LEONORA

A Novel

by

ARNOLD BENNETT

Author of _The Grand Babylon Hotel_, _The Gates of Wrath_, _Anna of the Five Towns_, etc. 

1903

CONTENTS

I. THE HOUSEHOLD AT HILLPORTII. MESHACH AND HANNAHIII. THE CALLIV. AN INTIMACYV. THE CHANCEVI. COMIC OPERAVII. THE DEPARTUREVIII. THE DANCEIX. A DEATH IN THE FAMILYX. IN THE GARDENXI. THE REFUSALXII. IN LONDON

CHAPTER I

THE HOUSEHOLD AT HILLPORT

She was walking, with her customary air of haughty and rapt leisure, across the market-place of Bursley, when she observed in front of her, at the top of Oldcastle Street, two men conversing and gesticulatingvehemently, each seated alone in a dog-cart. These persons, who had metfrom opposite directions, were her husband, John Stanway, theearthenware manufacturer, and David Dain, the solicitor who practised atHanbridge. Stanway's cob, always quicker to start than to stop, had beenpulled up with difficulty, drawing his cart just clear of the other one, so that the two portly and middle-aged talkers were most uncomfortablyobliged to twist their necks in order to see one another; the attitudedid nothing to ease the obvious asperity of the discussion. She thoughtthe spectacle undignified and silly; and she marvelled, as all womenmarvel, that men who conduct themselves so magisterially shouldsometimes appear so infantile. She felt glad that it was Thursdayafternoon, and the shops closed and the streets empty. 

Immediately John Stanway caught sight of her he said a few words to thelawyer in a somewhat different key, and descended from his vehicle. Asshe came up to them Mr. Dain saluted her with bashful abruptness, andher proud face broke as if by the loosing of a spell into a generous andcaptivating smile; Mr. Dain blushed, the vision was too much for hiscomposure; he moved his horse forward a yard or two, and then jerked itback again, gruffly advising it to stand still. Stanway turned to herbluntly, unceremoniously, as to a creature to whom he owed nothing. Shenoticed once more how the whole character of his face was changed underannoyance. 

'Here, Nora!' he said, speaking with the raw anger of a man with anew-born grievance, 'run this home for me. I'm going over to Hanbridgewith Mr. Dain. '

'Very well, ' she agreed with soothing calmness, and taking the reins sheclimbed up to the high driving-seat. 

'And I say, Nora--Wo-_back_!' he flamed out passionately to theimpatient cob, 'where're your manners, you idiot? I say, Nora, I doubt Ishall be late for tea--half-past six. Tell Milly she must be in. Theothers too. ' He gave these instructions in a lower tone, and emphasisedthem by a stormy and ominous frown. Then with an injured 'Now, Dain!' hegot into the equipage of his legal adviser and departed towardsHanbridge, trailing clouds of vexation. 

Leonora drove smartly but cautiously down the steep slope of OldcastleStreet; she could drive as well as a woman may. A group of clay-soiledgirls lounging in the archway of a manufactory exchanged rude butadmiring remarks about her as she passed. The paces of the cob, thedazzle of the silver-plated harness, the fine lines of the cart, theunbending mien of the driver, made a glittering cynosure for envy. Allaround was grime, squalor, servitude, ugliness; the inglorious travailof two hundred thousand people, above ground and below it, filled theday and the night. But here, as it were suddenly, out of that earthy andlaborious bed, rose the blossom of luxury, grace, and leisure, the finalelegance of the industrial district of the Five Towns. The contrastbetween Leonora and the rough creatures in the archway, between theflower and the phosphates which nourished it, was sharp and decisive:and Leonora, in the September sunshine, was well aware of the contrast. She felt that the loud-voiced girls were at one extremity of the scaleand she at the other; and this arrangement seemed natural, necessary, inevitable. 

She was a beautiful woman. She had a slim perfect figure; quite simplyshe carried her head so high and her shoulders so square that her backseemed to be hollowed out, and no tightness on the part of a bodicecould hide this charming concavity. Her face was handsome with its largeregular features; one noticed the abundant black hair under the hat, thethick eyebrows, the brown and opaque skin, the teeth impeccably white, and the firm, unyielding mouth and chin. Underneath the chin, halfmuffling it, came a white muslin bow, soft, frail, feminate, anenchanting disclaimer of that facial sternness and the masculinity ofthat tailor-made dress, a signal at once provocative and wistful of thewoman. She had brains; they appeared in her keen dark eyes. Her judgmentwas experienced and mature. She knew her world and its men and women. She was not too soon shocked, not too severe in her verdicts, not thevictim of too many illusions. And yet, though everything about herwitnessed to a serene temperament and the continual appeasing of milddesires, she dreamed sadly, like the girls in the archway, of anexistence more distinguished than her own; an existence brilliant andtender, where dalliance and high endeavour, virtue and the flavour ofsin, eternal appetite and eternal satisfaction, were incredibly united. Even now, on her fortieth birthday, she still believed in thepossibility of a conscious state of positive and continued happiness, and regretted that she should have missed it. 

The imminence and the arrival of this dire birthday, this day of wrathon which the proudest woman will kneel to implacable destiny and beg areprieve, had induced the reveries natural to it--the self-searching, the exchange of old fallacies for new, the dismayed glance forward, thelingering look behind. Absorbed though she was in the control of thesensitive steed, the field of her mind's eye seemed to be entirelyfilled by an image of the woman of forty as imagined by herself at theage of twenty. And she was that woman now! But she did not feel likeforty; at thirty she had not felt thirty; she could only accept thealmanac and the rules of arithmetic. The interminable years of hermarriage rolled back, and she was eighteen again, ingenuous andtrustful, convinced that her versatile husband was unique among hissex. The fading of a short-lived and factitious passion, the descent ofthe unique male to the ordinary level of males, the births of her threegirls and their rearing and training: all these things seemed as triflesto her, mere excrescences and depressions in the vast tableland of hermonotonous and placid career. She had had no career. Her strength ofwill, of courage, of love, had never been taxed; only her patience. 'Andmy life is over!' she told herself, insisting that her life was overwithout being able to believe it. 

As the dog-cart was crossing the railway bridge at Shawport, at the footof the rise to Hillport, Leonora overtook her eldest daughter. She drewup. From the height of the dog-cart she looked at her child; and thegirlishness of Ethel's form, the self-consciousness of newly-arrivedwomanhood in her innocent and timid eyes, the virgin richness of hervitality, made Leonora feel sad, superior, and protective. 

'Oh, mother! Where's father?' Ethel exclaimed, staring at her, struckwith a foolish wonder to see her mother where her father had been anhour before. 

'What a schoolgirl she is! And at her age I was a mother twice over!'thought Leonora; but she said aloud: 'Jump up quickly, my dear. Youknow Prince won't stand. '

Ethel obeyed, awkwardly. As she did so the mother scrutinised the ratherlanky figure, the long dark skirt, the pale blouse, and the straw hat, in a single glance that missed no detail. Leonora was not quitedissatisfied; Ethel carried herself tolerably, she resembled her mother;she had more distinction than her sisters, but her manner was oftenlackadaisical. 

'Your father was very vexed about something, ' said Leonora, when she hadrecounted the meeting at the top of Oldcastle Street. 'Where's Milly?'

'I don't know, mother--I think she went out for a walk. ' The girl addedapprehensively: 'Why?'

'Oh, nothing!' said Leonora, pretending not to observe that Ethel hadblushed. 'If I were you, Ethel, I should let that belt out one hole . .. Not here, my dear child, not here. When you get home. How was AuntHannah?'

Every day one member or another of John Stanway's family had to pay avisit to John's venerable Aunt Hannah, who lived with her brother, theequally venerable Uncle Meshach, in a little house near the parishchurch of St. Luke's. This was a social rite the omission of whichnothing could excuse. On that day it was Ethel who had called. 

'Auntie was all right. She was making a lot of parkin, and of course Ihad to taste it, all new, you know. I'm simply stodged. '

'Don't say "stodged. "'

'Oh, mother! You won't let us say _anything_, ' Ethel dismally protested;and Leonora secretly sympathised with the grown woman in revolt. 

'Oh! And Aunt Hannah wishes you many happy returns. Uncle Meshach cameback from the Isle of Man last night. He gave me a note for you. Here itis. '

'I can't take it now, my dear. Give it me afterwards. '

'I think Uncle Meshach's a horrid old thing!' said Ethel. 

'My dear girl! Why?'

'Oh! I do. I'm glad he's only father's uncle and not ours. I do hatethat name. Fancy being called Meshach!'

'That isn't uncle's fault, anyhow, ' said Leonora. 

'You always stick up for him, mother. I believe it's because he flattersyou, and says you look younger than any of us. ' Ethel's tone was halfroguish, half resentful. 

Leonora gave a short unsteady laugh. She knew well that her age wasplainly written beneath her eyes, at the corners of her mouth, under herchin, at the roots of the hair above her ears, and in her cold, confident gaze. Youth! She would have forfeited all her experience, herknowledge, and the charm of her maturity, to recover the irrecoverable!She envied the woman by her side, and envied her because she waslightsome, thoughtless, kittenish, simple, unripe. For a brief moment, vainly coveting the ineffable charm of Ethel's immaturity, she had asharp perception of the obscure mutual antipathy which separates onegeneration from the next. As the cob rattled into Hillport, thataristocratic and plutocratic suburb of the town, that haunt ofexclusiveness, that retreat of high life and good tone, she thought howcommonplace, vulgar, and petty was the opulent existence within thosetree-shaded villas, and that she was doomed to droop and die there, while her girls, still unfledged, might, if they had the sense to usetheir wings, fly away. .. . Yet at the same time it gratified her toreflect that she and hers were in the picture, and conformed to thestandards; she enjoyed the admiration which the sight of herself andEthel and the expensive cob and cart and accoutrements must arouse inthe punctilious and stupid breast of Hillport. 

She was picking flowers for the table from the vivid borders of thelawn, when Ethel ran into the garden from the drawing-room. Bran, theSt. Bernard, was loose and investigating the turf. 

'Mother, the letter from Uncle Meshach. '

Leonora took the soiled envelope, and handing over the flowers to Ethel, crossed the lawn and sat down on the rustic seat, facing the house. Thedog followed her, and with his great paw demanded her attention, but sheabruptly dismissed him. She thought it curiously characteristic of UncleMeshach that he should write her a letter on her fortieth birthday; shecould imagine the uncouth mixture of wit, rude candour, and wisdom withwhich he would greet her; his was a strange and sinister personality, but she knew that he admired her. The note was written in Meshach'sscraggy and irregular hand, in three lines starting close to the top ofhalf a sheet of note paper. It ran: 'Dear Nora, I hear young Twemlow iscome back from America. You had better see as your John looks out forhimself. ' There was nothing else, no signature. 

As she read it, she experienced precisely the physical discomfort whichthose feel who travel for the first time in a descending lift. Fifteenquiet years had elapsed since the death of her husband's partnerWilliam Twemlow, and a quarter of a century since William's wild son, Arthur, had run away to America. Yet Uncle Meshach's letter seemed toinvest these far-off things with a mysterious and disconcertingactuality. The misgivings about her husband which long practice andcontinual effort had taught her how to keep at bay, suddenly overleapttheir artificial barriers and swarmed upon her. 

The long garden front of the dignified eighteenth-century house, nearlythe last villa in Hillport on the road to Oldcastle, was extended beforeher. She had played in that house as a child, and as a woman hadwatched, from its windows, the years go by like a procession. That housewas her domain. Hers was the supreme intelligence brooding creativelyover it. Out of walls and floors and ceilings, out of stairs andpassages, out of furniture and woven stuffs, out of metal andearthenware, she had made a home. From the lawn, in the beautifulsadness of the autumn evening, any one might have seen and enjoyed thesight of its high French windows, its glowing sun-blinds, itsfaintly-tinted and beribboned curtains, its creepers, its glimpses ofoccasional tables, tall vases, and dressing-mirrors. But Leonora, as shesat holding the letter in her long white hand, could call up and seethe interior of every room to the most minute details. She, thehousemistress, knew her home by heart. She had thought it intoexistence; and there was not a cabinet against a wall, not a rug on afloor, not a cushion on a chair, not a knicknack on a mantelpiece, not aplate in a rack, but had come there by the design of her brain. Withoutpossessing much artistic taste, Leonora had an extraordinary talent fordomestic equipment, organisation, and management. She was so interestedin her home, so exacting in her ideals, that she could never reachfinality; the place went through a constant succession of improvements;its comfort and its attractiveness were always on the increase. And theresult was so striking that her supremacy in the woman's craft could notbe challenged. All Hillport, including her husband, bowed to it. Mrs. Stanway's principles, schemes, methods, even her trifling dodges, werementioned with deep respect by the ladies of Hillport, who oftenexpressed their astonishment that, although the wheels of Mrs. Stanway'shousehold revolved with perfect smoothness, Mrs. Stanway herselfappeared never to be doing anything. That astonishment was Leonora'spride. As her brain marshalled with ease the thousand diverse details ofthe wonderful domestic machine, she could appreciate, better than anyother woman in Hillport, without vanity and without humility, thesingular excellence of her gifts and of the organism they had perfected. And now this creation of hers, this complex structure of mellowbrick-and-mortar, and fine chattels, and nice and luxurious habit, seemed to Leonora to tremble at the whisper of an enigmatic message fromUncle Meshach. The foreboding caused by the letter mingled with themenace of approaching age and with the sadness of the early autumn, andconfirmed her mood. 

Millicent, her youngest, ran impulsively to her in the garden. Millicentwas eighteen, and the days when she went to school and wore her hair ina long plait were still quite fresh in the girl's mind. For this reasonshe was often inordinately and aggressively adult. 

'Mamma! I'm going to have my tea first thing. The Burgesses have askedme to play tennis. I needn't wait, need I? It gets dark so soon. ' AsMillicent stood there, ardently persuasive, she forgot that adultpersons do not stand on one leg or put their fingers in their mouths. 

Leonora looked fondly at the sprightly girl, vain, self-conscious, andblonde and pretty as a doll in her white dress. She recognised allMillicent's faults and shortcomings, and yet was overcome by the charmof her presence. 

'No, Milly, you must wait. ' Throned on the rustic seat, inscrutable andtyrannous Leonora, a wistful, wayward atom in the universe, laid hercommand upon the other wayward atom; and she thought how strange it wasthat this should be. 

'But, Ma----'

'Father specially said you must be in for tea. You know you have far toomuch freedom. What have you been doing all the afternoon?'

'I haven't been doing anything, Ma. '

Leonora feared for the strict veracity of her youngest, but she saidnothing, and Milly retired full of annoyance against the inconceivablecaprices of parents. 

At twenty minutes to seven John Stanway entered his large and handsomedining-room, having been driven home by David Dain, whose residence wasclose by. Three languorous women and the erect and motionlessparlourmaid behind the door were waiting for him. He went straight tohis carver's chair, and instantly the women were alert, galvanised intovigilant life. Leonora, opposite to her husband, began to pour out thetea; the impassive parlourmaid stood consummately ready to hand thecups; Ethel and Millicent took their seats along one side of the table, with an air of nonchalance which was far from sincere; a chair on theother side remained empty. 

'Turn the gas on, Bessie, ' said John. Daylight had scarcely begun tofail; but nevertheless the man's tone announced a grievance, that, withhalf-a-dozen women in the house, he the exhausted breadwinner shouldhave been obliged to attend to such a trifle. Bessie sprang to pull thechain of the Welsbach tap, and the white and silver of the tea-tableglittered under the yellow light. Every woman looked furtively at John'smorose countenance. 

Neither dark nor fair, he was a tall man, verging towards obesity, andthe fulness of his figure did not suit his thin, rather handsome face. His age was forty-eight. There was a small bald spot on the crown of hishead. The clipped brown beard seemed thick and plenteous, but thiseffect was given by the coarseness of the hairs, not by their number;the moustache was long and exiguous. His blue eyes were never still, andthey always avoided any prolonged encounter with other eyes. He was apersonable specimen of the clever and successful manufacturer. Hisclothes were well cut, the necktie of a discreet smartness. Hisgrandfather had begun life as a working potter; nevertheless JohnStanway spoke easily and correctly in a refined variety of the broadFive Towns accent; he could open a door for a lady, and was noted forhis neatness in compliment. 

It was his ambition always to be calm, oracular, weighty; always to besure of himself; but his temperament was incurably nervous, restless, and impulsive. He could not be still, he could not wait. Instinct drovehim to action for the sake of action, instinct made him seek continuallyfor notice, prominence, comment. These fundamental appetites had urgedhim into public life--to the Borough Council and the Committee of theWedgwood Institution. He often affected to be buried in cogitation uponmunicipal and private business affairs, when in fact his attention wasdisengaged and watchful. Leonora knew that this was so to-night. Theidea of his duplicity took possession of her mind. Deeps yawned beforeher, deeps that swallowed up the solid and charming house and thecomfortable family existence, as she glanced at that face at oncestrange and familiar to her. 'Is it all right?' she kept thinking. 'IsJohn all that he seems? I wonder whether he has ever committed murder. 'Yes, even this absurd thought, which she knew to be absurd, crossed hermind. 

'Where's Rose?' he demanded suddenly in the depressing silence of thetea-table, as if he had just discovered the absence of his seconddaughter. 

'She's been working in her room all day, ' said Leonora. 

'That's no reason why she should be late for tea. '

At that moment Rose entered. She was very tall and pale, her dress was alittle dowdy. Like her father and Millicent, she carried her headforward and had a tendency to look downwards, and her spine seemedflaccid. Ethel was beautiful, or about to be beautiful; Millicent waspretty; Rose plain. Rose was deficient in style. She despised style, andregarded her sisters as frivolous ninnies and gadabouts. She was theserious member of the family, and for two years had been studying forthe Matriculation of London University. 

'Late again!' said her father. 'I shall stop all this exam work. '

Rose said nothing, but looked resentful. 

When the hot dishes had been partaken of, Bessie was dismissed, andLeonora waited for the bursting of the storm. It was Millicent who drewit down. 

'I think I shall go down to Burgesses, after all, mamma. It's quitelight, ' she said with audacious pertness. 

Her father looked at her. 

'What were you doing this afternoon, Milly?'

'I went out for a walk, pa. '

'Who with?'

'No one. '

'Didn't I see you on the canal-side with young Ryley?'

'Yes, father. He was going back to the works after dinner, and he justhappened to overtake me. '

Milly and Ethel exchanged a swift glance. 

'Happened to overtake you! I saw you as I was driving past, over thecanal bridge. You little thought that I saw you. '

'Well, father, I couldn't help him overtaking me. Besides----'

'Besides!' he took her up. 'You had your hand on his shoulder. How doyou explain that?'

Millicent was silent. 

'I'm ashamed of you, regularly ashamed . .. You with your hand on hisshoulder in full sight of the works! And on your mother's birthday too!'

Leonora involuntarily stirred. For more than twenty years it had beenhis custom to give her a kiss and a ten-pound note before breakfast onher birthday, but this year he had so far made no mention whatever ofthe anniversary. 

'I'm going to put my foot down, ' he continued with grieved majesty. 'Idon't want to, but you force me to it. I'll have no goings-on with FredRyley. Understand that. And I'll have no more idling about. Yougirls--at least you two--are bone-idle. Ethel shall begin to go to theworks next Monday. I want a clerk. And you, Milly, must take up thehousekeeping. Mother, you'll see to that. '

Leonora reflected that whereas Ethel showed a marked gift forhousekeeping, Milly was instinctively averse to everything merelydomestic. But with her acquired fatalism she accepted the ukase. 

'You understand, ' said John to his pert youngest. 

'Yes, papa. '

'No more carrying-on with Fred Ryley--or any one else. '

'No, papa. '

'I've got quite enough to worry me without being bothered by you girls. '

Rose left the table, consciously innocent both of sloth and of lightbehaviour. 

'What are you going to do now, Rose?' He could not let her offscot-free. 

'Read my chemistry, father. '

'You'll do no such thing. '

'I must, if I'm to pass at Christmas, ' she said firmly. 'It's my weakestsubject. '

'Christmas or no Christmas, ' he replied, 'I'm not going to let you killyourself. Look at your face! I wonder your mother----'

'Run into the garden for a while, my dear, ' said Leonora softly, and thegirl moved to obey. 

'Rose, ' he called her back sharply as his exasperation became fidgetty. 'Don't be in such a hurry. Open the window--an inch. '

 * * * * *

Ethel and Millicent disappeared after the manner of young fox-terriers;they did not visibly depart; they were there, one looked away, they weregone. In the bedroom which they shared, the door well locked, they threwoft all restraints, conventions, pretences, and discussed the world, andtheir own world, with terrible candour. This sacred and untidyapartment, where many of the habits of childhood still lingered, was aretreat, a sanctuary from the law, and the fastness had been ingeniouslysecured against surprise by the peculiar position of the bedstead infront of the doorway. 

'Father is a donkey!' said Ethel. 

'And ma never says a word!' said Milly. 

'I could simply have smacked him when he brought in mother's birthday, 'Ethel continued, savagely. 

'So could I. '

'Fancy him thinking it's you. What a lark!'

'Yes. I don't mind, ' said Milly. 

'You are a brick, Milly. And I didn't think you were, I didn't really. '

'What a horrid pig you are, Eth!' Milly protested, and Ethel laughed. 

'Did you give Fred my note all right?' Ethel demanded. 

'Yes, ' answered Milly. 'I suppose he's coming up to-night?'

'I asked him to. '

'There'll be a frantic row one day. I'm sure there will, ' Milly saidmeditatively, after a pause. 

'Oh! there's bound to be!' Ethel assented, and she added: 'Mother doestrust us. Have a choc?'

Milly said yes, and Ethel drew a box of bonbons from her pocket. 

They seemed to contemplate with a fearful joy the probable exposure ofthat life of flirtations and chocolate which ran its secret course sideby side with the other life of demure propriety acted out for thebenefit of the older generation. If these innocent and inexperiencedsouls had been accused of leading a double life, they would have deniedthe charge with genuine indignation. Nevertheless, driven by theuniversal longing, and abetted by parental apathy and parental lack ofimagination, they did lead a double life. They chafed bitterly under thecode to which they were obliged ostensibly to submit. In their moods ofrevolt, they honestly believed their parents to be dull and obstinatecreatures who had lost the appetite for romance and ecstasy and weredetermined to mortify this appetite in others. They desired heaps ofmoney and the free, informal companionship of very young men. Thelatter--at the cost of some intrigue and subterfuge--they contrived toget. But money they could not get. Frequently they said to each otherwith intense earnestness that they would do anything for money; and theyrepeated passionately, 'anything. '

'Just look at that stuck-up thing!' said Milly laughing. They stoodtogether at the window, and Milly pointed her finger at Rose, who waswalking conscientiously to and fro across the garden in the gatheringdusk. 

Ethel rapped on the pane, and the three sisters exchanged friendlysmiles. 

'Rosie will never pass her exam, not if she lives to be a hundred, 'said Ethel. 'And can you imagine father making me go to the works? Canyou imagine the sense of it?'

'He won't let you walk up with Fred at nights, ' said Milly, 'so youneedn't think. '

'And your housekeeping!' Ethel exclaimed. 'What a treat father will haveat meals!'

'Oh! I can easily get round mother, ' said Milly with confidence. 'I_can't_ housekeep, and ma knows that perfectly well. '

'Well, father will forget all about it in a week or two, that's onecomfort, ' Ethel concluded the matter. 'Are you going down to Burgessesto see Harry?' she inquired, observing Milly put on her hat. 

'Yes, ' said Milly. 'Cissie said she'd come for me if I was late. You'dbetter stay in and be dutiful. '

'I shall offer to play duets with mother. Don't you be long. Let's trythat chorus for the Operatic before supper. '

 * * * * *

That night, after the girls had kissed them and gone to bed, John andLeonora remained alone together in the drawing-room. The first fire ofautumn was burning in the grate, and at the other end of the long roomdark curtains were drawn across the French window. Shaded candleslighted the grand piano, at which Leonora was seated, and a single gasjet illuminated the region of the hearth, where John, lounging almost atfull length in a vast chair, read the newspaper; otherwise the room wasin shadow. John dropped the 'Signal, ' which slid to the hearthrug with arustle, and turned his head so that he could just see the left side ofhis wife's face and her left hand as it moved over the keys of thepiano. She played with gentle monotony, and her playing seemedperfunctory, yet agreeable. John watched the glinting of the four ringson her left hand, and the slow undulations of the drooping lace at herwrist. He moved twice, and she knew he was about to speak. 

'I say, Leonora, ' he said in a confidential tone. 

'Yes, my dear, ' she responded, complying generously with his appeal forsympathy. She continued to play for a moment, but even more softly; andthen, as he kept silence, she revolved on the piano-stool and lookedinto his face. 

'What is it?' she asked in a caressing voice, intensifying herfemininity, forgiving him, excusing him, thinking and making him thinkwhat a good fellow he was, despite certain superficial faults. 

'You knew nothing of this Ryley business, did you?' he murmured. 

'Oh, no. Are you sure there's anything in it? I don't think there is foran instant. ' And she did not. Even the placing of Milly's hand on FredRyley's shoulder in full sight of the street, even this she regardedonly as the pretty indiscretion of a child. 'Oh! there's nothing in it, 'she repeated. 

'Well, there's _got_ to be nothing in it. You must keep an eye on 'em. Iwon't have it. '

She leaned forward, and, resting her elbows on her knees, put her chinin her long hands. Her bangles disappeared amid lace. 

'What's the matter with Fred?' said she. 'He's a relation; and you'vesaid before now that he's a good clerk, '

'He's a decent enough clerk. But he's not for our girls. '

'If it's only money----' she began. 

'Money!' John cried. 'He'll have money. Oh! he'll have money rightenough. Look here, Nora, I've not told you before, but I'll tell younow. Uncle Meshach's altered his will in favour of young Ryley. '

'Oh! Jack!'

John Stanway stood up, gazing at his wife with an air of martyrisedvirtue which said: 'There! what do you think of that as a specimen ofthe worries which I keep to myself?'

She raised her eyebrows with a gesture of deep concern. And all the timeshe was asking herself: 'Why did Uncle Meshach alter his will? Why didhe do that? He must have had some reason. ' This question troubled herfar more than the blow to their expectations. 

John's maternal grandfather had married twice. By his first wife he hadhad one son, Shadrach; and by his second wife two daughters and a son, Mary (John's mother), Hannah, and Meshach. The last two had nevermarried. Shadrach had estranged all his family (except old Ebenezer) bymarrying beneath him, and Mary had earned praise by marrying ratherwell. These two children, by a useful whim of the eccentric old man, hadreceived their portions of the patrimony on their respectivewedding-days. They were both dead. Shadrach, amiable but incompetent, had died poor, leaving a daughter, Susan, who had repeated, even morereprehensibly, her father's sin of marrying beneath her. She had marrieda working potter, and thus reduced her branch of the family to thestatus from which old Ebenezer had originally raised himself. FredRyley, now an orphan, was Susan's only child. As an act of charity JohnStanway had given Fred Ryley a stool in the office of his manufactory;but, though Fred's mother was John's first cousin, John neveracknowledged the fact. John argued that Fred's mother and Fred'sgrandfather had made fools of themselves, and that the consequences wereirremediable save by Fred's unaided effort. Such vicissitudes of blood, and the social contrasts resulting therefrom, are common enough in thehistory of families in democratic communities. 

Old Ebenezer's will left the residue of his estate, reckoned at somefifteen thousand pounds, to Meshach and Hannah as joint tenants with theremainder absolutely to the survivor of them. By this arrangement, whichsuited them excellently since they had always lived together, thoughneither could touch the principal of their joint property during theirjoint lives, the survivor had complete freedom to dispose of everything. Both Meshach and Hannah had made a will in sole favour of John. 

'Yes, ' John said again, 'he's altered it in favour of young Ryley. DavidDain told me the other day. Uncle told Dain he might tell me. '

'Why has he altered it?' Leonora asked aloud at last. 

John shook his head. 'Why does Uncle Meshach do anything?' He spokewith sarcastic irritation. 'I suppose he's taken a sudden fancy forSusan's child, after ignoring him all these years. '

'And has Aunt Hannah altered her will, too?'

'No. I'm all right in that quarter. '

'Then if your Aunt Hannah lives longest, you'll still come in foreverything, just as if your Uncle Meshach hadn't altered his will?'

'Yes. But Aunt Hannah won't live for ever. And Uncle Meshach will. Andwhere shall I be if she dies first?' He went on in a different tone. 'Ofcourse one of 'em's bound to die soon. Uncle's sixty-four if he's a day, and the old lady's a year older. And I want money. '

'Do you, Jack, really?' she said. Long ago she had suspected it, thoughJohn never stinted her. Once more the solid house and their comfortableexistence seemed to shiver and be engulfed. 

'By the way, Nora, ' he burst out with sudden bright animation, 'I'vebeen so occupied to-day I forgot to wish you many happy returns. Andhere's the usual. I hadn't got it on me this morning. '

He kissed her and gave her a ten-pound note. 

'Oh! thanks, Jack!' she said, glancing at the note with a factitiouscuriosity to hide her embarrassment. 

