Where’s your particular bear?’ asks he.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Here,’ says Susan, as she steps in the
+most unexpected fashion from behind the
+tree. He can see that she is greatly disconcerted,
+and that she would never have
+come from behind it if remaining there
+was any longer possible. But she had seen
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_149'>149</span>and heard him, as he had seen and heard
+her.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>She advances now, her expression cold and
+unkindly, and her hands still struggling with
+her hair, in her desire to reduce it to some
+sort of reason.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Why trouble yourself about it?’ says
+Crosby. ‘It is the prettiest thing I ever
+saw as it is.’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘It is not pretty to me,’ says Susan crushingly.
+Her arms are still above her head,
+and, as she speaks to him, she weaves into a
+superb coil the loose strands of her soft hair.
+In spite of this, however, the little locks
+around her brows, loosened and softened by
+the late washing, are straying wildly, flying
+here and there of their own sweet will, and
+making an aureole round Susan’s head, out of
+which her eyes gleam at Crosby with anything
+but friendship in them.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘How d’ye do?’ says he blandly.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘How d’ye do?’ says Susan in return.
+She lets her hand rest in his for the barest
+moment, then withdraws it.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'><span class='pageno' id='Page_150'>150</span>Crosby regards her reproachfully. ‘You
+are angry with me still,’ says he. ‘And after
+a whole night of reflection.’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘I am not angry at all,’ says Susan. ‘Why
+should you think so?’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Yes, you are,’ says Crosby. ‘I can see it
+in your eyes. Your very hair is bristly.
+And all because—’ He stops, as if afraid
+to go on.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Because what?’ asks Susan, with a touch
+of severity.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Because I once got sixpence out of you!’
+He is not able to resist it.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Tommy,’ says Susan, ‘your collar is dirty,
+and you must come back to the house with
+me to get another.’ As she speaks she
+catches Tommy, who has not yet got to the
+years of civilization, and who hates clean
+collars, and prepares to march him off.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Tommy,’ says Mr. Crosby, ‘wait a minute;
+your sister won’t, but perhaps you will.
+There is a photographer in town to-day; he
+has come down from Dublin. And your aunt
+says she would like to have some of you
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_151'>151</span>photographed.’ Here there is a distinct
+slowing in Susan’s march past, though she
+disdains to turn her head, or show further
+mark of interest. ‘Don’t you want to be
+photographed, Tommy? I do, badly.’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘What is it?’ asks Tommy, whose views
+of amusement as a rule mean lollipops, and
+those only, and who has no knowledge of
+cameras or kodaks.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘It’s painful, as a rule,’ says Crosby. ‘But
+children seldom suffer. It’s only people of
+my age who come out with their noses
+twisted. Did you ever have your nose
+twisted, Tommy? It hurts awfully, I can tell
+you. But’—with a glance at Susan—‘other
+things hurt worse. You ought to speak to
+Susan, Tommy—to tell her that prolonged
+cruelty sometimes ends in the death of the
+victim.’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>At this Susan faces round. ‘What I
+think is,’ says she, ‘that you ought to give
+me back that horrid sixpence.’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘It isn’t horrid.’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘You should give it back, at all events.’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'><span class='pageno' id='Page_152'>152</span>‘Oh, Susan, anything but that—my life
+even.’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘What’—with mounting indignation—‘can
+you want it for, except to annoy me?’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Is thy servant a slave? I want it as a
+memento of the only occasion on record on
+which I was called a “kind, kind man,” and
+a “good” and an “honest” one besides.
+You did call me all that, Susan. And yet,
+now—’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>Heaven alone knows what would have
+been the end of all this, but for the providential
+appearance of Miss Barry and Betty
+upon the scene.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘My dear Susan, have you heard? But,
+of course, Mr. Crosby has told you. Good
+gracious! what is the matter with your head,
+child?’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>And, indeed, Susan’s hair has again found
+freedom, and is flowing down her back in
+happy, shining waves.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘I have just washed it,’ says Susan shamefacedly.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘An admirable deed,’ says Miss Barry, who
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_153'>153</span>is in too great a state of delight to lecture
+with her usual fluency, and who, indeed, feels
+inclined to be lenient. ‘But you should not
+come into publicity, my dear child, until it is
+dry and carefully dressed again. However’—beaming
+upon Crosby, who begins to quite
+like her—‘youth will be youth, you know.
+And what do you think, Susan? There is a
+man down from the best photographer’s in
+Dublin—from Chancellor’s, I believe. And
+I am thinking of having our pictures taken,
+if only to send some copies to your uncle
+in Australia—my brother, you know, my
+dear. He will be so pleased to get them;
+and, really, it is a grand opportunity. Of
+course, you, Mr. Crosby, have had yours
+taken in every quarter of the globe, but we
+country mice seldom get the chance of seeing
+ourselves as others see us.’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘I haven’t been photographed for quite ten
+years,’ says Crosby, ‘and I feel now as if it
+were my duty to sit again. Miss Barry, if
+you are going to be photographed to-day, will
+you take me under your wing?’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'><span class='pageno' id='Page_154'>154</span>‘I shall be pleased indeed,’ says Miss Barry,
+with much dignity.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Won’t it be fun!’ cries Betty, clapping
+her hands.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘And the hour?’ asks Crosby.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘About two. What do you think, Susan?
+Two would be a good hour, eh?’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Yes, a good hour,’ says Susan, without
+interest. Then, suddenly: ‘Is—are you
+going to have Bonnie taken?’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘My dear Susan’—Miss Barry flushes the
+dull pink of the old when shamed—‘why
+should we send all our pictures to your uncle
+at once? It—it would probably confuse him.
+Another time we may think of that,’ says
+Miss Barry, who has counted up all her available
+shillings this morning, to see if it would
+be possible to send all the children, but had
+found they fell decidedly short. She would
+have died, however, rather than confess this
+to a stranger. ‘Just mine and yours, and—but
+I am afraid your father will never consent
+to be taken—and Betty’s and Carew’s—just
+the eldest ones. You can see, Mr.
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_155'>155</span>Crosby, that just the eldest ones will be
+those most acceptable to their uncle.’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Yes, I see,’ says Crosby. He has seen it
+all, indeed. As if in a dream, Miss Barry’s
+purse has been laid open to him and the contents
+made bare. The two shillings for herself,
+and the two for Susan, and for Betty,
+and for Carew—eight shillings in all—and
+after that nothing. He has seen, too, the
+pride of the poor lady, who would not acknowledge
+the want of means wherewith to
+provide photos of the younger children for
+their uncle abroad, but put her objection to
+their being taken on the grounds of their
+youth. He has seen, too, Susan’s face as she
+hears that Bonnie is not to be taken. Oh,
+the quick, pained disappointment of it!</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘At two, then,’ says he, ‘we shall meet at
+the photographer’s.’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Yes; two sharp,’ says Miss Barry, who
+seems quite excited. ‘Susan, I think I shall
+wear my new lace cap.’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘I think you ought to wear your hair just
+as it is now,’ says Crosby to Susan in a low
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_156'>156</span>tone, as he bids her good-bye. It is impossible
+for her to refuse him her hand with
+her aunt looking on; and though Crosby is
+aware of this, it is to his shame, I confess,
+that he takes it and holds it in a warm clasp
+before he lets it go.</p>
+
+<div class='chapter'>
+  <span class='pageno' id='Page_157'>157</span>
+  <h2 class='c008'>CHAPTER XXXII.</h2>
+</div>
+<div class='lg-container-b c011'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>‘But I know best where wringeth me my shoe.’</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<p class='c010'>‘Betty, was I looking frightful?’ asks
+Susan, drawing her sister away as soon as
+Crosby is out of sight. ‘Tell me quite the
+truth. Don’t gloss things over just to please
+me.’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘I won’t,’ says Betty, giggling. ‘I’ll be as
+honest as the sun. You looked’—pausing
+wickedly—‘something between Meg Merrilees
+and a wild Indian, with a bias toward
+the latter. But that needn’t put you out.
+He’s accustomed to wild Indians; and when
+one has lived with people fifty years or so,
+one gets to admire them. I shouldn’t wonder
+if he admired you. You must have taken
+him back to the good old days. Why didn’t
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_158'>158</span>you sing “Way down upon the Swannee
+River” for him? That would have finished
+the conquest.’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘You don’t seem to know what wild
+Indians are,’ Susan remonstrates calmly.
+‘They live in North America, and couldn’t
+sing a nigger song to save their lives. You
+don’t seem to know, either, that it was in
+Africa that Mr. Crosby spent most of his
+time, and that the blacks there aren’t
+niggers at all.’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Oh, it’s all the same,’ says Betty airily.
+‘A black’s a black for a’ that; and if they
+don’t sing one thing, they sing another. And
+any way, I could see by the gleam in Mr.
+Crosby’s eye, as he looked at you and your
+flowing locks, that he loves wildness in every
+form.’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>Susan is silent for a time; then:</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Betty’—in a low tone—‘how old do you
+think he is?’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘I don’t think he has beaten Methuselah
+yet, if you mean that.’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘No; but really, I mean how old, eh?’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'><span class='pageno' id='Page_159'>159</span>‘Well’—carefully—‘allowing him the fifty
+years he spent with his blacks, and the fact
+that he told us that he started at twenty-three
+on an adventurous career, he must be
+now well into the seventies.’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>Susan’s laugh—so evidently expected here—sounds
+to herself a little forced, though
+why she could not have explained.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Oh, not so old as that!’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Well, perhaps not, by a year or so,’ says
+Betty, as if determined on being absolutely
+fair and accurate to a fraction.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Do you know,’ says Susan, a little reluctantly,
+but as though she must say it, ‘I—of
+course, I know he is ever so much older
+than any of us, but, for all that, somehow, he
+doesn’t seem to me to be—well, old, you
+know.’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>Betty nods, and Susan, encouraged by
+this treacherous sign, rashly takes a further
+step.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘It has even sometimes seemed to me,’
+says she nervously, ‘that he is quite young.’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘That reminds me of something I read this
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_160'>160</span>morning,’ says Betty, who is beginning to
+enjoy herself. ‘It ran like this: “On the
+whole, I consider him one of the youngest
+men of my acquaintance.”’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Where did you read that?’ asks Susan,
+with open suspicion.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘In a book’—smartly.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Well, I suppose so. And what book, and
+who said it?’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘A frisky duchess.’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘She was young, of course?’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Not very,’ Betty grins. ‘Eighty-two
+or thereabouts.’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Oh, well, then, no doubt she was alluding
+to a mere boy of her acquaintance.’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Not at all. To another frisky person of
+the opposite sex—a young thing of one
+hundred and five or so.’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘What do you mean, Betty? You don’t
+suppose that Mr. Crosby is a hundred and
+five or so?’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘I don’t indeed. I put him in the seventies,
+if you remember. That would make him
+quite a babe to the duchess I speak of.
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_161'>161</span>She said her centenarian had the brightest,
+the most engaging manners, and, of course,
+that reminded me of Mr. Cros— Where
+are you going now, Susan?’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘I want to put fresh cuffs on Bonnie’s
+shirts,’ says Susan. Her tone is a little
+reserved, and there is a deepening of dignity
+in the delicate lightness of her steps, as she
+turns away, that tells Betty she is in some
+way offended.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>Betty, stricken, but with a conscience clear,
+runs after her and tucks her arm into hers.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Have I vexed you?’ asks she.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Vexed me?’ Susan’s tone is rather
+exaggerated. ‘No. How could you have
+vexed me?’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘That’s true,’ says Betty comfortably, who
+never gets deeper than the actual moment.
+‘Then I’ll come with you.’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘But why should I bring you in?’ asks
+Susan, who has a new queer fancy to be
+alone.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘To do your hair, for one thing,’ says the
+tease of the family with delightful <i><span lang="fr">bonhomie</span></i>.
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_162'>162</span>‘Really, Susan, you can’t appear in public
+like this twice; and you know we are going
+to be photographed in— What is the
+hour now? Good gracious! it’s growing
+very late. We must run. Bonnie’s shirts
+can’t be done to-day, but I’ll help you with
+them to-morrow. Oh, there’s auntie—’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Susan, you must make haste,’ cries Miss
+Barry, hurrying round the corner. ‘There is
+no time to be lost. And, my dear, your
+hair! How fortunate you washed it to-day!
+When neatly done up it will look beautiful.
+Betty, I have been thinking of having you
+taken with your hat on. Your best hat—’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Oh, auntie!’ says poor Betty.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘No; well, perhaps not. What do you
+think, Susan?’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘I think she would look nicer without it,’
+says Susan, in answer to an agonized glance
+from Betty. ‘And you, auntie? I think
+we ought to put a fresh bow in your cap;
+that side one is always falling down. You
+have a little bit of ribbon, haven’t you?’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Yes, I think so; in the top drawer,’ says
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_163'>163</span>Miss Barry. ‘Susan’—suddenly—‘how could
+you ask such an uncomfortable question
+before Mr. Crosby!’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘What question?’ asks Susan, turning very
+red.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Why, as to whether I was going to have
+Bonnie photographed. I was quite taken
+aback,’ says Miss Barry, shaking her curls;
+‘and, indeed, it was only the natural <i><span lang="fr">savoir
+faire</span></i> that belongs to me’—to give Miss
+Barry’s Parisian accent would pass the wit
+of man—‘that enabled me to conquer the
+situation. You might be quite sure, Susan,
+that if I had the money Bonnie and Tommy
+too should have been sent to their dear uncle.’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘I see, auntie. I am sorry,’ says Susan,
+with honest, deep regret.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘I suppose,’ says Miss Barry, with the air
+of one addressing a forlorn hope, ‘that you
+and Betty have nothing?’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>It is plain that the poor lady had set her
+heart originally on having a ‘full set’ to
+send to the uncle abroad, but that reasons
+financial have crushed her hopes.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'><span class='pageno' id='Page_164'>164</span>‘I have only sixpence,’ says Susan sadly.
+‘You, Betty?’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘I spent the twopence I had yesterday,’
+says Betty, ‘on hairpins.’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Hairpins!’ cries Miss Barry indignantly.
+‘And your hair not up yet!’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘They were for Susan,’ explains Betty
+angrily, who had, indeed, bought them for
+Susan, but who, nevertheless, had spent an
+enjoyable hour with them, doing up her own
+hair, and seeing how she would look next
+year when ‘grown up.’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Well, that’s the end of it,’ says Miss
+Barry, with the courage of despair. ‘I certainly
+won’t ask your father for a penny, as
+I know he hasn’t one to spare this month;
+and, indeed’—sighing—‘I only hope that
+those reports about that bank in Scotland are
+untrue. It is in that he has invested the
+£500 he has laid aside for Carew—for his
+crammer, you know, and his outfit, and all
+the rest of it. I dare say the scare will come
+to nothing; but, at all events, he is a little
+pressed just now, so that for a mere luxury
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_165'>165</span>like this I think we had better not ask him
+for anything.’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Of course not,’ says Susan. ‘But, auntie’—slowly
+and a little nervously—‘would you
+mind very much if—if Bonnie had his picture
+taken instead of me? I have always so
+longed for one of his. He is so delicate,
+and—’ She stops suddenly, a terrible
+feeling in her throat forbidding another
+word.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘My dear Susan! And you the eldest!
+Why, it would be quite an insult to your
+dear uncle. No, no,’ says Miss Barry; ‘we
+must depend upon another time to get
+Bonnie and Tom taken.’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>Susan turns away. Will there ever be
+‘another time’ for Bonnie? So frail in the
+warm summer-time, how will it be with him
+when the snows and the frosts set in?</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘At all events, I think I will take him
+down with me to see the rest of us taken,’
+she says presently in a depressed voice. ‘It
+will amuse and interest him. You know how
+clever he is.’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'><span class='pageno' id='Page_166'>166</span>‘Yes, by all means, and I’ll take Tommy,’
+says Betty, ‘though goodness knows if after
+that we shall any of us come out alive.’</p>
+
+<hr class='c012'>
+
+<p class='c004'>Susan has started very early (it is only ten
+minutes after one), so as to give Bonnie
+plenty of time to get down to the village
+without fatigue. Miss Ricketty will give
+him a seat in her place; a penny out of the
+last sixpence will buy him a cake or some
+sweets; and then, with a little rest, he can
+easily go on to the room rented to the photographer
+by Mr. Salter, the hardware Methodist.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>She has now reached Miss Ricketty’s,
+and has been welcomed by that excellent
+if slightly eccentric spinster with open arms.
+Bonnie is literally in her arms—and now is
+ensconced in the cosiest corner of this cosy
+little shop, behind the tiny gateway. Indeed,
+Miss Ricketty is preparing in a surreptitious
+manner to bring down a jar of unspeakably
+beautiful bull’s-eyes for Bonnie’s delectation,
+when Susan intervenes.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'><span class='pageno' id='Page_167'>167</span>‘No—no indeed, dear Miss Ricketty.
+He has a penny of his own to-day. And he
+loves buying. Don’t you, Bonnie? Another
+day, perhaps. And I think a cake would
+be better for him, don’t you? You would
+rather have a Queen cake, Bonnie darling,
+wouldn’t you?’—appealingly.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Yes,’ says Bonnie, out of the sweetness of
+his nature, seeing she desires it, though his
+soft eyes are dwelling on the lollipops. But
+that he can’t have both is a foregone conclusion,
+as Susan tells herself with a sigh.
+The remaining fivepence will have to do
+many things until next week, when father
+will give her her tiny weekly allowance
+again. Besides, a cake is ever so much
+better for him than bull’s-eyes. Thus Susan
+consoles herself.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Are you goin’ to be took, Miss Susan?’
+asks Miss Ricketty, settling herself, as she
+calls it, for a good chat.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>Susan laughs.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Not by the sergeant, any way,’ says
+she.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'><span class='pageno' id='Page_168'>168</span>‘Ah, ye will have yer joke now. An’, sure,
+I’m a silly old fool. But ye’re goin’ to have
+yer picture done, aren’t ye? Fegs, ’twould
+be a shame if ye didn’t. ’Tis a mighty purty
+picture would be lost to the world if you held
+back. Why, all the world is crowdin’ to that
+man’s door. I saw Lady Millbank go in just
+now. An’ at her time o’ life! Law, the
+vanity o’ some folk! D’ye know what me
+brother said to me to-day?’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘What?’ asks Susan, who is growing
+interested.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Whether I wouldn’t like to see me own
+face on a card. An’ I tould  him as I had
+seen it for sixty years in a lookin’-glass, an’
+that was good enough for me.’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘But, Miss Ricketty,’ says Susan, seeing
+with her delicate sense of sympathy beneath
+the veil that conceals Miss Ricketty’s real
+desire to be ‘seen on a card,’ ‘why not be
+taken? It would not give you pleasure,
+perhaps, but see what pleasure it would give
+to others. And as for me, I should love a
+photograph of you.’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'><span class='pageno' id='Page_169'>169</span>‘Oh now, Miss Susan! Sure, ye know, ye
+wouldn’t care for a picture of the likes of
+me.’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘I should like it more than I can say,’
+says Susan. ‘Miss Ricketty’—with pretty
+entreaty— ‘you really must make up your
+mind to it.’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Well, I’ll be thinkin’—I’ll be thinkin’,’
+says Miss Ricketty, who is all agog with
+excitement and flattery. ‘I suppose, Miss
+Susan dear, that shawl they sent me from
+America would be too bright?’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘The very thing,’ says Susan. ‘It would
+be lovely. And your people in America will
+certainly recognise it, and it will give them
+great pleasure to know that you treasure it
+so highly.’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘There’s a lot in that,’ says Miss Ricketty,
+musing—she muses considerably. ‘Well, perhaps—’
+Here she pauses again. ‘It may
+be,’ says she at last. She might, perhaps,
+have condescended to explain this last oracular
+speech, but that her bright eye catches
+sight of three young ladies going past her
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_170'>170</span>window. ‘There they go! there they go!
+Look at them, Miss Susan, my dear! Did ye
+ever see such quare crathures? May the
+Vargin give them sense! Look at their hats,
+an’ the strut o’ them! They’ve a power
+o’ money, I’m tould. “Articles of virtue”
+Mr. Connor called them the last day he was
+in here; but, faith, where the virtue comes
+in—they do say— But that’s not talk
+for the likes o’ you or me, dear. But tell
+me now, Miss Susan, what of Mr. Crosby?
+I’ve heard that he— Oh, murdher! talk of
+the divil—’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>Miss Ricketty retires behind a huge jar of
+sweets as Crosby comes into the shop.</p>
+
+<div class='chapter'>
+  <span class='pageno' id='Page_171'>171</span>
+  <h2 class='c008'>CHAPTER XXXIII.</h2>
+</div>
+<div class='lg-container-b c011'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>‘Read in Senec, and read eke in Boece,</div>
+      <div class='line'>There shall ye see express, that it no drede is,</div>
+      <div class='line'>That he is gentle that doth gentle deedes.’</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<p class='c010'>Crosby looks a little surprised at finding
+Susan here.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘How d’ye do?’ again says he.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>Susan, without enthusiasm, gives him her
+hand. She is busy wondering what could
+have brought him in here, of all places. Fond
+of chocolates, perhaps.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Why, there you are, Bonnie,’ says Mr.
+Crosby gaily. ‘No wonder I didn’t see you
+in that nice big chair. How d’ye do, Miss
+Ricketty? I hope you have been behaving
+yourself properly since last I saw you.’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Oh, Mr. Crosby!’ The old maid shakes
+her head at him with delight.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'><span class='pageno' id='Page_172'>172</span>‘No fresh flirtations, I trust.’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Oh, hear to him!’ Miss Ricketty is
+laughing like a girl.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘And how is the giant?’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Me brother is very well, thank you, sir.
+An’ he wants to see ye badly about that
+cricket match in the park. They say that
+Tim Murphy is goin’ to be very troublesome
+over it.’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Not a bit of it. Tell your brother that
+I’ve squared the militant Tim, and that he
+will turn up all right. What charming
+sweets, Bonnie! I love sweets; don’t you?’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>He has made a sign to Miss Ricketty, who
+is now making up a splendid parcel.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Bonnie has had a cake,’ says Susan. She
+would have said a great deal more if Tommy
+had been in question. Indeed, then she
+would have refused distinctly; but Bonnie’s
+little lovely smiling face, and the joy she
+knows it will give the gentle child to share
+Mr. Crosby’s gift with his little brother, stops
+her. She says nothing more, though it is
+actual pain to her to have to accept these
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_173'>173</span>sweets for her brother from Crosby. It is a
+debt she owes to Bonnie to suffer thus. But,
+then, what does she not owe Bonnie?</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘L’appétit vient en mangeant,’ says Crosby.
+‘Miss Ricketty, don’t be in such a hurry to
+tie up that parcel. Bonnie and I want something
+out of it first.’ He puts a delightful
+box of chocolate creams on Bonnie’s knee as
+he speaks, then turns to Susan.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘I suppose I daren’t offer you anything,’
+says he, in a low tone. Miss Ricketty becomes
+at once absorbed in a bottle of bull’s-eyes.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘No,’ says Susan gently, ‘thank you.’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Not even an apology?’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>Susan glances quickly at him, and then
+hesitates. Perhaps she would have said
+something, but at this moment Miss Barry,
+with Betty and Dom and Carew, enter the
+shop.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘We saw you through the window,’ cries
+Betty; and suddenly Susan’s thoughts run
+riot. Had he seen her through the window?
+‘And so we came in. We must hurry, Susan;
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_174'>174</span>all the world is going to have its picture
+taken—even Lady Millbank, though goodness
+alone knows why. And such a guy as she
+looks in that velvet mantle—that heavy
+thing—’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘A regular overmantle,’ says Dom.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Bless me!’ says Miss Barry suddenly,
+breaking off her conversation with Miss
+Ricketty over the proper treatment of young
+fowls when they come to be three months old.
+‘Susan, you and Betty are wearing the same
+frocks.’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Yes, it was I who arranged that,’ says
+Betty calmly. ‘In some way, Susan and
+I have never worn these frocks together
+before, and I have heard that those old
+Murphy girls—’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Not the Murphys, Betty—the Stauntons,’
+says Susan.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘It doesn’t matter; they are all old maids
+alike,’ says Betty lightly. ‘Any way, I have
+heard that some of the weird women of
+Curraghcloyne have said that we were short
+of clothes, because Susan and I had only one
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_175'>175</span>dress between us. This’—smoothing down her
+pretty serge frock—‘is the one in question.
+So I’m going to be photographed with Susan
+in it, if only to upset their theories, and give
+them some bad half-hours with their cronies;
+cronies never spare one.’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘You and Susan are going to be photographed
+together!’ says Miss Barry, who is
+getting a stormy look in her eyes. ‘You
+will not, then, be taken separately?’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Oh yes,’ says Betty airily. ‘Separately,
+too. I hate double pictures as a rule, but
+when duty calls—’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>Miss Barry is now making wild pantomimic
+signs to Susan. ‘Stop her!’ her lips are
+saying—‘stop her at all risks, or we shall be
+eternally disgraced!’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>And, indeed, the poor lady had not another
+penny to spend beyond what she had already
+arranged for. If this double picture that the
+rash and reckless Betty speaks of becomes an
+accomplished fact, who is to pay for it? Not
+Miss Barry, certainly, because she has nothing
+with which to pay. And, naturally, the
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_176'>176</span>photographer will demand his just fees, and
+then all will come out, and—</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>She is on the point of appealing to Miss
+Ricketty, when Dom nudges her.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘It’s all right,’ whispers he. ‘I have
+enough for that. I’ve settled it with Betty.’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>Miss Barry gives him a grateful look,
+greatly interspersed with rebuke. Such a
+throwing away of good money! As if that
+conceited child could not be satisfied with one
+representation of her face! She must really
+speak to Dom about his folly later—a little
+later—on.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>It doesn’t seem folly at all to Dominick,
+who is a most generous youth, if extravagant,
+and who would give a great deal more to this
+photographic business if it was in his power.
+But a great deal has been spent of late on
+cartridges for the murdering of Mr. Crosby’s
+rabbits—so much, indeed, that cigarettes
+have grown scarce and pipes a luxury, spite
+of even the small sums that Carew has thrown
+into the common fund. Carew has generally
+a shilling or two in his pockets, the Rector
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_177'>177</span>deeming it advisable to give to his eldest son,
+out of his terribly inadequate income, a
+certain amount of pocket-money, to prepare
+him for the time when he will be thrown on
+his own resources; to teach him to economize
+now, so that when he is gazetted, and has to
+rely on his own slender allowance, he will be
+able to understand how to make money go as
+far as it can.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>All through the boy’s educational course,
+he had felt it a sort of madness to put him
+into the army at all—a boy who must
+necessarily live entirely on his pay—a forlorn
+arrangement in these fast days, and one out
+of which only ten per cent. rise successfully.
+But the last wish of his dying wife had been
+that Carew should enter the army. She had
+come of a good fighting stock herself, poor
+soul! to which she remained faithful, having
+fought her own fight with poverty most
+bravely until she died; and the Rector, who
+had cared less and less for earthly things since
+she had gone to heaven, had not the heart or
+the strength to refuse that dying wish.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'><span class='pageno' id='Page_178'>178</span>‘You’re sure you have it?’ whispers back
+Miss Barry to Dom.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Certain.’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Then’—sharply—‘it would have been
+much more to your credit if you had
+kept it.’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘To my credit, yes,’ says Dom.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘A more disgraceful display of extravagance—’
+Miss Barry, either from the
+forced whispering or indignation, here grows
+hoarse, and coughs a little, whereupon Miss
+Ricketty, who is now intensely interested,
+and is listening with all her might, holds out
+to her a jar of jujubes; but Miss Barry waves
+them off.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘I suppose it is the last penny?’ asks
+she, still addressing Dom in a whisper, but
+with a magisterial air.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Yes—nearly,’ says he.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>The ‘nearly’ is a concession to the truth.
+He has, indeed, three shillings left out of his
+monthly allowance, but these are already
+accounted for. They are to buy three copies
+of Betty for his own special apartment—one
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_179'>179</span>to be hung up over his gun, one over his
+bookcase, and one over his study table.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘That’s the one you’ll never see,’ Betty had
+said to him tauntingly, and most ungratefully,
+when he told her of the decision he had come
+to about his last three shillings.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>Miss Barry, now turning away from him
+with a heart decidedly heavy, directs her
+conversational powers on Crosby.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘I congratulate you on being in good time,’
+says she. ‘When Betty and I started, we
+had great trouble in getting Carew and
+Dominick to come with us. They were
+dreadfully late, and we said then—Betty and
+I—that you would surely be late. But you’—smiling
+and wagging her curls—‘have
+behaved splendidly. I do appreciate a young
+man who can be punctual.’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>Susan glances quickly at her. ‘Young
+man!’ Is she in earnest, and after all that
+Betty had said?</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Young man!’ Is he a young man? Well,
+she has often thought so—she had even told
+Betty so. Here she glances at Betty, but
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_180'>180</span>Betty is now enjoying a word-to-word dispute
+with Dominick.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>Any way, she had told her. But Betty—what
+does she know? She has declared
+a man once over thirty, old. But Aunt
+Jemima thinks otherwise. And really, when
+one comes to think of it, Aunt Jemima at
+times is very clever—almost deep, indeed;
+and certainly very clever in her conclusions.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Look! there are the Blakes coming out,’
+cries Betty suddenly; she is standing on
+tiptoe at the window, which commands a fine
+view of the entrance to the photographer’s.
+‘Auntie, Susan, let us go, before any other
+people come.’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>With this they all in a body cross the
+road, Carew having caught up Bonnie, who
+is all eagerness to see this wonderful thing
+that will put Susan’s face on paper.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>Upstairs they march in a body, to find
+themselves presently in a most evil-smelling
+corridor, out of which the studio opens.
+Here they wait perforce, until at last the
+studio door opens, and some people of the
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_181'>181</span>farming class, and very flurried and flushed,
+walk nervously down the little lane between
+them.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Now is your time!’ says Betty, who is
+really quite irrepressible to-day. She takes
+the lead, and they all swarm after her into
+the studio, to find there an emaciated man in
+highly respectable clothes regarding them
+with a melancholy eye. Collodion seems to
+have saturated him.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Aunt Jemima, you first,’ says Susan.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Yes, certainly,’ says Dom. ‘First come,
+first served. And, you know, in spite of
+Betty’s well-meant endeavours, you entered
+the room first.’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Besides which it is the part of the young
+to give way to their elders,’ says Miss Barry,
+striving to keep up her dignity, whilst dying
+with terror. The photographer and the great
+big thing over there with dingy velvet cloth
+over it have subdued her almost out of recognition.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Now, auntie, come on. He’s looking at
+you.’ ‘He’ is the photographer, who has
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_182'>182</span>now, indeed, turned a lack-lustre eye on
+Miss Barry.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘We are rather pressed for time,’ says he
+in a lugubrious tone. ‘Which lady wishes
+to be taken first?’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Answer him, auntie,’ says Susan.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘What impertinence, hurrying us like
+this!’ says Miss Barry. She has recovered
+something of her old courage now, though
+still frightened, and turns a freezing eye
+upon the photographer, who is so accustomed
+to all sorts of eyes that it fails to
+affect him in any way.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Really, auntie, you ought to have yours
+taken first,’ says Dominick seriously, ‘and
+as soon as possible. There’s murder in that
+man’s eye. Don’t incense him further.’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>The photographer is now standing in an
+adamantine attitude, but his eye, entreating,
+cries: ‘Come on, come on!’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>But no one stirs.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘A most insolent creature,’ says Miss
+Barry, who has unfortunately taken a dislike
+to him. ‘Look at him; one would think we
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_183'>183</span>had to have our pictures taken by law rather
+than by choice. Susan, did you ever see so
+villainous a countenance? No, my dear, I—I
+really feel—I couldn’t have my picture sent
+to your uncle if taken by an assassin like
+that.’ She holds back.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Nonsense, Miss Barry!’ says Crosby gaily.
+‘You have too much spirit to be daunted by
+a mere cast of countenance. And we—we
+have no spirit at all—so we depend upon
+you to give us a lead.’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘I assure you, Mr. Crosby, had it been any
+other man but this.... However, I submit.’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>Whereupon, with much outward dignity
+and many inward quakings, she approaches
+the chair before the camera and seats herself
+upon it.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘A little more this way, please, ma’am,’
+says the photographer.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Which way?’ asks Miss Barry, in a distinctly
+aggressive voice.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘If you would pose yourself a little more
+like this,’ and the photographer throws himself
+into a sentimental attitude.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'><span class='pageno' id='Page_184'>184</span>‘Mercy! what ails the man?’ says Miss
+Barry, turning to Crosby. ‘Do you, my dear
+Mr. Crosby—do you think the wretched being
+has been imbibing too freely?’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘No, no, not at all,’ says Crosby reassuringly.
+‘You must sit like this’—coming
+to the photographer’s help with a will—‘just
+a little bit round here, d’ye see, so as to make
+a good picture. That will give a better effect
+afterwards; and of course he is anxious to
+make as good a photograph of you as he can.’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>At this Miss Barry condescends to move a
+little in the way directed. She clutches hold
+of Susan, however, during the placing of her,
+and whispers thrillingly:</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘I don’t believe in him, Susan. Look at
+his eye. It squints! Could a squinter give
+one a good photograph?’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Now, madam!’ says the camera man, in
+a dying tone. He has heard nothing, but is
+annoyed in a dejected fashion by the delay.
+‘If you are quite ready.’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Are you?’ retorts Miss Barry.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Yes, ma’am.’ He comes forward to rearrange
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_185'>185</span>her draperies and herself, her short
+colloquy with Susan having been sufficiently
+lively to disturb the recent pose. He pulls
+out her gown, then steps back to further
+study her, and finally takes her head between
+his hands, with a view to putting that into
+the right position also.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>If the poor man had only known the consequences
+of this rash act, he would, perhaps,
+rather have given up his profession than have
+committed it.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘How dare you, sir!’ cries Miss Barry,
+pushing him back, and making frightful
+passes in the air as a defence against another
+attack of his upon her maiden cheek.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Carew, where are you? Dominick!