'You're good-looking enough yet!' he exclaimed as he gazed at her. 

'He wants something out of me. He wants something out of me, ' shethought as she gave him a smile for his compliment. And this idea thathe wanted something, that circumstances should have forced him into theposition of an applicant, distressed her. She grieved for him. She sawall his good qualities--his energy, vitality, cleverness, facilekindliness, his large masculinity. It seemed to her, as she gazed up athim from the music-stool in the shaded solitude or the drawing-room, that she was very intimate with him, and very dependent on him; and shewished him to be always flamboyant, imposing, and successful. 

'If you are at all hard up, Jack----' She made as if to reject the note. 

'Oh! get out!' he laughed. 'It's not a tenner that I'm short of. I tellyou what you _can_ do, ' he went on quickly and lightly. 'I was thinkingof raising a bit temporarily on this house. Five hundred, say. Youwouldn't mind, would you?'

The house was her own property, inherited from an aunt. John'ssuggestion came as a shock to her. To mortgage her house: this was whathe wanted!

'Oh yes, certainly, if you like, ' she acquiesced quietly. 'But Ithought--I thought business was so good just now, and----'

'So it is, ' he stopped her with a hint of annoyance. 'I'm short ofcapital. Always have been. '

'I see, ' she said, not seeing. 'Well, do what you like. '

'Right, my girl. Now--roost!' He extinguished the gas over themantelpiece. 

The familiar vulgarity of some of his phrases always vexed her, and'roost' was one of these phrases. In a flash he fell from a creatureengagingly masculine to the use-worn daily sharer of her monotonousexistence. 

'Have you heard about Arthur Twemlow coming over?' she demanded, halfvindictively, as he was preparing to blow out the last candle on thepiano. He stopped. 

'Who's Arthur Twemlow?'

'Mr. Twemlow's son, of course, ' she said. 'From America. '

'Oh! Him! Coming over, did you say? I wonder what he looks like. Whotold you?'

'Uncle Meshach. And he said I was to say you were to look out foryourself when Arthur Twemlow came. I don't know what he meant. One ofhis jokes, I expect. ' She tried to laugh. 

John looked at her, and then looked away, and immediately blew out thelast candle. But she had seen him turn pale at what Uncle Meshach hadsaid. Or was that pallor merely the effect on his face of raising thecoloured candle-shade as he extinguished the candle? She could not besure. 

'Uncle Meshach ought to be in the lunatic asylum, I think, ' John's voicecame majestically out of the gloom as they groped towards the door. 

'We shall have to be polite to Arthur Twemlow, when he comes, if he iscoming, ' said John after they had gone upstairs. 'I understand he'squite a reformed character. '

 * * * * *

Because she fancied she had noticed that the window at the end of thecorridor was open, she came out of the bedroom a few minutes later, andtraversed the dark corridor to satisfy herself, and found the windowwide open. The night was cloudy and warm, and a breeze moved among thefoliage of the garden. In the mysterious diffused light she coulddistinguish the forms of the poplar trees. Suddenly the bushesimmediately beneath her were disturbed as though by some animal. 

'Good night, Ethel. '

'Good night, Fred. '

She shook with violent agitation as the amazing adieu from the gardenwas answered from the direction of her daughter's window. But thesecondary effect of those words, so simply and affectionately whisperedin the darkness, was to bring a tear to her eye. As the mothercomprehended the whole staggering situation, the woman envied Ethel forher youth, her naughty innocence, her romance, her incredibly foolishaudacity in thus risking the disaster of parental wrath. Leonora heardcautious footsteps on the gravel, and the slow closing of a window. 'Mylife is over!' she said to herself. 'And hers beginning. And to thinkthat this afternoon I called her a schoolgirl! What romance have I hadin my life?'

She put her head out of the window. There was no movement now, but aboveher a radiance streaming from Rose's dormer showed that the serious girlof the family, defying commands, plodded obstinately at her chemistry. As Leonora thought of Rose's ambition, and Ethel's clandestine romance, and little Millicent's complicity in that romance, and John's sinistersecrets, and her own ineffectual repining--as she thought of these fiveantagonistic preoccupied souls and their different affairs, the pathosand the complexity of human things surged over her and overwhelmed her. 

CHAPTER II

MESHACH AND HANNAH

The little old bachelor and spinster were resting after dinner in theback-parlour of their house near the top of Church Street. In that abodethey had watched generations pass and manners change, as one listhearthrug succeeded another in the back-parlour. Meshach had been bornin the front bedroom, and he meant to die there; Hannah had also beenborn in the front bedroom, but it was through the window of the backbedroom that the housewife's soul would rejoin the infinite. The house, which Meshach's grandfather, first of his line to emerge from the greymass of the proletariat, had ruined himself to build, was a six-roomeddwelling of honest workmanship in red brick and tile, with a beautifulpillared doorway and fanlight in the antique taste. It had cost twohundred pounds, and was the monument of a life's ambition. Mortgaged byits hard-pressed creator, and then sold by order of the mortgagee, ithad ultimately been bought again in triumph by Meshach's father, whomade thirty thousand pounds out of pots without getting too big for it, and left it unspoilt to Meshach and Hannah. Only one alteration had everbeen made in it, and that, completed on Meshach's fiftieth birthday, admirably exemplified his temperament. Because he liked to observe thetraffic in Church Street, and liked equally to sit in the back-parlournear the hob, he had, with an oriental grandeur of self-indulgence, removed the dividing wall between the front and the back parlours andsubstituted a glass partition: so that he could simultaneously warm thefire and keep an eye on the street. The town said that no one butMeshach could have hit on such a scheme, or would have carried it outwith such an object: it crowned his reputation. 

John Stanway's maternal uncle was one of those individuals whosecharacter, at once strong, egotistic, and peculiar, so forciblyimpresses the community that by contrast ordinary persons seem to bewithout character; such men are therefore called, distinctively, 'characters'; and it is a matter of common experience that, whetherthrough the unconscious prescience of parents or through that felicitoussense of propriety which often guides the hazards of destiny, theyusually bear names to match their qualities. Meshach Myatt! MeshachMyatt! What piquant curious syllables to roll glibly off the tongue, andto repeat for the pleasure of repetition! And what a vision of Meshachtheir utterance conjured up! At sixty-four, stereotyped by age, fixedand confirmed in singularity, Meshach's figure answered better than everto his name. He was slight of bone and spare in flesh, with a hardlyperceptible stoop. He had a red, seamed face. Under the small, pale blueeyes, genial and yet frigid, there showed a thick, raw, red selvedge ofskin, and below that the skin was loose and baggy; the wrinkled eyelids, instead of being shaped to the pupil, came down flat and perpendicular. His nose and chin were witch-like, the nostrils large and elastic; thelips, drawn tight together, curved downwards, indifferently captious; ashort white beard grew sparsely on the chin; the skin of the narrow neckwas fantastically drawn and creased. His limbs were thin, the knees andelbows sharpened to a fine point; the hands very long, with blue, cordedveins. As a rule his clothes were a distressing combination of black anddark blue; either the coat, the waistcoat, or the trousers would beblack, the rest blue; the trousers had the old-fashioned flap-pockets, like a sailor's, with a complex apparatus of buttons. He wore loosewhite cuffs that were continually slipping down the wrist, a starcheddickey, a collar of too lenient flexure, and a black necktie with a'made' bow that was fastened by means of a button and button-hole underthe chin to the right; twenty times a day Meshach had to secure thisprecarious cravat. Lastly, the top and bottom buttons of his waistcoatwere invariably loose. 

He was of that small and lonely minority of men who never know ambition, ardour, zeal, yearning, tears; whose convenient desires are capable ofimmediate satisfaction; of whom it may be said that they purchase asecond-rate happiness cheap at the price of an incapacity for deepfeeling. In his seventh decade, Meshach Myatt could look back with calmsatisfaction at a career of uninterrupted nonchalance and idleness. Thefavourite of a stern father and of fate, he had never done a hard day'swork in his life. When he and Hannah came into their inheritance, herealised everything except the house and invested the proceeds inConsols. With a roof, four hundred a year from the British Empire, atame capable sister, and notoriously good health, he took final leave ofcare at the age of thirty-two. He wanted no more than he had. Leisurewas his chief luxury; he watched life between meals, and had time tothink about what he saw. Being gifted with a vigorous and original mindthat by instinct held formulas in defiance, he soon developed aphilosophy of his own; and his reputation as a 'character' sprang fromthe first diffident, wayward expressions of this philosophy. Perceivingthat the town not unadmiringly deemed him odd, he cultivated oddity. Perceiving also that it was sometimes astonished at the extent of hisinformation about hidden affairs, he cultivated mystery, the knowledgeof other people's business, and the trick of unexpected appearances. Atforty his fame was assured; at fifty he was an institution; at sixty anoracle. 

'Meshach's a mixture, ' ran the local phrase; but in this mixture therewas a less tedious posturing and a more massive intellect than usuallygo to the achievement of a provincial renown such as Meshach's. Theman's externals were deceptive, for he looked like a local curiosity whomight never have been out of Bursley. Meshach, however, travelledsometimes in the British Isles, and thereby kept his ideas fromcongealing. And those who had met him in trains and hotels knew thatporters, waiters, and drivers did not mistake his shrewdness for that ofa simpleton determined not to be robbed; that he wanted the right thingsand had the art to get them; in short, that he was an expert in travel. Like many old provincial bachelors, while frugal at home he could beprofuse abroad, exercising the luxurious freedom of the bachelor. In thecourse of years it grew slowly upon his fellow pew-holders at the bigSytch Chapel that he was worldly-minded and possibly contemptuous oftheir codes; some, who made a specialty of smelling rats, accused him ofgaiety. 

'You'd happen better get something extra for tea, sister, ' said Meshach, rousing himself. 

'Why, brother?' demanded Hannah. 

'Some sausage, happen, ' Meshach proceeded. 

'Is any one coming?' she asked. 

'Or a bit of fish, ' said Meshach, gazing meditatively at the fire. 

Hannah rose and interrogated his face. 'You ought to have told mebefore, brother. It's past three now, and Saturday afternoon too!' Sosaying, she hurried anxiously into the kitchen and told the servant toput her hat on. 

'Who is it that's coming, brother?' she inquired later, with timid, ravenous curiosity. 

'I see you'll have it out of me, ' said Meshach, who gave up mysteries asa miser parts with gold. 'It's Arthur Twemlow from New York; and letthat stop your mouth. '

Thus, with the utterance of this name in the prim, archaic, stuffylittle back-parlour, Meshach raised the curtain on the last act of adrama which had slumbered for fifteen years, since the death of WilliamTwemlow, and which the principal actors in it had long thought to beconcluded or suppressed. 

The whole matter could be traced back, through a series of situationswhich had developed one out of another, to the character of old Twemlow;but the final romantic solution was only rendered possible by thepeculiarities of Meshach Myatt. William Twemlow had been one of thosemen in whom an unbridled appetite for virtue becomes a vice. He lovedGod with such virulence that he killed his wife, drove his daughter intoa fatuous marriage, and quarrelled irrevocably with his son. The toosensitive wife died for lack of joy; Alice escaped to Australia with aparson who never accomplished anything but a large family; and Arthur, at the age of seventeen, precociously cursed his father and sought inAmerica a land where there were fewer commandments. Then old Twemlowtold his junior partner, John Stanway, that the ways of Providence werepast finding out. Stanway sympathised with him, partly from motives ofdiplomacy, and partly from a genuine misunderstanding of the case; forTwemlow, mild, earnest, and a generous supporter of charities, was muchrespected in the town, and his lonely predicament excited compassion;most people looked upon young Arthur as a godless and heartlessvagabond. 

Alice's husband was a fool, impulsive and vain; and, despiteintroductions, no congregation in Australia could be persuaded to listento his version of the gospel; Alice gave birth to more children than badsermons could keep alive, and soon the old man at Bursley was regularlysending remittances to her. Twemlow desired fervently to do his duty, and moreover the estrangement from his son increased his satisfaction indealing handsomely with his daughter; the son would doubtless learn fromthe daughter how much he had lost by his impiety. Seven years elapsedso, and then the parson gave up his holy calling and became atea-blender in Brisbane. Twemlow was shocked at this defection, whichseemed to him sacrilegious, and a chance phrase in a letter of Alice'srequesting capital for the new venture--a too assured demand, aninsufficient gratitude for past benefits, Alice never quite knewwhat--brought about a second breach in the Twemlow family. The paternalpurse was closed, and perhaps not too early, for the improvidence of thetea-blender and Alice's fecundity were a gulf whose depth no munificencecould have plumbed. Again John Stanway sympathised with the nowenfeebled old man. John advised him to retire, and Twemlow decided todo so, receiving one-third of the net profits of the partnershipbusiness during life. In two years he was bedridden and the miserablevictim of a housekeeper; but, though both Alice and Arthur attemptedreconciliation, some fine point of conscience obliged him to ignoretheir overtures. John Stanway, his last remaining friend, called oftenand chatted about business, which he lamented was far from being what itought to be. Twemlow's death was hastened by a fire at the works; ithappened that he could see the flames from his bedroom window; hesurvived the spectacle five days. Before entering into his reward, thegreat pietist wrote letters of forgiveness to Alice and Arthur, and madea will, of which John Stanway was sole executor, in favour of Alice. Thetown expressed surprise when it learnt that the estate was sworn at lessthan a thousand pounds, for the dead man's share in the profits ofTwemlow & Stanway was no secret, and Stanway had been living insplendour at Hillport for several years. John, when questioned bygossips, referred sadly to Alice's husband and to the depredations ofhousekeepers. In this manner the name and memory of the Twemlows wereapparently extinguished in Bursley. 

But Meshach Myatt had witnessed the fire at the works; he had evenremained by the canal side all through that illuminated night; and anadventure had occurred to him such as occurs only to the Meshach Myattsof this world. The fire was threatening the office, and Meshach saw hisnephew John running to a place of refuge with a drawer snatched out ofan American desk; the drawer was loaded with papers and books, and asJohn ran a small book fell unheeded to the ground. Meshach cried out toJohn that he had dropped something, but in the excitement and confusionof the fire his rather high-pitched voice was not heard. He left thebook lying where it fell; half-an-hour afterwards he saw it again, picked it up, and put it in his pocket. It contained some interestinginformal private memoranda of the annual profits of the firm. NowMeshach did not return the book to its owner. He argued that Johndeserved to suffer for his carelessness in losing it, that John ought tohave heard his call, and that anyhow John would surely inquire for itand might then be allowed to receive it with a few remarks upon the needof a calm demeanour at fires; but John never did inquire for it. 

When William Twemlow's will was proved a few weeks later, Meshach Myattmade no comment whatever. From time to time he heard news of ArthurTwemlow: that he had set up in New York as an earthenware and glasswarefactor, that he was doing well, that he was doing extremely well, thathis buyer had come over to visit the more aristocratic manufactories atKnype and Cauldon, that some one from Bursley had met Arthur at theLeipzig Easter Fair and reported him stout, taciturn, and Americanised. Then, one morning in Lord Street, Liverpool, fifteen years after thedeath of old Twemlow and the misappropriation of the little book, Meshach encountered Arthur Twemlow himself; Meshach was returning fromhis autumn holiday in the Isle of Man, and Arthur had just landed fromthe 'Servia. ' The two men were mutually impressed by each other's skillin nicely conducting an interview which ninety-nine people out of ahundred would have botched; for they had last met as boy of seventeenand man of forty. They lunched richly at the Adelphi, and gave news fornews. Arthur's buyer, it seemed, was dead, and after a day or two inLondon Arthur was coming to the Five Towns to buy a little in person. Meshach inquired about Alice in Australia, and was told that things werein a specially bad way with the tea-blender. He said that you couldn'tcure a fool, and remarked casually upon the smallness of the amount leftby old Twemlow. Arthur, unaware that Meshach Myatt was raising up anidea which for fifteen years had been buried but never forgotten in hismind, answered with nonchalance that the amount certainly was rathersmall. Arthur added that in his dying letter of forgiveness to Alice theold man had stated that his income from the works during the last yearsof his life had been less than two hundred per annum. Meshach worked hisshut thin lips up and down and then began to discuss other matters. Butas they parted at Lime Street Station the observer of life said toArthur with presaging calm: 'You'll be i' th' Five Towns at the end ofthe week. Come and have a cup o' tea with me and Hannah on Saturdayafternoon. The old spot, you know it, top of Church Street. I'vesomething to show you as 'll interest you. ' There was a pause and aninterchange of glances. 'Right!' said Arthur Twemlow. 'Thank you! I'llbe there at a quarter after four or thereabouts. ' 'It's like as if whatmust be!' Meshach murmured to himself with almost sad resignation, inthe enigmatic idiom of the Five Towns. But he was highly pleased thathe, the first of all the townsfolk, should have seen Arthur Twemlowafter twenty-five years' absence. 

When Hannah, in silk, met the most interesting and disconcertingAmerican stranger in the lobby, the sound and the smell of Bursleysausage frizzling in the kitchen added a warm finish to her confusedwelcome. She remembered him perfectly, 'Eh! Mr. Arthur, ' she said, 'Iremember you that _well_. .. . ' And that was all she could say, except:'Now take off your overcoat and do make yourself at home, Mr. Arthur. '

'I guess I know _you_, ' said Twemlow, touched by the girlish shyness, the primeval innocence, and the passionate hospitality of the littlegrey-haired thing. 

As he took off his glossy blue overcoat and hung it up he seemed to fillthe narrow lobby with his large frame and his quiet but penetratingattractive American accent. He probably weighed fourteen stone, but theelegance of his suit and his boots, the clean-shaven chin, the finenessof the lines of the nose, and the alert eyes set back under the temples, redeemed him from grossness. He looked under rather than over forty; hisbrown hair was beginning to recede from the forehead, but the heavymoustache, which entirely hid his mouth and was austerely trimmed at thesides, might have aroused the envy of a colonel of hussars. 

'Come in, wut, '[1] cried Meshach impatiently from the hob, 'come in andlet's be pecking a bit, ' and as Arthur and Hannah entered the parlour, he added: 'She's gotten sausages for you. She would get 'em, though Itold her you'd take us as you found us. I told her that. Butwomen--well, you know what they are!'

 [1] _Wut_ = wilt. 

'Eh, Meshach, Meshach!' the old damsel protested sadly, and escaped intothe kitchen. 

And when Meshach insisted that the guest should serve out the sausages, and Hannah, passing his tea, said it was a shame to trouble him, Twemlowslipped suddenly back into the old life and ways and ideas. Thisexistence, which he thought he had utterly forgotten, returned again andtriumphed for a time over all the experiences of his manhood; it aloneseemed real, honest, defensible. Sensations of his long and restlesscareer in New York flashed through his mind as he impaled Hannah'ssausages in the curious parlour--the hysteric industry of hisgirl-typist, the continuous hot-water service in the bedroom of hisglittering apartment at the Concord House, youthful nights at Coster andBial's music-hall, an insanely extravagant dinner at Sherry's on histhirtieth birthday, a difficulty once with an emissary of Pinkerton, theincredible plague of flies in summer. And during all those racing yearsof clangour and success in New York, the life of Bursley, self-sufficient and self-contained, had preserved its monotonous andslow stolidity. Bursley had become a museum to him; he entered it as hemight have entered the Middle Ages, and was astonished to find thatbeautiful which once he had deemed sordid and commonplace. Some of thestreets seemed like a monument of the past, a picturesque survival; thecrate-floats, drawn by swift shaggy ponies and driven by men whobalanced themselves erect on two thin boards while flying round corners, struck him as the quaintest thing in the world. 

'And what's going on nowadays in old Bosley, Miss Myatt?' he askedexpansively, trying to drop his American accent and use the dialect. 

'Eh, bless us!' exclaimed Hannah, startled. 'Nothing ever happens here, Mr. Arthur. '

He felt that nothing did happen there. 

'Same here as elsewhere, ' said Meshach. 'People living, and gettingchilder to worry 'em, and dying. Nothing'll cure 'em of it seemingly. Isthere anything different to that in New York? Or can they do withoutcemeteries?'

Twemlow laughed, and again he had the illusion of having come back toreality after a long, hurried dream. 'Nothing seems to have changedhere, ' he remarked idly. 

'Nothing changed!' said Meshach. 'Nay, nay! We're up in the world. We'vegot the steam-car. And we've got public baths. We wash oursen nowadays. And there's talk of a park, and a pond with a duck on it. We're movingwith the times, my lad, and so's the rates. '

It gave him pleasure to be called 'my lad' by old Meshach. It waspiquant to him that the first earthenware factor in New York, theJupiter of a Fourteenth Street office, should be addressed as astripling. 'And where is the park to be?' he suavely inquired. 

'Up by the railway station, opposite your father's old works aswas--it's a row of villas now. '

'Well, ' said Twemlow. 'That sounds pretty nice. I believe I'll get youto come around with me and show off the sights. Say!' he added suddenly, 'do you remember being on that works one day when my poor father was onto me like half a hundred of bricks, and you said, "The boy's all right, Mr. Twemlow"? I've never forgotten that. I've thought of it scores oftimes. '

'Nay!' Meshach answered carelessly, 'I remember nothing o' that. '

Twemlow was dashed by this oblivion. It was his memory of the minuteincident which more than anything else had encouraged him to respond socordially to Meshach's advances in Liverpool; for he was by no meansfacile in social intercourse. And Meshach had rudely forgotten theaffecting scene! He felt diminished, and saw in the old bachelor apersonification of the blunt independent spirit of the Five Towns. 

 * * * * *

'Milly's late to-day, ' said Hannah to her brother, timorously breakingthe silence which ensued. 

'Milly?' questioned Twemlow. 

'Millicent her proper name is, ' Hannah said quickly, 'but we call herMilly. My nephew's youngest. '

'Yes, of course, ' Twemlow commented, when the Myatt family-tree had beensketched for him by the united effort of brother and sister, 'Irecollect now you told me in Liverpool that Mr. Stanway was married. Whodid he marry?'

Meshach Myatt pushed back his chair and stood up. 'John catched on toKnight's daughter, the doctor at Turnhill, ' he said, reaching to acigar-cabinet on the sideboard. 'Best thing he ever did in his life. John's among the better end of folk now. People said it were acome-down for her, but Leonora isn't the sort that comes down. She's gotblood in her. _That_!' He snapped his fingers. 'She's a good bred 'un. Old Knight's father came from up York way. Ah! She's a cut above Twemlow& Stanway, is Leonora. '

Twemlow smiled at this persistence of respect for caste. 

'Have a weed, ' said Meshach, offering him a cigar. 'You'll find it allright; it's a J. S. Murias. Yes, ' he resumed, 'maybe you don't rememberold Knight's sister as had that far house up at Hillport? When she diedshe left it to Leonora, and they've lived there this dozen year andmore. '

'Well, I guess she's got a handsome name to her, ' Twemlow remarkedperfunctorily, rising and leaving Hannah alone at the table. 

'And she's the handsomest woman in the Five Towns: that I do know, ' saidMeshach as, in the grand manner of a connoisseur, he lighted his cigar. 'And her was forty, day afore yesterday, ' he added with causticemphasis. 

'Meshach!' cried Hannah, 'for shame of yourself!' Then she turned toTwemlow smiling and blushing a little. 'Oughtn't he? Eh, but Mrs. John'sa great favourite of my brother's. And I'm sure her girls are very goodand attentive. Not a day but one or another of them calls to see me, nota day. Eh, if they missed a day I should think the world was coming toan end. And I'm expecting Milly to-day. What's made the dear child solate----'

'I will say this for John, ' asserted Meshach, as though the littlehousewife had not been speaking, 'I will say this for John, ' herepeated, settling himself by the hob. 'He knew how to pick up a d----dfine woman. '

'Meshach!' Hannah expostulated again. 

Something in the excellence of Meshach's cigars, in his way of calling awoman fine, in the dry, aloof masculinity of his attitude towardsHannah, gave Twemlow to reflect that in the fundamental deeps ofexperience New York was perhaps not so far ahead of the old Five Townsafter all. 

There was a fluttering in the lobby, and Millicent ran into the parlour, hurriedly, negligently. 

'I can't stay a minute, auntie, ' the vivacious girl burst out in theunmistakable accents of condescending pertness, and then she caughtsight of the well-dressed, good-looking man in the corner, and herbearing changed as though by a conjuring trick. She flushed sensitively, stroked her blue serge frock, composed her immature features to themask of the finished lady paying a call, and summoned every faculty toaid her in looking her best. 'So this chit is the daughter of ouradmired Leonora, ' thought Twemlow. 

'I suppose you don't remember old Mr. Twemlow, my dear?' said Hannahafter she had proudly introduced her niece. 

'Oh, auntie! how silly you are! Of course I remember him quite well. Ireally can't stay, auntie. '

'You'll stay and drink this cup of tea with me, ' Hannah insisted firmly, and Milly was obliged to submit. It was not often that the old ladyexercised authority; but on that afternoon the famous New York visitorwas just as much an audience for Hannah as for Hannah's greatniece. 

Twemlow could think of nothing to say to this pretty pouting creaturewho had rushed in from a later world and dissipated the atmosphere ofmediævalism, and so he addressed himself to Meshach upon the eternalsubject of the staple trade. The women at the table talked quietly butself-consciously, and Twemlow saw Milly forced to taste parkin afterthree refusals. Even while still masticating the viscid unripe parkin, Milly rose to depart. She bent down and dutifully grazed with her lipsthe cheek of the parkin-maker. 'Good-bye, auntie; good-bye, uncle. ' Andin an elegant, mincing tone, 'Good afternoon, Mr. Twemlow. '

'I suppose you've just got to be on time at the next place?' he saidquizzically, smiling at her vivid youth in spite of himself. 'Somethingvery important?'

'Oh, very important!' she laughed archly, reddening, and then was gone;and Aunt Hannah followed her to the door. 

'What th' old folks lose, ' murmured Meshach, apparently to the fire, ashe put his half-consumed cigar into a meerschaum holder, 'goes to theprofit of young Burgess, as is waiting outside the Bank at top o' th'Square. '

'I see, ' said Twemlow, and thought primly that in his day such laxitieswere not permitted. 

Hannah and the servant cleared the tea-table, and the two men were leftalone, each silently reducing an J. S. Murias to ashes. Meshach seemed togrow smaller in his padded chair by the hob, to become torpid, and tolose that keen sense of his own astuteness which alone gave zest to hislife. Arthur stared out of the window at the confined backyard. Theautumn dusk thickened. 

Suddenly Meshach sprang up and lighted the gas, and as he adjusted theheight of the flame, he remarked casually: 'So your sister Alice is aspoorly off as ever?'

Twemlow assented with a nod. 'By the way, ' he said, 'you told me onWednesday you had something interesting to show me. '

Meshach made no answer, but picked up the poker and struck several timesa large pewter platter on the mantelpiece. 

'Do you want anything, brother?' said Hannah, hastening into the room. 

'Go up into my bedroom, sister, and in the left-hand pigeon-hole in thebureau you'll see a little flat tissue-paper parcel. Bring it me. It'smarked J. S. '

'Yes, brother, ' and she departed. 

'You said as your father had told your sister as he never got no morethan two hundred a year from th' partnership after he retired. '

'Yes, ' Twemlow replied. 'That's what she wrote me. In fact she sent methe old chap's letter to read. So I reckoned it cost him most all he gotto live. '

'Well, ' the old man said, and Hannah returned with the parcel, which hecarefully unwrapped. 'That'll do, sister. ' Hannah disappeared. 'Sithee!'He mysteriously drew Arthur's attention to a little green book whosecover still showed traces of mud and water. 

'And what's this?' Twemlow asked with assumed lightness. 

Meshach gave him the history of his adventure at the fire, and thenlaboriously displayed and expounded the contents of the book, peeringinto the yellow pages through the steel-rimmed spectacles which he hadput on for the purpose. 

'And you've kept it all this time?' said Twemlow. 

'I've kept it, ' answered the old man grimly, and Twemlow felt that thatwas precisely what Meshach Myatt might have been expected to do. 

'See, ' said Meshach, and their heads were close together, ' that's theyear before your father's death--eight hundred and ninety-two pounds. And year afore that--one thousand two hundred and seven pounds. And yearafore that--bless us! Have I turned o'er two pages at once?' And so hecontinued. 

Twemlow's heart began to beat heavily as Meshach's eyes met his. Heseemed to see his father as a pathetic cheated simpleton, and to hearthe innumerable children of his sister crying for food; he rememberedthat in the old Bursley days he had always distrusted John Stanway, thatconceited fussy imposing young man of twenty-two whom his father hadtaken into partnership and utterly believed in. He forgot that he hadhated his father, and his mind was obsessed by a sentimental and purepassion for justice. 

'Say! Mr. Myatt, ' he exclaimed with sudden gruffness, 'do you suggestthat John Stanway didn't do my father right?'

'My lad, I'm doing no suggesting. .. . You can keep the book if you've amind to. I've said nothing to no one, and if I had not met you inLiverpool, and you hadn't told me that your sister was poorly off again, happen I should ha' been mum to my grave. But that's how things turnout. '

'He's your own nephew, you know, ' said Twemlow. 