+Susan, Susan, do you see how I have been
+outraged?’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Dear auntie,’ says Susan, in a low tone,
+Carew and Dominick being incapacitated for
+service, ‘you mistake him. He only wants
+to arrange you for your picture. It is always
+done. Don’t you see?’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘I don’t,’ says Miss Barry stoutly. ‘I see
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_186'>186</span>only that you are all a silly set of children,
+who do not understand the iniquity of man!
+This creature—’ She points to the photographer,
+who has gone back in a melancholy
+way to his slides, and is pulling them in and
+out, by way of exercise, perhaps. ‘However,
+Susan, I’ll go through with it, insolent
+and depraved as this creature evidently is;
+coming from a huge metropolis like Dublin,
+he scarcely knows how to behave himself with
+decent people. I must request you to tell
+him, however, that I refuse—absolutely
+refuse—to let him caress my face again!’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>Thus peace is restored with honour, for
+the time being. And the unlucky man who
+has been selected by an unkind Providence
+to transmit Miss Barry’s face to futurity,
+once again approaches her.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Now, ma’am, if you will kindly sit just
+so, and if you will look at this—a little more
+pleasantly, please’—holding up a photograph
+of Lord Rosebery that he has been carrying
+about to delight the Irish people. ‘Ah, that’s
+better; that earnest expression will—’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'><span class='pageno' id='Page_187'>187</span>‘Who’s that?’ cries Miss Barry, springing
+to her feet. ‘Is that the Radical miscreant
+who has taken old Gladstone’s place? God
+bless me, man! do you think I’m going to be
+pleasant when I look at him?’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>The wretched photographer, now utterly
+dumfounded, casts a despairing glance at
+Crosby, who is certainly the oldest, and
+therefore probably the most sensible, of the
+rest. The noise of the feet of impatient
+customers in the passage outside is rendering
+the poor man miserable. Yet it is impossible
+to turn this terrible old woman out,
+when there are so many with her waiting to
+be taken, and to pay their money.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘I assure you, sir, I thought that picture
+would please the lady. I’m only lately from
+England, and they told me—’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘A lot of lies. Ah yes, that’s of course,’
+says Crosby, interrupting him sympathetically.
+‘But what they didn’t teach you was
+that there are two opinions, you know. You
+can show Lord Rosebery to the people who
+have not a shilling in the world, and not a
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_188'>188</span>grandfather amongst them; but I think you
+had better show Miss Barry a photograph of
+Lord Salisbury, and if you haven’t that, one
+of the Queen. She’s quite devoted to the
+Queen.’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘I wish I’d been told, sir,’ says the photographer,
+so wearily that Crosby decides on
+giving him a substantial tip for himself when
+the sittings are over.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Now, ma’am,’ says the photographer, returning
+to the charge with splendid courage,
+seeing Miss Barry has reseated herself in the
+chair, after prolonged persuasion from Carew
+and Susan. Betty and Dominick, it must
+be confessed, have behaved disgracefully.
+Retiring behind a huge screen, and there
+stifling their mirth in an extremely insufficient
+manner, gurgles and, indeed, gasps,
+have come from between its joints to the
+terrified Susan.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘And now, ma’am, will you kindly turn a
+little more this way?’ The poor man’s voice
+has grown quite apologetic. ‘Ah, that’s
+better! Thank you, ma’am. And if I
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_189'>189</span>might pull out your dress? Yes, that’s all
+right. And your elbow, ma’am, please.’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Good gracious! why can’t he stop,’ thinks
+poor Susan, who sees wrath growing again
+within Miss Barry’s eye.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘It is just a little, a very little, too pointed.
+Ah, yes. There! And your foot, ma’am—under
+your dress, if you please.’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>Here Miss Barry snorts audibly, and the
+photographer starts back; but hearing is not
+seeing, and he rashly regains his courage and
+rushes to his destruction.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘That’s well, very well,’ says he, not being
+sufficiently acquainted with Miss Barry to
+note the signs of coming war upon her
+face; ‘and if you will now please shut your
+mouth—’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>Miss Barry rises once more like a whirlwind.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Shut your own, sir!’ cries she, shaking
+her fist at him.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>There is one awful moment, a moment
+charged with electricity; then it is all over.
+The worst has come, there can be nothing
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_190'>190</span>more. Miss Barry is again pressed into her
+chair. The photographer, having come to the
+comforting conclusion that she is a confirmed
+lunatic, takes no more pains over her, refuses
+to adjust her robe, to put her face into
+position or revise her expression, and simply
+takes her as she is. The result is that he
+turns out the very best photograph he has
+taken for many a year.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>After this things go smooth enough, until
+at last even Betty—who has proved a troublesome
+customer, if a very charming one—declares
+herself satisfied.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘No more, sir?’ says the photographer to
+Crosby, whom he has elected to address as
+being the principal member of the party.
+To speak to Miss Barry would have been
+beyond the poor man.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Oh yes, one more,’ says Crosby.</p>
+
+<div class='chapter'>
+  <span class='pageno' id='Page_191'>191</span>
+  <h2 class='c008'>CHAPTER XXXIV.</h2>
+</div>
+<div class='lg-container-b c011'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line in20'>‘If Sorrow stole</div>
+      <div class='line'>A charm awhile from Beauty, Beauty’s self</div>
+      <div class='line'>Might envy well the charm that Sorrow lent</div>
+      <div class='line'>To every perfect feature.’</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<p class='c010'>He draws Bonnie forward—Bonnie, who has
+been sitting so quietly in his corner for the
+past thirty minutes, enchanted with the
+strange scene. He has cared nothing for
+his aunt’s eccentricities; he has thought
+only of the wonderful things that were done
+behind that dingy black velvet curtain. Oh,
+if he could only get behind it too, and find
+out! The sickly child’s frame was weak, but
+his mind was fresh and strong, and ran freely
+into regions far beyond his ken.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>With the boy’s hand in his, Crosby turns
+courteously to Miss Barry.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘I hope you will let me have this charming
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_192'>192</span>face taken, if only for my own gratification,’
+says he. ‘I have long wished it. And as he
+is here—if you will allow me. It is quite
+an ideal type, you know—I may have him
+photographed?’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Yes—yes,’ says Miss Barry, with slow
+acquiescence, uttered with a pause between.
+And then all at once, as if she has come to
+the end of her hesitation, ‘Yes, certainly.’
+She looks at Susan as if for approval, but
+Susan does not return her glance. She has
+cast down her eyes, and is distinctly pale.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>Poor Susan! So delighted at the thought
+of having a picture of her Bonnie given her,
+yet so sorry for the occasion of it. She has
+lowered her eyes so that no one may see
+what she is thinking about, or what she is
+suffering; the quick beating of her heart is
+also a secret known only to herself.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>The throbs run like this: Oh, how good of
+him! Oh, no matter what he is or whom he
+loves, he will surely give her one of Bonnie’s
+pictures—a picture of her lovely, pretty
+Bonnie!</p>
+
+<p class='c004'><span class='pageno' id='Page_193'>193</span>Meantime, Bonnie is being taken by the
+photographer, and so still, so calm a little
+subject he is, that his picture is, perhaps, the
+best of all, after Miss Barry’s, which is
+unique. Just Bonnie’s head—only that. But
+so sweet, so perfect, and the earnest eyes—</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>The photographer tells them that they
+shall have them all in a week or so. The
+photographer’s ‘week or so’ is so well understanded
+of the people, that the Barrys tell
+themselves in whispers in the little studio
+that if they get them in a fortnight they may
+thank their lucky stars.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘A fortnight with that man!’ says Miss
+Barry, with ill-subdued wrath. ‘A month,
+you mean. I tell you he’s got the evil eye.’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>Having thus relieved herself, and the
+photographer having vanished into a room
+beyond, she rises into happier ways.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Any way, in spite of him,’ says she,
+pointing towards the dark doorway into
+which he has vanished, ‘this must be called
+a most happy occasion—an auspicious one
+even, indeed.’ Miss Barry is always on
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_194'>194</span>immense terms with her dictionary. ‘I really
+think’—with sudden sprightliness—‘we
+should all exchange photos. I hope, Mr.
+Crosby’—turning pleasantly to him—‘that
+you will give us one of yours.’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘I shall give you one with pleasure, Miss
+Barry,’ says Crosby, ‘and feel very proud
+about your wanting to have it. I shall,
+however, demand one of yours in return.
+As to your suggestion about a general
+exchange, I think it delightful.’ He turns
+suddenly to Susan. ‘I hope you will give
+me one of yours,’ says he.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>Susan hesitates. To give her picture to
+him, when he thinks Lady Muriel Kennedy
+so lovely? Why, if he thinks a girl is so
+very lovely—she has described Lady Muriel
+to herself as a mere girl—why should he
+want a photograph of herself?</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>Miss Barry has noticed Susan’s hanging
+back, and, wondering that she should refuse
+her photograph to so good a friend, comes
+quickly forward.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Susan, I really think you might give
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_195'>195</span>Mr. Crosby your picture. You know, Mr.
+Crosby, I have always kept the girls a little
+strict, and perhaps Susan thinks—’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘I don’t,’ says Susan, with sudden vehemence.
+She has shrunk back a little; her
+lovely eyes have suddenly grown shamed.
+‘It—isn’t that, auntie.’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Oh, my dear, if it isn’t that—’ says
+Miss Barry; and being now called by
+Dominick, she turns away.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Auntie takes such queer views of things,’
+says Susan, pale and unhappy. ‘It seems,
+however, that she would like me to give you
+my photograph. Well’—grudgingly—‘you
+can have it.’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘I didn’t want it on those terms,’ says
+Crosby. ‘And yet’—quickly—‘I do on any
+terms.’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Oh no,’ says Susan; ‘auntie is right.
+Why should I refuse it to you?’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Susan,’ says he, ‘is the feud so strong as
+all that? Will you refuse me your picture?’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘No, I shall give it,’ says she, faintly
+smiling; ‘but I shall make a bargain with
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_196'>196</span>you. If you will give me one of Bonnie’s,
+you shall have one of mine.’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘I gain, but you do not,’ says he; ‘for you
+should have had one of Bonnie all the same.
+But what has come between us, Susan? I
+thought I was quite a friend of yours. Why
+am I to be dismissed like this, without even a
+character? You must remember one great
+occasion when you said that anyone who was
+allowed to go through my grounds would be
+sure to treat me with respect, or something
+like that. Now, you have often gone through
+my grounds, Susan, and is this respect that
+you are offering me?’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘I thought,’ says Susan gravely, ‘that you
+promised never to speak of that again.’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Of what—respect?’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘No, of that’—reluctantly—‘that day in
+the garden.’ The dawn of a blush appears
+upon her face, and her eyes rest on him reproachfully.
+‘You are not to be depended
+on,’ says she.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Oh, Susan!’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>His air is so abject that, in spite of herself,
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_197'>197</span>Susan laughs, and presently she holds out her
+hand to him with the sweetest air. ‘Any
+way, I have to thank you a thousand times
+for having had my Bonnie’s picture taken,’
+says she. ‘And I know you knew that I
+wished for it.’ She gives him her hand.
+Tears rise to her eyes. ‘You could never
+know how I wished for it,’ says she.</p>
+
+<div class='chapter'>
+  <span class='pageno' id='Page_198'>198</span>
+  <h2 class='c008'>CHAPTER XXXV.</h2>
+</div>
+<div class='lg-container-b c011'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>‘Words would but wrong the gratitude I owe you;</div>
+      <div class='line'>Should I begin to speak, my soul’s so full</div>
+      <div class='line'>That I should talk of nothing else all day.’</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<p class='c010'>‘Now, Miss Manning,’ says Wyndham, in his
+quick, alert, business-like way. He steps
+back, and motions her to go through the
+gateway that Mrs. Denis had opened about
+three inches a minute ago.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>Miss Manning, a tall, thin, rather nervous-looking
+lady of very decided age, steps
+inside the gate, and glances from Wyndham
+to Mrs. Denis and back again interrogatively.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘This is Miss Moore’s housekeeper, cook,
+and general factotum,’ says Wyndham, making
+a hasty introduction, and with a warning
+glance towards Mrs. Denis, who has dropped
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_199'>199</span>a rather stiff curtsy. ‘Yours too. She
+will remove all troubles from your shoulders,
+and will take excellent care of you, I don’t
+doubt.’ He pauses to give Mrs. Denis—who
+is looking glum, to say the least of it—room
+for one of her always only too ready speeches,
+but nothing comes. ‘Eh?’ says he, in a
+sharp metallic voice that brings Mrs. Denis
+to her senses with a jump.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Yes, sir,’ says she, and no more—no promises
+of obedience.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>Wyndham hurries Miss Manning past her.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘The other maid you can manage,’ says he,
+in a low tone, ‘and no doubt Mrs. Denis after
+awhile. She is a highly respectable woman,
+if a little unreasonable, and a little too devoted
+to your pupil. About the latter’—hastily—‘you
+know everything—her whole
+history—that is, so far as I know it—even to
+her peculiarities. You quite understand that
+she refuses to leave these grounds, and you
+know, too, her reasons for refusing—reasons
+not to be combated. They seem absurd to
+me, as I don’t believe that fellow has the
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_200'>200</span>slightest claim upon her; but she thinks
+otherwise. And—well, they are her reasons’—he
+pauses—‘and therefore to be respected.’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Certainly,’ says Miss Manning, in a low,
+very gentle voice, ‘and I shall respect them.’
+Her voice is charming. Wyndham tells himself
+that he could hardly have made a better
+choice of a companion for this strange girl
+who has been so inconveniently flung into
+his life. Miss Manning’s face, too, is one to
+inspire instant confidence. Her eyes are
+earnest and thoughtful; her mouth kind, if
+sad. That she has endured much sorrow is
+written on every feature; but troubles have
+failed to embitter a spirit made up of Nature’s
+sweetest graces. And now, indeed, joy is
+lighting up her gentle eyes, and happy
+expectancy is making warm her heart. A
+month ago she had been in almost abject
+poverty—scarce knowing where to find the
+next day’s bread—when a most merciful God
+had sent her Paul Wyndham to lift her from
+her Slough of Despond to such a state
+of prosperity as she had never dared to
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_201'>201</span>dream of since as a child she ran gaily in her
+father’s meadows.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘I am sure of that,’ says Wyndham heartily.
+‘I am certain I can give her into your hands
+in all safety. I know very little of her, but
+she seems a good girl, not altogether tractable,
+perhaps, but I hope you will be able to
+get on with her. If, however, the dulness,
+the enforced solitude, becomes too much for
+you, you must let me know.’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘I shall never have to let you know that,’
+says Miss Manning, in a low, tremulous tone.
+‘A home in the country, a young companion,
+a garden to tend—for long and very sad
+years I have dreamt of such things, but
+never with a hope of seeing them. And
+now, if I have seemed poor in my thanks,
+Paul—’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>She breaks off, turning her head aside.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Yes, yes; I understand,’ says Wyndham
+hurriedly, dreading, yet feeling very tenderly
+towards her emotion. Once again he congratulates
+himself on having thought of this
+sweet woman in his difficulty.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'><span class='pageno' id='Page_202'>202</span>‘And for myself,’ says she, calmly now
+again, ‘I should never like to stir from this
+lovely garden.’ They are walking by one of
+the paths bordered with flowers. ‘I have
+been so long accustomed to solitude that,
+like my pupil, I shrink from breaking it. To
+see no one but her and’—delicately—‘you
+occasionally, I hope, is all I ask.’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘You may perhaps have to see the Barrys
+now and then—the Rector’s people. They
+live over the way,’ says Wyndham, pointing
+towards where the Rectory trees can be seen.
+‘I found the last time I was here that Susan,
+the eldest girl, had come in, or been brought
+in here by Miss Moore, so that there is
+already a slight acquaintance; and with girls,’
+says the barrister, somewhat contemptuously,
+‘that means an immediate, if not altogether
+undying, friendship.’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Yes,’ says Miss Manning. She feels a
+faint surprise. ‘It is not so much, then, that
+she does not desire to know people, as that
+she refuses to stir out of this place?’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘That is how I take it. I wanted her very
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_203'>203</span>much to move about, to let herself be known.
+Honestly’—colouring slightly—‘it is rather
+awkward for me to have a tenant so very
+mysterious as she seems bent on being. I
+urged her to declare herself at once as my
+tenant and wait events; but she seemed so
+terrified at the idea of leaving these four
+walls that I gave up the argument. Perhaps
+you may bring her to reason, or perhaps
+the Rector and his youngsters may
+have the desired effect of putting an end to
+this morbidity. By-the-by, I am going over
+to the Rectory after I have introduced you
+to—’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Ella’ was on the tip of his tongue, but he
+substitutes ‘Miss Moore’ in time.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>The very near slip renders him thoughtful
+for a moment or two. Why should he have
+called her Ella? Had he ever thought of
+her as Ella? Most positively never.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>He is so absorbed in his introspection that
+he fails to see a slight, timid figure coming
+down the steps of the Cottage. Miss Manning
+touches his arm.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'><span class='pageno' id='Page_204'>204</span>‘Is this Miss Moore?’ cries she, in an
+excited whisper. ‘Oh, what a charming
+face!’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>And, indeed, Ella is charming as she now
+advances—very pale, as if frightened, and
+with her dark eyes glancing anxiously from
+Wyndham to the stranger and back again.
+She has no hat on her head, and a sunbeam
+has caught her chestnut hair and turned it to
+glistening gold.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘I hope you received my letter last night,’
+says Wyndham, calling out to her and
+hastening his footsteps. ‘You see’—awkwardly—‘I
+have brought—brought you—’
+He stops, waiting for Miss Manning to come
+up, and growing hopelessly embarrassed.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Your friend, my dear, I trust,’ says Miss
+Manning gently, taking the girl’s hand in
+both her own and regarding her with anxious
+eyes.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>Ella flushes crimson. She has so dreaded,
+so feared, this moment, and now this gentle,
+sad-eyed woman, with her soft voice and
+pretty impulsive speech! Tears rise to the
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_205'>205</span>girl’s eyes. Nervously, yet eagerly, she
+leans forward and presses her lips to Miss
+Manning’s fair, if withered, cheek.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>Wyndham, congratulating himself on the
+success of his latest enterprise, takes himself
+off presently to inspect a farm five miles
+farther out in the country, that had been left
+to him by his mother, with the Cottage. He
+has determined on taking the Rectory on his
+way back to meet the evening train—to
+enlist further Mr. Barry’s sympathy for his
+tenant. He tells himself, with a glow of self-satisfaction,
+that he is uncommonly good to
+his tenant; but so, of course, he ought to be,
+that dying promise to the Professor being
+sacred; and if it were not for the affection he
+had always felt for that great dead man, he
+would beyond doubt never have thought of
+her again.... There is much moral support
+in this conclusion.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>Yes, he will spend half an hour at the
+Rectory. He can get back from the farm in
+plenty of time for that, and Miss Manning
+being an old friend of the Rector’s, the latter
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_206'>206</span>will be even more inclined to take up her
+pupil, which will be a good thing for the
+poor girl. He repeats the words ‘poor girl,’
+and finds satisfaction in them. They seem
+to show how entirely indifferent he is to her
+and her fortunes. That mental slip of his
+awhile ago had alarmed him slightly. But
+‘poor girl,’ to call her that precludes the
+idea of anything like—pshaw!</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>He dismisses the ‘poor girl’ from his mind
+forthwith, and succeeds admirably in getting
+rid of her, whilst blowing up his other tenants
+on the farm. But on his way back again to
+Curraghcloyne her memory once more becomes
+troublesome.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>To-day, so far, things have gone well.
+She has seemed satisfied with Miss Manning,
+and Miss Manning with her. And as for the
+fear of an immediate scandal, that seems
+quite at rest. But in time the old worry is
+sure to mount to the surface again. For
+example, when Mrs. Prior hears of her—he
+wishes now, trudging grimly over the uneven
+road, that he had not led that astute woman
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_207'>207</span>to believe his tenant was a man—as she inevitably
+must, there will be a row on somewhere
+that will make the welkin ring; and
+after that, good-bye to his chances with Lord
+Shangarry, who has very special views about
+the right and the wrong.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>If only this silly girl could be persuaded to
+come out of her shell and mingle with her
+kind, all might be got over after a faint
+wrestle or two. But no! Angrily he tells
+himself that there is no chance of that. Soft
+as she looks, and gentle, and lov—h’m—he
+kicks a stone out of his way—and pleasant-looking,
+and all that, he feels absolutely sure
+that nobody will be able to drag her out of
+her self-imposed imprisonment.</p>
+
+<hr class='c012'>
+
+<p class='c004'>After this diatribe, it is only natural that
+he should, on entering the Rectory garden,
+feel himself a prey to astonishment on seeing,
+amongst a turbulent group upon the edges of
+the tennis-court, the ‘poor girl’ laughing with
+all her heart.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>He stands still, within the shelter of the
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_208'>208</span>laurels, to ask himself if his eyesight has
+failed him thus early in life. But his eyesight
+still continues excellent, and when he
+sees the ‘poor girl’ pick up Tommy and
+plant him on her knee, he knows that all
+is well with his visual organs.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>The fact is that, almost as he left the
+Cottage by the front-gate, Susan had run
+across the road and hammered loudly at the
+little green one. This primitive knocking
+had become a signal now with the Barrys
+and Ella, and soon the latter had rushed to
+open the door. There had been entreaties
+from Susan that she would come over now—now,
+at once—and have a game of tennis with
+them. She did not know tennis. All the
+more reason why she should begin to learn;
+and Aunt Jemima was quite pining to know
+her.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Yes, do come!’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘No—no, I can’t. I have said I would
+never leave this place.’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Oh, that, of course; but—oh!—’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>Here Susan breaks off abruptly. Who is
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_209'>209</span>that pretty, tall lady coming down the path?
+It is Miss Manning, and Ella very shyly
+introduces Susan to her.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Miss Manning, tell her to come and play
+tennis with us this afternoon,’ says Susan.
+‘Not a soul but ourselves, and she’s very
+lonely here. Father says she ought to see
+people.’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘I think as your father does,’ says Miss
+Manning gently.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘And will you come too?’ asks Susan.
+‘Aunt Jemima’—with born courtesy—‘will
+come and see you to-morrow, but in the
+meantime—’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘I am afraid I have some unpacking to do,’
+says Miss Manning, smiling, having fallen in
+love with Susan’s soft, flushed face and
+childish air. ‘But if you can persuade Ella—I
+know, my dear’—to Ella, who has
+turned a sad face to hers, a face that has
+yet the longing for larger life upon it—‘that
+you wish never to leave this place. But to
+go just across the road.... And there is no
+one there, Miss Barry tells you; and it is
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_210'>210</span>only a step or two, and’—smiling again—‘if
+you wish it, I’ll go over in an hour and bring
+you back again.’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘No, don’t do that,’ says Ella. ‘You are
+tired.’ She hesitates, then looks out of the
+gateway, and up and down the lane. It is
+quite empty. ‘Well, I’ll come,’ says she,
+giving her hand to Susan.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>It is evidently a desperate resolve. Even
+as she says it, she makes a last drawback, but
+Susan clings to her hand, and pulls her
+forward, and together the girls run down the
+lane to the Rectory gate and into it, Ella all
+the time holding Susan tightly, as if for protection.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>This was how it happened that Ella first
+left the shelter of the Cottage. She was
+most kindly received by the Rector, who
+spared a moment from his precious books to
+welcome her—and even agreeably by Aunt
+Jemima. Ella had gone through the ordeal
+of these two introductions shyly but quietly.
+She had, however, been a little startled at
+finding that, added to the Barrys congregated
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_211'>211</span>on the lawn (a goodly number in themselves),
+there was a strange gentleman. Crosby
+struck her at first sight as being formidable—an
+idea that, if the young Barrys had
+known it, would have sent them into hysterics
+of mirth.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>Crosby had strolled down early in the
+afternoon, and now Wyndham, standing
+gazing amongst the shrubberies, can see him
+turn from Susan to say something or other
+to Ella.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>Wyndham, in his voluntary confinement,
+feels a sharp pang clutch at his breast. He
+stands still, as if unable to go on, watching
+the little pantomime.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>Tommy is speaking now. The child’s voice
+rings clear and low.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘I’ll tell you a story.’ He has put up a
+little fat hand, and is pinching Ella’s cheek.
+Ella has caught the little hand, and is kissing
+it. How pretty!</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Silence!’ cries Crosby gaily. ‘Tommy is
+going to tell Miss Moore a story.’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>There seems something significant to Wyndham
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_212'>212</span>in his tone. Why should he demand
+silence in that imperative manner, just
+because Miss Moore wishes a story to be told
+to her? He hesitates no longer. He comes
+quickly forward and up to the group.</p>
+
+<div class='chapter'>
+  <span class='pageno' id='Page_213'>213</span>
+  <h2 class='c008'>CHAPTER XXXVI.</h2>
+</div>
+<div class='lg-container-b c011'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>‘To feel every prompting of pleasure,</div>
+      <div class='line in2'>To know every pulsing of pain;</div>
+      <div class='line'>To dream of Life’s happiest measure,</div>
+      <div class='line in2'>And find all her promises vain.’</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<p class='c010'>Susan sees him first, and, pushing Bonnie
+gently from her, rises to meet him.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘How do you do?’ says she.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘That you, Wyndham?’ cries Crosby.
+‘You are just in time to hear Tommy’s story.
+Miss Moore has promised to lend him her
+support during the recital.’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>For all Crosby’s lightness of tone, there is
+a strange, scrutinizing expression in his clever
+eyes as he looks at Wyndham. He knows
+that Ella Moore’s presence here must prove a
+surprise to him; and how will he take it?
+The girl seems well enough, but—And
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_214'>214</span>if Wyndham has been capable of placing so
+close to this family of young, young people
+someone who—</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>He is studying Wyndham very acutely.
+But all that he can make out of Wyndham’s
+face is surprise, and something that might be
+termed relief—nothing more. As for the
+girl, she is the one that looks confused. She
+rises, holding Tommy by her side, and looks
+appealingly at Wyndham. She would have
+spoken, perhaps, but that the Rector, who
+has not yet gone back to his study, takes up
+the parable.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘We are very glad to have persuaded Miss
+Moore to come here to-day,’ says he, in a
+tone to be heard by everyone. ‘She has told
+me that you came down this morning, bringing
+Miss Manning with you. That will be a
+source of pleasure to us all, I am quite sure.’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>He bows his courteous old head as amiably
+as though Miss Manning over the road could
+hear him. It is a tribute to her perfections.
+After this he buttonholes Wyndham, and
+draws him apart a bit.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'><span class='pageno' id='Page_215'>215</span>‘She’s a nice girl, Wyndham—a nice girl,
+I really think. A most guileless countenance!
+But not educated, you know. Betty and
+Susan—mere children as they are—could
+almost teach her.’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>The Rector sighs. He always regards his
+girls as having stood still since his wife’s
+death. Children they were then, children
+they are now. He has not seemed to live
+himself since her death. Since that, indeed,
+all things have stood still for him.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Yes. But she seems intelligent—clever,’
+says Wyndham, a little coldly.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘I dare say. And now you have secured
+Miss Manning for her! That is a wise step,’
+says the Rector thoughtfully. ‘She owes you
+much, Wyndham. I was glad when Susan
+persuaded her to come over here to-day.
+But I doubt if she will consent to go further.
+She seems terrified at the thought of being
+far from your—her home. Have you not
+yet discovered any trace of that scoundrel
+Moore? The bond between them might
+surely be broken.’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'><span class='pageno' id='Page_216'>216</span>‘There is no bond between them. Of that
+I am convinced,’ says Wyndham.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘I trust not—I trust not,’ says the Rector.
+He makes a little gesture of farewell, and goes
+back to his beloved study, his head bent, his
+hands clasped behind his back, as usual.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘We’re waiting for you, Mr. Wyndham,’
+calls out Betty, arching her slender neck to
+look over Dominick’s shoulder. The wind
+has caught her fair, fluffy hair, and is ruffling
+it.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Yes; come along, Wyndham,’ says Crosby.
+‘Tommy’s story is yet to tell.’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Better have one from you instead, Mr.
+Crosby,’ says Susan hastily. She knows
+Tommy. ‘You can tell us all about lions and
+niggers and things. You’d like to hear of
+lions and niggers, Tommy’—in a wheedling
+tone—‘wouldn’t you?’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>Wyndham by this time has joined the
+group, and, scarcely knowing how, finds
+himself sitting on half of a rug, the other
+half of which belongs to his tenant.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘I want to tell my own story,’ says Tommy
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_217'>217</span>with determination. He is evidently a boy
+possessed of much firmness, and one not to
+be ‘done’ by anyone if he can help it.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘But, Tommy,’ persists Susan, who has
+dismal reasons for dreading his literary
+efforts, ‘I think you had better not tell one
+just now. We—that is—’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Oh, do let him tell it!’ says Ella
+softly.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘My dear Susan,’ says Crosby, ‘would you
+deprive us of an entertainment so unique—one
+we may never enjoy again?’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Well, go on, Tommy,’ says Susan, resigning
+herself to the worst.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘There once was a man,’ begins Tommy;
+and pauses. Silence reigns around. ‘An’
+he fell into a big bit of water.’ The silence
+grows profounder. ‘’Twas as big as this’—making
+a movement of his short arms a foot
+or so from the ground. At this there are
+distinct groans of fear. ‘An’ he was
+drownded—a little fish ate him.’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Oh, Tommy!’ says Susan, in woeful tones.
+She can now pretend to be frightened with a
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_218'>218</span>free heart. Evidently Tommy’s story this
+time is going to be of the mildest order.
+‘He didn’t really eat him?’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘He did—he did!’ says Tommy, delighted
+at Susan’s fright. ‘He ate him all up—every
+bit of him!’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>Here Susan lets her face fall into her hands,
+and Tommy relents.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘But he wasn’t killed,’ says he. He looks
+anxiously at Susan’s bowed head. ‘No, he
+wasn’t.’ Susan lifts her head, and shakes it
+at him reproachfully. ‘Well, he wasn’t,
+really,’ says Tommy again. This repetition
+is not only meant as a help to Susan to
+mitigate her extreme grief, but to give
+him pause whilst he makes up another
+chapter.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Oh, are you sure?’ asks Susan tragically.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘I am. The fish swallowed him, but he
+came up again.’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Who gave the emetic?’ asks Dominick;
+but very properly no one attends to
+him.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Yes; well, what’s after that?’ asks Betty.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'><span class='pageno' id='Page_219'>219</span>‘Well—’ Tommy stares at the earth,
+and then, with happy inspiration, adds:
+‘The nasty witch got him.’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Poor old soul!’ says Carew.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘The witch, Tommy? But—’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Yes, the witch’—angrily. ‘An’ then the
+goat said—’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Goat! What goat?’ asks Ella very
+naturally, considering all things.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘That goat,’ says Tommy, who really is
+wonderful. He points his lovely fat thumb
+down to where, in the distant field, a goat is
+browsing. His wandering eye had caught it
+as he vaguely talked, and he had at once
+embezzled it and twisted it into his imagination.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Yes?’ says Susan, seeing the child pause,
+and trying to help him. ‘The goat?’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘The goat an’ the witch—’ Long pause
+here, and plain incapacity to proceed. Tommy
+has evidently come face to face with a
+<i><span lang="fr">cul de sac</span></i>.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Hole in the ballad,’ says Dominick to
+Betty in a low tone.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'><span class='pageno' id='Page_220'>220</span>‘Go on, Tommy,’ says Susan encouragingly.
+Really, Tommy’s story is so presentable this
+time that she quite likes to give him a lift, as
+it were.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Well, the witch fell down,’ says Tommy,
+goaded to endeavour, ‘an’ the goat sat on
+her.’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Not on her,’ says Susan, with dainty
+protest. ‘You know you frightened me once,
+Tommy, but now—’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Yes, they did, Susan—they did.’ In his
+excitement he has duplicated the enemy.
+‘They all sat down on her—every one of
+them, twenty of them.’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘But, Tommy, you said there was only one
+goat.’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>This is rash of Susan.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘I don’t care,’ cries Tommy, who is of a
+liberal disposition. ‘There was twenty of
+them. An’ they all sat down on her, first on
+her stomach, an’’—solemnly turning himself
+and clasping both his fat hands over the seat
+of his small breeches—‘an’ then on her here.’
+He lifts his hands and smacks them down
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_221'>221</span>again. He indeed most graphically illustrates
+his ‘here.’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>There is an awful silence. Susan, stricken
+dumb, sits silent. She knew how it would
+be if she let that wretched child speak.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>Shamed and horrified, she draws back,
+almost praying that the earth may open
+and swallow her up quick. She casts a
+despairing glance at Crosby, to see how he
+has taken this horrible fiasco, before following
+Dathan and Abiram; but what she sees in
+his face stops her prayers, and, in fact,
+reverses them.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>Crosby is shaking with laughter, and now,
+as she looks, catches Tommy in his arms and
+hugs him.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>Another moment and Betty breaks into a
+wild burst of laughter, after which everyone
+else follows suit.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘I’m going to publish your story, Tommy,
+at any price,’ says Mr. Crosby, putting
+Tommy back from him upon his knee, and
+gazing with interest at that tiny astonished
+child. ‘There will be trouble with the
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_222'>222</span>publishers. But I’ll get it done at all risks
+to life and limb. I don’t suppose I shall be
+spoken to afterwards by any respectable
+person, but that is of little moment when a
+literary gem is in question.’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>Tommy, not understanding, but scenting
+fun, laughs gaily.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘I don’t think you ought to encourage
+him like that,’ says Susan, whose pretty
+mouth, however, is sweet with smiles.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘One should always encourage a genius,’
+says Crosby, undismayed.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>There is a little stir here. Tommy has
+wriggled out of Crosby’s lap and has gone
+back to Ella, who receives him with—literally—open
+arms.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>Wyndham is watching her curiously. Her
+manner all through Tommy’s absorbingly
+interesting tale has been a revelation to him.
+He has found out for one thing that he has
+never heard her laugh before—at all events,
+not like that. No, he has never heard her
+really laugh before, and, indeed, perhaps poor
+Ella, in all her sad young life, has never
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_223'>223</span>laughed like that until now. It has been to
+the shrewd young barrister as though he has
+looked upon her for the first time to-day after
+quite two months of acquaintance—he who
+prides himself, and has often been complimented,
+on his knowledge of character, his
+grasp of a client’s real mind from his first
+half-hour with him or her.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>Her mirth has astonished him. She, the
+pale, frightened girl, to laugh like that!