'Ay!' said the old man, 'I know that. What by that? Fair's fair. '

Meshach's tone, frigidly jocular, almost frightened the American. 

'According to you, ' said he, determined to put the thing into words, 'your nephew robbed my father each year of sums varying from one tothree hundred pounds--that's what it comes to. '

'Nay, not according to me--according to that book, and what your fathertold your sister Alice, ' Meshach corrected. 

'But why should he do it? That's what I want to know. '

'Look here, ' said Meshach quietly, resuming his chair. 'John's as good aman of business as you'd meet in a day's march. But never sin' hehandled money could he keep off stocks and shares. He speculates, alwayshas, always will. And now you know it--and 'tisn't everybody as does, either. '

'Then you think----'

'Nay, my lad, I don't, ' said Meshach curtly. 

'But what ought I to do?'

Meshach cackled in laughter. 'Ask your sister Alice, ' he replied, 'it'sher as is interested, not you. You aren't in the will. '

'But I don't want to ruin John Stanway, ' Twemlow protested. 

'Ruin John!' Meshach exclaimed, cackling again. 'Not you! We mun have noscandals in th' family. But you can go and see him, quiet-like, Ireckon. Dost think as John'll be stuck fast for six or seven hundred, oreight hundred? Not John! And happen a bit of money'll come in handy toth' old parson tea-blender, by all accounts. '

'Suppose my father--made some mistake--forgot?'

'Ay!' said Meshach calmly. 'Suppose he did. And suppose he didna'. '

'I believe I'll go and talk to Stanway, ' said Twemlow, putting the bookin his pocket. 'Let me see. The works is down at Shawport?'

'On th' cut, '[2] said Meshach. 

 [2] Cut = canal. 

'I can say Alice had asked me to look at the accounts. Oh! Perhaps I canstraighten it out neat----' He spoke cheerfully, then stopped. 'But it'sfifteen years ago!'

'Fifteen!' said Meshach with gravity. 

'I'm d----d if I can make you out!' thought Twemlow as he walked alongKing Street towards the steam-tram for Knype, where he was staying atthe Five Towns Hotel. Hannah had sped him, with blushings, and rustlingsof silk, from Meshach's door. 'I'm d----d if I can make you out, Meshach. ' He said it aloud. And yet, so complex and self-contradictoryis the mind's action under certain circumstances, he could make outMeshach perfectly well; he could discern clearly that Meshach had beenactuated partly by the love of chicane, partly by a quasi-infantilecuriosity to see what he should see, and partly by an almost biblicalsense of justice, a sense blind, callous, cruel. 

CHAPTER III

THE CALL

It was the Trust Anniversary at the Sytch Chapel, and two sermons wereto be delivered by the Reverend Dr. Simon Quain; during fifteen yearsnone but he had preached the Trust sermons. Even in the morning, whenpillars of the church were often disinclined to assume the attitudeproper to pillars, the fane was almost crowded. For it was impossible toignore the Doctor. He was an expert geologist, a renowned lecturer, thefriend of men of science and sometimes their foe, a contributor to the'Encyclopædia Britannica, ' and the author of a book of travel. He didnot belong to the school of divines who annihilated Huxley by askinghim, from the pulpit, to tell them, if protoplasm was the origin of alllife, what was the origin of protoplasm. Dr. Quain was a man of genuineattainments, at which the highest criticism could not sneer; and when hevisited Bursley the facile agnostics of the town, the young andexperienced who knew more than their elders, were forced to take cover. Dr. Quain, whose learning exceeded even theirs--so the elderssarcastically ventured to surmise--was not ashamed to believe in theinspiration of the Old Testament; he could reconcile the chronology ofthe earth's crust with the first chapter of Genesis; he had asatisfactory explanation of the Johannine gospel; and his mere existencewas an impregnable fortress from which the adherents of the banner ofbelief could not be dislodged. On this Sunday morning he offered asimple evangelical discourse, enhanced by those occasional references topalæozoic and post-tertiary periods which were expected from him, andwhich he had enough of the wisdom of the serpent to supply. His graveand assured utterances banished all doubts, fears, misgivings, apprehensions; and the timid waverers smiled their relief at beingfreed, by the confidence of this illustrious authority, from thedistasteful exertion of thinking for themselves. 

The collection was immense, and, in addition to being immense, itprovided for the worshippers an agreeable and legitimate excitement ofcuriosity; for the plate usually entrusted to Meshach Myatt was passedfrom pew to pew, and afterwards carried to the communion rails, by acomplete stranger, a man extremely self-possessed and well-attired, with a heavy moustache, a curious dimple in his chin, and melancholyeyes, a man obviously of considerable importance somewhere. 'Oh, mamma, 'whispered Milly to her mother, who was alone with her in the Stanwaypew, 'do look; that's Mr. Twemlow. ' Several men in the congregation knewhis identity, and one, a commercial traveller, had met him in New York. Before the final hymn was given out, half the chapel had pronounced hisname in surprise. His overt act of assisting in the offertory wasfavourably regarded; it was thought to show a nice social feeling on hispart; and he did it with such distinction! The older people rememberedthat his father had always been a collector; they were constrained nowto readjust their ideas concerning the son, and these ideas, rooted inthe single phrase, _ran away from home_, and set fast by time, weredifficult of adjustment. The impressiveness of Dr. Quain's sermon wasimpaired by this diversion of interest. 

The members of the Stanway family, in order to avoid the crush in theaisles and portico, always remained in their pew after service, untilthe chapel had nearly emptied itself; and to-day Leonora chose to sitlonger than usual. John had been too fatigued to rise for breakfast;Rose was struck down by a sick headache; and Ethel had stayed at hometo nurse Rose, so far as Rose would allow herself to be nursed. Leonorafelt no desire to hurry back to the somewhat perilous atmosphere ofSunday dinner, and moreover she shrank nervously from the possibility ofhaving to make the acquaintance of Mr. Twemlow. But when she and Millyat length reached the outer vestibule, a concourse of people stilllingered there, and among them Arthur was just bidding good-bye to theMyatts. Hannah, rather shortsighted, did not observe Leonora and Milly;Meshach gave them his curt quizzical nod, and the aged twain departed. Then Millicent, proud of her acquaintance with the important stranger, and burning to be seen in converse with him, left her mother's side andbecame an independent member of society. 

'How do you do, Mr. Twemlow?' she chirped. 

'Ah!' he replied, recognising her with a bow the sufficiency of whichintoxicated the young girl. 'Not in such a hurry this morning?'

'Oh! no!' she agreed with smiling effusion, and they both glanced withfurtive embarrassed swiftness at Leonora. 'Mamma, this is Mr. Twemlow. Mr. Twemlow my mother. ' The dashing modish air of the child wasadorable. Having concluded her scene she retired from the centre of thestage in a glow. 

Arthur Twemlow's manner altered at once as he took Leonora's hand andsaw the sudden generous miracle which happened in her calm face when shesmiled. He was impressed by her beautiful maturity, by the elegance bornof a restrained but powerful instinct transmitted to her throughgenerations of ancestors. His respect for Meshach rose higher. And she, as she faced the self-possessed admiration in Arthur's eyes, wasconscious of her finished beauty, even of the piquancy of the angle ofher hat, and the smooth immaculate whiteness of her gloves; and she wasproud, too, of Millicent's gracile, restless charm. They walked down thesteps side by side, Leonora in the middle, watched curiously from aboveand below by little knots of people who still lingered in front of thechapel. 

'You soon got to work here, Mr. Twemlow, ' said Leonora lightly. 

He laughed. 'I guess you mean that collecting box. That was Mr. Myatt'sgame. He didn't do me right, you know. He got me into his pew, and thenput the plate on to me. '

Leonora liked his Americanism of accent and phrase; it seemed romanticto her; it seemed to signify the quick alertness, the vivacious andsurprising turns, of existence in New York, where the unexpected andthe extraordinary gave a zest to every day. 

'Well, you collected perfectly, ' she remarked. 

'Oh, yes you did, really, Mr. Twemlow, ' echoed Millicent. 

'Did I?' he said, accepting the tribute with frank satisfaction. 'I usedto collect once at Talmage's Church in Brooklyn--you've heard Talmageover here of course. ' He faintly indicated contempt for Talmage. 'Andafter my first collection he sent for me into the church parlour, and hesaid to me: "Mr. Twemlow, next time you collect, put some snap into it;don't go shuffling along as if you were dead. " So you see this morning, although I haven't collected for years, I thought of that and tried toput some snap into it. '

Milly laughed obstreperously, Leonora smiled. 

At the corner they could see Mrs. Burgess's carriage waiting at thevestry door in Mount Street. The geologist, escorted by Harry Burgess, got into the carriage, where Mrs. Burgess already sat; Harry followedhim, and the stately equipage drove off. Dr. Quain had married a cousinof Mrs. Burgess's late husband, and he invariably stayed at her house. All this had to be explained to Arthur Twemlow, who made a point ofbeing curious. By the time they had reached the top of Oldcastle Street, Leonora felt an impulse to ask him without ceremony to walk up toHillport and have dinner with them. She knew that she and Milly werepleasing him, and this assurance flattered her. But she could not summonthe enterprise necessary for such an unusual invitation; her lips wouldnot utter the words, she could not force them to utter the words. 

He hesitated, as if to leave them; and quite automatically, withoutbeing able to do otherwise, Leonora held her hand to bid good-bye; hetook it with reluctance. The moment was passing, and she had not evenasked him where he was staying: she had learnt nothing of the man ofwhom Meshach had warned her husband to beware. 

'Good morning, ' he said, 'I'm very glad to have met you. Perhaps----'

'Won't you come and see us this afternoon, if you aren't engaged?' shesuggested quickly. 'My husband will be anxious to meet you, I know. '

He appeared to vacillate. 

'Oh, do, Mr. Twemlow!' urged Milly, enchanted. 

'It's very good of you, ' he said, 'I shall be delighted to call. It'squite a considerable time since I saw Mr. Stanway. ' He laughed. This washis first reference to John. 

'I'm so glad you asked him, ma, ' said Milly, as they walked downOldcastle Street. 

'Your father said we must be polite to Mr. Twemlow, ' her mother repliedcoldly. 

'He's frightfully rich, I'm sure, ' Milly observed. 

At dinner Leonora told John that Arthur Twemlow was coming. 

'Oh, good!' he said: nothing more. 

 * * * * *

In the afternoon the mother and her eldest and youngest, supine andexanimate in the drawing-room, were surprised into expectancy by thesound of the front-door bell before three o'clock. 

'He's here!' exclaimed Milly, who was sitting near Leonora on the longChesterfield. Ethel, her face flushed by the fire, lay like a curvingwisp of straw in John's vast arm-chair. Leonora was reading; she putdown the magazine and glanced briefly at Ethel, then at the aspect ofthe room. In silence she wished that Ethel's characteristic attitudescould be a little more demure and sophisticated. She wondered how oftenthis apparently artless girl had surreptitiously seen Fred Ryley sincethe midnight meeting on Thursday, and she was amazed that a child ofhers, so kindly disposed, could be so naughty and deceitful. The dooropened and Ethel sat up with a bound. 

'Mr. Burgess, ' the parlourmaid announced. The three women sank back, disappointed and yet relieved. 

Harry Burgess, though barely of age, was one of the acknowledged dandiesof Hillport. Slim and fair, with a frank, rather simple countenance, hesupported his stylistic apparel with a natural grace that attractedsympathy. Just at present he was achieving a spirited effect by alwayswearing an austere black necktie fastened with a small gold safety-pin;he wore this necktie for weeks to a bewildering variety of suits, andthen plunged into a wild polychromatic debauch of neckties. Upon all theniceties of masculine dress, the details of costume proper to aparticular form of industry or recreation or ceremonial, he was agenuine authority. His cricketing flannels--he was a fine cricketer andlawn-tennis player of the sinuous oriental sort--were the despair ofother dandies and the scorn of the sloven; he caused the material, before it was made up, to be boiled for many hours by the Burgesscharwoman under his own superintendence. He had extraordinary aptitudesfor drawing corks, lacing boots, putting ferrules on walking-sticks, opening latched windows from the outside, and rolling cigarettes; hecould make a cigarette with one hand, and not another man in the FiveTowns, it was said, could do that. His slender convex silvercigarette-case invariably contained the only cigarettes worthy of thepalate of a connoisseur, as his pipes were invariably the only pipes fitfor the combustion of truly high-class tobacco. Old women, especiallycharwomen, adored him, and even municipal seigniors admitted that Harrywas a smart-looking youth. Fatherless, he was the heir to a tolerablefortune, the bulk of which, during his mother's life, he could not touchsave with her consent; but his mother and his sister seemed to existchiefly for his convenience. His fair hair and his facile smilevanquished them, and vanquished most other people also; and already, when he happened to be crossed, there would appear on his winning facethe pouting, hard, resentful lines of the man who has learnt to acceptcompliance as a right. He had small intellectual power, and no ambitionat all. A considerable part of his prospective fortune was invested inthe admirable shares of the Birmingham, Sheffield and District Bank, andit pleased him to sit on a stool in the Bursley branch of this bank, since he wanted, _pro tempore_, a dignified avocation without either theanxieties of trade or the competitive tests of a profession. He was abeautiful bank clerk; but he had once thrown a bundle of cheques intothe office fire while aiming at a basket on the mantelpiece; the wholebanking world would have been agitated and disorganised had not anotherclerk snatched the bundle from peril at the expense of his own fingers:the incident, still legendary behind the counter of the establishment atthe top of St. Luke's Square, kept Harry awake to the seriousness oflife for several weeks. 

'Well, Harry, ' said Leonora with languid good nature. He paid his homagein form to the mistress of the house; raised his eyebrows at Milly, whoreturned the gesture; smiled upon Ethel, who feebly waved a hand as iftoo exhausted to do more; and then sat down on the piano-stool, carefully easing the strain on his trousers at the knees and exposing aninch of fine wool socks above his American boots. He was a familiar ofthe house, and had had the unconditional _entrée_ since he and theStanway girls first went to the High Schools at Oldcastle. 

'I hope I haven't disturbed your beauty sleep--any of you, ' was hisopening remark. 

'Yes, you have, ' said Ethel. 

He continued: 'I just came in to seek a little temporary relief fromthe excellent Quain. Quain at breakfast, Quain at chapel, Quain atdinner. .. . I got him to slumber on one side of the hearth and mother onthe other, and then I slipped away in case they awoke. If they do, I'vetold Cissie to say that I've gone out to take a tract to a sickfriend--back in five minutes. '

'Oh, Harry, you are silly!' Millicent laughed. Every one, including thenarrator, was amused by this elaborate fiction of the managing of thosetwo impressive persons, Mrs. Burgess and the venerable Christiangeologist, by a kind, indulgent, bored Harry. Leonora, who had resumedher magazine, looked up and smiled the guarded smile of the mother. 

'I'm afraid you're getting worse, ' she murmured, and his candidseductive face told her that while he was on no account not to beregarded as a gay dog, and a sad dog, and a worldly dog, yetnevertheless he and she thoroughly appreciated and understood eachother. She did indeed like him, and she found pleasure in his presence;he gratified the eye. 

'I wish you'd sing something, Milly, ' he began again after a pause. 

'No, ' said Milly, 'I'm not going to sing now. '

'But do. Can't she, Mrs. Stanway?'

'Well, what do you want me to sing?'

'Sing "Love is a plaintive song, " out of the second act. '

Harry was the newly appointed secretary of the Bursley Amateur OperaticSociety, of which both Ethel and Millicent were members. In a few weeks'time the Society was to render _Patience_ in the Town Hall for thebenefit of local charities, and rehearsals were occurring frequently. 

'Oh! I'm not Patience, ' Milly objected stiffly; she was only Ella. 'Besides, I mayn't, may I, mamma?'

'Your father might not like it, ' said Leonora. 

'The dad has taken Bran out for a walk, so it won't trouble him, ' Ethelinterjected sleepily under her breath. 

'Well, but look here, Mrs. Stanway, ' said Harry conclusively, 'theorganist at the Wesleyan chapel actually plays the sextet from_Patience_ for a voluntary. What about that? If there's no harm inthat----' Leonora surrendered. 'Come on, Mill, ' he commanded. 'I shallhave to return to my muttons directly, ' and he opened the piano. 

'But I tell you I'm not Patience. '

'Come _on_! You know the music all right. Then we'll try Ella's bit inthe first act. I'll play. '

Millicent arose, shook her hair, and walked to the piano with the mienof a prima donna who has the capitals of Europe at her feet, exultant inher youth, her charm, her voice, revelling unconsciously in the vivacityof her blood, and consciously in her power over Harry, which Harrystrove in vain to conceal under an assumed equanimity. 

And as Millicent sang the ballad Leonora was beguiled, by her singing, into a mood of vague but overpowering melancholy. It seemed tragic thatthat fresh and pure voice, that innocent vanity, and that untestedself-confidence should change and fade as maturity succeeded adolescenceand decay succeeded maturity; it seemed intolerable that the ineffablecharm of the girl's youth must be slowly filched away by the thefts oftime. 'I was like that once! And Jack too!' she thought, as she gazedabsently at the pair in front of the piano. And it appeared incredibleto her that she was the mother of that tall womanly creature, that thelittle morsel of a child which she had borne one night had become adaughter of Eve, with a magic to mesmerise errant glances and desires. She had a glimpse of the significance of Nature's eternal iterance. Thenher mood developed a bitterness against Millicent. She thought cruellythat Millicent's magic was no part of the girl's soul, no talentacquired by loving exertion, but something extrinsic, unavoidable, andunmeritorious. Why was it so? Why should fate treat Milly like agodchild? Why should she have prettiness, and adorableness, and thelyric gift, and such abounding confident youth? Why should circumstancesfall out so that she could meet her unacknowledged lover openly at allseasons? Leonora's eyes wandered to the figure of Ethel reclining withshut eyes in the arm-chair. Ethel in her graver and more diffidentbeauty had already begun to taste the sadness of the world. Ethel mightnot stand victoriously by her lover in the midst of the drawing-room, nor joyously flip his ear when he struck a wrong note on the piano. Ethel, far more passionate than the active Milly, could only dream ofher lover, and see him by stealth. Leonora grieved for Ethel, and enviedher too, for her dreams, and for her solitude assuaged by clandestinetrysts. Those trysts lay heavy on Leonora's mind; although she haddiscovered them, she had done nothing to prevent them; from day to dayshe had put off the definite parental act of censure and interdiction. She was appalled by the serene duplicity of her girls. Yet what couldshe say? Words were so trivial, so conventional. And though sheobjected to the match, wishing with ardour that Ethel might marry farmore brilliantly, she believed as fully in the honest warm kindliness ofFred Ryley as in that of Ethel. 'And what else matters after all?' shetried to think. .. . Her reverie shifted to Rose, unfortunate Rose, victimof peculiar ambitions, of a weak digestion, and of a harsh temperamentthat repelled the sympathy it craved but was too proud to invite. Shefelt that she ought to go upstairs and talk to the prostrate Rose in thecurt matter-of-fact tone that Rose ostensibly preferred, but she did notwish to talk to Rose. 'Ah well!' she reflected finally with an inwardsigh, as though to whisper the last word and free herself of thispreoccupation, 'they will all be as old as me one day. '

'Mr. Twemlow, ' said the parlourmaid. 

Milly deliberately lengthened a high full note and then stopped andturned towards the door. 

'Bravo!' Arthur Twemlow answered at once the challenge of her wholefigure; but he seemed to ignore the fact that he had caused aninterruption, and there was something in his voice that piqued thecantatrice, something that sent her back to the days of short frocks. She glanced nervously aside at Harry, who had struck a few notes andthen dropped his hands from the keyboard. Twemlow's demeanour towardsthe blushing Ethel when Leonora brought her forward was much moredecorous and simple. As for Harry, to whom his arrival was a surprise, at first rather annoying, Twemlow treated the young buck as one man ofthe world should treat another, and Harry's private verdict upon him wasextremely favourable. Nevertheless Leonora noticed that the three youngones seemed now to shrink into themselves, to become passive instead ofactive, and by a common instinct to assume the character of merespectators. 

'May I choose this place?' said Twemlow, and sat down by Leonora in theother corner of the Chesterfield and looked round. She could see that hewas admiring the spacious room and herself in her beautiful afternoondress, and the pensive and the sprightly comeliness of her daughters. His wandering eyes returned to hers, and their appreciation pleased herand increased her charm. 

'I am expecting my husband every minute, ' she said. 

'Papa's gone out for a walk with Bran, ' Milly added. 

'Oh! Bran!' He repeated the word in a voice that humorously appealed forfurther elucidation, and both Ethel and Harry laughed. 

'The St. Bernard, you know, ' Milly explained, annoyed. 

'I wouldn't be surprised if that was a St. Bernard out there, ' he saidpointing to the French window. 'What a fine fellow! And what a finegarden!'

Bran was to be seen nosing low down at the window; and alternatelylifting two huge white paws in his futile anxiety to enter the room. 

'Then I dare say John is in the garden, ' Leonora exclaimed, with suddenanimation, glad to be able to dismiss the faint uneasy suspicion whichhad begun to form in her mind that John meant after all to avoid ArthurTwemlow. 'Would you like to look at the garden?' she demanded, halfrising, and lifting her brows to a pretty invitation. 

'Very much indeed, ' he replied, and he jumped up with the impulsivenessof a boy. 

'It's quite warm, ' she said, and thanked Harry for opening the windowfor them. 

'A fine severe garden!' he remarked enthusiastically outside, after hehad descanted to Bran on Bran's amazing perfections, and the dog hadgreeted his mistress. 'A fine severe garden!' he repeated. 

'Yes, ' she said, lifting her skirt to cross the lawn. 'I know what youmean. I wouldn't have it altered for anything, but many people thinkit's too formal. My husband does. '

'Why! It's just English. And that old wall! and the yew trees! I tellyou----'

She expanded once more to his appreciation, which she took to herself;for none but she, and the gardener who was also the groom, and workedunder her, was responsible for the garden. But as she displayed theAfrican marigolds and the late roses and the hardy outdoorchrysanthemums, and as she patted Bran, who dawdled under her hand, shelooked furtively about for John. She hoped he might be at the stables, and when in their tour of the grounds they reached the stables and hewas not there, she hoped they would find him in the drawing-room ontheir return. Her suspicion reasserted itself, and it was strengthened, against her reason, by the fact that Arthur Twemlow made no comment onJohn's invisibility. In the dusk of the spruce stable, where anenamelled name-plate over the manger of a loose box announced that'Prince' was its pampered tenant, she opened the cornbin, and, enteringthe loose-box, offered the cob a handful of crushed oats. And when shestood by the cob, Twemlow looking through the grill of the door at thispicture which suggested a beast-tamer in the cage, she was aware of herbeauty and the beauty of the animal as he curved his neck to herjewelled hand, and of the ravishing effect of an elegant woman seen in astable. She smiled proudly and yet sadly at Twemlow, who was pulling hisheavy moustache. Then they could hear an ungoverned burst of Milly'slight laughter from the drawing-room, and presently Milly resumed herinterrupted song. Opposite the outer door of the stable was the windowof the kitchen, whence issued, like an undertone to the song, thesubdued rattle of cups and saucers; and the glow of the kitchen firecould be distinguished. And over all this complex domestic organism, attractive and efficient in its every manifestation, and vigorouslyalive now in the smooth calm of the English Sunday, she was queen; andhers was the brain that ruled it while feigning an aloof quiescence. 'Heis a romantic man; he understands all that, ' she felt with the certaintyof intuition. Aloud she said she must fasten up the dog. 

When they returned to the drawing-room there was no sign of John. 

'Hasn't your father come in?' she asked Ethel in a low voice; Milly wasstill singing. 

'No, mother, I thought he was with you in the garden. ' The girl seemedto respond to Leonora's inquietude. 

Milly finished her song, and Twemlow, who had stationed himself behindher to look at the music, nodded an austere approval. 

'You have an excellent voice, ' he remarked, 'and you can use it. ' ToLeonora this judgment seemed weighty and decisive. 

'Mr. Twemlow, ' said the girl, smiling her satisfaction, 'excuse measking, but are you married?'

'No, ' he answered, 'are you?'

'_Mr. _ Twemlow!' she giggled, and turning to Ethel, who in anticipationblushed once again: 'There! I told you. '

'You girls are very curious, ' Leonora said perfunctorily. 

Bessy came in and set a Moorish stool before the Chesterfield, on thestool an inlaid Sheraton tray with china and a copper kettle droningover a lamp, and near it a cakestand in three storeys. And Leonora, manoeuvring her bangles, commenced the ritual of refection with Harry asacolyte. 'If he doesn't come--well, he doesn't come, ' she thought of herhusband, as she smiled interrogatively at Arthur Twemlow, holding a lumpof sugar aloft in the tongs. 

'The Reverend Simon Quain asked who you were, at dinner to-day, ' saidHarry. During the absence of Leonora and her guest, Harry had evidentlyacquired information concerning Arthur. 

'Oh, Mr. Twemlow!' Milly appealed quickly, 'do tell Harry and Ethel whatDr. Talmage said to you. I think it's so funny--I can't do the accent. '

'What accent?' he laughed. 

She hesitated, caught. 'Yours, ' she replied boldly. 

'Very amusing!' Harry said judicially, after the episode of the Brooklyncollection had been related. 'Talmage must be a caution. .. . I supposeyou're staying at the Five Towns Hotel?' he inquired, with animplication in his voice that there was no other hotel in the districtfit for the patronage of a man of the world. Twemlow nodded. 

'What! At Knype?' Leonora exclaimed. 'Then where did you dine to-day?'

'I had dinner at the Tiger, and not a bad dinner either, ' he said. 

'Oh dear!' Harry murmured, indicating an august sympathy for ArthurTwemlow in affliction. 

'If I had only known--I don't know what I was thinking of not to ask youto come here for dinner, ' said Leonora. 'I made sure you would beengaged somewhere. '

'Fancy you eating all alone at the Tiger, on Sunday too!' remarkedMilly. 

'Tut! tut!' Twemlow protested, with a farcical exactness ofpronunciation; and Ethel laughed. 

'What are you laughing at, my dear?' Leonora asked mildly. 

'I don't know, mother--really I don't. ' Whereupon they all laughedtogether and a state of absolute intimacy was established. 

'I hadn't the least notion of being at Bursley to-day, ' Twemlowexplained. 'But I thought that Knype wasn't much of a place--I alwaysdid think that, being a native of Bursley. I wouldn't be surprised ifyou've noticed, Mrs. Stanway, how all the five Five Towns kind of sitand sniff at each other. Well, I felt dull after breakfast, and when Isaw the advertisement of Dr. Quain at the old chapel, I came right away. And that's all, except that I'm going to sup with a man at Knypeto-night. '

There were sounds in the hall, and the door of the drawing-room opened;but it was only Bessie coming to light the gas. 

'Is that your master just come in?' Leonora asked her. 

'Yes, ma'am. '

'At last, ' said Leonora, and they waited. With noiseless precisionBessie lit the gas, made the fire, drew the curtains, and departed. Thenthey could hear John's heavy footsteps overhead. 

Leonora began nervously to talk about Rose, and Twemlow showed a politeinterest in Rose's private trials; Ethel said that she had just visitedthe patient, who slept. Harry asseverated that to remain a moment longeraway from his mother's house would mean utter ruin for him, and withextraordinary suddenness he made his adieux and went, followed to thefront door by Millicent. The conversation in the room dwindled todisconnected remarks, and was kept alive by a series of separate littleefforts. Footsteps were no longer audible overhead. The clock on themantelpiece struck five, emphasising a silence, and amid growingconstraint several minutes passed. Leonora wanted to suggest that John, having lost the dog, must have been delayed by looking for him, but shefelt that she could not infuse sufficient conviction into the remark, and so said nothing. A thousand fears and misgivings took possession ofher, and, not for the first time, she seemed to discern in the gloom ofthe future some great catastrophe which would swallow up all that wasprecious to her. 

At length John came in, hurried, fidgetty, nervous, and Ethel slippedout of the room. 

'Ah! Twemlow!' he broke forth, 'how d'ye do? How d'ye do? Glad to seeyou. Hadn't given me up, had you? How d'ye do?'

'Not quite, ' said Twemlow gravely as they shook hands. 

Leonora took the water-jug from the tray and went to a chrysanthemum inthe farthest corner of the room, where she remained listening, andpretending to be busy with the plant. The men talked freely but vapidlywith the most careful politeness, and it seemed to her that Twemlow wasannoyed, while Stanway was determined to offer no explanation of hisabsence from tea. Once, in a pause, John turned to Leonora and said thathe had been upstairs to see Rose. Leonora was surprised at the change inTwemlow's demeanour. It was as though the pair were fighting a duel andTwemlow wore a coat of mail. 'And these two have not seen each other fortwenty-five years!' she thought. 'And they talk like this!' She knewthen that something lay between them; she could tell from a peculiarwell-known look in her husband's eyes. 