+There has been no loudness in her mirth,
+either; it has been soft and refined, if very
+gay and happy. She has laughed as a girl
+might who has been born to happiness in
+every way—to silken robes and delicate surroundings,
+and all the paraphernalia that go
+to make up the life of those born into families
+that can count their many grandfathers.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>Once or twice he has told himself half impatiently—angry
+with the charge laid upon
+his unwitting shoulders—that the girl is
+good-looking. Now he tells himself something
+more: that she is lovely, with that
+smile upon her face, as she sits—all unconscious
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_224'>224</span>of his criticism—with Tommy in her
+arms, and</p>
+
+<div class='lg-container-b c013'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line in24'>‘Eyes</div>
+      <div class='line'>Upglancing brightly mischievous, a spring</div>
+      <div class='line'>Of brimming laughter welling on the brink</div>
+      <div class='line'>Of lips like flowers, small caressing hands</div>
+      <div class='line'>Tight locked,’</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<p class='c014'>around the lucky Tommy’s waist.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>But now she puts Tommy (who has
+evidently fallen a slave to her charms, and
+repudiates loudly her right to give him
+away like this) down on his sturdy feet,
+and comes a little forward to where Susan
+is standing.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘I’m afraid I must go now,’ says she.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Oh, not yet,’ says Susan; ‘there is plenty
+of time. It isn’t as if you had to drive five
+miles to get to your home.’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Still—I think—’ She looks so anxious
+that Susan, who is always charming, understands
+her.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘If you must go,’ whispers she sweetly—‘if
+you would rather—well, then, do go.
+But to-morrow, and every other day, you
+must come back to us. Carew—’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'><span class='pageno' id='Page_225'>225</span>‘I’m here,’ says Carew, coming up, and
+blushing as well as the best of girls as he
+takes Ella’s hand. ‘I’ll see you home,’
+says he.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘I don’t think it will be necessary,’ says
+Wyndham shortly. Then he stops, confounded
+at his own imprudence, considering
+all the circumstances. Yet the words have
+fallen from him without volition of his own.
+‘The fact is,’ says he quickly, ‘I too am
+going now, and will be able to see Miss
+Moore safely within her gate.’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>Carew frowns, and Susan comes to the
+rescue.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘We’ll all go,’ cries she gaily.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘The very thing,’ says Crosby. ‘That
+will give me a little more of your society, as
+I also must drag myself away.’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>The ‘your’ is so very general that nobody
+takes any notice of it, and they all go up the
+small avenue together.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘You were surprised to see me here?’ says
+Ella in a nervous whisper to Wyndham, who
+has doggedly taken possession of her, in
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_226'>226</span>spite of the knowledge that such a proceeding
+will in the end tell against him.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘I confess I was’—stiffly.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘You are displeased?’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘On the contrary, you know I always
+advised you to show yourself—to defy
+your enemies. You can defy them, you
+know.’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Yes; but—I mean that, after all I said to
+you about my dislike, my fear, of leaving the
+Cottage, you must think it queer of me to be
+here to-day.’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘I do not, indeed. I think it only natural
+that you should break through such a melancholy
+determination. Besides, no doubt’—with
+increasing coldness—‘you had an inducement.’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Yes, yes; I had,’ says she quickly.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Ah!’ A pause. ‘Someone you have
+seen lately?’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Quite lately.’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>Second pause, and prolonged.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘I suppose you will soon see a way out of
+all your difficulties?’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'><span class='pageno' id='Page_227'>227</span>No doubt she had fallen in love with
+Crosby, and he with her, and—</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘No; I don’t think there is any chance of
+that,’ says she mournfully. ‘But when Su—Miss
+Barry asked me to come here, I couldn’t
+resist it. You can see for yourself what an
+inducement she is.’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>Susan! is it only Susan? He pulls himself
+up sharply. Well, and if so, where is
+the matter for rejoicing? Of course, being
+left in a sense her guardian by the Professor,
+he is bound to feel an interest in her; but a
+vague interest such as that should not be
+accompanied by this quick relief, this sudden
+sensation of—of what?</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>Dominick, just behind him, is singing at
+the top of his lungs—sound ones:</p>
+
+<div class='lg-container-b c013'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>‘As I walked out wid Dinah,</div>
+      <div class='line in2'>De other afternoon,</div>
+      <div class='line'>De day could not be finer,</div>
+      <div class='line in2'>Ho! de ring-tailed coon!’</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<p class='c004'>He is evidently pointing this nigger melody
+at Betty, who has been rash enough to go
+walking out with him. She has gone even
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_228'>228</span>farther. She has condescended to sing a
+second to his exceedingly loud first, a stroke
+of genius on her part, as it has taken the
+wind out of his sails so far as his belief in
+his powers of teasing her (on this occasion,
+at all events) are concerned.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>Mr. Wyndham takes the opportunity of
+the second verse coming to a thrilling conclusion
+to break off his conversation with
+Ella. And now, indeed, they are all at the
+little green gate, and are saying their adieus
+to her. And presently they have all gone
+away again, and Ella, standing inside, feels
+as if life and joy and all things have been
+shut off from her with the locking of that
+small green gate.</p>
+
+<hr class='c012'>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Isn’t she pretty?’ cries Susan enthusiastically,
+when they have bidden good-bye
+to Crosby and Wyndham too, and are back
+again on their own small lawn.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘She’s a regular bud,’ says Dom, striking
+a tragic attitude. He doesn’t mean anything
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_229'>229</span>really, but Carew, with darkling brow, goes
+up to him.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘I think you ought to speak more respectfully
+of her,’ says he. ‘It isn’t because she
+is alone in the world that one should throw
+stones at her.’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Betty, I appeal to you,’ says Dominick.
+‘Did I throw a stone? Come, speak up. I
+take this as a distinct insult. The man who
+would throw a stone at a woman—He’s
+gone!’ says Mr. Fitzgerald, staring at Carew’s
+disappearing form. ‘Well, I do call that
+mean. And I had arranged a peroration
+that would have astonished the natives.
+Anyway, Susan’—turning—‘what did I say
+to offend him? Called her a bud. Isn’t a
+bud a nice thing? I declare he’s as touchy
+about her as though she were his best
+girl.’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘What’s a best girl?’ asks Betty.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘The one you like best.’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Well, perhaps she’s his’—growing interested.
+‘Susan, I do believe he is in love
+with her.’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'><span class='pageno' id='Page_230'>230</span>‘Do you?’ says Susan thoughtfully. And
+then: ‘Oh no! Boys never fall in love.’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Dom thinks they do,’ says Betty, turning
+a saucy glance on Fitzgerald. She flings a
+rose at him. ‘Who’s your best girl?’ asks she.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Need you ask?’ returns that youth with
+his most sentimental air.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘I don’t think I quite approve of her,’
+says Miss Barry, joining in the conversation
+at this moment, and shaking her curls severely;
+‘I thought her a little free this
+afternoon.’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Oh, auntie!’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Certainly, Susan! Most distinctly free.’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘I thought her one of the gentlest and
+quietest girls I ever met,’ says Carew, who
+has strolled back to them after his short
+ebullition of temper—unable, indeed, to
+keep away.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘What do you know of girls?’ says Miss
+Barry scornfully.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘I’m sure she’s gentle,’ says Dominick,
+who is so devoted to Carew that he would
+risk a great deal—even his friendship—to
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_231'>231</span>keep him out of trouble, ‘and very, very
+good; because she is beyond all doubt most
+femininely dull.’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Pig!’ says Betty, in a whisper. She
+makes a little movement towards him, and
+a second later gets a pinch and a wild yell
+out of him.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘What I say I maintain,’ says Miss Barry
+magisterially. ‘She may be a nice girl, a
+gentle girl, the grandest girl that was ever
+known—I’m the last in the world to depreciate
+anyone—but who is she? That’s
+what I want to know. And no one knows
+who she is. Perhaps of the lower classes,
+for all we know. And, indeed, I noticed a
+few queer turns of speech. And when I
+said she was free, Susan, I meant it. I
+heard her distinctly call that child’—pointing
+to him—‘“Tommy.” Now, if she is, as
+I firmly believe—your father is a person of
+no discrimination, you know—a person of a
+lower grade than ourselves, didn’t it show
+great freedom to do that? Yes, she distinctly
+said “Tommy.”’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'><span class='pageno' id='Page_232'>232</span>‘Well, she didn’t say “Hell and Tommy,”
+any way,’ says Dominick, who sometimes runs
+over to London to see the theatres.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘If she had,’ says Miss Barry with dignity—she
+has never seen the outside of a theatre—‘I
+should have had no hesitation whatsoever
+in sending for the sergeant and giving her in
+charge.’</p>
+
+<div class='chapter'>
+  <span class='pageno' id='Page_233'>233</span>
+  <h2 class='c008'>CHAPTER XXXVII.</h2>
+</div>
+<div class='lg-container-b c011'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line in20'>‘She is outwardly</div>
+      <div class='line'>All that bewitches sense, all that entices,</div>
+      <div class='line'>Nor is it in our virtue to uncharm it.’</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<p class='c010'>It is a week later, and the village is now
+stirred to its depth. Such gaieties! Such
+gaddings to and fro! Such wonderful tales
+of what Lady Forster wore and Sir William
+said, and how Miss Prior looked. Gossip is
+flowing freely, delightfully, and Miss Ricketty,
+whose shop is a general meeting-place, is
+doing a roaring business in buns and biscuits.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>The Park, in fact, is full of guests.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Every corner,’ says Miss Blake to Mrs.
+Hennessy, in a mysterious whisper, ‘is full
+to overflowing. I hear that some of the
+servants have to be accommodated outside
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_234'>234</span>the house, and that Mr. Crosby has painted
+and papered and done up the loft over the
+stables in the latest Parisian style for the
+maids and valets.’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘My dear!’ says Mrs. Hennessy, in an
+awful tone—very justly shocked; then, ‘You
+forget yourself, Maria!’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Faith I did,’ says Miss Blake, bursting
+into an irrepressible giggle. ‘Law, how
+funny y’are! But they’re safely divided,
+I’m told, one at one side o’ the yard, the
+other at this, as it were. Like the High
+churches we hear of in England. The goats
+and the sheep—ha, ha!’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘But where are the maids?’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Over the stables at the western side, some
+of them.’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘You don’t say so!’ says Mrs. Hennessy.
+‘Bless me, but they wouldn’t like—you
+know, the—er—the atmosphere!’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Oh, there’s ways of doing away with that
+too,’ says Miss Blake, with a knowing air.
+‘But you’ll come in for a cup of tea, won’t
+you? Jane’s dyin’ to have a chat with you.’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'><span class='pageno' id='Page_235'>235</span>Miss Blake is hardly to be trusted in
+matters such as these, her imagination being
+extraordinarily strong. And, indeed, the
+idea of those stables rose alone from her
+great mind. But although there are still
+corners in the splendid old Hall to let, it
+must be confessed that it is pretty full at
+present.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>Guests at the Park! Such a thing had
+not been heard of for many years. Not for
+the last eight years, at all events.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>Then Crosby, who was about twenty-five,
+came home from Thibet, and his sister
+Katherine, who was quite a girl—being six
+years his junior—had been brought over
+from England by her aunt to freshen up her
+old love for him, and to stay with him for
+his birthday. Not longer. The birthday
+came off within the week of their arriving.
+Lady Melland was a woman of Society, who
+hated earwigs, and early birds, and baa-lambs,
+and insisted on bringing quite a big
+company ‘on tour’ with her on this re-introduction
+of the brother to the sister, and had
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_236'>236</span>organized a distinct rout at the Hall during
+her memorable stay. It had created a fearful,
+if pleasurable, impression at the time,
+and people are beginning now to wonder in
+this little village if Lady Forster will be a
+worthy representative of her aunt. Or if
+perchance the aunt will again take up the
+deal; for Lady Melland has, they say, come
+here with her.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>However, for once ‘they say’ is wrong.
+Katherine Crosby had married Sir William
+Forster two years after the termination of
+that remarkable visit, and nothing had been
+seen of her since that, until now. She had,
+however, in between shaken off Lady Melland.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>She has brought an innumerable company
+in her train, thus justifying the idea of
+Curraghcloyne that she would probably
+follow in her aunt’s footsteps, and, as I
+have said, the village has waked to find itself
+no longer deserted, but the centre of a
+very brilliant crowd.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>Yesterday was the first of August, Saturday,
+and a most unendurable one on the
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_237'>237</span>small platform of the railway-station. Possibly
+during its brief existence so many basket-trunks
+have never been laid upon its modest
+flags before. To-day is Sunday, and possibly
+also the parish church has never had so large
+a congregation within its whitewashed walls.
+Even the Methodists, quite a large portion of
+the Curraghcloyne people, have deserted their
+chapel for the orthodox church. Even Miss
+Ricketty has been heard to say with distinct
+regret that she ‘wished she was a Protestant
+for once.’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>The Hall pews, which number four, and
+for which Mr. Crosby, during all his wanderings,
+has paid carefully, are all filled, and
+the three seats behind them again, that have
+vacant sittings in them, are all filled also
+with the servants of the people in the four
+front seats. Never was there such a display
+in the small church of Curraghcloyne! And
+it was acknowledged afterwards by everyone
+in the town that though the Rector did not
+‘stir a hair,’ the curate was decidedly ‘onaisy.’
+The curate was unnerved beyond a doubt.
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_238'>238</span>He grew fatter and stouter as the service
+went on, and he does not know to this day
+how he got through his sermon. He says
+now, that people oughtn’t to spring people
+on one without a word of preparation.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>Susan tried to keep her eyes off the
+Hall pews, but in spite of herself her eyes
+wandered. Betty did not try to keep her
+eyes off at all, so they wandered freely. She
+was able, half an hour later, to tell Susan not
+only the number of guests Mr. Crosby had,
+but the exact colour of each gown the women
+wore, and she told Susan privately that she
+thought, if ever she were a rich woman, she
+would never let her servants wear red ribbons
+in their bonnets in church.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>Mr. Haldane rushes through his sermon at
+the rate of an American liner, and presently
+the service is over, and all move, with the
+cultivated leisurely steps that are meant to
+hide the desire to run, towards the open door.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>Some of the other Rectory people have
+gone through the side-door, and, with
+Bonnie’s hand fast clasped in hers, Susan is
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_239'>239</span>following after them, when a well-known
+voice calls to her:</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Susan, my sister wants very much to
+know you. Will you let me introduce you
+to her?’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>Susan turns her face, now delicately pink,
+and she sees a small, dainty, pretty creature
+holding out her hand to her with the prettiest
+smile in the world.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>Is this Mr. Crosby’s sister?</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘How d’ye do?’ says Lady Forster, in a
+very clear if low voice. ‘George was chanting
+your praises all last night, so naturally
+I have been longing to see you. George’s
+friends, as a rule, are frauds; but—’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>She pauses, evidently amused at the girl’s
+open surprise, not so much at her words as
+at her appearance.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘I’m not a bit like George, am I?’ says she.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>No, she is not. Crosby is a big man, if
+anything, and she is the tiniest creature.
+Her features are tiny too, but exquisitely
+moulded. The coquettish mouth, the nose
+‘tip-tilted like a flower,’ the well-poised
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_240'>240</span>dainty head, the hands, the feet—all are
+small, and her figure slender as a fairy’s.
+She is wonderfully pretty in a brilliant
+fashion, and her bright eyes are alight with
+intelligence. She is altogether the last
+person in the world Susan would have imagined
+as Crosby’s sister. And yet there is
+certainly a likeness between them—a strange
+likeness—but, of course, his sister should
+have been large and massive, not a little
+thing like this. Susan has always told herself
+that she should be dreadfully afraid of
+his sister—but to be afraid of this sister!</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>Lady Forster, indeed, is one of those
+women who look as if they ought to be
+called ‘Baby’ or ‘Birdie,’ but in reality she
+was named Katherine at her birth, with a
+big and a stern K, not a C—which we all
+know is much milder—and never did Susan
+hear her called anything less majestic by
+anyone. Not even by her brother or her
+husband. And this was probably because,
+beneath her charming butterfly air, there lay
+a good deal of character and a strength of
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_241'>241</span>will hardly to be suspected in so slight a
+creature.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘No,’ says Susan shyly. She smiles, and
+involuntarily tightens her fingers on those
+she is holding—Lady Forster’s fingers.
+‘But—’ A still greater shyness overcomes
+her here, and she grows quite silent.
+The ‘but,’ however, is eloquent.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘You see, George! She thinks I am infinitely
+superior to you. How lovely of her!’
+She laughs at Susan and pats her hand.
+‘You will come up and lunch with us to-morrow,
+won’t you? It is George’s birthday.
+And considering the slap you have given him
+just now, you can hardly refuse. It will be
+a little sop to his pride, and that’s frightful!