When she summoned decision to approach them where they stood side byside on the hearthrug, both tall, big, formal, and preoccupied, Twemlowat once said that unfortunately he must go; Stanway made none but themerest perfunctory attempt to detain him. He thanked Leonora stiffly forher hospitality, and said good-bye with scarcely a smile. But as Johnopened the door for him to pass out, he turned to glance at her, andsmiled brightly, kindly, bowing a final adieu, to which she responded. She who never in her life till then had condescended to such a devicesoftly stepped to the unlatched door and listened. 

'This one yours?' she heard John say, and then the sound of a hatbouncing on the tiled floor. 

'My fault entirely, ' said Twemlow's voice. 'By the way, I guess I cansee you at your office one day soon?'

'Yes, certainly, ' John answered with false glib lightness. 'What about?Some business?'

'Well, yes--business, ' drawled Twemlow. 

They walked away towards the outer hall, and she heard no more, exceptthe indistinct murmur of a sudden brief dialogue between the visitor andthe two girls, who must have come in from the garden. Then the frontdoor banged heavily. He was gone. The vast and arid tedium of her lifeclosed in upon her again; she seemed to exist in a colourless voidpeopled only by ominous dim elusive shapes of disaster. 

But as involuntarily she clenched her hands the formidable thoughtswept through her brain that Arthur Twemlow was not so calm, nor soimpassive, nor so set apart, but that her spell over him, if she choseto exert it, might be a shield to the devious man her husband. 

CHAPTER IV

AN INTIMACY

'Does father really mean it about me going to the works to-morrow?'Ethel asked that night. 

'I suppose so, my dear, ' replied Leonora, and she added: 'You must doall you can to help him. '

Ethel's clear gift of interpreting even the most delicate modulations inher mother's voice, instantly gave her the first faint sense of alarm. 

'Why, mamma! what do you mean?'

'What I say, dear, ' Leonora murmured with neutral calm. 'You must do allyou can to help him. We look on you as a woman now. '

'You don't, you don't!' Ethel thought passionately as she went upstairs. 'And you never will. Never!'

The profound instinctive sympathy which existed between her mother andherself was continually being disturbed by the manifest insincerity ofthat assertion contained in Leonora's last sentence. The girl was inarms, without knowing it, against a whole order of things. She couldscarcely speak to Millicent in the bedroom. She was disgusted with herfather, and she was disgusted with Leonora for pretending that herfather was sagacious and benevolent, for not admitting that he wasmerely a trial to be endured. She was disgusted with Fred Ryley becausehe was not as other young men were--Harry Burgess for instance. Thestartling hint from Leonora that perhaps all was not well at the worksexasperated her. She held the works in abhorrence. With her sisters, shehad always regarded the works as a vague something which John Stanwaywent to and came away from, as the mysterious source of food, raiment, warmth. But she was utterly ignorant of its mechanism, and she wished toremain ignorant. That its mechanism should be in danger of breakingdown, that it should even creak, was to her at first less a disasterthan a matter for resentment. She hated the works as one is sometimescapable of unreasonably hating a benefactor. 

On Monday morning, rising a little earlier than usual, she was surprisedto find her mother alone at a disordered breakfast-table. 

'Has dad finished his breakfast already?' she inquired, determined to becheerful. Sleep, and her fundamental good-nature, had modified hermood, and for the moment she meant to play the rôle of dutiful daughteras well as she could. 

'He has had to go off to Manchester by the first train, ' said Leonora. 'He'll be away all day. So you won't begin till to-morrow. ' She smiledgravely. 

'Oh, good!' Ethel exclaimed with intense momentary relief. 

But now again in Leonora's voice, and in her eye, there was the softwarning, which Ethel seized, and which, without a relevant word spoken, she communicated to her sisters. John Stanway's young women began toreflect apprehensively upon the sudden irregularities of his recentmovements, his conferences with his lawyer, his bluffing air; a hundredtrifles too insignificant for separate notice collected themselvestogether and became formidable. A certain atmosphere of forced and falsecheerfulness spread through the house. 

'Not gone to bed!' said Stanway briskly, when he returned home by thelate train and discovered his three girls in the drawing-room. Theyallowed him to imagine that his jaunty air deceived them; they werejaunty too; but all the while they read his soul and pitied him with theintolerable condescension of youth towards age. 

The next day Ethel had a further reprieve of several hours, for Stanwaysaid that he must go over to Hanbridge in the morning, and would comeback to Hillport for dinner, and escort Ethel to the works immediatelyafterwards. None asked a question, but everyone knew that he could onlybe going to Hanbridge to consult with David Dain. This time theprogramme was in fact executed. At two o'clock Ethel found herself inher father's office. 

As she took off her hat and jacket in the hard sinister room, she lookedlike a violet roughly transplanted and bidden to blossom in the mire. She knew that amid that environment she could be nothing but incapable, dull, stupid, futile, and plain. She knew that she had no brains tocomprehend and no energy to prevail. Every detail repelled her--theabsence of fire-irons in the hearth, the business almanacs on thediscoloured walls, the great flat table-desk, the dusty samples oftea-pots in the window, the vast green safe in the corner, the glimpsesof industrial squalor in the yard, the sound of uncouth voices from theclerks' office, the muffled beat of machinery under the floor, and thestrange uninhabited useless appearance of a small room seen through ahalf-open door near the safe. She would have given a year of life, inthat first moment, to be helping her mother in some despised monotonoushousehold task at Hillport. 

She felt that she was being outrageously deprived of a natural right, hitherto enjoyed without let, to have the golden fruits of labourbrought to her in discreet silence as to their origin. 

Stanway struck a bell with determination, and the manager appeared, atall, thin, sandy-haired man of middle age, who wore a grey tailed-coatand a white apron. 

'Ha! Mayer! That you?'

'Yes, sir. .. . Good afternoon, miss. '

'Good afternoon, ' Ethel simpered foolishly, and she had it in her tohave slain both men because she felt such a silly schoolgirl. 

'I wanted Ryley. Where is he?'

'He's somewhere on the bank, [3] sir--speaking to the mouldmaker, Ithink. '

 [3] Bank = earthenware manufactory. But here the word is used in a limited sense, meaning the industrial, as distinguished from the bureaucratic, part of the manufactory. 

'Well, just bring me in that letter from Paris that came on Saturday, will you?' Stanway requested. 

'I've several things to speak to you about, ' said Mr. Mayer, when he hadbrought the letter. 

'Directly, ' Stanway answered, waving him away, and then turning toEthel: 'Now, young lady, I want this letter translating. ' He placed itbefore her on the table, together with some blank paper. 

'Yes, father, ' she said humbly. 

Three hours a week for seven years she had sat in front of Frenchmanuals at the school at Oldcastle; but she knew that, even if thedestiny of nations turned on it, she could not translate that letter often lines. Nevertheless she was bound to make a pretence of doing so. 

'I don't think I can without a dictionary, ' she plaintively murmured, after a few minutes. 

'Oh! Here's a French dictionary, ' he replied, producing one from adrawer, much to her chagrin; she had hoped that he would not have adictionary. 

Then Stanway began to look through a pile of correspondence, and toscribble in a large saffron-coloured diary. He went out to Mr. Mayer;Mr. Mayer came in to him; they called to each other from room to room. The machinery stopped beneath and started again. A horse fell down inthe yard, and Stanway, watching from the window, exclaimed: 'Tsh! Thatcarter!'

Various persons unceremoniously entered and asked questions, all ofwhich Stanway answered with equal dryness and certainty. At intervals hepoked the fire with an old walking-stick, Ethel never glanced up. In adream she handled the dictionary, the letter, the blank paper, and wroteunfinished phrases with the thick office pen. 

'Done it?' he inquired at last. 

'I--I--can't make out the figures, ' she stammered. 'Is that a 5 or a 7?'She pushed the letter across. 

'Oh! That's a French 7, ' he replied, and proceeded to make shots at themeaning of sentences with a _flair_ far surpassing her own skill, thoughit was notorious that he knew no French whatever. She had a suddenperception of his cleverness, his capacity, his force, his mysterioushold on all kinds of things which eluded her grasp and dismayed her. 

'Let's see what you've done, ' he demanded. She sighed in despair, hesitating to give up the paper. 

'Mr. Twemlow, by appointment, ' announced a clerk, and Arthur Twemlowwalked into the office. 

'Hallo, Twemlow!' said Stanway, meeting him gaily. 'I was just expectingyou. My new confidential clerk. Eh?' He pointed to Ethel, who flushed toadvantage. 'You've plenty of them over there, haven't you--girl-clerks?'

Twemlow assented, and remarked that he himself employed a 'ladysecretary. '

'Yes, ' Stanway eagerly went on. 'That's what I mean to do. I mean to buya type-writer, and Miss shall learn shorthand and type-writing. '

Ethel was astounded at the glibness of invention which could instantlybring forth such an idea. She felt quite sure that until that moment herfather had had no plan at all in regard to her attendance at the office. 

'I'm sure I can't learn, ' she said with genuine modesty, and as shespoke she became very attractive to Twemlow, who said nothing, butsmiled at her sympathetically, protectively. She returned the smile. Bya swift miracle the violet was back again in its native bed. 

'You can go in there and finish your work, we shall disturb you, ' saidher father, pointing to the little empty room, and she meeklydisappeared with the letter, the dictionary, and the piece of paper. 

 * * * * *

'Well, how's business, Twemlow? By the way, have a cigar. '

Ethel, at the dusty table in the little room, could just see herfather's broad back through the door which, in her nervousness, she hadforgotten to close. She felt that the door ought to have been latched, but she could not find courage deliberately to get up and latch it now. 

'Thanks, ' said Arthur Twemlow. 'Business is going right along. '

She heard the striking of a match, and the pleasant twang of cigar-smokegreeted her nostrils. The two men seemed splendidly masculine, important, self-sufficient. The triviality of feminine atoms likeherself, Rose, and Millicent, occurred to her almost as a new fact, andshe was ashamed of her existence. 

'Buying much this trip?' asked Stanway. 

'Not much, and not your sort, ' said Twemlow. 'The truth is, I'm fixingup a branch in London. '

'But, my dear fellow, surely there's no American business done throughLondon in English goods?'

'No, perhaps not, ' said Twemlow. 'But that don't say there isn't goingto be. Besides, I've got a notion of coming in for a share of yourcolonial shipping trade. And let me tell you there's a lot of businessdone through London between the United States and the Continent, inglass and fancy goods. '

'Oh, yes, I know there is, ' Stanway conceded. 'And so you think you'regoing to teach the old country a thing or two?'

'That depends. '

'On what?'

'On whether the old country's made up her mind yet to sit down andlearn. ' He laughed. 

Ethel saw by the change of colour in her father's neck that thesusceptibilities of his patriotism had been assailed. 

'What do you mean?' Stanway asked pugnaciously. 

'I mean that you are falling behind here, ' said Twemlow with cold, nonchalant firmness. 'Every one knows that. You're getting left. Lookhow you're being cut out in cheap toilet stuff. In ten years you won'tbe shipping a hundred dollars' worth per annum of cheap toilet to theStates. '

'But listen, Twemlow, ' said Stanway impressively. 

Twemlow continued, imperturbable: 'You in the Five Towns stick toold-fashioned methods. You can't cut it fine enough. '

'Old-fashioned? Not cut it fine enough?' Stanway exclaimed, rising. 

Twemlow laughed with real mirth. 'Yes, ' he said. 

'Give me one instance--one instance, ' cried Stanway. 

'Well, ' said Twemlow, 'take firing. I hear you still pay your firemenby the oven, and your placers by the day, instead of settling alloven-work by scorage. '

'Tell me about that--the Trenton system. I'd like to hear about that. It's been mentioned once or twice, ' said Stanway, resuming his chair. 

'Mentioned!'

Ethel perceived vaguely that the forceful man who held her in the hollowof his hand had met more than his match. Over that spectacle sherejoiced like a small child; but at the same time Arthur Twemlow'sabsolute conviction that the Five Towns was losing ground frightenedher, made her feel that life was earnest, and stirred faint longings forthe serious way. It seemed to her that she was weighed down by knowledgeof the world, whereas gay Millicent, and Rose with her sillyexaminations. .. . She plunged again into the actuality of the letter fromParis. .. . 

'I called really to speak to you about my father's estate. '

Ethel was startled into attention by the sudden careful politeness inArthur Twemlow's manner and by a quivering in his voice. 

'What of it?' said Stanway. 'I've forgotten all the details. Fifteenyears since, you know. '

'Yes. But it's on behalf of my sister, and I haven't been over before. Besides, it wasn't till she heard I was coming to England thatshe--asked me. '

'Well, ' said Stanway. 'Of course I was the sole executor, and it's myduty----'

'That's it, ' Twemlow broke in. 'That's what makes it a little awkward. No one's got the right to go behind you as executor. But the fact is, mysister--we--my sister was surprised at the smallness of the estate. Wewant to know what he did with his money, that is, how much he reallyreceived before he died. Perhaps you won't mind letting me look at theannual balance-sheets of the old firm, say for 1875, 6, and 7. Yousee----'

Twemlow stopped as Stanway half-turned to look at the door between thetwo rooms. 

'Go on, go on, ' said Stanway in his grandiose manner. 'That's allright. '

Ethel knew in a flash that her father would have given a great deal tohave had the door shut, and equally that nothing on earth would haveinduced him to shut it. 

'That's all right, ' he repeated. 'Go on. '

Twemlow's voice regained steadiness. 'You can perhaps understand mysister's feelings. ' Then a long pause. 'Naturally, if you don't care toshow me the balance-sheets----'

'My dear Twemlow, ' said John stiffly, 'I shall be delighted to show youanything you wish to see. '

'I only want to know----'

'Certainly, certainly. Quite justifiable and proper. I'll have themlooked up. '

'Any time will do. '

'Well, we're rather busy. Say a week to-day--if you're to be here thatlong. '

'I guess that'll suit me, ' said Twemlow. 

His tone had a touch of cynical cruel patience. 

The intangible and shapeless suspicions which Ethel had caught fromLeonora took a misty form and substance, only to be immediatelydispelled in that inconstant mind by the sudden refreshing sound ofMilly's voice: 'We've called to take Ethel home, papa--oh, mother, here's Mr. Twemlow!'

In another moment the office was full of chatter and scent, and Millyhad run impulsively to Ethel: 'What _has_ father given you to do?'

'Oh dear!' Ethel sighed, with a fatigued gesture of knowing nothingwhatever. 

'It's half-past five, ' said Leonora, glancing into the inner room, aftershe had spoken to Mr. Twemlow. 

Three hours and a half had Ethel been in thrall! It was like a centuryto her. She could have dropped into her mother's arms. 

'What have you come in, Nora?' asked Stanway, 'the trap?'

'No, the four-wheeled dog-cart, dear. '

'Well, Twemlow, drive up and have tea with us. Come along and have aFive Towns high-tea. '

'Oh, Mr. Twemlow, do!' said Milly, nearly drowning Leonora's murmuredinvitation. 

Arthur hesitated. 

'Come _along_, ' Stanway insisted genially. 'Of course you will. '

'Thank you, ' was the rather feeble answer. 'But I shall have to leavepretty early. '

'We'll see about that, ' said Stanway. 'You can take Mr. Twemlow and thegirls, Nora, and I'll follow as quick as I can. I must dictate a letteror two. '

The three women, Twemlow in the midst, escaped like a pretty cloud outof the rude, dingy office, and their bright voices echoed _diminuendo_down the stair. Stanway rang his bell fiercely. The dictionary and theletter and Ethel's paper lay forgotten on the dusty table of the innerroom. 

 * * * * *

Arthur Twemlow felt that he ought to have been annoyed, but he could dono more than keep up a certain reserve of manner. Neither the memory ofhis humiliating clumsy lies about his sister in broaching the matter ofhis father's estate to Stanway, nor his clear perception that Stanwaywas a dishonest and a frightened man, nor his strong theoreticalobjection to Stanway's tactics in so urgently inviting him to tea, couldoverpower the sensation of spiritual comfort and complacency whichpossessed him as he sat between Leonora and Ethel at Leonora'ssplendidly laden table. He fought doggedly against this sensation. Hetried to assume the attitude of a philosopher observing humanity, of aspider watching flies; he tried to be critical, cold, aloof. He listenedas one set apart, and answered in monosyllables. But despite his ownvolition the monosyllables were accompanied by a smile that destroyedthe effect of their curtness. The intimate charm of the domesticitysubdued his logical antipathies. He knew that he was making a goodimpression among these women, that for them there was something romanticand exciting about his history and personality. And he liked them all. He liked even Rose, so pale, strange, and contentious. In regard toMilly, whom he had begun by despising, he silently admitted that a girlso vivacious, supple, sparkling, and pretty, had the right to be aspertly foolish as she chose. He took a direct fancy to Ethel. And hedecided once for ever that Leonora was a magnificent creature. 

In the play of conversation on domestic trifles, the most ordinaryphrases seemed to him to be charged with a peculiar fascination. Thelittle discussions about Milly's attempts at housekeeping, about theaustere exertions of Rose, Ethel's first day at the office, Bran's newbiscuits, the end of the lawn-tennis season, the propriety of hockey forgirls, were so mysteriously pleasant to his ears that he felt it a sortof privilege to have been admitted to them. And yet he clearly perceivedthe shortcomings of each person in this little world of which thetotality was so delightful. He knew that Ethel was languidly futile, Rose cantankerous, Milly inane, Stanway himself crafty and meretricious, and Leonora often supine when she should not be. He dwelt specially onthe more odious aspects of Stanway's character, and swore that, hadStanway forty womenfolk instead of four, he, Arthur Twemlow, shouldstill do his obvious duty of finishing what he had begun. In chattingwith his host after tea, he marked his own attitude with much care, andthough Stanway pretended not to observe it, he knew that Stanwayobserved it well enough. 

The three girls disappeared and returned in street attire. Rose wasgoing to the science classes at the Wedgwood Institution, Ethel andMillicent to the rehearsal of the Amateur Operatic Society. Again, inthis distribution of the complex family energy, there reappeared thesuggestion of a mysterious domestic charm. 

'Don't be late to-night, ' said Stanway severely to Millicent. 

'Now, grumbler, ' retorted the intrepid child, putting her gloved handsuddenly over her father's mouth; Stanway submitted. The picture of thetwo in this delicious momentary contact remained long in Twemlow's mind;and he thought that Stanway could not be such a brute after all. 

'Play something for us, Nora, ' said the august paterfamilias, spreadingat ease in his chair in the drawing-room, when the girls were gone. Leonora removed her bangles and began to play 'The Bees' Wedding. ' Butshe had not proceeded far before Milly ran in again. 

'A note from Mr. Dain, pa. '

Milly had vanished in an instant, and Leonora continued to play as ifnothing had happened, but Arthur was conscious of a change in theatmosphere as Stanway opened the letter and read it. 

'I must just go over the way and speak to a neighbour, ' said Stanwaycarelessly when Leonora had struck the final chord. 'You'll excuse me, I know. Sha'n't be long. '

'Don't mention it, ' Arthur replied with politeness, and then, afterStanway had gone, leaving the door open, he turned to Leonora at thepiano, and said: 'Do play something else. '

Instead of answering, she rose, resumed her jewellery, and took thechair which Stanway had left. She smiled invitingly, evasively, inscrutably at her guest. 

'Tell me about American women, ' she said: 'I've always wanted to know. '

He thought her attitude in the great chair the most enchanting thing hehad ever seen. 

 * * * * *

Leonora had watched Twemlow's demeanour from the moment when she met himin her husband's office. She had guessed, but not certainly, that it wasstill inimical at least to John, and the exact words of Uncle Meshach'swarning had recurred to her time after time as she met his reluctant, cautious eyes. Nevertheless, it was by the sudden uprush of an instinct, rather than by a calculated design, that she, in her home and surroundedby her daughters, began the process of enmeshing him in the web ofinfluences which she spun ceaselessly from the bright threads of her ownindividuality. Her mind had food for sombre preoccupation--the lostbattle with Milly during the day about Milly's comic-opera housekeeping;the tale told by John's nervous, effusive, guilty manner; and especiallythe episode of the letter from Dain and John's disappearance: thesethings were grave enough to the mother and wife. But they receded likenegligible trifles into the distance as she rose so suddenly and withsuch a radiant impulse from the piano. In the new enterprise ofconsciously arousing the sympathy of a man, she had almost forgotteneven the desperate motive which had decided her to undertake it shouldshe get the chance. 

'Tell me about American women, ' she said. All her person was achallenge. And then: 'Would you mind shutting the door after Jack?' Shefollowed him with her gaze as he crossed and recrossed the room. 

'What about American women?' he said, dropping all his previous reservelike a garment. 'What do you want to know?'

'I've never seen one. I want to know what makes them so charming. '

The fresh desirous interest in her voice flattered him, and he smiledhis content. 

'Oh!' he drawled, leaning back in his chair, which faced hers by thefire. 'I never noticed they were so specially charming. Some of themare pretty nice, I expect, but most of the young ones put on too muchlugs, at any rate for an Englishman. '

'But they're always marrying Englishmen. So how do you explain that? Idid think you'd be able to tell me about the American women. '

'Perhaps I haven't met enough of just the right sort, ' he said. 

'You're too critical, ' she remarked, as though his case was a peculiarlyinteresting one and she was studying it on its merits. 

'You only say that because I'm over forty and unmarried, Mrs. Stanway. I'm not at all critical. '

'Over forty!' she exclaimed, and left a pause. He nodded. 'But you aretoo critical, ' she went on. 'It isn't that women don't interestyou--they do----'

'I should think they did, ' he murmured, gratified. 

'But you expect too much from them. '

'Look here!' he said, 'how do you know?'

She smiled with an assumption of the sadness of all knowledge; she madehim feel like a boy again: 'If you didn't expect too much from them, youwould have married long ago. It isn't as if you hadn't seen the world. '

'Seen the world!' he repeated. 'I've never seen anything half socharming as your home, Mrs. Stanway. '

Both were extremely well satisfied with the course of the conversation. Both wished that the interview might last for indefinite hours, for theyhad slipped, as into a socket, into the supreme topic, and intointimacy. They were happy and they knew it. The egotism of each tingledsensitively with eager joy. They felt that this was 'life, ' one of thejustifications of existence. 

She shook her head slowly. 

'Yes, ' he continued, 'it's you who stay quietly at home that are to beenvied. '

'And you, a free bachelor, say that! Why, I should have thought----'

'That's just it. You're quite wrong, if you'll let me say so. Here am I, a free bachelor, as you call it. Can do what I like. Go where I like. And yet I would sell my soul for a home like this. Something . .. Youknow. No, you don't. People say that women understand men and what menfeel, but they can't--they can't. '

'No, ' said Leonora seriously, 'I don't think they can--still, I have anotion of what you mean. ' She spoke with modest sympathy. 

'Have you?' he questioned. 

She nodded. For a fraction of an instant she thought of her husband, stolid with all his impulsiveness, over at David Dain's. 

'People say to me, "Why don't you get married?"' Twemlow went on, drawnby the subtle invitation of her manner. 'But how can I get married? Ican't get married by taking thought. They make me tired. I ask themsometimes whether they imagine I keep single for the fun of thething. .. . Do you know that I've never yet been in love--no, not theleast bit. '

He presented her with this fact as with a jewel, and she so accepted it. 

'What a pity!' she said, gently. 

'Yes, it's a pity, ' he admitted. 'But look here. That's the worst of me. When I get talking about myself I'm likely to become a bore. '

Offering him the cigarette cabinet she breathed the old, effective, sincere answer: 'Not at all, it's very interesting. '

'Let me see, this house belongs to you, doesn't it?' he said in adifferent casual tone as he lighted a cigarette. 

Shortly afterwards he departed. John had not returned from Dain's, butTwemlow said that he could not possibly stay, as he had an appointmentat Hanbridge. He shook hands with restrained ardour. Her last words tohim were: 'I'm so sorry my husband isn't back, ' and even these ordinarywords struck him as a beautiful phrase. Alone in the drawing-room, shesighed happily and examined herself in the large glass over themantelpiece. The shaded lights left her loveliness unimpaired; and yet, as she gazed at the mirror, the worm gnawing at the root of herhappiness was not her husband's precarious situation, nor hisdeviousness, nor even his mere existence, but the one thought: 'Oh! ThatI were young again!'

 * * * * *

'Mother, whatever do you think?' cried Millicent, running in eagerly inadvance of Ethel at ten o'clock. 'Lucy Turner's sister died to-day, andso she can't sing in the opera, and I am to have her part if I can learnit in three weeks. '

'What is her part?' Leonora asked, as though waking up. 

'Why, mother, you know! Patience, of course! Isn't it splendid?'

'Where are father and Mr. Twemlow? Ethel inquired, falling into a chair. 

CHAPTER V

THE CHANCE

Leonora was aware that she had tamed one of the lions which menaced herhusband's path; she could not conceive that Arthur Twemlow, whatever hismysterious power over John, would find himself able to exercise it now;Twemlow was a friend of hers, and so disarmed. She wished to say proudlyto John: 'I neither know nor wish to know the nature of the situationbetween you and Arthur Twemlow. But be at ease. He is no longerdangerous. I have arranged it. ' The thing was impossible to be said; shewas bound to leave John in ignorance; she might not even hint. Nevertheless, Leonora's satisfaction in this triumph, her pleasure inthe mere memory of the intimate talk by the fire, her innocent joyousdesire to see Twemlow again soon, emanated from her in various subtleways, and the household was thereby soothed back into a feeling ofsecurity about John. Leonora ignored, perhaps deliberately, thatStanway had still before him the peril of financial embarrassment, thathe was mortgaging the house, and that his colloquies with David Daincontinued to be frequent and obviously disconcerting. When she saw himnervous, petulant, preoccupied, she attributed his condition solely tohis thought of the one danger which she had secretly removed. She had astrange determined impulse to be happy and gay. 

An episode at an extra Monday night rehearsal of the Amateur OperaticSociety seemed to point to the prevalence of certain sinister rumoursabout Stanway's condition. Milly, inspired by dreams of the future, hadlearnt her part perfectly in five days. She sang and acted withmagnificent assurance, and with a vivid theatrical charm which awokeenthusiasm in the excitable breasts of the male chorus. Harry Burgesslost his air of fatigued worldliness, and went round naïvely demandingto be told whether he had not predicted this miracle. Even the conductorwas somewhat moved. 

'She'll do, by gad!' said that man of few illusions to his crony theaccompanist. 

But it is not to be imagined that such a cardinal event as the elevationof a chit like Millicent Stanway to the principal rôle could achieveitself without much friction and consequent heat. Many ladies of thechorus thought that the committee no longer deserved the confidence ofthe society. At least three suspected that the conductor had a privatespite against themselves. And one, aged thirty-five, felt convinced thatshe was the victim of an elaborate and scandalous plot. To this maid hadbeen offered Milly's old part of Ella; it was a final insult--but sheaccepted it. In the scene with Angela and Bunthorne in the first act, the new Ella made the same mistake three times at the words, 'In adoleful train, ' and the conductor grew sarcastic. 

'May I show you how that bit goes, Miss Gardner?' said Milly afterwardswith exquisite pertness. 

'No, thank you, Milly, ' was the freezing emphasised answer; 'I dare sayI shall be able to manage without _your_ assistance. '

'Oh, ho!' sang Milly, delighted to have provoked this exhibition, andshe began a sort of Carmen dance of disdain. 

'Girls grow up so quick nowadays!' Miss Gardner exclaimed, losingcontrol of herself; 'who are _you_, I should like to know!' and sheproceeded with her irrelevant inquiries: 'who's _your_ father? Doesn'tevery one know that he'll have gone smash before the night of theshow?' She was shaking, insensate, brutal. 

Millicent stood still, and went very white. 

'Miss Gardner!'

'_Miss_ Stanway!'

The rival divas faced each other, murderous, for a few seconds, and thenMilly turned, laughing, to Harry Burgess, who, consciously secretarial, was standing near with several others. 

'Either Miss Gardner apologises to me at once, ' she said lightly, 'at_once_, or else either she or I leave the Society. '

Milly tapped her foot, hummed, and looked up into Miss Gardner's eyeswith serene contempt. Ethel was not the only one who was amazed at theabsolute certitude of victory in little Millicent's demeanour. HarryBurgess spoke apart with the conductor upon this astonishingcontretemps, and while he did so Milly, still smiling, hummed rathermore loudly the very phrase of Ella's at which Miss Gardner hadstumbled. It was a masterpiece of insolence. 

'We think Miss Gardner should withdraw the expression, ' said Harry afterhe had coughed. 

'Never!' said Miss Gardner. 'Good-bye all!'

Thus ended Miss Gardner's long career as an operatic artist--and notwithout pathos, for the ageing woman sobbed as she left the room fromwhich she had been driven by a pitiless child. 

 * * * * *

According to custom Harry Burgess set out from the National School, where the rehearsals were held, with Ethel and Milly for Hillport. Butat the bottom of Church Street Ethel silently fell behind and joined afourth figure which had approached. The two couples walked separately toHillport by the field-path. As Harry and Milly opened the wicket at thefoot of Stanway's long garden, Ethel ran up, alone again. 

'That you?' cried a thin voice under the trees by the gate. It was Rose, taking late exercise after her studies. 

'Yes, it's us, ' replied Harry. 'Shall you give me a whisky if I comein?'