+He thinks himself a perfect joy! I’m told
+that in Darkest Africa the belles—’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>Here Crosby gives her a surreptitious
+but vigorous nudge, and she breaks off her
+highly-spiced and distinctly interesting, if
+slightly unveracious, account of his doings in
+Uganda.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘What’s the matter with you?’ asks she,
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_242'>242</span>whispering, of her brother, who whispers
+back to her many admonitory things. She
+turns again to Susan: ‘We shall expect you
+to-morrow, then. It will be a charity to
+enliven us, as we hardly know what to do
+with ourselves, being strangers in a strange
+land.’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Thank you,’ says Susan faintly. How
+on earth can she ever summon up courage
+enough to go and lunch up there with all
+these fashionable people? It is she who will
+be the stranger in a strange land.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘That is settled then,’ says Crosby quickly.
+Had he feared she would go on to say something
+more—to say that she had an engagement?
+‘I will call for you at twelve.’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Oh no,’ says Susan. ‘I’—confusedly—‘I
+can walk up. It—it is too much trouble.’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘George doesn’t think so,’ says Lady
+Forster, with a faint grimace. ‘Is this
+your brother?’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>She bends in her quick way, and turns up
+Bonnie’s beautiful little face and looks at it
+earnestly.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'><span class='pageno' id='Page_243'>243</span>‘What a face!’ cries she. ‘Is everyone
+beautiful down here? I shall come and live
+here, George—no use in your putting me off!
+I’m determined. It is a promise, then’—to
+Susan, smiling vivaciously—‘that you will
+come to-morrow, and another day. We must
+arrange another day—you will bring me up
+this small Adonis,’ patting Bonnie’s cheek as
+he smiles at her (children love all things
+pretty) ‘to see me?’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘I shall be very glad,’ says Susan tremulously.
+Then Lady Forster trips away to
+rejoin her friends, who are standing beside
+the different carriages, and quarrelling gaily
+as to who shall go home with whom, and for
+a second Crosby is alone with Susan.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘You said it was a promise.’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Yes,’ says Susan, ‘but—I have not known
+any very—very—’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Smart folk,’ says Crosby, laughing.
+‘Well, you’ll know them to-morrow, and I
+expect you’ll be surprised how very little
+smart they are.’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘But—’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'><span class='pageno' id='Page_244'>244</span>‘There shan’t be a “but” in the world.’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘It is only this’—miserably—‘that I shall
+be shy, and—’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Not a bit of it. And even if you are’—he
+looks at her—‘you may depend on me.
+I’ll pull you through. But don’t be too
+shy, Susan. Extremes are attractive things—fatally
+attractive sometimes.’ He pauses.
+‘Well, so much for the shyness, but what
+did your “and” mean?’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘It meant,’ says Susan, with deep depression,
+‘that they will all hate me.’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘I almost wish I could believe that.’ He
+laughs again as he says this, and gives
+Bonnie’s ear a pinch, and follows his sister.
+Two minutes later, as Susan rejoins her own
+people at the little gate that leads by a
+short-cut to the Rectory, she sees him again,
+talking gaily, and handing into one of the
+carriages a tall and very handsome girl,
+dressed as Susan had never seen anyone
+dressed in all her life. It seems the very
+perfection of dressing. She lingers a moment—a
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_245'>245</span>bare moment—but it is long enough to
+see that he has seated himself beside the
+handsome girl, and that he is still laughing—but
+this time with her—over some reminiscence,
+as the carriage drives away.</p>
+
+<div class='chapter'>
+  <span class='pageno' id='Page_246'>246</span>
+  <h2 class='c008'>CHAPTER XXXVIII.</h2>
+</div>
+<div class='lg-container-b c011'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>‘Anxiety is the poison of human life.’</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<p class='c010'>‘I suppose I’ll have to go,’ says Susan, who
+is evidently terrified at the idea, crumpling
+up a small note between her fingers—a most
+courteous little note sent by Lady Forster
+this morning, Monday, the third of August,
+to ask Miss Barry’s permission for Susan to
+lunch at the Park. She—Lady Forster—had
+met her charming niece yesterday, and
+had induced her to promise to come to them
+on this, her brother’s birthday. And she
+hoped Miss Barry had not quite forgotten
+her, but would remember that she was quite
+an old friend, and let her come and see her
+soon.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>It is a pretty little note, and delights Miss
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_247'>247</span>Barry; yet Susan finds no pleasure in it, and
+now sits glum and miserable.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Go!’ cries Betty. ‘I should think so.
+Oh, you lucky girl!’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Would you like to go, Betty, if it were
+your case?’—this wistfully. Oh that it were
+Betty’s case!</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Is there anything on earth that would
+keep me away?’ cries Betty enthusiastically.
+‘What fun you will have there! I know by
+Lady Forster’s eyes that you are safe to
+have a good time. I think’—gloomily—‘she
+might have asked me too.’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘I wish she had,’ says Susan fervently.
+‘If—I had one of you with me, I should not
+feel half so nervous.’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘What makes you nervous?’ asks Carew.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Well, they are all strangers, for one thing—and
+besides’—rather shamefacedly—‘they
+will be very big people, of course, and at
+luncheon there will be entrées, and dishes,
+and things I have never even heard of, and’—almost
+tearfully now—‘I shan’t know what
+to do.’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'><span class='pageno' id='Page_248'>248</span>‘There are only two things to be remembered
+really,’ says Mr. Fitzgerald slowly
+but forcibly. ‘One is not to pick your teeth
+with your fork, and the other is even more
+important: for goodness’ sake, Susan, whatever
+you do, don’t eat your peas with your
+knife. All that sort of thing has gone out—has
+been unfashionable for quite a year or
+more.’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Oh, it’s all very well for you to make fun
+of it,’ says Susan resentfully. ‘You haven’t
+to go there.’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘And is that what you call “well for me”?
+I wish I was going there, if only to look after
+your manners, which evidently, by your own
+account of them, leave a great deal to be
+desired. By-the-by, there is one thing more
+I should like to impress upon you before you
+start: never, Susan—no matter how sorely
+tempted—put your feet on the table-cloth.
+It is quite a solecism nowadays, and—’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘If you won’t go away, I shall,’ says
+Susan, rising with extreme dignity. But
+he leans forward, and catching the tail of
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_249'>249</span>her gown just as she is gaining her feet,
+brings her with a jerk to her sitting position
+again. After which they all laugh irrepressibly,
+and the <i><span lang="fr">émeute</span></i> is at an end.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘What a lot of servants they had in
+church!’ says Betty, alluding to the all-absorbing
+guests at the Park. ‘I suppose
+that tall woman was Lady Forster’s maid?’
+‘Yes, and the little woman was Mrs.
+Prior’s. By the way, that squares matters.
+Mrs. Prior has grown several yards since last
+year.’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘It seemed to me that each maid sat
+behind her own mistress.’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘So as to keep her eye on her. And very
+necessary too, no doubt.’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Did you see that pale young man, ever so
+thin and wretched-looking, but so conceited?
+His hair was nearly down to his waist, and
+he hadn’t any chin to speak of.’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Oh, that!’ cries Betty eagerly. ‘That’s
+the poet. Yes, he is, Susan. He’s a real
+poet. Miss Ricketty told me about him
+yesterday. He has written sonnets and
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_250'>250</span>whole volumes of things, and is quite a
+poet. Miss Ricketty says that’s why his
+hair grows like that.’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Samson must have been the laureate of
+his time,’ says Dominick thoughtfully.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘So that was the poet,’ says Susan, who
+had heard of his coming from Crosby.
+‘Well, he certainly looked queer enough for
+anything. I wonder’—nervously—‘who was
+the tall girl sitting next to Mr. Crosby?’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>This was the tall girl with whom Crosby
+had driven away.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘I don’t know,’ says Betty. ‘Wasn’t she
+pretty? And wasn’t she beautifully dressed?
+Oh, Susan, didn’t you want to see yourself
+in a gown like that?’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘No,’ says Susan shortly.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Well, I did. I wanted to know how I’d
+look.’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘As if you didn’t know,’ says Dominick
+encouragingly. ‘Like Venus herself!’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘I never heard she had her frocks from
+Paris,’ says Betty, hunching up an unkind
+little shoulder against him.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'><span class='pageno' id='Page_251'>251</span>‘You’ve heard so little, you see,’ says Dom,
+with gentle protest. ‘Now, as a fact, Venus
+had her frocks made by—’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Well?’ with a threatening air.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Miss Fogerty,’ naming Betty’s own dressmaker.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Pshaw!’ says that slim damsel contemptuously.
+‘However, Susan, that girl was
+pretty, any way. I wonder who she was?
+Had she a maid, I wonder? There was a
+dark-looking woman amongst the servants
+farther on, just behind the poet. Perhaps
+it was hers.’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Oh no,’ says Dom gravely, ‘that was his.’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘His?’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘The poet’s. Yes.’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Nonsense!’ says Betty. ‘What would
+he want a maid for?’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘To comb his locks and copy his sonnets,’
+says Dom, without blinking.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Nonsense! Men don’t have maids,’ says
+Betty, who seems to know all about it.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Oh, here is someone from the Park,’ cries
+Jacky suddenly.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'><span class='pageno' id='Page_252'>252</span>‘Is it Mr. Crosby or Lady Forster?’ asks
+Susan anxiously.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Both of ’em,’ says Jacky, in his own
+sweet laconic style.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>The smart little cart, with its wonderful
+pair of ponies, rattled up to the door, and
+Miss Barry, who had known that someone
+would come to fetch Susan, and had therefore
+put on her best bib and tucker, emerged from
+the flower-crowned porch of the Rectory to
+receive Lady Forster, her old face wreathed
+in smiles. It was sweet to her to see Susan
+accepted and admired by the Park people.
+‘Our own sort of people’ proudly thought
+the poor old maid, who had struggled with
+much poverty all her life.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>And Lady Forster was quite charming to
+her, insisting on going to see the old garden
+again, ‘which she quite remembered.’ Lady
+Forster had never stuck at a tarradiddle or
+two, and was, after seeing it, genuinely
+enthusiastic over its old-fashioned charms.
+Might she bring her friends to see it? They
+had never, never seen anything so lovely!
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_253'>253</span>It would be a charity to show them something
+human, these benighted town-people.
+To hear her, one would imagine she despised
+the town herself, whereas, as a fact, she could
+never live for six months out of it.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>Miss Barry was elated—so elated, indeed,
+that she took a dreadful step. She invited
+Lady Forster and all her friends to tea
+the next Friday, without a thought as to
+the consequences—until afterwards! Lady
+Forster accepted the invitation with effusion.
+There was no getting out of it, Miss Barry
+felt during that dreadful ‘afterwards.’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>Meantime Susan had found herself, comparatively
+speaking, alone with Crosby, when
+she came downstairs after putting on her best
+gown and hat. She had brought something
+with her besides the best gown and hat; a
+little silken bag, made out of a bit of lovely
+old brocade she had begged from Miss Barry
+a month ago. She had cut it out, and
+stitched it, and filled it with lavender-seeds,
+and worked on it at odd moments when no
+one but Betty could see her (she was afraid
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_254'>254</span>of the boys’ jokes) the words: ‘Mr. Crosby,
+from Susan.’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>At first she had thought of buying something
+for him—something at Miss Ricketty’s,
+who really had, at times, quite wonderful
+things down from Dublin, but her soul revolted
+from that. What could she buy him
+that he would care for? And besides, to
+buy a thing for a person one liked, and one
+who had been so good to Bonnie! No; she
+could not. It seemed cold, unkind. So she
+decided on the little bag that was to lie in
+his drawer and perfume his handkerchiefs,
+and tell him sometimes of her—yes, her
+love for him! Because she did love him, if
+only for his goodness to the children, and to
+her Bonnie first of all.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>She had been afraid to run the gauntlet of
+the boys’ criticisms, but Betty she clung to.
+A confidante one must have sometimes, or
+die.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘You know he told me, Betty, when his
+birthday would be.’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Yes. So clever of him!’ said Betty, who,
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_255'>255</span>if she were at the point of death, could not
+have refrained from a joke.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Well, he has been good to the chicks,
+hasn’t he? To darling Bonnie especially.’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Oh, he has—he has indeed,’ Betty declared
+remorsefully, melting at the thought
+of the little crippled brother who is so inexpressibly
+dear to them all.</p>
+
+<hr class='c012'>
+
+<p class='c004'>Betty had hurried up with Susan to get
+her into her best things, and then had given
+her sound advice.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Give it to him now, Susan. Lady
+Forster’—glancing out of the window—‘is
+talking to Aunt Jemima. Hurry down and
+give it to him at once. It is the sweetest
+bag. No one’—giggling—‘can say less
+than that for it. It’s quite crammed with
+lavender.’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Yes, I will,’ says Susan valiantly.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>She doesn’t, however. She hesitates, and
+is, as usual, lost. She tries and tries to take
+that little bag out of her pocket and give
+it to him, but her courage fails her. And
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_256'>256</span>presently Lady Forster carries her off, and
+now the Park is reached, and she finds herself
+in the lovely, sunny drawing-room, and
+after a while in the dining-room, and still
+that little fragrant bag lies perdu.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>Susan glances shyly round her. Sir
+William Forster, a tall young man with a
+kindly eye, takes her fancy at once, and
+there is a big girl over there and a big
+woman here (they must be mother and
+daughter), who make her wonder a great
+deal about their strange garments. Mrs.
+Prior is here, too, and Miss Prior—Mr.
+Wyndham’s people. And at the opposite
+side of the table Mr. Wyndham himself.
+Beside him sits the poet, a lachrymose young
+man with long hair and a crooked eye, and
+the name of Jones. No wonder he looks
+depressed!</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>He has got his best eye fixed immovably
+on Susan, who seems to appeal even to his
+high ideal of beauty—and, indeed, throughout
+the day she suffers a good deal, off
+and on, from his unspoken, but quite open,
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_257'>257</span>adoration of her. Poets never admire: they
+adore. And for a simple country maiden
+this style is somewhat embarrassing. On
+Mr. Crosby’s right hand is sitting the tall
+and beautiful girl, with the pale roses near
+her throat, with whom he had driven home
+from church on Sunday. It seems all quite
+clear to Susan. Yes, this is the girl he is
+going to marry. But a girl so beautiful as
+that could make anyone happy. She had
+heard someone call her Lady Muriel. Rank
+and beauty and sweetness—all are for him.
+And surely he deserves them all; and that
+is why she is at his right hand.</p>
+
+<div class='chapter'>
+  <span class='pageno' id='Page_258'>258</span>
+  <h2 class='c008'>CHAPTER XXXIX.</h2>
+</div>
+<div class='lg-container-b c011'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>‘Thou didst delight mine ear,</div>
+      <div class='line in2'>Ah! little praise; thy voice</div>
+      <div class='line in2'>Makes other hearts rejoice,</div>
+      <div class='line'>Makes all ears glad that hear,</div>
+      <div class='line in2'>And shout my joy. But yet,</div>
+      <div class='line in2'>O song, do not forget.’</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<p class='c010'>Susan is seated beside a very fashionably-dressed
+girl with an extremely good-humoured
+face, and Captain Lennox—a man of about
+thirty or thereabouts—who seems to find
+pleasure in an every two minutes’ contemplation
+of her young and charming face. In
+this, the good-humoured looking girl—Miss
+Forbes—is not a whit behind Captain Lennox,
+she too seeming to be delighted with Susan.
+And, indeed, everyone seems to have fallen
+in love with pretty Susan, for presently the
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_259'>259</span>stately young beauty sitting next to Crosby,
+who has come in a little late for luncheon,
+whispers something to him, and then looks
+smilingly at Susan. Crosby, in answer to
+her words, says quietly:</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Susan—Lady Muriel Kennedy is very
+anxious to know you. Miss Barry, Lady
+Muriel.’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘I went past your charming old home
+yesterday,’ says Lady Muriel, in tones barely
+above a whisper, but which seem to carry a
+long distance. ‘I quite wanted to go in, but
+I was afraid.’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Well, you’ll be able to satiate your curiosity
+on Friday,’ says Lady Forster, ‘as we
+have been asked to tea on that day at the
+Rectory.’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘How delightful!’ says Lady Muriel.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Your house is quite close to the Cottage,
+is it not, Miss Barry?’ asks Mrs. Prior.
+‘My nephew’s place, you know’—nodding at
+Wyndham, who changes colour perceptibly.
+Good heavens! what is going to happen
+next?</p>
+
+<p class='c004'><span class='pageno' id='Page_260'>260</span>‘Yes,’ says Susan; ‘only the road divides
+us.’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Then you can tell us about Mr. Wyndham’s
+new tenant. You’—smiling archly—‘are
+quite an old friend of my nephew’s, eh?’
+It is quite safe to make a jest of the friendship
+with this insignificant little country girl,
+as, of course, Paul, or any other man of consequence,
+would not waste a thought over her.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Almost, indeed,’ says Susan. ‘But as to
+the tenant—’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>Crosby drops a spoon, and Susan, a little
+startled, turns her head. It is not on him,
+however, her eyes rest, but on Wyndham,
+who is looking at her with a strange expression.
+Is it imploring, despairing, or
+what? It checks her, at all events.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘I know very little,’ she murmurs faintly.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Been flirting with him,’ thinks Mrs. Prior
+promptly. ‘All country girls are so vulgar.