And he entered the house with the three girls. 

'I'm certain Rose saw you with Fred in the field, and if she did she'ssure to split to mother, ' Milly whispered as she and Ethel ran upstairs. They could hear Harry already strumming on the piano. 

'I don't care!' said Ethel callously, exasperated by three days offutility at the office, and by the manifest injustice of fate. 

'My dear, I want to speak to you, ' said Leonora to Ethel, when theinformal supper was over, and Harry had buckishly departed, and Rose andMilly were already gone upstairs. Not a word had been mentioned as tothe great episode of the rehearsal. 

'Well, mother?' Ethel answered in a tone of weary defiance. 

Leonora still sat at the supper-table, awaiting John, who was out at ameeting; Ethel stood leaning against the mantelpiece like a boy. 

'How often have you been seeing Fred Ryley lately?' Leonora began with agentle, pacific inquiry. 

'I see him every day at the works, mother. '

'I don't mean at the works; you know that, Ethel. '

'I suppose Rose has been telling you things. '

'Rose told me quite innocently that she happened to see Fred in thefield to-night. '

'Oh, yes!' Ethel sneered with cold irony. 'I know Rose's innocence!'

'My dear girl, ' Leonora tried to reason with her. 'Why will you talklike that? You know you promised your father----'

'No, I didn't, ma, ' Ethel interrupted her sharply. 'Milly did; I neverpromised father anything. '

Leonora was astonished at the mutinous desperation in Ethel's tone. Itleft her at a loss. 

'I shall have to tell your father, ' she said sadly. 

'Well, of course, mother, ' Ethel managed her voice carefully. 'You tellhim everything. '

'No, I don't, my dear, ' Leonora denied the charge like a girl. 'A weeklast night I heard Fred Ryley talking to you at your window. And I havesaid nothing. '

Ethel flushed hotly at this disclosure. 

'Then why say anything now?' she murmured, half daunted and half daring. 

'Your father must know. I ought to have told him before. But I have beenwondering how best to act. '

'What's the matter with Fred, mother?' Ethel demanded, with a catch inher throat. 

'That isn't the point, Ethel. Your father has distinctly said that hewon't permit any'--she stopped because she could not bring herself tosay the words; and then continued: 'If he had the slightest suspicionthat there was anything between _you_ and Fred Ryley he would never haveallowed you to go to the works at all. '

'Allowed me to go! I like that, mother! As if I wanted to go to theworks! I simply hate the place--father knows that. And yet--and yet----'She almost wept. 

'Your father must be obeyed, ' Leonora stated simply. 

'Suppose Fred _is_ poor, ' Ethel ran on, recovering herself. 'Perhaps hewon't be poor always. And perhaps we shan't be rich always. The thingsthat people are saying----' She hesitated, afraid to proceed. 

'What do you mean, dear?'

'Well!' the girl exclaimed, and then gave a brief account of the Gardnerincident. 

'My child, ' was Leonora's placid comment, 'you ought to know thatFlorence Gardner will say anything when she is in a temper. She is theworst gossip in Bursley. I only hope Milly wasn't rude. And really thishas got nothing to do with what we are talking about. '

'Mother!' Ethel cried hysterically, 'why are you always so calm? Justimagine yourself in my place--with Fred. You say I'm a woman, and I am, I am, though you don't think so, truly. Just imagine----No, you can't!You've forgotten all that sort of thing, mother. ' She burst into gushingtears at last. 'Father can kill me if he likes! I don't care!'

She fled out of the room. 

'So I've forgotten, have I!' Leonora said to herself, smiling faintly, as she sat alone at the table waiting for John. 

She was not at all hurt by Ethel's impassioned taunt, but rather amused, indulgently amused, that the girl should have so misread her. She feltmore maternal, protective, and tender towards Ethel than she had everfelt since the first year of Ethel's existence. She seemed perfectly tocomprehend, and she nobly excused, the sudden outbreak of violence anddisrespect on the part of her languid, soft-eyed daughter. She thoughtwith confidence that all would come right in the end, and vaguely shedetermined that in some undefined way she would help Ethel, would yetdemonstrate to this child of hers that she understood and sympathised. The interview which had just terminated, futile, conflicting, desultory, muddled, tentative, and abrupt as life itself, appeared to her in thelight of a positive achievement. She was not unhappy about it, nor aboutanything. Even the scathing speech of Florence Gardner had failed todisturb her. 

'I want to tell you something, Jack, ' she began, when her husband atlength came home. 

'Who's been drinking whisky?' was Stanway's only reply as he glanced atthe table. 

'Harry brought the girls home. I dare say he had some. I didn'tnotice, ' she said. 

'H'm!' Stanway muttered gloomily, 'he's young enough to start thatgame. '

'I'll see it isn't offered to him again, if you like, ' said Leonora. 'But I want to tell you something, Jack. '

'Well?' He was thoughtlessly cutting a piece of cheese into smallsquares with the silver butter-knife. 

'Only you must promise not to say a word to a soul. '

'I shall promise no such thing, ' he said with uncompromising bluntness. 

She smiled charmingly upon him. 'Oh yes, Jack, you will, you must. '

He seemed to be taken unawares by her sudden smile. 'Very well, ' he saidgruffly. 

She then told him, in the manner she thought best, of the relationsbetween Ethel and Fred Ryley, and she pointed out to him that, if he hadreflected at all upon the relations between Harry Burgess and Millicent, he would not have fallen into the error of connecting Milly, instead ofher sister, with Fred. 

'What relations between Milly and young Burgess?' he questionedstolidly. 

'Why, Jack, ' she said, 'you know as much as I do. Why does Harry comehere so often?'

'He'd better not come here so often. What's Milly? She's nothing but achild. '

Leonora made no attempt to argue with him. 'As for Ethel, ' she saidsoftly, 'she's at a difficult age, and you must be careful----'

'As for Ethel, ' he interrupted, 'I'll turn Fred Ryley out of my officeto-morrow. '

She tried to look grave and sympathetic, to use all her tact. 'But won'tthat make difficulties with Uncle Meshach? And people might say you haddismissed him because Uncle Meshach had altered his will. '

'D----n Fred Ryley!' he swore, unable to reply to this. 'D----n him!'

He walked to and fro in the room, and all his secret, profoundresentment against Ryley surged up, loose and uncontrolled. 

'Wouldn't it be better to take Ethel away from the works?' Leonorasuggested. 

'No, ' he answered doggedly. 'Not for a moment! Can't I have my owndaughter in my own office because Fred Ryley is on the place? A prettything!'

'It is awkward, ' she admitted, as if admitting also that what puzzledhis sagacity was of course too much for hers. 

'Fred Ryley!' he repeated the hateful syllables bitterly. 'And I onlytook him out of kindness! Simply out of kindness! I tell you what, Leonora!' He faced her in a sort of bravado. 'It would serve 'em d----nwell right if Uncle Meshach died to-morrow, and Aunt Hannah the dayafter. I should be safe then. It would serve them d----n well right, allof 'em--Ryley and Uncle Meshach; yes, and Aunt Hannah too! She hasn'taltered her will, but she'd no business to have let uncle alter his. They're all in it. She's bound to die first, and they know it. .. . Well, well!' He was a resigned martyr now, and he turned towards the hearth. 

'Jack!' she exclaimed, 'what's the matter?'

'Ruin's the matter, ' he said. 'That's what's the matter. Ruin!'

He laughed sourly, undecided whether to pretend that he was not quiteserious, or to divulge his real condition. 

Her calm confident eyes silently invited him to relieve his mind, and hecould not resist the temptation. 

'You know that mortgage on the house, ' he said quickly. 'I got it allarranged at once. Dain was to have sent the deed in last Tuesday nightfor you to sign, but he sent in a letter instead. That's why I had togo over and see him. There was some confounded hitch at the last moment, a flaw in the title----'

'A flaw in the title!' It was the phrase only that alarmed her. 

'Oh! It's all _right_, ' said Stanway, wondering angrily why women shouldalways, by the trick of seizing on trifles, destroy the true perspectiveof a business affair. 'The title's all right, at least it will be putright. But it means delay, and I can't wait. I must have money at once, in three days. Can you understand that, my girl?'

By an effort she conquered the impulses to ask why, and why, and why;and to suggest economy in the house. Something came to her mysteriouslyout of her memory of her own father's affairs, a sudden inspiration; andshe said:

'Can't you deposit my deeds at the bank and get a temporary advance?'She was very proud of this clever suggestion. 

He shook his head: 'No, the bank won't. '

The fact was that the bank had long been pressing him to depositsecurity for his over-draft. 

'I tell you what might be done, ' he said, brightening as her idea gavebirth to another one in his mind. 'Uncle Meshach might lend some moneyon the deeds. You shall go down to-morrow morning and ask him, Nora. '

'Me!' She was scared at this result. 

'Yes, you, ' he insisted, full of eagerness. 'It's your house. Ask him tolet you have five hundred on the house for a short while. Tell him wewant it. You can get round him easily enough. '

'Jack, I can't do it, really. '

'Oh yes, you can, ' he assured her. 'No one better. He likes you. Hedoesn't like me--never did. Ask him for five hundred. No, ask him for athousand. May as well make it a thousand. It'll be all the same to him. You go down in the morning, and do it for me. '

Stanway's animation became quite cheerful. 

'But about the title--the flaw?' she feebly questioned. 

'That won't frighten uncle, ' said Stanway positively. 'He knows thetitle is good enough. That's only a technical detail. '

'Very well, ' she agreed, 'I'll do what I can, Jack. '

'That's good, ' he said. 

And even now, the resolve once made, she did not lose her sense oftranquil optimism, her mild happiness, her widespreading benevolence. The result of this talk with John aroused in her an innocent vanity, for was it not indirectly due to herself that John had been able to seea way out of his difficulties?

They soon afterwards dismissed the subject, put it with care away in acorner; and John finished his supper. 

'Is Mr. Twemlow still in the district?' she asked vivaciously. 

'Yes, ' said John, and there was a pause. 

'You're doing some business together, aren't you, Jack?' she hazarded. 

John hesitated. 'No, ' he said, 'he only wanted to see me about oldTwemlow's estate--some details he was after. '

'I felt it, ' she mused. 'I felt all the time it was that that was wrong. And John is worrying over it! But he needn't--he needn't--and he doesn'tknow!'

She exulted. 

She could read plainly the duplicity in his face. She knew that he haddone some wicked thing, and that all his life was a maze of more or lessequivocal stratagems. But she was so used to the character of herhusband that this aspect of the situation scarcely impressed her. It washer new active beneficent interference in John's affairs that seemed tooccupy her thoughts. 

'I told you I wouldn't say anything about Ethel's affair, ' said Johnlater, 'and I won't. ' He was once more judicial and pompous. 'But, ofcourse, you will look after it. I shall leave it to you to deal with. You'll have to be firm, you know. '

'Yes, ' she said. 

 * * * * *

Not till after breakfast the next day did Leonora realise the utterrepugnance with which she shrank from the mission to Uncle Meshach. Shehad declined to look the project fairly in the face, to examine her ownfeelings concerning it. She had said to herself when she awoke in thedark: 'It is nothing. It is a mere business matter. It isn't likebegging. ' But the idea, the absurd indefensible idea, of its similarityto begging was precisely what troubled her as the moment approached forsetting forth. She pondered, too, upon the intolerable fact that such arequest as she was about to prefer to Uncle Meshach was a tacitadmission that John, with all his ostentations, had at last come to theend of the tether. She felt that she was a living part of John'smeretriciousness. She had the fancy that she should have dressed for theoccasion in rusty black. Was it not somehow shameful that she, asuppliant for financial aid, should outrage the ugly modesty of thelittle parlour in Church Street by the arrogant and expensive perfectionof her beautiful skirt and street attire?

Moreover, she would fail. 

The morning was fine, and with infantile pusillanimity she began to hopethat Uncle Meshach would be taking his walks abroad. In order to givehim every chance of being out she delayed her departure, upon onedomestic excuse or another, for quite half an hour. 'How silly I am!'she reflected. But she could not help it, and when she had started downthe hill towards Bursley she felt sick. She had a suspicion that herfeet might of their own accord turn into a by-road and lead her awayfrom Uncle Meshach's. 'I shall never get there!' she exclaimed. Shecalled at the fishmonger's in Oldcastle Street, and was delightedbecause the shop was full of customers and she had to wait. At last shewas crossing St. Luke's Square and could distinguish Uncle Meshach'sdoorway with its antique fanlight. She wished to stop, to turn back, torun, but her traitorous feet were inexorable. They carried her anunwilling victim to the house. Uncle Meshach, by some strange accident, was standing at the window and saw her. 'Ah!' she thought, 'if he hadnot been at the window, if he had not caught sight of me, I should havewalked past!' And that chance of escape seemed like a lost bliss. 

Uncle Meshach himself opened the door. 

'Come in, lass, ' he said, looking her up and down through his glasses. 'You're the prettiest thing I've seen since I saw ye last. Your aunt'sout, with the servant too; and I'm left here same as a dog on the chain. That's how they leave me. '

She was thankful that Aunt Hannah was out: that made the affair simpler. 

'Well, uncle, ' she said, 'I haven't seen you since you came back fromthe Isle of Man, have I?'

Some inspiration lent her a courage which rose far beyond embarrassment. She saw at once that the old man was enchanted to have her in the housealone, and flattered by the apparatus of feminine elegance which shealways displayed for him at its fullest. These two had a sort of cultfor each other, a secret sympathy, none the less sincere because itseldom found expression. His pale blue eyes, warmed by her presence, said: 'I'm an old man, and I've seen the world, and I keep a few of myideas to myself. But you know that no one understands a pretty womanbetter than I do. A glance is enough. ' And in reply to this challengeshe gave the rein to her profoundest instincts. She played the simplefeminine to his masculine. She dared to be the eternal beauty who rulesmen, and will ever rule them, they know not why. 

'My lass, ' he said in a tone that granted all requests in advance, afterthey had talked a while, 'you're after something. '

His wrinkled features, ironic but benevolent, intimated that he knew shewished to take an unfair advantage of the gifts which Nature hadbestowed on her, and that he did not object. 

She allowed herself to smile mysteriously, provocatively at him. 

'Yes, ' she admitted frankly, 'I am. '

'Well?' He waited indulgently for the disclosure. 

She paused a moment, smiling steadily at him. The contrast of hiswizened age made her feel deliciously girlish. 

'It's about my house, at Hillport, ' she began with assurance. 'I wantyou----'

And she told him, with no more than a sufficiency of detail, what shewanted. She did not try to conceal that the aim was to help John, that, in crude fact, it was John who needed the money. But she emphasised'_my_ house, ' and '_I_ want you to lend _me_. ' The thing was well done, and she knew it was well done, and felt satisfied accordingly. As forMeshach, he was decidedly caught unawares. He might, perhaps, havesuspected from the beginning that she was only an emissary of John's, but the form and magnitude of her proposal were a violent surprise tohim. He hesitated. She could see clearly that he sought reasons by whichto justify himself in acquiescence. 

'It's your affair?' he questioned meditatively. 

'Quite my own, ' she assured him. 

'Let me see----'

'I shall get it!' she said to herself, and she was astounded at thefelicitous event of the enterprise. She could scarcely believe her goodluck, but she knew beyond any doubt that she was not mistaken in thesigns of Meshach's demeanour. She thought she might even venture to askhim for an explanation of his warning letter about Arthur Twemlow. 

At that moment Aunt Hannah and the middle-aged servant re-entered thehouse, and the servant had to pass through the parlour to reach thekitchen. The atmosphere which Meshach and Leonora had evolved insolitude from their respective individualities was dissipated instantly. The parlour became nothing but the parlour, with its glass partition, its antimacassars, its Meshach by the hob, and its diminutive Hannahuttering fatuous, affectionate exclamations of pleasure. 

Leonora's heart was pierced by a sudden stab of doubt, as she waited forthe result. 

'Sister, ' said Meshach, 'what dost think? Here's your nephew beenspeculating in stocks and shares till he can't hardly turn round----'

'Uncle!' Leonora exclaimed horrified, 'I never said such a thing!'

'Sh!' said Hannah in an awful whisper, as she shut the kitchen door. 

'Till he can't hardly turn round, ' Meshach continued; 'and now he wantsLeonora here to mortgage her house to get him out of his difficulties. Haven't I always told you as John would find himself in a rare fix oneof these days?'

Few human beings could dominate another more completely than Meshachdominated his sister. But here, for Leonora's undoing, was just a casewhere, without knowing it, Hannah influenced her brother. He had areputation to keep up with Hannah, a great and terrible reputation, andin several ways a loan by him through Leonora to John would have damagedit. A few minutes later, and he would have been committed both to theloan and to the demonstration of his own consistency in the humble eyesof Hannah; but the old spinster had arrived too soon. The spell wasbroken. Meshach perceived the danger of his position, and retired. 

'Nay, nay!' Hannah protested. 'That's very wrong of John. Eh, thisspeculation!'

'But, really, uncle, ' Leonora said as convincingly as she could. 'It'scapital that John wants. '

She saw that all was lost. 

'Capital!' Meshach sarcastically flouted the word, and he turned with adubious benevolence to Leonora. 'No, my lass, it isn't, ' he said, pausing. 'John'll get out of this mess as he's gotten out of manyanother. Trust him. He's your husband, and he's in the family, and I'msaying nothing against him. But trust him for that. '

'No, ' Hannah inserted, 'John's always been a good nephew. .. . If itwasn't----'

Meshach quelled her and proceeded: 'I'll none consent to John raisingmoney on your property. It's not right, lass. Happen this'll be a lessonto him, if anything will be. '

'Five hundred would do, ' Leonora murmured with mad foolishness. 

Of what use to chronicle the dreadful shame which she endured before shecould leave the house, she who for a quarter of an hour had been a queenthere, and who left as the pitied wife of a wastrel nephew?

'You're not _short_, my dear?' Hannah asked at the end in an anxiousvoice. 

'Not he!' Uncle Meshach testily ejaculated, fastening the button of thatdroll necktie of his. 

'Oh dear no!' said Leonora, with such dignity as she could assume. 

As she walked home she wondered what 'speculation' really was. She couldnot have defined the word. She possessed but a vague idea of itsmeaning. She had long apprehended, ignorantly and indifferently anduneasily, that John was in the habit of tampering with dangerous thingscalled stocks and shares. But never before had the vital import of thesesecret transactions been revealed to her. The dramatic swiftness of therevelation stunned her, and yet it seemed after all that she only knewnow what she had always known. 

When she reached home John was already in the hall, taking off hisovercoat, though the hour of one had not struck. Was this a coincidence, or had he been unable to control his desire to learn what she had done?

In silence she smiled plaintively at him, shaking her head. 

'What do you mean?' he asked harshly. 

'I couldn't arrange it, ' she said. 'Uncle Meshach refused. '

John gave a scarcely perceptible start. 'Oh! That!' he exclaimed. 'That's all right. I've fixed it up. '

'This morning?'

'Eh? Yes, this morning. '

During dinner he showed a certain careless amiability. 

'You needn't go to the works any more to-day, ' he said to Ethel. 

To celebrate this unexpected half-holiday, Ethel and Millicent decidedthat they would try to collect a scratch team for some hockey practicein the meadow. 

'And, mother, you must come, ' said Millicent. 'You'll make one moreanyway. '

'Yes, ' John agreed, 'it will do your mother good. '

'He will never know, and never guess, and never care, what I have beenthrough!' she thought. 

Before leaving for the works John helped the girls to choose somesticks. 

When he reached his office, the first thing he did was to build up agood fire. Next he looked into the safe. Then he rang the bell, andFred Ryley responded to the summons. 

This family connection, whom he both hated and trusted, was a ratherthickset, very neatly dressed man of twenty-three, who had been mature, serious, and responsible for eight years. His fair, grave face, with itsshort thin beard, showed plainly his leading qualities of industry, order, conscientiousness, and doggedness. It showed, too, his mildbenevolence. Ryley was never late, never neglectful, never wrong; henever wasted an hour either of his own or his employer's time. And yethis colleagues liked him, perhaps because he was unobtrusive andgood-natured. At the beginning of each year he laid down a programme forhimself, and he was incapable of swerving from it. Already he hadacquired a thorough knowledge of both the manufacturing and the businesssides of earthenware manufacture, and also he was one of the few men, atthat period, who had systematically studied the chemistry of potting. Hecould not fail to 'get on, ' and to win universal respect. His chances ofa truly striking success would have been greater had he possessedimagination, humour, or any sort of personal distinction. In appearance, he was common, insignificant; to be appreciated, he 'wanted knowing';but he was extremely sensitive and proud, and he could resent anaffront like a Gascon. He had apparently no humour whatever. The solespark of romance in him had been fanned into a small steady flame by hispassion for Ethel. Ryley was a man who could only love once for all. 

'Did you find that private ledger for me out of the old safe?' Stanwaydemanded. 

'Yes, ' said Ryley, 'and I put it in your safe, at the front, and gaveyou the key back this morning. '

'I don't see it there, ' Stanway retorted. 

'Shall I look?' Ryley suggested quietly, approaching the safe, of whichthe key was in the lock. 

'Never mind, now! Never mind, now!' Stanway stopped him. 'I don't wantto be bothered now. Later on in the afternoon, before Mr. Twemlowcomes. .. . Did you write and ask him to call at four thirty?'

'Yes, ' said Ryley, departing without a sign on his face, the modelclerk. 

'Fool!' whispered Stanway. It would have been impossible for Ryley tobreathe without irritating his employer, and the fact that his plebeiancousin's son was probably the most reliable underling to be got in theFive Towns did not in the slightest degree lessen Stanway's dislike ofhim; it increased it. 

Stanway had been perfectly aware that the little ledger was in hissafe, and as soon as Ryley had shut the door he jumped up, unlatched thesafe, removed the book, and after tearing it in two stuck first one halfand then the other into the midst of the fire. 

'That ends it, anyhow!' he thought, when the leaves were consumed. 

Then he selected some books of cheque counterfoils, a number ofprospectuses of companies, some share certificates (exasperating relicof what rich dreams!), and a lot of letters. All these he burnt withmuch neatness and care, putting more coal on the fire so as to hideevery trace of their destruction. Then he opened a drawer in the desk, and took out a revolver which he unloaded and loaded again. 

'I'm pretty cool, ' he flattered himself. 

He was the sort of flamboyant man who keeps a loaded revolver inobedience to the theory that a loaded revolver is a necessary and properpart of the true male's outfit, like a gold watch and chain, a goldpencil case, a razor for every day in the week, and a cigar-holder witha bit of good amber to it. He had owned that revolver for years, with nothought of utilising the weapon. But in justice to him, it must be saidthat when any of his contemporaries--Titus Price, for instance--hadmade use of revolvers or ropes in a particular way, he had alwayssecretly justified and commended them. 

He put the revolver in his hip-pocket, the correct location, and donnedhis 'works' hat. He did not reflect. Memories of his past life did notoccur to him, nor visions of that which was to come. He did not feelsolemn. On the contrary he felt cross with everyone, and determined topay everyone out; in particular he was vexed, in a mean childish way, with Uncle Meshach, and with himself for having fancied for a momentthat an appeal to Uncle Meshach could be successful. One other ideastruck him forcibly by reason of its strangeness: namely, that the workswas proceeding exactly as usual, raw material always coming in, finishedgoods always going out, the various shops hot and murmurous with toil, money tinkling in the petty cash-box, the very engine beneath his floorbeating its customary monotonous stroke; and his comfortable home wasproceeding exactly as usual, the man hissing about the stable yard, theservants discreetly moving in the immaculate kitchens, Leonora elegantwith sovereigns in her purse, the girls chattering and restless; not asingle outward sign of disaster; and yet he was at the end, absolutelyat the end at last. There was going to be a magnificent andunparalleled sensation in the town of Bursley . .. He seemed for aninstant dimly to perceive ways, or incomplete portions of ways, by whichhe might still escape . .. Then with a brusque gesture he dismissed suchfutile scheming and yielded anew to the impulse which had suddenly andpiquantly seized him, three hours before, when Leonora said: 'UncleMeshach won't, ' and he replied, 'I've fixed it up. ' His dilemma was toocomplicated. No one, not even Dain, was aware of its intricacies; Dainknew a lot, Leonora a little, and sundry other persons odd fragments. But he himself could scarcely have drawn the outlines of the wholesinister situation without much reference to books and correspondence. No, he had finished. He was bored, and he was irritable. The impulsehurried him on. 

'In half an hour that ass Twemlow will be here, ' he thought, looking atthe office dial over the mantelpiece. 

And then he left his room, calling out to the clerks' room as he passed:'Just going on to the bank. I shall be back in a minute or two. '

At the south-western corner of the works was a disused enamel-kiln whichhad been built experimentally and had proved a failure. He walkedthrough the yard, crept with some difficulty into the kiln, and closedthe iron door. A pale silver light came down the open chimney. He haddecided as he crossed the yard that he should place the mouth of therevolver between his eyes, so that he had nothing to do in the kiln butto put it there and touch the trigger. The idea of this simple actionpreoccupied him. 'Yes, ' he reflected, taking the revolver from hispocket, 'that is where I must put it, and then just touch the trigger. 'He thought neither of his family, nor of his sins, nor of the grandfiasco, but solely of this physical action. Then, as he raised therevolver, the fear troubled him that he had not burnt a particularletter from a Jew in London, received on the previous day. 'Of course Iburnt it, ' he assured himself. 'Did I, though?' He felt that amysterious volition over which he had no control would force him toreturn to his office in order to make sure. He gave a weary curse at theprospect of having to put back the revolver, leave the kiln, enter thekiln again, and once more raise the revolver. 

As he passed by the archway near the packing house the afternoon postmanappeared and gave him a letter. Without thinking he halted on the spotand opened it. It was written in haste, and ran: 'My Dear Stanway, --I amcalled away to London and _may_ have to sail for New York at once. Sorry to have to break the appointment. We must leave that affair over. In any case it could only be a mere matter of form. As I told you, I wassimply acting on behalf of my sister. My kindest regards to your wifeand your daughters. Believe me, yours very truly, --ARTHUR TWEMLOW. '

He read the letter a second time in his office, standing up against theshut door. Then his eye wandered to the desk and he saw that an envelopehad been placed with mathematical exactitude in the middle of hisblotting-pad. 'Ryley!' he thought. This other letter was marked private, and as the envelope said 'John Stanway, Esq. , ' without an address, itmust have been brought by special messenger. It was from David Dain, andstated that the difficulty as to the title of the house had beensettled, that the mortgage would be sent in for Mrs. Stanway to signthat night, and that Stanway might safely draw against the moneyto-morrow. 

'My God!' he exclaimed, pushing his hat back from his brow. 'What achance!'

In five minutes he was drawing cheques, and simultaneously planning howto get over the disappearance of the old private ledger in case Twemlowshould after all, at some future date, ask to see original documents. 

'What a chance!' The thought ran round and round in his brain. 

As he left the works by the canal side, he paused under Shawport Bridgeand furtively dropped the revolver into the water. 'That's done with!'he murmured. 

He saw now that his preparations for departure, which at the moment hehad deemed to be so well designed and so effective, were after allridiculous. No amount of combustion could have prevented the disclosureat an inquest of the ignominious facts. 

 * * * * *

During tea he laughed loudly at Milly's descriptions of the hockeymatch, which had been a great success. Leonora had kept goal withdistinction, and admitted that she rather enjoyed the game. 

'So it is arranged?' said Leonora, with a hint of involuntary surprise, when he handed her the mortgage to sign. 

'Didn't I tell you so this morning?' he answered loftily. There isalways a despicable joy in resuscitating a lie which events have changedinto a truth. 

He insisted on retiring early that night. In the bedroom he remarked:'Your friend Twemlow's had to go to London to-day, and may returnstraight from there to New York. I had a note from him. He sent you hiskindest regards and all that sort of thing. '

'Then we mayn't see him again?' she said, delicately fingering her hairin front of the pier-glass. 

CHAPTER VI

COMIC OPERA

Early one evening a few weeks later, Leonora, half attired for the galanight of the operatic performance, was again delicately fingering herhair in that large bedroom whose mirrors daily reflected the leisuredprocess of her toilette. Her black skirt trimmed with yellow made asudden sharp contrast with the pale tints of her corset and her longbare arms. The bodice lay like a trifling fragment on the blue-greeneiderdown of her bed, a pair of satin shoes glistened in front of thefire, and two chairs bore the discarded finery of the day. Thedressing-table was littered with silver and ivory. A faint and charmingodour of violets mingled mysteriously with the warmth of the fire asLeonora moved away from the pier-glass between the two curtained windowswhere the light was centred, and with accustomed hands picked up thebodice apparently so frail that a touch might have ruined it. 

The door was brusquely opened, and some one entered. 

'Not dressed, Rose?' said Leonora, a little startled. 'We ought to begoing in ten minutes. '

'Oh, mother! I mustn't go. I mustn't really!'

The tall slightly-stooping girl, with her flat figure, her plain shabbyserge frock, her tired white face, and the sinister glance of theidealist in her great, fretful eyes, seemed to stand there and accusethe whole of Leonora's existence. Utterly absorbed in the imminentexamination, her brain a welter of sterile facts, Rose found all theseriousness of life in dates, irregular participles, algebraic symbols, chemical formulas, the altitudes of mountains, and the areas of inlandseas. To the cruelty of the too earnest enthusiast she added the crueltyof youth, and it was with a merciless justice that she judged everyonewith whom she came into opposition. 

'But, my dear, you'll be ill if you keep on like this. And you know whatyour father said. '

Rose smiled, bitterly superior, at the misguided creature whose horizonswere bounded by domesticity on one side and by dress on the other. 

'I shall not be ill, mother, ' she said firmly, sniffing at the scent inthe room. 'I can't help it. I must work at my chemistry again to-night. Father knows perfectly well that chemistry is my weak point. I mustwork. I just came in to tell you. '

She departed slowly, as it were daring her mother to protest further. 

Leonora sighed, overpowered by a feeling of impotence. What could shedo, what could any person do, when challenged by an individuality atonce so harsh and so impassioned? She finished her toilette with minutecare, but she had lost her pleasure in it. The sense of the contrarietyof things deepened in her. She looked round the circle of herenvironment and saw hope and gladness nowhere. John's affairs wereperhaps running more smoothly, but who could tell? The shameful factthat the house was mortgaged remained always with her. And she wasintimately conscious of a soilure, a moral stain, as the result of herrecent contacts with the man of business in her husband. Why had she notbeen able to keep femininely aloof from those puzzling and repellentmatters, ignorant of them, innocent of them? And Ethel, too! Twelve daysof the office had culminated for Ethel in a slight illness, which DoctorHawley described as lack of tone. Her father had said airily that shemust resume her clerkship in due season, but the entire household wellknew that she would not do so, and that the experiment was one of thefailures which invariably followed John's interference in domesticconcerns. As for Milly's housekeeping, it was an admitted absurdity. Millicent had lived of late solely for the opera, and John resented anypreoccupation which detached the girls' interest from their home. WhenEthel recovered in the nick of time to attend the final rehearsals, hegrew sarcastic, and irrelevantly made cutting remarks about the letterfrom Paris which Ethel had never translated and which she thought he hadforgotten. Finally he said he probably could not go to the opera at all, and that at best he might look in at it for half an hour. He was carefulto disclaim all interest in the performance. 

Carpenter had driven the two girls to the Town Hall at seven o'clock, and at a quarter to eight he returned to fetch his mistress. Envelopedin her fur cloak, Leonora climbed silently into the cart. 

'I did hear, ' said Carpenter, respectfully gossiping, 'as Mr. Twemlowwas gone back to America; but I seed him yesterday as I was coming backfrom taking the mester to that there manufacturers' meeting at Knype. .. . Wonderful like his mother he is, mum. '

'Oh, indeed!' said Leonora. 

Her first impatient querulous thought was that she would have preferredMr. Twemlow to be in America. 

The illuminated windows of the Town Hall, and the knot of excited peopleat the principal portico, gave her a sort of preliminary intimation thatthe eternal quest for romance was still active on earth, though shemight have abandoned it. In the corridor she met Uncle Meshach, wearingan antique frock-coat. His eye caught hers with quiet satisfaction. There was no sign in his wrinkled face of their last interview. 

'Your aunt's not very well, ' he answered her inquiry. 'She wasn't equalto coming, she said. I bid her go to bed. So I'm all alone. '

'Come and sit by me, ' Leonora suggested. 'I have two spare tickets. '

'Nay, I think not, ' he faintly protested. 

'Yes, do, ' she said, 'you must. '

As his trembling thin hands stole away her cloak, disclosing theperfection and dark magnificence of her toilette, and as she perceivedin his features the admiration of a connoisseur, and in the eyes ofother women envy and astonishment, she began to forget herdespondencies. She lived again. She believed again in the possibility ofjoy. And perhaps it was not strange that her thought travelled at onceto Ethel--Ethel whom she had not questioned further about her lover, Ethel whom till then she had figured as the wretched victim of love, but whom now she saw wistfully as love's elect. 

 * * * * *

The front seats of the auditorium were filled with all that was dashing, and much that was solidly serious, in Bursley. Hoarded wealth, whosereligion was spotless kitchens and cash down, sat side by side withflightiness and the habit of living by credit on rather more than one'sincome. The members of the Society had exerted themselves in advance toimpress upon the public mind that the entertainment would be nothing ifnot fashionable and brilliant; and they had succeeded. There was not asingle young man, and scarcely an old one, but wore evening-dress, andthe frocks of the women made a garden of radiant blossoms. Supreme amongthe eminent dandies who acted as stewards in that part of the house wasHarry Burgess, straight out of Conduit Street, W. , with a mien plainlyindicating that every reserved seat had been sold two days before. Fromthe second seats the sterling middle classes, half envy and halfdisdain, examined the glittering ostentation in front of them; they hadno illusions concerning it; their knowledge of financial realities wasexact. Up in the gloom of the balcony the crowded faces of theunimportant and the obscure rose tier above tier to the organ-loft. Herewas Florence Gardner, come incognito to deride; here was Fred Ryley, thief of an evening's time; and here were sundry dressmakers whoexperienced the thrill of the creative artist as they gazed at theirconfections below. 

The entire audience was nervous, critical, and excited: partly becausenearly every unit of it boasted a relative or an intimate friend in theSociety, and partly because, as an entity representing the town, it hadthe trepidations natural to a mother who is about to hear her child saya piece at a party. It hoped, but it feared. If any outsider hadremarked that the youthful Bursley Operatic Society could not expecteven to approach the achievements of its remarkable elder sister atHanbridge, the audience would have chafed under that invidioussuggestion. Nevertheless it could not believe that its native talentwould be really worth hearing. And yet rumours of a surprisingexcellence were afloat. The excitement was intensified by the tuning ofinstruments in the orchestra, by certain preliminary experiments of atoo anxious gasman, and most of all by a delay in beginning. 

At length the Mayor entered, alone; the interesting absence of theMayoress had some connection with a silver cradle that day ordered fromBirmingham as a civic gift. 

'Well, Burgess, ' the Mayor whispered benevolently, 'what sort of a showare we to have?'

'You will see, Mr. Mayor, ' said Harry, whose confident smile expressedthe spirit of the Society. 

Then the conductor--the man to whom twenty instrumentalists and thirtysingers looked for guidance, help, encouragement, and the nullifying ofmistakes otherwise disastrous; the man on whose nerve and animatingenthusiasm depended the reputation of the Society and of Bursley--tappedhis baton and stilled the chatter of the audience with a glance. Thefootlights went up, the lights of the chandelier went down, and almostbefore any one was aware of the fact the overture had commenced. Therecould be no withdrawal now; the die was cast; the boats were burnt. Inthe artistic history of Bursley a decisive moment had arrived. 

In a very few seconds people began to realise, slowly, timidly, butsurely, that after all they were listening to a real orchestra. The merevolume of sound startled them; the verve and decision of the playersfilled them with confidence; the bright grace of the well-known airslaid them under a spell. They looked diffidently at each other, as ifto say: 'This is not so bad, you know. ' And when the finale was reached, with its prodigious succession of crescendos, and its irresistiblemelody somehow swimming strongly through a wild sea of tone, theaudience forgot its pose of critical aloofness and became unaffectedlyhuman. The last three bars of the overture were smothered in applause. 

The conductor, as pale as though he had seen a ghost, turned and bowedstiffly. 'Put that in your pipe and smoke it, ' his unrelaxing featuressaid to the audience; and also: 'If you have ever heard the thing betterplayed in the Five Towns, be good enough to inform me where!'

There was a hesitation, the brief murmur of a hidden voice, and thecurtains of the fit-up stage swung apart and disclosed the roseateenvirons of Castle Bunthorne, ornamented by those famous maidens whowere dying for love of its æsthetic owner. The audience made no attemptto grasp the situation of the characters until it had satisfactorilysettled the private identity of each. That done, it applied itself tothe sympathetic comprehension of the feelings of a dozen young women whoappeared to spend their whole existence in statuesque poses andplaintive but nonsensical lyricism. It failed, honestly; and even whenthe action descended from song to banal dialogue, it was not reassured. 'Silly' was the unspoken epithet on a hundred tongues, despite thedelicate persuasion of the music, the virginal charm of the maidens, andthe illuminated richness of costumes and scene. The audience understoodas little of the operatic convention as of the æstheticism caricaturedin the roseate environs of Castle Bunthorne. A number of people presenthad never been in a theatre, either for lack of opportunity or from amoral objection to theatres. Many others, who seldom missed a melodramaat the Hanbridge Theatre Royal, avoided operas by virtue of theinfallible instinct which caused them to recoil from anything exoticenough to disturb the calm of their lifelong mental lethargy. As for theminority which was accustomed to opera, including the still smallerminority which had seen _Patience_ itself, it assumed the right thatevening critically to examine the convention anew, to reconsider itunintimidated by the crushing prestige of the Savoy or of D'Oyly Carte'sNo. 1 Touring Company. And for the most part it found in the conventionsmall basis of common sense. 

Then Patience appeared on the eminence. She was a dairymaid, and shecould not understand the philosophy prevalent in the roseate environs ofCastle Bunthorne. The audience hailed her with joy and relief. Thedairymaid and her costume were pretty in a familiar way which it couldappreciate. She was extremely young, adorably impudent, airy, tripping, and supple as a circus-rider. She had marvellous confidence. 'We arefriends, are we not, you and I?' her gestures seemed to say to theaudience. And with the utmost complacency she gazed at herself in theeyes of the audience as in a mirror. Her opening song renewed thetriumph of the overture. It was recognisably a ballad, and depended onnothing external for its effectiveness. It gave the bewildered listenerssomething to take hold of, and in return for this gift they acclaimedand continued to acclaim. Milly glanced coolly at the conductor, whowinked back his permission, and the next moment the Bursley OperaticSociety tasted the delight of its first encore. The pert fascinations ofthe heroine, the bravery of the Colonel and his guards, the clowning ofBunthorne, combined with the continuous seduction of the music and thescene, very quickly induced the audience to accept without reserve thisamazing intrigue of logical absurdities which was being unrolled beforeit. The opera ceased to appear preposterous; the convention had won, and the audience had lost. Small slips in delivery were unnoticed, bigones condoned, and nervousness encouraged to depart. The performancebecame a homogeneous whole, in which the excellence of the best far morethan atoned for the clumsy mediocrity of the worst. When the curtainsfell amid storms of applause and cut off the stage, the audienceperceived suddenly, like a revelation, that the young men and women whomit knew so well in private life had been creating something--anillusion, an ecstasy, a mood--which transcended the sum total of theirpersonalities. It was this miracle, but dimly apprehended perhaps, whichleft the audience impressed, and eager for the next act. 

 * * * * *

'That madam will go her own road, ' said Uncle Meshach under cover of theclapping. 

Leonora's smile was embarrassed. 'What do you mean?' she asked him. 

He bent his head towards her, looking into her face with a sort ofgenerous cynicism. 

'I mean she'll go her own road, ' he repeated. 

And then, observing that most of the men were leaving their seats, hetold Leonora that he should step across to the Tiger if she would lethim. As he passed out, leaning forward on a stick lightly clutched inthe left hand, several people demanded his opinion about the spectacle. 'Nay, nay----' he replied again and again, waving one after another outof his course. 

In the bar-parlour of the Tiger, the young blades, the genuine fast men, the deliberate middle-aged persons who took one glass only, and theregular nightly customers, mingled together in a dense and noisy crowdunder a canopy of smoke. The barmaid and her assistant enjoyed theirbrief minutes of feverish contact with the great world. Behind thecounter, walled in by a rampart of dress-shirts, they conjured withbottles, glasses, and taps, heard and answered ten men at once, reckonedchange by a magic beyond arithmetic, peered between shoulders to catchthe orders of their particular friends, and at the same time acquireddetailed information as to the progress of the opera. Late comers who, forcing a way into the room, saw the multitude of men drinking andsmoking, and the unapproachable white faces of these two girls distantlyflowering in the haze and the odour, had that saturnalian sensation ofseeing life which is peculiar to saloons during the entr'actes oftheatrical entertainments. The success of the opera, and of that chitMillicent Stanway, formed the staple of the eager conversation, thoughhere and there a sober couple would be discussing the tramcars or thequinquennial assessment exactly as if Gilbert and Sullivan had neverbeen born. It appeared that Milly had a future, that she was the bestPatience yet seen in the district amateur _or_ professional, that anyburlesque manager would jump at her, that in five years, if she liked, she might be getting a hundred a week, and that Dolly Chose, the idol ofthe Tivoli and the Pavilion, had not half her style. It also appearedthat Milly had no brains of her own, that the leading man had taught herall her business, that her voice was thin and a trifle throaty, that shewas too vulgar for the true Savoy tradition, and that in five years shewould have gone off to nothing. But the optimists carried the argument. Sundry men who had seen Meshach in the second row of the stallsexpressed a keen desire to ask the old bachelor point-blank what hethought of his nephew's daughter; but Meshach did not happen to comeinto the Tiger. 

When the crowd had thinned somewhat, Harry Burgess entered hurriedly andcalled for a whisky and potass, which the barmaid, who fancied him, served on the instant. 

'I wanted to get a wreath, ' he confided to her. 'But Pointon's isclosed. '

'Why, Mr. Burgess, ' she said smiling, 'there's a lot of flowers in thecoffee-room, and with them and the leaves off that laurel down the yard, and a bit of wire, I could make you one in no time. '

'Can you?' He seemed doubtful. 

'Can I!' she exclaimed. 'I should think I could, and a beauty! As soonas these gentleman are gone----'

'It's awfully kind of you, ' said Harry, brightening. 'Can you send itround to me at the artists' entrance in half an hour?'

She nodded, beaming at the prospect. The manufacture of that wreathwould be a source of colloquial gratification to her for days. 

Harry politely responded to such remarks as 'Devilish good show, Burgess, ' drank in one gulp another whisky and potass, and hastenedaway. The remainder of the company soon followed; the barmaiddisappeared from the bar, and her assistant was left languidly to watcha solitary pair of topers who would certainly not leave till the clockshowed eleven. 

 * * * * *

The auditorium during the entr'acte was more ceremonious, but not lessnoisy, than the bar-parlour of the Tiger. The pleasant warmth, thesudden increase of light after the fall of the curtain, the certainty ofa success, and the consciousness of sharing in the brilliance of thatsuccess--all these things raised the spirits, and produced the loquacityof an intoxication. The individuality of each person was set free fromits customary prison and joyously displayed its best side to thecompany. The universal chatter amounted to a din. 

But Leonora, cut off by empty seats on either hand, sat silent. She wasglad to be able to do so. She would have liked to be at home insolitude, to think. For she was, if not unhappy, at any rate disturbedand dubious. She felt embarrassed amid this glare and this bright murmurof conversation, as though she were being watched, discussed, andcriticised. She was the mother of the star, responsible for the star, guilty of all the star's indiscretions. And it was a timorous, reluctantpride which she took in her daughter's success. The truth was that Millyhad astonished and frightened her. When Ethel and Milly were allowed tojoin the Society, the possible results of the permission had not beenforeseen. Both Leonora and John had thought of the girls as modestmembers of the chorus in an affair unmistakably and confessedly amateur. Ethel had kept within the anticipation. But here was Milly an actress, exploiting herself with unconstrained gestures and arch glances andtwirlings of her short skirt, to a crowded and miscellaneous audience. Leonora did not like it; her susceptibilities were outraged. She blushedat this amazing public contradiction of Milly's bringing-up. It seemedto her as if she had never known the real Milly, and knew her now forthe first time. What would the other mothers think? What would allHillport think secretly, and say openly behind the backs of theStanways? The girl was as innocent as a fawn, she had the free grace ofextreme youth; no one could utter a word against her. But she wasrouged, her lips were painted, several times she had shown her knees, and she seemed incapable of shyness. She was at home on the stage, shefaced a thousand people with a pert, a brazen attitude, and said, 'Lookat me; enjoy me, as I enjoy your fervent glances; I am here to tickleyour fancy. ' Patience! She was no more Patience than she was Sister Doraor a heroine of Charlotte Yonge's. She was the eternal unashamed doll, who twists 'men' round her little finger, and smiles on them, alwayswith an instinct for finance. 

'Quite a score for Milly!' said a polite voice in Leonora's ear. It wasMrs. Burgess, who sat in the next row. 

'Do you think so?' Leonora replied, perceptibly reddening. 

'Oh, yes!' said Mrs. Burgess with smooth insistence. 'And dear Ethel isvery sweet in the chorus, too. '

Leonora tried to fix her thoughts on the grateful figure of mild, nervous, passionate Ethel, the child of her deepest affection. 

She turned sharply. Arthur Twemlow was standing in the shadow of theside-aisle near the door. She knew he was there before her eyes saw him. He was evidently rather at a loss, unnoticed, and irresolute. He caughtsight of her and bowed. She said to herself that she wished to be alonein her embarrassment, that she could not bear to talk to any one;nevertheless, she raised her finger, and beckoned to him, while strivinghard to refrain from doing so. He approached at once. 'He is not inAmerica, ' she reflected in sudden agitation, 'He is here, actually here. In an instant we shall speak. '

'I quite understood you had gone back to New York, ' she said, looking athim, as he stood in front of her, with the upward feminine appealinggesture that men love. 

'What!' he exclaimed. 'Without saying good-bye? No! And how are you all?It seems just about a year since I saw you last. '

'All well, thanks, ' she said, smiling. 'Won't you sit here? It's John'sseat, but he isn't coming. '

'Then you are alone?' He seemed to apologise for the rest of his sex. 

She told him that Uncle Meshach was with her, and would return directly. When he asked how the opera was going, and she learnt that, beingdetained at Knype, he had not seen the first act, she was relieved. Hewould make the discovery concerning Millicent gradually, and by herside; it was better so, she thought--less disconcerting. In a slightpause of their talk she was startled to feel her heart beating like ahammer against her corsage. Her eyes had brightened. She conversedrapidly, pleased to be talking, pleased at his sympatheticresponsiveness, ignoring the audience, and also forgetting the uneasypreoccupations of her recent solitude. The men returned from the Tigerand elsewhere, all except Uncle Meshach. The lights were lowered. Theconductor's stick curtly demanded silence and attention. She sank backin her seat. 

'A peremptory conductor!' remarked Twemlow in a whisper. 

'Yes, ' she laughed. And this simple exchange of thought, effected, as itwere, surreptitiously in the gloom and contrary to the rules, gave her adistinct sensation of joy. 

Then began, in Bursley Town Hall, a scene similar to the scenes whichhave rendered famous the historic stages of European capitals. The verveand personal charm of a young _débutante_ determined to triumph, and theenthusiasm of an audience proudly conscious that it was making areputation, reacted upon and intensified each other to such a degreethat the atmosphere became electric, delirious, magical. Not a soul inthe auditorium or on the stage but what lived consummately during thoseminutes--some creatively, like the conductor and Millicent; someagonised with jealousy, like Florence Gardner and a few of the chorus;one maternally in tumultuous distress of spirit; and the great naïvemass yielding with rapture to a sensuous spell. 

The outstanding defect in the libretto of _Patience_ is thedecentralisation of interest in the second act. The alert ones whoremembered that in that act the heroine has only one song, and certainpassages of dialogue not remarkable for dramatic force, had predictedthat Millicent would inevitably lose ground as the evening advanced. They were, however, deceived. Her delivery of the phrase 'I am miserablebeyond description' brought the house down by its coquettishartificiality; and the renowned ballad, 'Love is a plaintive song, 'established her unforgettably in the affections of the audience. Her'exit weeping' was a tremendous stroke, though all knew that she meantthem to see that these tears were simply a delightful pretence. Theopera came to a standstill while she responded to an imperative call. She bowed, laughing, and then, suddenly affecting to cry again, ran off, with the result that she had to return. 

'D----n it! She hasn't got much to learn, has she?' the conductormurmured to the first violin, a professional from Manchester. 

But her greatest efforts she reserved for the difficult and criticalprose conversations which now alone remained to her, those dialogueswhich seem merely to exist for the purpose of separating the numbersallotted to all the other principals. It was as though, during theentr'acte, surrounded by the paint-pots, the intrigues, and the wildconfusion of the dressing-room, Millicent had been able to commune withherself, and to foresee and take arms against the peril of ananti-climax. By sheer force, ingenuity, vivacity, flippancy, andsauciness, she lifted her lines to the level, and above the level, ofthe rest of the piece. She carried the audience with her; she knew it;all her colleagues knew it, and if they chafed they chafed in secret. The performance went better and better as the end approached. Theaudience had long since ceased to notice defects; only the conductor, the leader, and a few discerning members of the troupe were aware that acatastrophe had been escaped by pure luck two minutes before the descentof the curtains. 

And at that descent the walls of the Town Hall, which had echoed topolitical tirades, the solemn recitatives of oratorios, the mercantileuproar of bazaars, the banal compliments of prize-givings, the aridutterances of lecturers on science and art, and the moans of sinnersstricken with a sense of guilt at religious revivals--those wallsresounded to a gay and frenzied ovation which is memorable in the townfor its ungoverned transports of approval. The Operatic Society as awhole was first acclaimed, all the performers posing in rank on thestage. Then, as the deafening applause showed no sign of diminution, thecurtains were drawn back instead of being raised again, and theprincipals, beginning with the humblest, paraded in pairs in front ofthe footlights. Milly and her fortunate cavalier came last. The cavalieradvanced two paces, took Milly's hand, signed to her to cross over, andretired. The child was left solitary on the stage--solitary, butunabashed, glowing with delight, and smiling as pertly as ever. Theleader of the orchestra stood up and handed her a wreath, which sheaccepted like an oath of fealty; and the wreath, hurriedly manufacturedby the barmaid of the Tiger out of some cut flowers and the old laureltree in the Tiger yard, became, when Milly grasped it, a mysterious andimpressive symbol. Many persons in the audience wanted to cry as theybeheld this vision of the proud, confident, triumphant child holding thewreath, while the fierce upward ray of the footlights illuminated hersmall chin and her quivering nostrils. She tripped off backwards, with agesture of farewell. The applause continued. Would she return? Not ifthe ferocious jealousies behind could have paralysed her as shehesitated in the wings. But the world was on her side that night; sheresponded again, she kissed her hands to her world, and disappearedstill kissing them; and the evening was finished. 

 * * * * *

'Well, ' said Twemlow calmly, 'I guess you've got an actress in thefamily. '

Leonora and he remained in their seats, waiting till the press of peoplein the aisles should have thinned, and also, so far as Leonora wasconcerned, to avoid the necessity of replying to remarks about Milly. The atmosphere was still charged with excitement, but Leonora observedthat Arthur Twemlow did not share it. Though he had applaudedvigorously, there had been no trace of emotional transport in hisdemeanour. He spoke at once, immediately the lights were turned up, giving her no chance to collect herself. 

'But do you think so?' she said. She remembered she had made the samefoolish reply to Mrs. Burgess. With Twemlow she wished to beunconventional and sincere, but she could not succeed. 

'Don't you?' He seemed to regard the situation as rather amusing. 

'You surely can't mean that she would _do_ for the stage?'

'Ask any one here whether she isn't born for it, ' he answered. 

'This is only an amateurs' affair, ' Leonora argued. 

'And she's only an amateur. But she won't be an amateur long. '

'But a girl like Milly can't be clever enough----'

'It depends on what you call clever. She's got the gift of making theaudience hug itself. You'll see. '

'See Milly on the stage?' Leonora asked uneasily. 'I hope not. '

'Why, my dear lady? Isn't she built for it? Doesn't she enjoy it? Isn'tshe at home there? What's the matter with the stage anyhow?'

'Her father would never hear of such a thing, ' said Leonora. Towardsthe close of the opera she had seen John, in morning attire, proppedagainst a side-wall and peering at the stage and his daughter with abewildered, bored, unsympathetic air. 

'Ah!' Twemlow ejaculated grimly. 

A moment later, as he was putting her cloak over her shoulders, he saidin a different, kinder, more soothing tone: 'I guess I know just how youfeel. '

She looked at him, raising her eyebrows, and smiling with melancholyamusement. 

In the corridor, Stanway came hurrying up to them, obviously excited. 

'Oh, you're here, Nora!' he burst out. 'I've been hunting for youeverywhere. I've just been told that a messenger came for Uncle Meshacha the interval to say that Aunt Hannah was ill. Do you know anythingabout it?'

'No, ' she said. 'Uncle only told me that aunt wasn't equal to coming. Iwondered where uncle had got to. '

'Well, ' Stanway continued, 'you'd better go to Church Street at once, and see after things. '

Leonora seemed to hesitate. 

'As quick as you can, ' he said with irritation and increasingexcitement. 'Don't waste a moment. It may be serious. I'll drive thegirls home, and then I'll come and fetch you. '

'If Mrs. Stanway cares, I will walk down with her, ' said Arthur Twemlow. 

'Yes, do, Twemlow, there's a good chap, ' he welcomed the idea. And withthat he wafted them impulsively into the street. 

Then Stanway stood waiting by his equipage for Ethel and Milly. He spoketo no one, but examined the harness critically, and put some curtquestion to Carpenter about the breeching. It was a chilly night, andthe glare of the lamps showed that Prince steamed a little under hisrug. Ten minutes elapsed before Ethel came. 

'Here we are, father, ' she said with pleasant satisfaction. 'Where'smother?'

'I should think so!' he returned. 'The horse taking cold, and me waitingand waiting. Your mother's had to go to Aunt Hannah's. What's become ofMilly?' He was losing his temper. 

Milly had to traverse the whole length of the corridor. The Mayorheartily congratulated her. The middle-aged violinist from Manchesterspoke to her amiably as one public artist to another, and the conductor, who was with him, told her, in an unusual and indiscreet mood ofcandour, that she had simply made the show. Others expressed the samethought in more words. Near the entrance stood Harry Burgess, patentlyexpectant. He was flushed, and looked handsomely dandiacal and rakish ashe rolled a cigarette in those quick fingers of his. He meant to explainto her that the happy idea of the wreath was his own. 

He accosted her unceremoniously, confidently, but she drew away, with amagnificent touch of haughtiness. 

'Good-night, Harry, ' she said coldly, and passed on. 

The rash and conceited boy had not divined, as he should have done, thata prima donna is a prima donna, whether on the stage in a brilliantcostume, or traversing a dingy corridor in the plain blue serge andsimple hat of a manufacturer's daughter aged eighteen. Offering no replyto her formal salutation, he remained quite still for a moment, and thenswaggered off to the Tiger. 

'Look here, my girl, ' said Stanway furiously to his youngest. 'Do yousuppose we're going to wait for you all night? Jump in. '

Milly's lips did not move, but she faced the rude blusterer with afrigid, angry, insolent gaze. And her girlish eyes said: 'You've got meunder your thumb now, you horrid beast! But never mind! Long after youare dead and buried and rotten, I shall be famous and pretty and rich, and if you are remembered it will only be because you were my father. Doyour worst, odious man; you can't kill me!'

And all the way home the cruel, just, unmerciful thoughts of insultedyouth mingled with the generous and beautiful sensations of her triumph. 

 * * * * *

'Nay, it's all over, ' said Meshach when Twemlow and Leonora entered. 

'What!' Leonora exclaimed, glancing quickly at Arthur Twemlow as if forsupport in a crisis. 

'Doctor's gone but just this minute. Her's gotten over it. '

For a moment she had thought that Aunt Hannah was dead. John's anxiousexcitement had communicated itself to her; she had imagined the worstpossibilities. Now the sensation of relief took her unawares, and shewas obliged to sit down suddenly. 

In the little parlour wizened Meshach sat by the hob as he always sat, warming one hand at the fire, and looking round sideways at the tallvisitors in their rich evening attire. Leonora heard Twemlow saysomething about a heart attack, and the thick hard veins on AuntHannah's wrist. 

'Ay!' Meshach went on, employing the old dialect, a sign with him ofunusual agitation. 'I brought Dr. Hawley with me, he was at yon show. And when us got here Hannah was lying on th' floor, just there, with herhead on this 'ere hearthrug. Susan, th' woman, told us as th' mississaid she felt as if she were falling down, and then down her falls. Shewas staring hard at th' ceiling, with eyes fit to burst, and her face aswhite as a sheet. Doctor lifts her up and puts her in a chair. Bless us!How her did gasp! And her lips were blue. "Hannah!" I says. Her heardbut her couldna' answer. Her limbs were all of a tremble. Then hersighed, and fetched up a long breath or two. "Where am I, Meshach?" hersays, "what's amiss?" Doctor told her for stick her tongue out, and hercould do that, and he put a candle to her eyes. Her's in bed now. Susan's sitting with her. '

'I'll go up and see if I can do anything, ' said Leonora, rising. 

'No, ' Meshach stopped her. 'You'll happen excite her. Doctor said herwas to go to sleep, and he's to send in a soothing draught. There's nodanger--not now--not till next time. Her mun take care, mun Hannah. '

'Then it is the heart?' Leonora asked. 