+Any new man.... And I dare say this tenant
+of Paul’s is by no means a nice man either.’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>There might have been a slight awkwardness
+here, but providentially Lady Forster,
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_261'>261</span>who is never silent for two minutes together,
+breaks into the gap.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘What’s this, George?’ asks she, peering
+into a dish before her. ‘Are you prepared
+to guarantee it? It’s your cook, you know,
+not mine. Looks dangerous, and therefore
+tempting; and any way, one can only die
+once. Oh! is that you?’—to a late man
+who has strolled in. ‘Been losing yourself
+as usual? Come over here and sit beside
+me, you innocent lamb’—patting the empty
+chair near her—‘and I’ll look after you. I’ll
+give you one of these’—pointing to the dish—‘I
+hate to die alone. What on earth are
+they?’—glancing at the little brown curled-up
+things that seem filled with burnt crumbs.
+‘Will they go off, George? Bombs, eh?’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>Here the butler murmurs something to her
+in a discreet tone.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Oh, mushrooms! Good gracious, then
+why don’t they try to look like them!’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Have you any brothers?’ asks Miss
+Forbes, turning to Susan.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Don’t answer,’ says Captain Lennox.
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_262'>262</span>‘She’s always asking after one’s brothers. Tell
+me, instead, how many sisters you have. Much
+more interesting. I love people’s sisters.’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘I’m George’s sister,’ says Lady Forster,
+glancing at him thoughtfully.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘And my wife!’ says Sir William, with
+such an over-assumption of marital authority
+that they all laugh, and his wife throws a
+pellet of bread at him.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>Susan grows thoughtful, filled with a
+slight amazement. She had been nervous,
+almost distressed, at the idea of having to
+lunch at the Park. Its habitués, she told
+herself, would be very grand folk, and clever,
+and learned, and would talk very far above
+her little countrified head. And now how is
+it? Why, after all, they are more like Dom
+in his queerest moods than anything else.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘What shall we do after luncheon?’ says
+Lady Forster. ‘I am willing to chaperon
+anybody.’ She glances at Lady Muriel, and
+Susan intercepts the glance.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>Is it Lady Muriel and Mr. Crosby she is
+thinking of chaperoning?</p>
+
+<p class='c004'><span class='pageno' id='Page_263'>263</span>‘Oh, I like your idea of supervision,’ says
+the Guardsman who has come in late, and
+who is called Lord Jack by everybody, only
+because, as Susan discovers afterwards, his
+name is Jack Lord. This, naturally, is inevitable.
+‘You once undertook to chaperon
+me, and let me in for about the most <i><span lang="fr">risqué</span></i>
+situation of my life. I came out of it barely
+alive, and very nearly maimed.’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Yes—I don’t think Katherine would make
+a very excellent chaperon,’ says Mrs. Prior,
+who likes Crosby, but cordially detests his
+sister.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘What a slander!’ cries Lady Forster;
+‘easy to see you don’t understand me! I’m
+a splendid chaperon—a born one. Always
+half a mile ahead—or else in the rear. One
+should always be ahead if possible, as it gives
+the poor creatures a chance of getting up to
+you in an honourable way, if the enemy
+should come in sight. Whereas the turning
+and running back business always looks so
+bad. No, better be in front of them. I’m
+going to write a little treatise on the art
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_264'>264</span>of chaperoning for all right-minded married
+women—and I hope you will accept a copy,
+dear Mrs. Prior.’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘I don’t expect I shall get one,’ says Mrs.
+Prior, with a distinct sneer.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Oh, you shall indeed, “honest Injun,”’
+says Lady Forster. ‘You’ll be delighted
+with it.’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘I feel sure of that,’ says Captain Lennox
+in an aside to Miss Forbes.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘But really what shall we do this afternoon,
+George?’ asks his sister; ‘ride—drive?’
+She has left her seat, and has perched herself
+on the arm of the handsome old chair in
+which her husband is sitting at the foot of
+the table.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘What about the Abbey, Bill?’ asks
+Crosby, addressing his brother-in-law.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘No use in asking “Billee Barlow” anything,’
+says that young man’s wife. ‘He
+hasn’t an idea on earth. Have you, Billee?
+And the Abbey is miles off, and— Do
+you ride, Susan? I am going to call you
+Susan, if I may.’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'><span class='pageno' id='Page_265'>265</span>She pauses just long enough to give Susan
+time to smile a pleased, if shy, assent.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Susan is so pretty,’ says Captain Lennox
+absently.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Eh?’ says Crosby quickly, and with a
+suspicion of a frown.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Very, very pretty,’ repeats Lennox
+fervently.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>Crosby glances at Susan. This absurd
+joke, this jest on her name—with anyone
+else here it would be a jest only, but Susan—would
+she.... Her colour is faintly, very
+faintly accentuated, and she is looking
+straight at Lennox.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘My name?’ says she, taking up the
+meaning he had not meant. ‘Do you really
+think it pretty? The boys and Betty despise
+it.’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>Her gentle dignity goes home to all.
+Crosby is indignant with Lennox, and, indeed,
+so is Sir William. Sir William’s wife,
+however, I regret to say, is convulsed with
+laughter.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘It is certainly not a name to be despised,’
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_266'>266</span>says Lennox courteously, who is now a little
+ashamed of himself.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘I like to be called by my Christian name,’
+says a singularly young-looking married
+woman. ‘Puts people out so. They never
+know whether you are married or not for the
+first half-hour, at all events.’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>They are now in a body strolling into the
+drawing-rooms, and Miss Forbes has gone
+back to her cross-examination of Susan.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Four brothers? So many? And all
+grown up?’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Oh no! Carew is the eldest, and he is
+only seventeen. But we have a cousin living
+with us, and he is twenty.’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘What lovely ages!’ cries Lady Forster.
+‘George, why didn’t you tell me about
+Susan’s boys? You know I adore boys.
+Susan, you must bring them up to-morrow.
+Do you hear?’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘They will be so glad,’ says Susan; ‘do
+you know’—blushing shyly and divinely—‘they
+were quite envious of me because I
+was coming here to-day.’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'><span class='pageno' id='Page_267'>267</span>‘Oh! why didn’t you bring them with you?
+Seventeen and twenty—the nicest ages in the
+world!’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Certainly not the nicest,’ says Lennox,
+who is a born tease. ‘You, Miss Barry’—looking
+at Susan—‘are thirteen, aren’t you?’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Oh no; much, much more than that!’
+says Susan, laughing. Strangely enough,
+she has begun to feel quite a liking for her
+tormentor, divining with the wisdom of
+youth that his saucy sallies are filled with
+mischief only, and no venom. ‘I was
+eighteen last May.’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘How very candid!’ says Miss Prior, whose
+own age is growing uncertain, and who is
+feeling a little bitter over the attention paid
+to Susan. If Paul should prove inconstant,
+there is always the master of the Park to
+fall back upon, or so she has fondly hoped
+till now. But there is no denying the fact
+that Crosby has been very anxious all this
+afternoon about Susan’s happiness.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Nonsense!’ says Lennox. ‘Tell that to—well,
+to somebody else.’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'><span class='pageno' id='Page_268'>268</span>‘But that’s what I am really,’ says Susan,
+who is secretly disgusted at being thought
+thirteen. ‘I was born in—’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Don’t tell that,’ says Lady Forster,
+putting up her finger. ‘It will be fatal
+twenty years hence.’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Still, I’m not thirteen,’ says Susan, with
+gentle protest. ‘And I think anyone could
+see that I’m not.’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘I could, certainly,’ says Crosby, coming
+to the rescue. ‘In my opinion, anyone that
+looked at you would know at once that you
+were forty.’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>At this they laugh, and Susan casts her
+so very unusual ire behind her.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘You will bring up the boys to-morrow,
+then?’ says Lady Forster, who is always
+chattering. ‘And we’ll go for a long drive,
+and have a gipsy tea. That will be better
+than nothing. And as we go Susan shall
+show us the bits. No use in depending on
+George for that. He knows nothing of the
+scenery round here, or any other scenery for
+the matter of that, except African interiors,
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_269'>269</span>kraals, and nasty naked nigger women, and
+that. So immodest of him! He’ll come to
+grief some day. We can go somewhere for
+a gipsy tea to-morrow, can’t we, George?
+I’m dying to light a fire.’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘What, another!’ says Lord Jack, regarding
+her with a would-be woe-begone air. He
+lays his hand lightly on his heart.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘It’s going to rain, I think,’ says Sir
+William presently; he is standing in one
+of the windows.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘“Ruin seize thee, ruthless king!”’ exclaims
+Miss Forbes. ‘What a thing to say!’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘It always rains in Ireland, doesn’t it?’
+asks Lady Muriel, in her soft, low voice.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Oh no—no indeed!’ cries Susan eagerly.
+‘Does it, Mr. Crosby?’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Certainly not. Lady Muriel must prolong
+her stay here’—smiling at the beautiful girl
+leaning in a picturesque attitude against the
+window-shutter—‘and take back with her a
+more kindly view of our climate.’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>Yes; it is quite settled, thinks Susan. He
+loves her, and she—of course she loves him.
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_270'>270</span>And he wants her to prolong her stay, most
+naturally. And most naturally, too, he would
+like her to take back to England a kindly
+impression of her future home, of her future
+climate. Oh, how pretty, how lovely she is!</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>Heavily, heavily beat the raindrops on the
+window-pane.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Never mind,’ says Lady Forster, whom
+nothing daunts; ‘we’ll have a dance. You
+love dancing, Susan, don’t you? Come
+along, then. Take your partners all, and
+let’s waltz into the music-room.’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>In a second Susan finds Captain Lennox’s
+arm round her waist, and through the halls
+and the library they dance right into the
+music-room beyond. After her comes Crosby
+with Lady Muriel, and after them Lady
+Forster with—no, not Lord Jack, after all,
+but Sir William.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>And now the big woman whom Susan had
+noticed at luncheon has seated herself at the
+piano, and the poet has caught up a fiddle,
+and if the big woman can do nothing else
+on earth, she can at least play dance music
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_271'>271</span>to perfection, and the poet, ‘poor little fellow,’
+as Susan calls him to herself—if he could
+only have heard her!—does not make too
+many false notes on the fiddle, so that she
+dances very gaily, feeling as if her feet
+are treading on air, and answering Captain
+Lennox’s whispered honeyed words with soft
+smiles and hurried breathing. Oh, how
+lovely it all is! And, oh, how happy Lady
+Muriel is going to be!</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>The waltz has come to an end, and now
+Crosby is standing before her. And now his
+arm is round her waist, and he—oh yes, there
+is no doubt of it—he dances even better than
+Captain Lennox, and it is good of him, too,
+to spare so much time from the lovely Lady
+Muriel.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Susan,’ says Crosby, as they pause at the
+end of the room, ‘I consider your conduct
+distinctly immoral! The way you have been
+going on—’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Who—I?’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Yes, you! Don’t attempt to deny it.
+Your open flirtation with Lennox—’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'><span class='pageno' id='Page_272'>272</span>‘What?’ Susan lifts her dewy eyes to
+his. Suddenly she breaks into the merriest
+laughter. ‘You’re too funny for anything,’
+says she.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Not for another dance, I hope.’ He
+laughs too, and so gaily. And again his
+arm is round her, and away they go once
+more, dancing to the big lady’s happiest
+strains. There is a conservatory off the
+music-room, and into this he leads her
+presently.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘You have no flowers,’ says he. ‘I must
+give you some. These roses will suit you.’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘They suit Lady Muriel too,’ says Susan,
+remembering.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Yes? Oh yes! I gave them to her this
+morning. Well, it shan’t be roses, then.
+These pink begonias?’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘I should like those better,’ says Susan;
+she takes them tranquilly. It is, of course,
+quite right that he should wish to give her
+flowers different from those he has just given
+his <i><span lang="fr">fiancée</span></i>. She had reminded him just in
+time.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'><span class='pageno' id='Page_273'>273</span>Crosby is thankful for her suggestion, but
+for very different reasons. He had forgotten
+about Lady Muriel’s roses, and to give her
+the same—</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘The rain is clearing away,’ says he, looking
+out of the window. ‘Still’—as if to
+himself—‘I think we had better take an
+umbrella.’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘An umbrella?’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘On our way home.’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Mr. Crosby’—eagerly—‘you need not
+take me home. You must not. There is
+really no necessity. Oh!’—anxiously, thinking
+of Lady Muriel and his desire to be with
+her—‘I hope you won’t come.’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘That is not very civil, Susan, is it?’ says
+he, smiling. He pauses and looks suddenly
+at her, a new expression growing in his eyes.
+‘Of course, if you have arranged to go home
+with anyone else—’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘No—no indeed. But to take you away
+from your guests—’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘My guests will live without me for half
+an hour, I have no doubt.’ His tone is quite
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_274'>274</span>its old joyous self again. ‘And I promised
+your aunt to see that you got safely back to
+her, and, as the children say, “a promise is a
+promise.” Here are your begonias. Shall I
+fasten them in for you?’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>He arranges them under her pretty chin,
+she holding up her head to let him do it, and
+then they go back to the music-room, where
+Sir William catches him and carries him off
+for something or other. Susan, sinking into
+a chair, finds Josephine Prior almost immediately
+beside her.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘Those pretty begonias!’ says she. ‘How
+they suit you, though hardly your frock!
+Of course’—with elephantine archness—‘I
+need not ask who gave them to you. Mr.
+Crosby is always showering little favours on
+his women friends. Those roses to Lady
+Muriel’—Susan holds her breath a moment—‘and
+these begonias to you, and opera-tickets
+to others, and last night such a delicious
+box of <i><span lang="fr">marron glaces</span></i> to me.’ She
+forgets to add that he gave a similar box
+to each of his lady guests, having run up to
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_275'>275</span>Dublin in the morning and brought them
+back with him from Mitchell’s.</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘I declare the sun is coming out at last,’
+says Lady Forster. ‘It is going to be a
+glorious evening. What a swindle! We
+have been quite done out of our day. I do
+call that maddening. Never mind, we must
+make up for it to-night. We will have—what
+shall we have, Dolly?’—to Miss Forbes.
+‘A pillow scuffle? Yes; that will be the
+very thing. And, Susan, you shall stay and
+sleep and help us. And we’ll get the boys
+up. They would be splendid at it, and give
+even us points, I shouldn’t wonder.’</p>
+
+<p class='c004'>‘I have promised Miss Barry,’ says Crosby,
+in a distinct tone, ‘to take Susan home this
+evening at six, and I’m afraid it is rather
+after that now. Will you go and put on
+your hat, Susan?’</p>
+
+<div class='nf-center-c0'>
+<div class='nf-center c006'>
+    <div>END OF VOL. II.</div>
+    <div class='c006'><span class='small'>BILLING AND SONS, PRINTERS, GUILDFORD.</span></div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<div class='pbb'>
+ <hr class='pb c007'>
+</div>
+<div class='tnotes x-ebookmaker'>
+
+<div class='chapter ph2'>
+
+<div class='nf-center-c0'>
+<div class='nf-center c001'>
+    <div>TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES</div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+</div>
+
+ <ol class='ol_1 c006'>
+    <li>Silently corrected obvious typographical errors and variations in spelling.
+
+    </li>
+    <li>Retained archaic, non-standard, and uncertain spellings as printed.
+    </li>
+  </ol>
+
+</div>
+
+<div style='display:block; margin-top:4em'>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE PROFESSOR&#039;S EXPERIMENT, VOL. 2 (OF 3) ***</div>
+<div style='text-align:left'>
+
+<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>
+Updated editions will replace the previous one&#8212;the old editions will
+be renamed.
+</div>
+
+<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>
+Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright
+law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works,
+so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United
+States without permission and without paying copyright
+royalties. Special rules, set forth in the General Terms of Use part
+of this license, apply to copying and distributing Project
+Gutenberg&#8482; electronic works to protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG&#8482;
+concept and trademark. Project Gutenberg is a registered trademark,
+and may not be used if you charge for an eBook, except by following
+the terms of the trademark license, including paying royalties for use
+of the Project Gutenberg trademark. If you do not charge anything for
+copies of this eBook, complying with the trademark license is very
+easy. You may use this eBook for nearly any purpose such as creation
+of derivative works, reports, performances and research. Project
+Gutenberg eBooks may be modified and printed and given away&#8212;you may
+do practically ANYTHING in the United States with eBooks not protected
+by U.S. copyright law. Redistribution is subject to the trademark
+license, especially commercial redistribution.
+</div>
+
+<div style='margin-top:1em; font-size:1.1em; text-align:center'>START: FULL LICENSE</div>
+<div style='text-align:center;font-size:0.9em'>THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE</div>
+<div style='text-align:center;font-size:0.9em'>PLEASE READ THIS BEFORE YOU DISTRIBUTE OR USE THIS WORK</div>
+
+<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>
+To protect the Project Gutenberg&#8482; mission of promoting the free
+distribution of electronic works, by using or distributing this work
+(or any other work associated in any way with the phrase &#8220;Project
+Gutenberg&#8221;), you agree to comply with all the terms of the Full
+Project Gutenberg&#8482; License available with this file or online at
+www.gutenberg.org/license.