'Ay! It's the heart. '

Twemlow and Leonora sat silent, embarrassed in the little parlour withits antimacassars, its stiff chairs, its high mantelpiece, and the glasspartition which seemed to swallow up like a pit the rays from thehissing gas-jet over the table. The image of the diminutive frailcreature concealed upstairs obsessed them, and Leonora felt guiltybecause she had been unwittingly absorbed in the gaiety of the operawhile Aunt Hannah was in such danger. 

'I doubt I munna' tap that again, ' Meshach remarked with a short dryplaintive laugh, pointing to the pewter platter on the mantelpiece bymeans of which he was accustomed to summon his sister when he wantedher. 

The visitors looked at each other; Leonora's eyes were moist. 

'But isn't there anything I can do, uncle?' she demanded. 

'I'll see if her's asleep. Sit thee still, ' said Meshach, and he creptout of the room, and up the creaking stair. 

'Poor old fellow!' Twemlow murmured, glancing at his watch. 

'What time is it?' she asked, for the sake of saying something. 'It's nouse me staying. '

'Five to eleven. If I run off at once I can catch the last train. Good-night. Tell Mr. Myatt, will you?'

She took his hand with a feeling of intimacy. 

It seemed to her that they had shared many emotions that night. 

'I'll let you out, ' she suggested, and in the obscurity of the narrowlobby they came into contact and shook hands again; she could not atfirst find the upper latch of the door. 

'I shall be seeing you all soon, ' he said in a low voice, on the step. She nodded and closed the door softly. 

She thought how simple, agreeable, reliable, honest, good-natured, andsympathetic he was. 

'Her's sleeping like a babby, ' Meshach stated, returning to the parlour. He lighted his pipe, and through the smoke looked at Leonora in her darkmagnificent dress. 

Then John arrived, pompous and elaborately calm; but he had drivenPrince to Hillport and back in twenty-five minutes. John listened to therecital of events. 

'You're sure there's no danger now?' He could disguise neither hispresent relief nor his fear for the future. 

'Thou'rt all right yet, nephew, ' said Meshach with an ironic inflection, as he gazed into the dying fire. 'Her may live another ten year. And Imight flit to-morrow. Thou'rt too anxious, my lad. Keep it down. '

John, deeply offended, made no reply. 

'Why shouldn't I be anxious?' he exclaimed angrily as they drove home. 'Whose fault is it if I am? Does he expect me not to be?'

CHAPTER VII

THE DEPARTURE

As I approach the crisis in Leonora's life, I hesitate, fearing lest byan unfit phrase I should deprive her of your sympathies, and fearingalso that this fear may incline me to set down less than the truth abouther. 

She was possessed by a mysterious sensation of content. She wished tolie supine--except in her domestic affairs--and to dream that all waswell or would be well. It was as though she had determined that nothingcould extinguish or even disturb the mild flame of happiness whichburned placidly within her. And yet the anxieties of her existence werecertainly increasing again. On the morning after the opera, John haddeparted on one of his sudden flying visits to London; these journeys, formerly frequent, had been in abeyance for a time, and their resumptionseemed to point to some renewal of his difficulties. He had called atChurch Street on his way to Knype, and Carpenter had brought back wordthat Miss Myatt was wonderfully better; but when Leonora herself calledat Church Street later in the morning and at last saw Aunt Hannah, shewas impressed by the change in the old creature, whose nervous systemhad the appearance of being utterly disorganised. Then there was thedifficult case of Ethel and Fred Ryley, in which Leonora had donenothing whatever; and there was the case of Rose, whose alienation fromthe rest of the household became daily more marked. Finally there wasthe new and portentous case of Millicent, probably the mostdisconcerting of the three. Nevertheless, amid all these solicitudes, Leonora remained equable, optimistic, and quietly joyous. Her state ofmind, so miraculously altered in a few hours, gave her no surprise. Itseemed natural; everything seemed natural; she ceased for a period towaste emotion in the futile desire for her lost youth. 

On the second day after the opera she was sitting at her Sheraton deskin the small nondescript room which opened off the dining-room. In frontof her lay a large tablet with innumerable names of things printed on itin three columns; opposite each name a little hole had been drilled, andin many of the holes little sticks of wood stood upright. Leonorauprooted a stick, exiling it to a long horizontal row of holes at thetop of the tablet, and then wrote in a pocket-book; she uprootedanother stick and wrote again, so continuing till only a few sticks wereleft in the columns; these she spared. Then she rang the bell for theparlourmaid and relinquished to her the tablet; the peculiar rite wasover. 

'Is dinner ready?' she asked, looking at the small clock which sheusually carried about with her from room to room. 

'Yes 'm. '

'Then ring the gong. And tell Carpenter I shall want the trap at aquarter past two, for two. I'm going to shop in Hanbridge and then tomeet Mr. Stanway at Knype. We shall be in before four. Have some teaready. And don't forget the eclairs to-day, Bessie. ' She smiled. 

'No 'm. Did you think on to write about them new dog-biscuits, ma'am?'

'I'll write now, ' said Leonora, and she turned to the desk. 

The gong sounded; the dinner was brought in. Through the doorway betweenthe two rooms--there was no door, only a portière--Leonora heard Ethel'srather heavy footsteps. 'I don't think mother will want you to waitto-day, Bessie, ' Ethel's voice said. Then followed, after the maid'sexit, the noise of a dish-cover being lifted and dropped, and Ethel'sexclamation: 'Um!' And then the voices of Rose and Millicentapproached, in altercation. 

'Come along, mother, ' Ethel called out. 

'Coming, ' answered Leonora, putting the note in an envelope. 

'The idea!' said Rose's voice scornfully. 

'Yes, ' retorted Milly's voice. 'The idea. '

Leonora listened as she wrote the address. 

'You always were a conceited thing, Milly, and since this wonderfulopera you're positively ridiculous. I almost wish I'd gone to it now, just to see what you _were_ like. '

'Ah well! You just didn't, and so you don't know. '

'No indeed! I'd got something better to do than watch a pack ofamateurs----' There was a pause for silent contempt. 

'Well? Keep it up, keep it up. '

'Anyhow I'm perfectly certain father won't let you go. '

'I shall go. '

'And besides, _I_ want to go to London, and you may be absolutelycertain, my child, that he won't let two of us go. '

'I shall speak to him first. '

'Oh no, you won't. '

'Shan't I? You'll see. '

'No, you won't. Because it just happens that I spoke to him the nightbefore last. And he's making inquiries and he'll tell me to-night. Sowhat do you think of that?'

Leonora drew aside the portière. 

'My dear girls!' she protested benevolently, standing there. 

The feud, always apt thus to leap into a perfectly Corsican fury ofbitterness, sank back at once to its ordinary level of passive mutualrepudiation. Rose and Millicent were not bereft of the finer feelingswhich distinguish humanity from the beasts of the jungle; sometimes theycould be almost affectionate. There were, however, moments when to allappearance they hated each other with a tigerish and crouching hatredsuch as may be found only between two opposing feminine temperamentslinked together by the family tie. 

'What's this about your going to London, Rosie?' Leonora asked in avoice soothing but surprised, when the meal had begun. 

'You know, mamma. I mentioned it to you the other day. ' The girl's toneimplied that what she had said to Leonora perhaps went in at one ear andout at the other. 

Leonora remembered. Rose had in fact casually told her that a schoolfriend in Oldcastle who was studying for the same examination asherself had gone to London for six weeks' final coaching under whatRose called a 'lady-crammer. '

'But you didn't tell me that you wanted to go as well, ' Leonora said. 

'Yes, mother, I did, ' Rose affirmed with calm. 'You forget. I'm sure Ishan't pass if I don't go. So I asked father while you were all at thisopera affair. '

'And what did he say?' Ethel demanded. 

'He said he would make inquiries this morning and see. '

Ethel gave a laugh of good-natured derision. 'Yes, ' she exclaimed, 'andyou'll see, too!'

In response to this oracular utterance, Rose merely bent lower over herplate. 

Millicent, conscious of a brilliant vocation and of an impassionedresolve, refrained from the discussion, and the sense of her ineffablesuperiority bore hard on that lithe, mercurial youthfulness. The'Signal, ' in praising Millicent's performance at the opera, hadpredicted for her a career, and had thoughtfully quoted instances ofwell-born amateurs who had become professionals and made great names onthe stage. Millicent knew that all Bursley was talking about her. Andyet the family life was unaltered; no one at home seemed to be muchimpressed, not even Ethel, though Ethel's sympathy could be dependedupon; Milly was still Milly, the youngest, the least important, the chitof a thing. At times it appeared to her as though the triumph of thatecstatic and glorious night was after all nothing but an illusion, andthat only the interminable dailiness of family life was real. Then theruthless and calculating minx in her shut tight those pretty lips andcoldly determined that nothing should stand against ambition. 

'I do hope you will pass, ' said Leonora cordially to Rose. 'Youcertainly deserve to. '

'I know I shan't, unless I get some outside help. My brain isn't thatsort of brain. It's another sort. Only one has to knuckle down to thesewretched exams first. '

Leonora did not understand her daughter. She knew, however, that therewas not the slightest chance of Rose being allowed to go to London alonefor any lengthened period, and she wondered that Rose could be so blindas not to perceive this. As for Millicent's vague notions, which thechild had furtively broached during her father's absence, the moreLeonora thought upon them, the more fantastically impossible theyseemed. She changed the subject. 

The repast, which had commenced with due ceremony, degenerated into afeminine mess, hasty, informal, counterfeit. That elaborate and irksomepretence that a man is present, with which women when they are alonealways begin to eat, was gradually dropped, and the meal ended abruptly, inconclusively, like a bad play. 

'Let's go for a walk, ' said Ethel. 

'Yes, ' said Milly, 'let's. '

 * * * * *

'Mamma!' Milly called from the drawing-room window. 

Leonora was walking about the misty garden, where little now remainedthat was green, save the yews, the cypresses, and the rhododendrons;Bran, his white-and-fawn coat glittering with minute drops of water, plodded heavily and content by her side along the narrow damp paths. Shewas dressed for driving, and awaited Carpenter with the trap. 

In reply to Leonora's gesture of attention, Milly, instead of speakingfrom the window, ran quickly to her across the sodden lawn. And Milly'srunning was so girlish, simple, and unaffected, that Leonora seemed bymeans of it to have found her daughter again, the daughter who haddisappeared in the adroit and impudent creature of the footlights. Shewas glad of the reassurance. 

'Here's Mr. Twemlow, mamma, ' said Milly, with a rather embarrassed air;and they looked at each other, while Bran frowned in glancing upwards. 

At the same moment, Arthur Twemlow and Ethel entered the gardentogether. The social atmosphere was rendered bracing by this invasion ofthe masculine; every personality awoke and became vigilantly itself. 

'We met Mr. Twemlow on the marsh, mother, walking from Oldcastle toBursley, ' said Ethel, after the ritual of greeting, 'and so we broughthim in. '

As Leonora was on the point of leaving the house, the situation wassomewhat awkward, and a slight hesitation on her part showed this. 

'You're going out?' he said. 

'Oh, mamma, ' Milly cried quickly, 'do let me go and meet father insteadof you. I want to. '

'What, alone?' Leonora exclaimed in a kind of dream. 

'I'll go too, ' said Ethel. 

'And suppose you have the horse down?'

'Well then, we'll take Carpenter, ' Milly suggested. 'I'll run and tellhim to put his overcoat on and put the back-seat in. ' And she scamperedoff. 

Twemlow was fondling the dog with an air of detachment. 

In the fraction of an instant, a thousand wild and disturbing thoughtsswept through Leonora's brain. Was it possible that Arthur Twemlow hadsuggested this change of plan to the girls? Or had the girls alreadynoticed with the keen eyes of youth that she and Arthur Twemlow enjoyedeach other's society, and naïvely wished to give her pleasure? WouldArthur Twemlow, but for the accidental encounter on the Marsh, havepassed by her home without calling? If she remained, what conclusioncould not be drawn? If she persisted in going, might not he want to comewith her? She was ashamed of the preposterous inward turmoil. 

'And my shopping?' she smiled, blushing. 

'Give me the list, mater, ' said Ethel, and took the morocco book out ofher hand. 

Never before had Leonora felt so helpless in the sudden clutch of fate. She knew she was a willing prey. She wished to remain, and politeness toArthur Twemlow demanded that this wish should not be disguised. Yet whatwould she not have given even to have felt herself able to disguise it?

'How incredibly stupid I am!' she thought. 

No sooner had the two girls departed than Twemlow began to laugh. 

'I must tell you, ' he said, with candid amusement, 'that this is aplant. Those two daughters of yours calculated to leave you and me herealone together. '

'Yes?' she murmured, still constrained. 

'Miss Milly wants me to talk you round about her going in for the stage. When I met them on the Marsh, of course I began to pay her compliments, and I just happened to say I thought she was a born _comédienne_, andbefore I knew it T was blindfolded, handcuffed, and carried off, so tospeak. '

This was the simple, innocent explanation! 'Oh, how incredibly stupid, stupid, stupid, I was!' she thought again, and a feeling of exquisiterelief surged into her being. Mingled with that relief was the deep joyof realising that Ethel and Milly fully shared her instinctivepredilection for Arthur Twemlow. Here indeed was the supreme security. 

'I must say my daughters get more and more surprising every day, ' sheremarked, impelled to offer some sort of conventional apology for herchildren's unconventional behaviour. 

'They are charming girls, ' he said briefly. 

On the surface of her profound relief and joy there played like a flyingfish the thought: 'Was he meaning to call in any case? Was he on his wayhere?'

They talked about Aunt Hannah, whom Twemlow had seen that morning andwho was improving rapidly. But he agreed with Leonora that the oldlady's vitality had been irretrievably shattered. Then there was apause, followed by some remarks on the weather, and then another pause. Bran, after watching them attentively for a few moments as they stoodside by side near the French window, rose up from off his haunches, andwalked gloomily away. 

'Bran, Bran!' Twemlow cried. 

'It's no use, ' she laughed. 'He's vexed. He thinks he's being neglected. He'll go to his kennel and nothing will bring him out of it, exceptfood. Come into the house. It's going to rain again. '

 * * * * *

'Well, ' the visitor exclaimed familiarly. 

They were seated by the fire in the drawing-room. Leonora was removingher gloves. 

'Well?' she repeated. 'And so you still think Milly ought to be allowedto go on the stage?'

'I think she _will_ go on the stage, ' he said. 

'You can't imagine how it upsets me even to think of it. ' Leonora seemedto appeal for his sympathy. 

'Oh, yes, I can, ' he replied. 'Didn't I tell you the other night that Iknew exactly how you felt? But you've got to get over that, I guess. You've got to get on to yourself. Mr. Myatt told me what he said toyou----'

'So Uncle Meshach has been talking about it too?' she interrupted. 

'Why, yes, certainly. Of course he's quite right. Milly's bound to goher own way. Why not make up your mind to it, and help her, andstraighten things out for her?'

'But----'

'Look here, Mrs. Stanway, ' he leaned forward; 'will you tell me just whyit upsets you to think of your daughter going on the stage?'

'I don't know. I can't explain. But it does. '

She smiled at him, smoothing out her gloves one after the other on herlap. 

'It's nothing but superstition, you know, ' he said gently, returning hersmile. 

'Yes, ' she admitted. 'I suppose it is. '

He was silent for a moment, as if undecided what to say next. Sheglanced at him surreptitiously, and took in all the details of hisattire--the high white collar, the dark tweed suit obviously of Americanorigin, the thin silver chain that emerged from beneath his waistcoatand disappeared on a curve into the hip pocket of his trousers, theboots with their long pointed toes. His heavy moustache, and the smoothbluish chin, struck her as ideally masculine. 

'No parents, ' he burst out, 'no parents can see things from theirchildren's point of view. '

'Oh!' she protested. 'There are times when I feel so like my daughtersthat I _am_ them. '

He nodded. 'Yes, ' he said, abandoning his position at once, 'I canbelieve that. You're an exception. If I hadn't sort of known all thetime that you were, I wouldn't be here now talking like this. '

'It's so accidental, the whole business, ' she remarked, branching off toanother aspect of the case in order to mask the confusion caused by thesincere flattery in his voice. 'It was only by chance that Milly hadthat particular part at all. Suppose she hadn't had it. What then?'

'Everything's accidental, ' he replied. 'Everything that ever happened isaccidental, in a way--in another it isn't. If you look at your own life, for instance, you'll find it's been simply a series of coincidences. I'msure mine has been. Sheer chance from beginning to end. '

'Yes, ' she said thoughtfully, and put her chin in the palm of her lefthand. 

'And as for the stage, why, nearly every one goes on the stage bychance. It just occurs, that's all. And moreover I guarantee that theparents of fifty per cent. Of all the actresses now on the boards beganby thinking what a terrible blow it was to them that _their_ daughtersshould want to do _that_. Can't you see what I mean?' He emphasised hiswords more and more. 'I'm certain you can. '

She signified assent. It seemed to her, as he continued to talk, thatfor the first time she was listening to natural convincing common sensein that home of hers, where existence was governed by precedent and byconventional ideas and by the profound parental instinct which meets allrequests with a refusal. It seemed to her that her children, though tooutward semblance they had much freedom, had never listened to anythingbut 'No, ' 'No, dear, ' 'Of course you can't, ' 'I think you had betternot, ' and 'Once for all, I forbid it. ' She wondered why this should havebeen so, and why its strangeness had not impressed her before. She had adistant fleeting vision of a household in which parents and childrenbehaved like free and sensible human beings, instead of like thevirtuous and the martyrised puppets of a terrible system called 'actingfor the best. ' And she thought again what an extraordinary man ArthurTwemlow was, strong-minded, clear-headed, sympathetic, and delightful. She enjoyed intensely the sensation of their intimacy. 

'Jack will never agree, ' she said, when she could say nothing else. 

'Ah! "Jack!"' He slightly imitated her tone. 'Well, that remains to beseen. '

'Why do you take all this trouble for Milly?' she asked him. 'It's verygood of you. '

'Because I'm a fool, a meddling ass, ' he replied lightly, standing upand stroking his clothes. 

'You aren't, ' her eyes said, 'you are a dear. '

'No, ' he went on, in a serious tone, 'Milly just wanted me to speak toyou, and after all I didn't see why I shouldn't. It's no earthlybusiness of mine, but--oh, well! Good-bye, I must be getting along. '

'Have you got an appointment to keep?' she questioned him. 

'No--not an appointment. '

'Well then, you will stay a little longer. The trap will be back quitesoon. ' Her voice seemed playfully to indicate that, as she had submittedto his domination, so he must submit now to hers. 'And if you willexcuse me one moment, I will go and take off this thick jacket. '

Up in the bedroom, as she removed her coat in front of the pier-glass, she smiled at her image timorously, yet in full content. Milly'sprospects did not appear to her to have been practically improved, norcould she piece out of Arthur Twemlow's conversation a definiteargument; nevertheless she felt that he had made her see something moreclearly than heretofore, that he had induced in her, not by logic but bypersuasiveness, a mood towards her children which was brighter, moresanguine, and even more loving, than any in her previous experience. Shewas glad that she had left him alone for a minute, because such familiartreatment of him somehow established definitely his status as a friendof the house. 

'Listen, Twemlow, ' said Stanway loudly, 'I meant to run down to theoffice for an hour this afternoon, but if you'll stay, I'll stay. That'sa bargain, eh?'

 * * * * *

John had returned from London blusterously cheerful, and Twemlow stoodin the centre of his vehement noisy hospitality as in the centre of atyphoon. He consented to stay, because the two girls, with hair blownand still in their wet macintoshes, took him by the arm and said hemust. He was not the first guest in that house whom the apparentheartiness of the host had failed to convince. Always there wassomething sinister, insincere, and bullying in the invitations whichJohn gave, and in his reception of visitors. Hence it was, perhaps, thatvisitors did not abound under his roof, despite the richness of thetable and the ordered elegance of every appointment. Women paid calls;the girls, unlike Leonora, had their intimates, including Harry; but menseldom came; and it was not often that the principal meals of the daywere shared by an outsider of either sex. 

Arthur's presence on a second occasion was therefore the morestimulating. It affected the whole house, even to the kitchen, which, indeed, usually vibrates in sympathy with the drawing-room. In Bessie'svivacious demeanour as she served the high-tea at six o'clock might beobserved the symptoms of the agreeable excitation which all felt. EvenRose unbent, and Leonora thought how attractive the girl could be whenshe chose. But towards the end of the meal, it became evident that Rosewas preoccupied. Leonora, Ethel, and Millicent passed into thedrawing-room. John pulled out his immense cigar-case, and the two menbegan to smoke. 

'Come along, ' said Stanway, speaking thickly with the cigar in hismouth. 

'Papa, ' said Rose ominously, just as he was following Twemlow out of thedoor. She spoke with quiet, cold distinctness. 

'What is it?'

'Did you inquire about that?'

He paused. 'Oh yes, Rose, ' he answered rapidly. ' I inquired. She seemeda very clever woman, I must say. But I've been thinking it over, andI've come to the conclusion that it won't do for you to go. I don't likethe idea of it--you in London for six weeks or more alone. You must dowhat you can here. And if you fail this time you must try again. '

'But I can stay in the same lodgings as Sarah Fuge. The house is kept byher cousin or some relation. '

'And then there's the expense, ' he proceeded. 

'Father, I told you the other night I didn't want to put you to anyexpense. I've got thirty-seven pounds of my own, and I will pay; Iprefer to pay. '

'Oh, no, no!' he exclaimed. 

'Well, why can't I go?' she demanded bluntly. 

'I'll think it over again--but I don't like it, Rose, I don't like it. '

'But there isn't a day to waste, father!' she complained. 

Bessie entered to clear the table. 

'Hum! Well! I'll think it over again. ' He breathed out smoke, anddeparted. Rose set her lips hard. She was seen no more that evening. 

In the drawing-room, Stanway found Twemlow and Millicent talking in lowvoices on the hearthrug. Ethel lounged on the sofa. Leonora was notpresent, but she came in immediately. 

'Let's have a game at solo, ' John suggested. And because five was aconvenient number they all played. Twemlow and Milly were the bestperformers; Milly's gift for card-playing was notorious in the family. 

'Do you ever play poker?' Twemlow asked, when the other three had beenbeggared of counters. 

'No, ' said John, cautiously. 'Not here. '

'It's lots of fun, ' Twemlow went on, looking at the girls. 

'Oh, Mr. Twemlow, ' Milly cried. 'It's awfully gambly, isn't it? Do teachus. '

In a quarter of an hour Milly was bluffing her father with success. Shesaid that in future she should never want to play at any other game. Asfor Leonora, though she lost and gained counters with happy equanimity, she did not like the game; it frightened her. When Milly had shown astraight flush and scooped the kitty she sent the child out of the roomwith a message to the kitchen concerning coffee and sandwiches. 

'Won't Milly sing?' Twemlow asked. 

'Certainly, if you wish, ' Leonora responded. 

'Ay! Let's have something, ' said Stanway, lazily. 

And when Millicent returned, she was told that she must sing beforeeating. She sang 'Love is a Plaintive Song, ' to Ethel's inertaccompaniment, and she gave it exactly as though she had been on thestage, with all the dramatic action, all the freedom, all theallurements, which she had lavished on the audience in the Town Hall. 

'Very good, ' said her father. 'I like that. It's very pretty. I didn'thear it the other night. ' Twemlow merely thanked the artist. Leonora wassilently uncomfortable. 

After coffee both the girls disappeared. Twemlow looked round, and thenspoke to Stanway. 

'I've been very much impressed by your daughter's talent, ' he said. Histone was extremely serious. It implied that, now the children were gone, the adults could talk with freedom. 

Stanway was a little startled, and more than a little flattered. 

'Really?' he questioned. 

'Really, ' said Twemlow, emphasising still further his seriousness. 'Hasshe ever been taught?'

'Only by a local teacher up here at Hillport, ' Leonora told him. 

'She ought to have lessons from a first-class master. '

'Why?' asked Stanway abruptly. 

'Well, ' Twemlow said, 'you never know----'

'You honestly think her voice is worth cultivating?' John demanded, impelled to participate in Twemlow's gravity. 

'I do. And not only her voice----'

'Ah, ' Stanway mused, 'there's no first-class masters in this district. '

'Why, I met a man from Manchester at the Five Towns Hotel last night, 'said Twemlow, 'who comes down to Knype once a week to give lessons. Heused to sing in opera. They say he's the best man about, and that he'staught a lot of good people. I forget his name. '

'I expect you mean Cecil Corfe, ' Leonora said cheerfully. She had beenamazed at the compliance of John's attitude. 

'Yes, that's it. '

At the same moment there was a faint noise at the French window. Johnwent to investigate. As soon as his back was turned, Twemlow glanced atLeonora with eyes full of a private amusement which he invited her toshare. 'Can't I just handle him?' he seemed to say. She smiled, butcautiously, less she should disclose too fully her intense appreciationof his personality. 

'Why, it's the dog!' Stanway proclaimed, 'and wet through! What's hedoing loose? It's raining like the devil. '

'I'm afraid I didn't fasten him up this afternoon. I forgot, ' saidLeonora. 'Oh! my new rug!'

Bran plunged into the room with a glad deafening bark, his tailthwacking the furniture like the flat of a sword. 

'Get out, you great brute!' Stanway ordered, and then, on the step, heshouted into the darkness for Carpenter. 

Twemlow rose to look on. 

'I can't let you walk to the station to-night, Twemlow, ' said Stanway, still outside the room. 'Carpenter shall drive you. Yes, he shall, sodon't argue. And while he's about it he may as well take you straight toKnype. You can go in the buggy--there's a hood to it. '

When the time came for departure, John insisted on lending to Twemlow alarge driving overcoat. They stood in the hall together, while Twemlowfumbled with the complicated apparatus of buttons. Stanway whistled. 

'By the way, ' he said, 'when are you coming in to look through those oldaccounts?'

'Oh, I don't know, ' Twemlow answered, somewhat taken by surprise. 

'I tell you what I'll do--I'll send you copies of them, eh?'

'I think you needn't trouble, ' said Twemlow, carelessly. 'I guess Ishall write to my sister, and tell her I can't see any use in trying toworry out the old man's finances at this time of day. '

'However, ' Stan way repeated, 'I'll send you the copies all the same. And when you write to your sister, will you give her my kindestregards?'

The whole family, except Rose, came into the porch to bid himgood-night. In the darkness and the heavy rain could dimly be seen therounded form of the buggy; the cob's flanks shone in the glittering rayof the lamps; Carpenter was hidden under the hood; his mysterious handraised the apron, and Twemlow stepped quickly in. 

'Good-night, ' said Ethel. 

'Good-night, Mr. Twemlow, ' said Milly. 'Be good. '

'You'll see us again before you leave, Twemlow?' said John's imperiousvoice. 

'You aren't going back to America just yet, are you?' Leonora asked, from the back. 

No reply came from within the hood. 

'Mother says you aren't going back to America just yet, are you, Mr. Twemlow?' Milly screamed in her treble. 

Arthur Twemlow showed his face. 'No, not yet, I think, ' he called. 'Seeyou again, certainly. .. . And thanks once more. '

'Tchick!' said Carpenter. 

 * * * * *

The next evening, after tea, John, Leonora, and Rose were in thedrawing-room. Milly had run down to see her friend Cissie Burgess, having with fine cruelty chosen that particular night because shehappened to know that Harry would be out. Ethel was invisible. Rose hadreturned with bitter persistence to the siege of her father's obstinacy. 

'I should have six weeks clear, ' she was saying. 

John consulted his pocket-calendar. 

'No, ' he corrected her, 'you would only have a month. It isn't worthwhile. '

'I should have six weeks, ' she repeated. 'The exam isn't till Januarythe seventh. '

'But Christmas, what about Christmas? You must be here for Christmas. '

'Why?' demanded Rose. 

'Oh, Rosie!' Leonora protested. ' You can't be away for Christmas!'

'Why not?' the girl demanded again, coldly. 

Both parents paused. 

'Because you can't, ' said John angrily. 'The idea's absurd. '

'I don't see it, ' Rose persevered. 

'Well, I do, ' John delivered himself. 'And let that suffice. '

Rose's face indicated the near approach of tears. 

It was at this juncture that Bessie opened the door and announced Mr. Twemlow. 

'I just called to bring back that magnificent great-coat, ' he said. 'It's hanging up on its proper hook in the hall. '

Then he turned specially to Leonora, who sat isolated near the fire. Shewas not surprised to see him, because she had felt sure that he would atonce return the overcoat in person; she had counted on him doing so. Ashe came towards her she languorously lifted her arm, without rising, andthe two bangles which she wore slipped tinkling down the wide sleeve. They shook hands in silence, smiling. 

'I hope you didn't take cold last night?' she said at length. 

'Not I, ' he replied, sitting down by her side. 

He was quick to detect the disturbance in the social atmosphere, andthough he tried to appear unconscious of it, he did not succeed in theimpossible. Moreover, Rose had evidently decided that despite hispresence she would finish what she had begun. 

'Very well, father, ' she said. 'If you'll let me go at once I'll comedown for two days at Christmas. '

'Yes, ' John grumbled, 'that's all very well. But who's to take you? Youcan't go alone. And you know perfectly well that I only came backyesterday. ' He recited this fact precisely as though it constituted agrievance against Rose. 