+</div>
+
+<div style='display:block; font-size:1.1em; margin:1em 0; font-weight:bold'>
+Section 1. General Terms of Use and Redistributing Project Gutenberg&#8482; electronic works
+</div>
+
+<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>
+1.A. By reading or using any part of this Project Gutenberg&#8482;
+electronic work, you indicate that you have read, understand, agree to
+and accept all the terms of this license and intellectual property
+(trademark/copyright) agreement. If you do not agree to abide by all
+the terms of this agreement, you must cease using and return or
+destroy all copies of Project Gutenberg&#8482; electronic works in your
+possession. If you paid a fee for obtaining a copy of or access to a
+Project Gutenberg&#8482; electronic work and you do not agree to be bound
+by the terms of this agreement, you may obtain a refund from the person
+or entity to whom you paid the fee as set forth in paragraph 1.E.8.
+</div>
+
+<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>
+1.B. &#8220;Project Gutenberg&#8221; is a registered trademark. It may only be
+used on or associated in any way with an electronic work by people who
+agree to be bound by the terms of this agreement. There are a few
+things that you can do with most Project Gutenberg&#8482; electronic works
+even without complying with the full terms of this agreement. See
+paragraph 1.C below. There are a lot of things you can do with Project
+Gutenberg&#8482; electronic works if you follow the terms of this
+agreement and help preserve free future access to Project Gutenberg&#8482;
+electronic works. See paragraph 1.E below.
+</div>
+
+<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>
+1.C. The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation (&#8220;the
+Foundation&#8221; or PGLAF), owns a compilation copyright in the collection
+of Project Gutenberg&#8482; electronic works. Nearly all the individual
+works in the collection are in the public domain in the United
+States. If an individual work is unprotected by copyright law in the
+United States and you are located in the United States, we do not
+claim a right to prevent you from copying, distributing, performing,
+displaying or creating derivative works based on the work as long as
+all references to Project Gutenberg are removed. Of course, we hope
+that you will support the Project Gutenberg&#8482; mission of promoting
+free access to electronic works by freely sharing Project Gutenberg&#8482;
+works in compliance with the terms of this agreement for keeping the
+Project Gutenberg&#8482; name associated with the work. You can easily
+comply with the terms of this agreement by keeping this work in the
+same format with its attached full Project Gutenberg&#8482; License when
+you share it without charge with others.
+</div>
+
+<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>
+1.D. The copyright laws of the place where you are located also govern
+what you can do with this work. Copyright laws in most countries are
+in a constant state of change. If you are outside the United States,
+check the laws of your country in addition to the terms of this
+agreement before downloading, copying, displaying, performing,
+distributing or creating derivative works based on this work or any
+other Project Gutenberg&#8482; work. The Foundation makes no
+representations concerning the copyright status of any work in any
+country other than the United States.
+</div>
+
+<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>
+1.E. Unless you have removed all references to Project Gutenberg:
+</div>
+
+<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>
+1.E.1. The following sentence, with active links to, or other
+immediate access to, the full Project Gutenberg&#8482; License must appear
+prominently whenever any copy of a Project Gutenberg&#8482; work (any work
+on which the phrase &#8220;Project Gutenberg&#8221; appears, or with which the
+phrase &#8220;Project Gutenberg&#8221; is associated) is accessed, displayed,
+performed, viewed, copied or distributed:
+</div>
+
+<blockquote>
+  <div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>
+    This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most
+    other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions
+    whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms
+    of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online
+    at <a href="https://www.gutenberg.org">www.gutenberg.org</a>. If you
+    are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws
+    of the country where you are located before using this eBook.
+  </div>
+</blockquote>
+
+<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>
+1.E.2. If an individual Project Gutenberg&#8482; electronic work is
+derived from texts not protected by U.S. copyright law (does not
+contain a notice indicating that it is posted with permission of the
+copyright holder), the work can be copied and distributed to anyone in
+the United States without paying any fees or charges. If you are
+redistributing or providing access to a work with the phrase &#8220;Project
+Gutenberg&#8221; associated with or appearing on the work, you must comply
+either with the requirements of paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 or
+obtain permission for the use of the work and the Project Gutenberg&#8482;
+trademark as set forth in paragraphs 1.E.8 or 1.E.9.
+</div>
+
+<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>
+1.E.3. If an individual Project Gutenberg&#8482; electronic work is posted
+with the permission of the copyright holder, your use and distribution
+must comply with both paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 and any
+additional terms imposed by the copyright holder. Additional terms
+will be linked to the Project Gutenberg&#8482; License for all works
+posted with the permission of the copyright holder found at the
+beginning of this work.
+</div>
+
+<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>
+1.E.4. Do not unlink or detach or remove the full Project Gutenberg&#8482;
+License terms from this work, or any files containing a part of this
+work or any other work associated with Project Gutenberg&#8482;.
+</div>
+
+<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>
+1.E.5. Do not copy, display, perform, distribute or redistribute this
+electronic work, or any part of this electronic work, without
+prominently displaying the sentence set forth in paragraph 1.E.1 with
+active links or immediate access to the full terms of the Project
+Gutenberg&#8482; License.
+</div>
+
+<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>
+1.E.6. You may convert to and distribute this work in any binary,
+compressed, marked up, nonproprietary or proprietary form, including
+any word processing or hypertext form. However, if you provide access
+to or distribute copies of a Project Gutenberg&#8482; work in a format
+other than &#8220;Plain Vanilla ASCII&#8221; or other format used in the official
+version posted on the official Project Gutenberg&#8482; website
+(www.gutenberg.org), you must, at no additional cost, fee or expense
+to the user, provide a copy, a means of exporting a copy, or a means
+of obtaining a copy upon request, of the work in its original &#8220;Plain
+Vanilla ASCII&#8221; or other form. Any alternate format must include the
+full Project Gutenberg&#8482; License as specified in paragraph 1.E.1.
+</div>
+
+<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>
+1.E.7. Do not charge a fee for access to, viewing, displaying,
+performing, copying or distributing any Project Gutenberg&#8482; works
+unless you comply with paragraph 1.E.8 or 1.E.9.
+</div>
+
+<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>
+1.E.8. You may charge a reasonable fee for copies of or providing
+access to or distributing Project Gutenberg&#8482; electronic works
+provided that:
+</div>
+
+<div style='margin-left:0.7em;'>
+    <div style='text-indent:-0.7em'>
+        &#8226; You pay a royalty fee of 20% of the gross profits you derive from
+        the use of Project Gutenberg&#8482; works calculated using the method
+        you already use to calculate your applicable taxes. The fee is owed
+        to the owner of the Project Gutenberg&#8482; trademark, but he has
+        agreed to donate royalties under this paragraph to the Project
+        Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation. Royalty payments must be paid
+        within 60 days following each date on which you prepare (or are
+        legally required to prepare) your periodic tax returns. Royalty
+        payments should be clearly marked as such and sent to the Project
+        Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation at the address specified in
+        Section 4, &#8220;Information about donations to the Project Gutenberg
+        Literary Archive Foundation.&#8221;
+    </div>
+
+    <div style='text-indent:-0.7em'>
+        &#8226; You provide a full refund of any money paid by a user who notifies
+        you in writing (or by e-mail) within 30 days of receipt that s/he
+        does not agree to the terms of the full Project Gutenberg&#8482;
+        License. You must require such a user to return or destroy all
+        copies of the works possessed in a physical medium and discontinue
+        all use of and all access to other copies of Project Gutenberg&#8482;
+        works.
+    </div>
+
+    <div style='text-indent:-0.7em'>
+        &#8226; You provide, in accordance with paragraph 1.F.3, a full refund of
+        any money paid for a work or a replacement copy, if a defect in the
+        electronic work is discovered and reported to you within 90 days of
+        receipt of the work.
+    </div>
+
+    <div style='text-indent:-0.7em'>
+        &#8226; You comply with all other terms of this agreement for free
+        distribution of Project Gutenberg&#8482; works.
+    </div>
+</div>
+
+<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>
+1.E.9. If you wish to charge a fee or distribute a Project
+Gutenberg&#8482; electronic work or group of works on different terms than
+are set forth in this agreement, you must obtain permission in writing
+from the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the manager of
+the Project Gutenberg&#8482; trademark. Contact the Foundation as set
+forth in Section 3 below.
+</div>
+
+<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>
+1.F.
+</div>
+
+<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>
+1.F.1. Project Gutenberg volunteers and employees expend considerable
+effort to identify, do copyright research on, transcribe and proofread
+works not protected by U.S. copyright law in creating the Project
+Gutenberg&#8482; collection. Despite these efforts, Project Gutenberg&#8482;
+electronic works, and the medium on which they may be stored, may
+contain &#8220;Defects,&#8221; such as, but not limited to, incomplete, inaccurate
+or corrupt data, transcription errors, a copyright or other
+intellectual property infringement, a defective or damaged disk or
+other medium, a computer virus, or computer codes that damage or
+cannot be read by your equipment.
+</div>
+
+<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>
+1.F.2. LIMITED WARRANTY, DISCLAIMER OF DAMAGES - Except for the &#8220;Right
+of Replacement or Refund&#8221; described in paragraph 1.F.3, the Project
+Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the owner of the Project
+Gutenberg&#8482; trademark, and any other party distributing a Project
+Gutenberg&#8482; electronic work under this agreement, disclaim all
+liability to you for damages, costs and expenses, including legal
+fees. YOU AGREE THAT YOU HAVE NO REMEDIES FOR NEGLIGENCE, STRICT
+LIABILITY, BREACH OF WARRANTY OR BREACH OF CONTRACT EXCEPT THOSE
+PROVIDED IN PARAGRAPH 1.F.3. YOU AGREE THAT THE FOUNDATION, THE
+TRADEMARK OWNER, AND ANY DISTRIBUTOR UNDER THIS AGREEMENT WILL NOT BE
+LIABLE TO YOU FOR ACTUAL, DIRECT, INDIRECT, CONSEQUENTIAL, PUNITIVE OR
+INCIDENTAL DAMAGES EVEN IF YOU GIVE NOTICE OF THE POSSIBILITY OF SUCH
+DAMAGE.
+</div>
+
+<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>
+1.F.3. LIMITED RIGHT OF REPLACEMENT OR REFUND - If you discover a
+defect in this electronic work within 90 days of receiving it, you can
+receive a refund of the money (if any) you paid for it by sending a
+written explanation to the person you received the work from. If you
+received the work on a physical medium, you must return the medium
+with your written explanation. The person or entity that provided you
+with the defective work may elect to provide a replacement copy in
+lieu of a refund. If you received the work electronically, the person
+or entity providing it to you may choose to give you a second
+opportunity to receive the work electronically in lieu of a refund. If
+the second copy is also defective, you may demand a refund in writing
+without further opportunities to fix the problem.
+</div>
+
+<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>
+1.F.4. Except for the limited right of replacement or refund set forth
+in paragraph 1.F.3, this work is provided to you &#8216;AS-IS&#8217;, WITH NO
+OTHER WARRANTIES OF ANY KIND, EXPRESS OR IMPLIED, INCLUDING BUT NOT
+LIMITED TO WARRANTIES OF MERCHANTABILITY OR FITNESS FOR ANY PURPOSE.
+</div>
+
+<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>
+1.F.5. Some states do not allow disclaimers of certain implied
+warranties or the exclusion or limitation of certain types of
+damages. If any disclaimer or limitation set forth in this agreement
+violates the law of the state applicable to this agreement, the
+agreement shall be interpreted to make the maximum disclaimer or
+limitation permitted by the applicable state law. The invalidity or
+unenforceability of any provision of this agreement shall not void the
+remaining provisions.
+</div>
+
+<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>
+1.F.6. INDEMNITY - You agree to indemnify and hold the Foundation, the
+trademark owner, any agent or employee of the Foundation, anyone
+providing copies of Project Gutenberg&#8482; electronic works in
+accordance with this agreement, and any volunteers associated with the
+production, promotion and distribution of Project Gutenberg&#8482;
+electronic works, harmless from all liability, costs and expenses,
+including legal fees, that arise directly or indirectly from any of
+the following which you do or cause to occur: (a) distribution of this
+or any Project Gutenberg&#8482; work, (b) alteration, modification, or
+additions or deletions to any Project Gutenberg&#8482; work, and (c) any
+Defect you cause.
+</div>
+
+<div style='display:block; font-size:1.1em; margin:1em 0; font-weight:bold'>
+Section 2. Information about the Mission of Project Gutenberg&#8482;
+</div>
+
+<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>
+Project Gutenberg&#8482; is synonymous with the free distribution of
+electronic works in formats readable by the widest variety of
+computers including obsolete, old, middle-aged and new computers. It
+exists because of the efforts of hundreds of volunteers and donations
+from people in all walks of life.
+</div>
+
+<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>
+Volunteers and financial support to provide volunteers with the
+assistance they need are critical to reaching Project Gutenberg&#8482;&#8217;s
+goals and ensuring that the Project Gutenberg&#8482; collection will
+remain freely available for generations to come. In 2001, the Project
+Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation was created to provide a secure
+and permanent future for Project Gutenberg&#8482; and future
+generations. To learn more about the Project Gutenberg Literary
+Archive Foundation and how your efforts and donations can help, see
+Sections 3 and 4 and the Foundation information page at www.gutenberg.org.
+</div>
+
+<div style='display:block; font-size:1.1em; margin:1em 0; font-weight:bold'>
+Section 3. Information about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation
+</div>
+
+<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>
+The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation is a non-profit
+501(c)(3) educational corporation organized under the laws of the
+state of Mississippi and granted tax exempt status by the Internal
+Revenue Service. The Foundation&#8217;s EIN or federal tax identification
+number is 64-6221541. Contributions to the Project Gutenberg Literary
+Archive Foundation are tax deductible to the full extent permitted by
+U.S. federal laws and your state&#8217;s laws.
+</div>
+
+<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>
+The Foundation&#8217;s business office is located at 809 North 1500 West,
+Salt Lake City, UT 84116, (801) 596-1887. Email contact links and up
+to date contact information can be found at the Foundation&#8217;s website
+and official page at www.gutenberg.org/contact
+</div>
+
+<div style='display:block; font-size:1.1em; margin:1em 0; font-weight:bold'>
+Section 4. Information about Donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation
+</div>
+
+<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>
+Project Gutenberg&#8482; depends upon and cannot survive without widespread
+public support and donations to carry out its mission of
+increasing the number of public domain and licensed works that can be
+freely distributed in machine-readable form accessible by the widest
+array of equipment including outdated equipment. Many small donations
+($1 to $5,000) are particularly important to maintaining tax exempt
+status with the IRS.
+</div>
+
+<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>
+The Foundation is committed to complying with the laws regulating
+charities and charitable donations in all 50 states of the United
+States. Compliance requirements are not uniform and it takes a
+considerable effort, much paperwork and many fees to meet and keep up
+with these requirements. We do not solicit donations in locations
+where we have not received written confirmation of compliance. To SEND
+DONATIONS or determine the status of compliance for any particular state
+visit <a href="https://www.gutenberg.org/donate/">www.gutenberg.org/donate</a>.
+</div>
+
+<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>
+While we cannot and do not solicit contributions from states where we
+have not met the solicitation requirements, we know of no prohibition
+against accepting unsolicited donations from donors in such states who
+approach us with offers to donate.
+</div>
+
+<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>
+International donations are gratefully accepted, but we cannot make
+any statements concerning tax treatment of donations received from
+outside the United States. U.S. laws alone swamp our small staff.
+</div>
+
+<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>
+Please check the Project Gutenberg web pages for current donation
+methods and addresses. Donations are accepted in a number of other
+ways including checks, online payments and credit card donations. To
+donate, please visit: www.gutenberg.org/donate
+</div>
+
+<div style='display:block; font-size:1.1em; margin:1em 0; font-weight:bold'>
+Section 5. General Information About Project Gutenberg&#8482; electronic works
+</div>
+
+<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>
+Professor Michael S. Hart was the originator of the Project
+Gutenberg&#8482; concept of a library of electronic works that could be
+freely shared with anyone. For forty years, he produced and
+distributed Project Gutenberg&#8482; eBooks with only a loose network of
+volunteer support.
+</div>
+
+<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>
+Project Gutenberg&#8482; eBooks are often created from several printed
+editions, all of which are confirmed as not protected by copyright in
+the U.S. unless a copyright notice is included. Thus, we do not
+necessarily keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper
+edition.
+</div>
+
+<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>
+Most people start at our website which has the main PG search
+facility: <a href="https://www.gutenberg.org">www.gutenberg.org</a>.
+</div>
+
+<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>
+This website includes information about Project Gutenberg&#8482;,
+including how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary
+Archive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to
+subscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks.
+</div>
+
+</div>
+  </body>
+  <!-- created with ppgen.py 3.57c_GHS_H5 on 2022-12-07 18:38:39 GMT -->
+</html>
diff --git a/69495-h/images/cover.jpg b/69495-h/images/cover.jpg
new file mode 100644
index 0000000..e8c050e
--- /dev/null
+++ b/69495-h/images/cover.jpg
diff --git a/69495-h/images/i_title.jpg b/69495-h/images/i_title.jpg
new file mode 100644
index 0000000..6b676fc
--- /dev/null
+++ b/69495-h/images/i_title.jpg
author	nfenwick <nfenwick@pglaf.org>	2025-01-25 05:09:21 -0800
committer	nfenwick <nfenwick@pglaf.org>	2025-01-25 05:09:21 -0800
commit	ef63da169a95b0d4ed2afbec99dd71ad44a39497 (patch)
tree	978fb95ca462ddb59463b084eff136841ffbb514