'As if I couldn't go alone!' Rose exclaimed. 

'If it's London you're talking about, ' Twemlow said, 'I will be going upto-morrow by the midday flyer, and could look after any lady thathappened to be on that train and would accept my services. ' He glancedpleasantly at Rose. 

'Oh, Mr. Twemlow!' the girl murmured. It was a ludicrously inadequateexpression of her profound passionate gratitude to this knight; but shecould say no more. 

'But can you be ready, my dear?' Leonora inquired. 

'I am ready, ' said Rose. 

'It's understood then, ' Twemlow said later. 'We shall meet at the depôt. I can't stop another moment now. I've got a cab waiting outside. '

Leonora wished to ask him whether, notwithstanding his partialassurance of the previous evening, his journey would really end atEuston, or whether he was not taking London _en route_ for New York. Butshe could not bring herself to put the question. She hoped that Johnmight put it; John, however, was taciturn. 

'We shall see Rose off to-morrow, of course, ' was her last utterance toTwemlow. 

 * * * * *

Leonora and her three daughters stood in the crowd on the platform ofKnype railway station, waiting for Arthur Twemlow and for the Londonexpress. John had brought them to the station in the waggonette, hadkissed Rose and purchased her ticket, and had then driven off to acreditors' meeting at Hanbridge. All the women felt rather mournful amidthat bustle and confusion. Leonora had said to herself again and againthat it was absurd to regard this absence of Rose for a few weeks as abreak in the family existence. Yet the phrase, 'the first break, thefirst break, ' ran continually in her mind. The gentle sadness of hermood noticeably affected the girls. It was as though they had allsuddenly discovered a mutual unsuspected tenderness. Milly put her handon Rose's shoulder, and Rose did not resent the artless gesture. 

'I hope Mr. Twemlow isn't going to miss it, ' said Ethel, voicing thesecret apprehension of all. 

'I shan't miss it, anyhow, ' Rose remarked defiantly. 

Scarcely a minute before the train was due, Milly descried Twemlowcoming out of the booking office. They pressed through the crowd towardshim. 

'Ah!' he exclaimed genially. 'Here you are! Baggage labelled?'

'We thought you weren't coming, Mr. Twemlow, ' Milly said. 

'You did? I was kept quite a few minutes at the hotel. You see I onlyhad to walk across the road. '

'We didn't really think any such thing, ' said Leonora. 

The conversation fell to pieces. 

Then the express, with its two engines, its gilded luncheon-cars, andits post-office van, thundered in, shaking the platform, and seeming tooccupy the entire station. It had the air of pausing nonchalantly, disdainfully, in its mighty rush from one distant land of romance toanother, in order to suffer for a brief moment the assault of a puny andneedlessly excited multitude. 

'First stop Willesden, ' yelled the porters. 

'Say, conductor, ' said Twemlow sharply, catching the luncheon-carattendant by the sleeve, 'you've got two seats reserved forme--Twemlow?'

'Twemlow? Yes, sir. '

'Come along, ' he said, 'come along. '

The girls kissed at the steps of the car: 'Good-bye. '

'Well, good-bye all!' said Twemlow. 'I hope to see you again some time. Say next fall. '

'You surely aren't----' Leonora began. 

'Yes, ' he resumed quickly, 'I sail Saturday. Must get back. '

'Oh, Mr. Twemlow!' Ethel and Milly complained together. 

Rose was standing on the steps. Leonora leaned and kissed the pale girlmadly, pressing her lips into Rose's cheek. Then she shook hands withArthur Twemlow. 

'Good-bye!' she murmured. 

'I guess I shall write to you, ' he said jauntily, addressing all threeof them; and Ethel and Milly enthusiastically replied: 'Oh, do!'

The travellers penetrated into the car, and reappeared at a window, oneon either side of a table covered with a white cloth and laid for twopersons. 

'Oh, don't I wish I was going!' Milly exclaimed, perceiving them. 

Rose was now flushed with triumph. She looked at Twemlow, her lipsmoved, she smiled. She was a woman in the world. Then they nodded andwaved hands. 

The guard unfurled his green flag, the engine gave a curt, scornfulwhistle, and lo! the luncheon-car was gliding away from Leonora, Ethel, and Milly! Lo! the station was empty!

'I wonder what he will talk to her about, ' thought Leonora. 

They had to cross the station by the under-ground passage and waittwenty minutes for a squalid, shambling local train which took them toShawport, at the foot of the rise to Hillport. 

CHAPTER VIII

THE DANCE

About three months after its rendering of _Patience_, the BursleyAmateur Operatic Society arranged to give a commemorative dance in thevery scene of that histrionic triumph. The fête was to surpass insplendour all previous entertainments of the kind recorded in the annalsof the town. It was talked about for weeks in advance; severaldressmakers nearly died of it; and as the day approached the difficultyof getting one's self invited became extreme. 

'You know, Mrs. Stanway, ' said Harry Burgess when he met Leonora oneafternoon in the street, 'we are relying on you to be the best-dressedwoman in the place. '

She smiled with a calmness which had in it a touch of gentle cynicism. 'You shouldn't, ' she answered. 

'But you're coming, aren't you?' he inquired with eager concern. Oflate, owing to the capricious frigidity of Millicent's attitude towardshim, he had been much less a frequenter of Leonora's house, and he wasno longer privy to all its doings. 

'Oh, yes, ' she said, 'I suppose I shall come. '

'That's all right, ' he exclaimed. 'If you come you conquer. ' They passedon their ways. 

Leonora's existence had slipped back into its old groove since thedeparture of Twemlow, and the groove had deepened. She lived by theforce of habit, hoping nothing from the future, but fearing more than alittle. She seemed to be encompassed by vague and sinister portents. After another brief interlude of apparent security, John's situation wasagain disquieting. Trade was good in the Five Towns; at least themanufacturers had temporarily forgotten to complain that it was verybad, and the Monday afternoon football-matches were magnificentlyattended. Moreover, John had attracted favourable attention to himselfby his shrewd proposals to the Manufacturers' Association for reform inthe method of paying firemen and placers; his ability was everywhererecognised. At the same time, however, the Five Towns looked askance athim. Rumour revived, and said that he could not keep up his jugglingperformance for ever. He was known to have speculated heavily for a risein the shares of a great brewery which had falsified the prophecies ofits founders when they benevolently sold it to the investing public. Some people wondered how long John could hold those shares in a fallingmarket. Leonora had no definite knowledge of her husband's affairs, since neither John nor any other person breathed a word to her aboutthem. And yet she knew, by certain vibrations in the social atmosphereas mysterious and disconcerting as those discovered by Röntgen in thephysical, that disaster, after having been repelled, was returning fromafar. Money flowed through the house as usual; nevertheless often, asshe drove about Bursley, consciously exciting the envy and admirationwhich a handsome woman behind a fast cob is bound to excite, her shamedfancy pictured the day when Prince should belong to another and sheshould walk perforce on the pavement in attire genteelly preserved frompast affluence. Only women know the keenest pang of these secretmisgivings, at once desperate and helpless. 

Nor did she find solace in her girls. One Saturday afternoon Ethel cameback from the duty-visit to Aunt Hannah and said as it wereconfidentially to Leonora: 'Fred called in while I was there, mother, and stayed for tea. ' What could Leonora answer? Who could deny Fred theright to visit his great-aunt and his great-uncle, both rapidly ageing?And of what use to tell John? She desired Ethel's happiness, but fromthat moment she felt like an accomplice in the furtive wooing, and itseemed to her that she had forfeited both the confidence of her husbandand the respect of her daughter. Months ago she had meant by force ofsome initiative to regularise this idyll which by its stealthinesswounded the self-respect of all concerned. Vain aspiration! And now thefact that Fred Ryley had begun to call at Church Street appeared toindicate between him and Uncle Meshach a closer understanding whichcould only be detrimental to the interests of John. 

As for Rose, that child of misfortune did well during the first fourdays of the examination, but on the fifth day one of her chronicsick-headaches had in two hours nullified all the intense and ceaselesseffort of two years. It was precisely in chemistry that she had failed. She arrived from London in tears, and the tears were renewed when theformal announcement of defeat came three weeks later by telegraph andJohn added gaiety to the occasion by remarking: 'What did I tell you?'The girl's proud and tenacious spirit, weakened by the long strain, wasdaunted at last. She lounged in the house and garden, listless, supine, torpid, instinctively waiting for Nature's recovery. 

Millicent alone in the house was unreservedly cheerful andlight-hearted. She had the advantage of Mr. Corfe's instruction for twohours every Wednesday, and expressed herself as well satisfied with hismethods. Her own intimate friends knew that she quite intended to go onthe stage, but they were enjoined to say nothing. Consequently JohnStanway was one of the few people in Bursley unaware of the definitenessof Milly's private plans; Leonora was another. Leonora sometimes feltthat Milly's assertive and indestructible vivacity must be due to somespecific cause, but Mr. Cecil Corfe's reputation for seriousness anddiscretion precluded the idea that he was encouraging the girl to dreamdreams without the consent of her parents. 

Leonora might have questioned Milly, but she perceived the futility ofdoing so. It became more and more clear to her that she did not possessthe confidence of her daughters. They loved her and they admired her;and she for her part made a point of trusting them; but their confidencewas withheld. Under the influence of Arthur Twemlow she had tried toassuage the customary asperities of home life, so far as possible, by ademeanour of generous quick acquiescence, and she had not entirelyfailed. Yet the girls, with all the obtuseness and insensibility ofadolescence, never thought of giving her the one reward which shedesired. She sought tremulously to win their intimacy, but she soughttoo late. Rose and Milly simply ignored her diffident advances, and evenEthel was not responsive. Leonora had trained up her children as sheherself had been trained. She saw her error only when it could not beretrieved. The dear but transient vision of four women who had nosecrets from each other, who understood each other, was finallydissolved. 

Amid the secret desolation of a life which however was not without love, amid her vain regrets for an irrecoverable youth and her horror of theapproach of age, amid the empty lassitudes which apparently were allthat remained of the excitement caused by Arthur Twemlow's presence, Leonora found a mournful and sweet pleasure in imagining that she had ason. This son combined the best qualities of Harry Burgess and FredRyley. She made him tall as herself, handsome as herself, and likeherself elegant. Shrewd, clever, and passably virtuous, he wasnevertheless distinctly capable of follies; but he told her everything, even the worst, and though sometimes she frowned he smiled away thefrown. He adored her; he appreciated all the feminine in her; heyielded to her whims; he kissed her chin and her wrist, held hersunshade, opened doors for her, allowed her to beat him at tennis, anddeliciously frightened her by driving her very fast round corners in avery high dog-cart. And if occasionally she said, 'I am not as young asI was, Gerald, ' he always replied: 'Oh rot, mater!'

When Ethel or Milly remarked at breakfast, as they did now and then, that Mr. Twemlow had not fulfilled his promise of writing, Leonora wouldanswer evenly, 'No, I expect he's forgotten us. ' And she would go andlive with her son for a little. 

 * * * * *

She summoned this Gerald--and it was for the last time--as she stoodirresolutely waiting for her husband at the door of the ladies'cloak-room in the Town Hall. She was dressed in black mousseline desoie. The corsage, which fitted loosely except at the waist and theshoulders, where it was closely confined, was not too low, but itdisclosed the beautiful diminutive rondures above the armpits, and, behind, the fine hollow of her back. The sleeves were long and full withtight wrists, ending in black lace. A band of pale pink silk, coveredwith white lace, wandered up one sleeve, crossed her breast in strictconformity with the top of the corsage, and wandered down the othersleeve; at the armpits, below the rondures, this band was punctuatedwith a pink rose. An extremely narrow black velvet ribbon clasped herneck. From the belt, which was pink, the full skirt ran down in athousand perpendicular pleats. The effect of the loose corsage and ofthe belt on Leonora's perfect figure was to make her look girlish, ingenuous, immaculate, and with a woman's instinct she heightened theeffect by swinging her programme restlessly on its ivory-tinted cord. 

They had arrived somewhat late, owing partly to John's indecision andpartly to an accident with Rose's costume. On reaching the Town Hall, not only Ethel and Milly, but Rose also, had deserted Leonora eagerly, impatiently, as ducklings scurry into a pond; they passed through thecloak-room in a moment, Rose first; Rose was human that evening. Leonoradid not mind; she anticipated the dance with neither joy nor melancholy, hoping nothing from it in her mood of neutral calm. John was talkingwith David Dain at the entrance to the gentlemen's cloak-room, furtherdown the corridor. Presently, old Mr. Hawley, the doctor at Hillport, joined the other two, and then Dain moved away, leaving John and thedoctor in conversation. Dain approached and saluted his client's wifewith characteristic sheepishness. 

'Large company, I believe, ' he said awkwardly. In evening dress he wasalways particularly awkward. 

She smiled kindly on him, thinking the while what a clumsy andobjectionable fat little man he was. She knew he admired her, and wouldhave given much to dance with her; but she did not care for his heavyeyes, and she despised him because he could not screw himself up todemand a place on her programme. 

'Yes, very large company, I believe, ' he said again, moving aboutnervously on his toes. 

'Do you know how many invitations?' she asked. 

'No, I don't. '

'Dain!' John called out, 'come and listen to this. ' And the lawyerescaped from her presence like a schoolboy running out of school. 

'What men!' she thought bitterly, standing neglected with all her charmand all her distinction. 'What chivalry! What courtliness! What style!'Her son belonged to a different race of beings. 

Down the corridor came Harry Burgess deep in converse with a malefriend; the two were walking quickly. She did not choose to greet themwaiting there alone, and so she deliberately turned and put her headwithin the curtains of the cloak-room as if to speak to some one inside. 

'Twemlow was saying----'

It seemed to her that Harry in passing had uttered that phrase to hiscompanion. She flushed, and shook from head to foot. Then she reflectedthat Twemlow was a name common to dozens of people in the Five Towns. She bit her lip, surprised and angered at her own agitation. At the sametime she remembered--and why should she remember?--some gossip of John'sto the effect that Harry Burgess was under a cloud at the Bank becausehe had gone to London by a day-trip on the previous Thursday withoutleave. London . .. Perhaps. .. . 

'Am I forty--or fourteen?' she contemptuously asked herself. 

She heard John and Dain laugh loudly, and the jolly voice of the olddoctor: 'Come along into the refreshment-room for a minute. ' Determinednot to linger another moment for these boors, she moved into thecorridor. 

At the end of the vista of red carpet and gas-jets rose the grandstaircase, and on the lowest stair stood Arthur Twemlow. She had begunto traverse the corridor and she could not stop now, and fifty feet laybetween them. 

'Oh!' her heart cried in the intolerable spasm of a swift andmysterious convulsion. 'Why do you thus torture me?' Every step was anagony. 

He moved towards her, and she noticed that he was extremely pale. Theymet. His hand found hers. Then it was that she perceived, with apassionate gratitude, how heaven had been watching over her. If John hadnot hesitated about coming, if her daughters had not deserted her in thecloak-room, if the old doctor had not provided himself with a new supplyof naughty stories, if indeed everything had not occurred exactly as ithad occurred--she would have been forced to undergo in the presence ofwitnesses the shock which she had just experienced; and she would havedied. She felt that in those seconds she had endured emotion to the lastlimit of her capacity. She traced a providence even in Harry's chancephrase, which had warned her and so broken the force of the stroke. 

'Why, cruel one, did you play this trick on me? Can you not see what Isuffer!' It was her sad glittering eyes that reproachfully appealed tohim. 

'Did I know what would happen?' his answered. 'Am I not equally avictim?'

She smiled pensively, and her lips murmured: 'Well, wonders will nevercease. '

Such were the first words. 

'I found I had to come back to London, ' he was soon explaining. 'And Imet young Burgess at the Empire on Thursday night, and he told me aboutthis affair and gave me a ticket, and so I thought as I had been at theopera I might as well----' He hesitated. 

'Have you seen the girls?' she inquired. 

He had not. 

On the flower-bordered staircase her foot slipped; she felt like aconvalescent trying to walk after a long illness. Arthur with a silentquestioning gesture offered his arm. 

'Yes, please, ' she said, gladly. She wished not to say it, but she saidit, and the next instant he was supporting her up the steps. Anythingmight happen now, she thought; the most impossible things might come topass. 

At the top of the staircase they paused. They could hear the musicfaintly through closed doors. They had the precious illusion of beingaloof, apart, separated from the world, sufficient to themselves andgloriously sufficient. Then some one opened the doors from within; thesound of the music, suddenly freed, rushed out and smote them; and theyentered the ball-room. She was acutely conscious of her beauty, and ofthe distinction of his blanched, stern face. 

 * * * * *

The floor was thronged by entwined couples who, under the rhythmicdomination of the music, glided and revolved in the elaborate pattern ofa mazurka. With their rapt gaze, and their rigid bodies floatingsmoothly over a hidden mechanism of flying feet, they seemed to be thevictims of some enchantment, of which the music was only a mode, andwhich led them enthralled through endless curves of infallible beautyand grace. Form, colour, movement, melody, and the voluptuous galvanismof delicate contacts were all combined in this unique ritual of thedance, this strange convention whose significance emerged from onemystery deeper than the fundamental notes of the bass-fiddle, and lostitself in another more light than the sudden flash of a shirt-front orthe tremor of a lock of hair. The goddess reigned. And round about thehall, the guardians of decorum, the enemies of Aphrodite, enchanted too, watched with the simplicity of doves the great Aphrodisian festival, blind to the eternal verities of a satin slipper, a drooping eyelash, aparted lip. 

The music ceased, the spell was lifted for a time. And while oldalliances were being dissolved and new ones formed in the eagerpromiscuity of this interval, all remarked proudly on the success of theevening; in the gleam of every eye the sway of the goddess wasacknowledged. Romance was justified. Life itself was justified. Theshop-girl who had put ten thousand stitches into the ruching of hercrimson skirt well symbolised the human attitude that night. As leaningheavily on a man's arm she crossed the floor under the blazingchandelier, she secretly exulted in each stitch of her incrediblelabour. Two hours, and she would be back in the cold, celibate bedroom, littered with the shabby realities of existence; and the spotted glasswould mirror her lugubrious yawn! Eight hours, and she would be in thedreadful shop, tying on the black apron! The crimson skirt would neverlook the same again; such rare blossoms fade too soon! And in exchangefor the toil, the fatigue, and the distressing reaction, what had shewon? She could not have said what she had won, but she knew that it wasworth the ruinous cost--this bright fallacy, this fleeting chimera, thisdelusive ecstasy, this shadow and counterfeit of bliss which the goddessvouchsafed to her communicants. 

 * * * * *

So thick and confused was the crowd that Leonora and Arthur, havinginserted themselves into a corner near the west door, escaped thenotice of any of their friends. They were as solitary there as on thelanding outside. But Leonora saw quite near, in another corner, Etheltalking to Fred Ryley; she noticed how awkward Fred looked in his newdress-suit, and she liked him for his awkwardness; it seemed to her thatEthel was very beautiful. Arthur pointed out Rose, who was standing upwith the lady member of the School Board. Then Leonora caught sight ofMillicent in the distance, handing her programme to the conductor of theopera; she recalled the notorious boast of the conductor that he neverknowingly danced with a bad dancer, whatever her fascinations. Alwayswhen they met at a ball the conductor would ask Leonora for a couple ofwaltzes, and would lead her out with an air of saying to the company:'Now see what fine dancing is!' Like herself, he danced with thefrigidity of a professor. She wondered whether Arthur could dance reallywell. 

The placard by the orchestra said, 'Extra. '

'Shall we?' Arthur whispered. 

He made a way for her through the outer fringe of people to the middlespace where the couples were forming. Her last thoughts as she gave himher hand were thoughts half-pitiful and half-scornful of John, DavidDain, and the doctor, brutishly content in the refreshment-room. 

There stole out, troubling the expectant air, softly, alluringly, invocatively, the first warning notes of that unique classic of theball-room, that extraordinary composition which more than any other workof art unites all western nations in a common delight, which is adoredequally by profound musicians and by the lightest cocottes, and which, unscathed and splendid, still miraculously survives the deadly ordeal ofeternal perfunctory reiterance: the masterpiece of Johann Strauss. 

'Why, ' Leonora exclaimed, her excitement straining impatiently in theleash, 'The Blue Danube!'

He laughed, quietly gay. 

While the chords, with tantalising pauses and deliberation, approachedthe magic moment of the waltz itself, she was conscious that his hold ofher became firmer and more assertive, and she surrendered to anovermastering influence as one surrenders to chloroform, desperately, but luxuriously. 

And when at the invitation of the melody the whole company in the centreof the floor broke into movement, and the spell was resumed, she lostall remembrance of that which had passed, and all apprehension of thatwhich was to come. She lived, passionately and yet languorously, in thevivid present. Her eyes were level with his shoulder, and they lookedwith an entranced gaze along his arm, seeing automatically the faces, the lights, and the colours which swam in a rapid confused processionacross their field of vision. She did not reason nor recognise. Thesefleeting images, appearing and disappearing on the horizon of Arthur'selbow, produced no effect on her. She had no thoughts. Her entire beingwas absorbed in a transport of obedience to the beat of the music, andto Arthur's directing pressures. She was happy, but her bliss had in itthat element of stinging pain, of intolerable anticipation, which isseldom absent from a felicity too intense. 'Surely I shall sink down anddie!' said her heart, seeming to faint at the joyous crises of themusic, which rose and fell in tides of varying rapture. Nevertheless shewas determined to drink the cup slowly, to taste every drop of thatsweet and excruciating happiness. She would not utterly abandon herself. The fear of inanition was only a wayward pretence, after all, and herstrong nature cried out for further tests to prove its fortitude and itspower of dissimulation. As the band slipped into the final section ofthe waltz, she wilfully dragged the time, deepening a little the curioussuperficial languor which concealed her secrets, and at the same timeincreasing her consciousness of Arthur's control. She dreaded now thatwhat had been intolerable should cease; she wished ardently to avert theend. The glare of lights, the separate sounds of the instruments, theslurring of feet on the smooth floor, the lineaments of familiar faces, all the multitudinous and picturesque detail of gyrating humanity aroundher--these phenomena forced themselves on her unwilling perception; andshe tried to push them back, and to spend every faculty in savouring theecstasy of that one physical presence which was so close, so enveloping, and so inexplicably dear. But in vain, in vain! The band rioted throughthe last bars of the waltz, a strange, disconcerting silence and inertiasupervened, and Arthur loosed her. 

 * * * * *

As she sat down on the cane chair which Arthur had found, Leonora'scharacteristic ease of manner deserted her. She felt conspicuous andembarrassed, and she could neither maintain her usual cold nonchalantglance in examining the room, nor look at Arthur in a natural way. Shehad the illusion that every one must be staring at her with amazedcuriosity. Yet her furtive searching eye could not discover a singleperson except Arthur who seemed to notice her existence. All werepreoccupied that night with immediate neighbours. 

'Will you come down into the refreshment-room?' Arthur asked. Sheobserved with annoyance that he too was confused, nervous, and stillvery pale. 

She shook her head, without meeting his gaze. She wished above allthings to behave simply and sincerely, to speak in her ordinary voice, and to use familiar phrases. But she could not. On the contrary she wasseized with a strong impulse to say to him entreatingly: 'Leave me, ' asthough she were a person on the stage. She thought of other phrases, such as 'Please go away, ' and 'Do you mind leaving me for a while?' buther tongue, somehow insisting on the melodramatic, would not utterthese. 

'Leave me!' She was frightened by her own words, and added hastily, withthe most seductive smile that her lips had ever-framed: 'Do you mind?'

'I shall call to-morrow, ' he said anxiously, almost gruffly. 'Shall yoube in?'

She nodded, and he left her; she did not watch him depart. 

'May I have the honour, gracious lady?'

It was the conductor of the opera who addressed her in his even, apparently sarcastic tones. 

'I'm afraid I must rest a bit, ' she said, smiling quite naturally. 'I'vehurt my foot a little--Oh, it's nothing, it's nothing. But I must sitstill for a bit. '

She could not comprehend why, unintentionally and without design, sheshould have told this stupid lie, and told it so persuasively. Sheforesaw how the tedious consequences of the fiction might continuethroughout the evening. For a moment she had the idea of announcing asprained ankle and of returning home at once. But the thought of old Dr. Hawley's presence in the building deterred her. She perceived that herfoot must get gradually better, and that she must be resigned. 

'Oh, mamma!' cried Rose, coming up to her. 'Just fancy Mr. Twemlow beingback again! But why did you let him leave?'

'Has he gone?'

'Yes. He just saw me on the stairs, and told me he must catch the lastcar to Knype. '

'Our dance, I think, Miss Rose, ' said a young man with a gardenia, andRose, flushed and sparkling, was carried off. The ball proceeded. 

 * * * * *

John Stanway had a singular capacity for not enjoying himself on thosesocial occasions when to enjoy one's self is a duty to the company. Butthis evening, as the hour advanced, he showed the symptoms of a sharpattack of gaiety such as visited him from time to time. He and Dr. Hawley and Dain formed an ebullient centre of high spirits, and theyupheld the ancient traditions; they professed a liking for old-fashioneddances, and for old-fashioned ways of dancing the steps which modernenthusiasm for the waltz had not extinguished. And they found anappreciable number of followers. The organisers of the ball, theupholders of correctness, punctilio, and the mode, fretted and foughtagainst the antagonistic influence. 'Ass!' said the conductor of theopera bitterly when Harry Burgess told him that Stanway had suggestedSir Roger de Coverley for an extra, 'I wonder what his wife thinks ofhim!' Sir Roger de Coverley was not danced, but twenty or thirty latestayers, with Stanway and Dain in charge, crossed hands in a circle andsang 'Auld Lang Syne' at the close. It was one of those incrediblethings that can only occur between midnight and cock-crow. During thisrevolting rite, the conductor and his friends sought sanctuary in therefreshment-room. Leonora, Ethel, and Milly were also there, but Roseand the lady-member of the School Board had remained upstairs to sing'Auld Lang Syne. '

'Now, girls, ' said Stanway with loud good humour, invading the selectapartment with his followers, 'time to go. Carpenter's been waitinghalf-an-hour. Your foot all right again, Nora?'

'Quite, ' she replied. 'Are you really ready?'

She had so interminably waited that she could not believe the evening tobe at length actually finished. 

They all exchanged adieux, Stanway and his cronies effusively, theopposing and outraged faction with a certain fine acrimony. 'Good-night, Fred, ' said John, throwing a backward patronising glance at Ryley, whohad strolled uneasily into the room. The young man paused beforereplying. 'Good-night, ' he said stiffly, and his demeanour indicated:'Do not patronise me too much. ' Fred could not dance, but he hadaudaciously sat out four dances with Ethel, at this his first ball, andthe serious young man had the strange agreeable sensation of feeling adog. He dared not, however, accompany Ethel to the carriage, as HarryBurgess accompanied Millicent. Harry had been partially restored tofavour again during the latter half of the entertainment, just in timeto prevent him from getting tipsy. The fact was that Millicent hadvaguely expected, in view of her position as prima donna, to be 'thebelle of the ball'; but there had been no belle, and Millicent was putto the inconvenience of discovering that she could do nothing withoutfootlights. 

'I asked Twemlow to come up to-morrow night, Nora, ' said John, stillelated, turning on the box-seat as the waggonette rattled briskly overthe paved crossing at the top of Oldcastle Street. 

She mumbled something through her furs. 

'And is he coming?' asked Rose. 

'He said he'd try to. ' John lighted a cigar. 

'He's very queer, ' said Millicent. 

'How?' Rose aggressively demanded. 

'Well, imagine him going off like that. He's always going off suddenly. 'Millicent stopped and then added: 'He only danced with mother. But he'sa good dancer. '

'I should think he was!' Ethel murmured, roused from lethargy. 'Isn't hejust, mother?'

Leonora mumbled again. 

'Your mother's knocked up, ' said John drily. 'These late nights don'tsuit her. So you reckon Mr. Twemlow's a good dancer, eh?'

No one spoke further. John threw his cigar into the road. 

Under the rug Leonora could feel the knees of all her daughters as theysat huddled and limp with fatigue in the small body of the waggonette. Her shoulders touched Ethel's, and every one of Milly's fidgetymovements communicated itself to her. Mother and children were so closethat they could not have been closer had they lain in the same grave. And yet the girls, and John too, had no slightest suspicion how far awaythe mother was from them, how blind they were, how amazingly they hadbeen deceived. They deemed Leonora to be like themselves, the victim ofreaction and weariness; so drowsy that even the joltings of the carriagecould not prevent a doze. She marvelled, she could not help marvelling, that her spiritual detachment should remain unnoticed; the phenomenonfrightened her as something full of strange risks. Was it possible thatnone had caught a glimpse of the intense illumination and activity ofher brain, burning and labouring there so conspicuously amid the otherbrains sombre and dormant? And was it possible that the girls hadobserved the qualities of Arthur's dancing and had observed nothingelse? Common sense tried to reassure her, and did not quite succeed. Herattitude resembled that of a person who leans against a firm rail overthe edge of a precipice: there is no danger, but the precipice is sodeep that he fears; and though the fear is a torture the sinistermagnetism of the abyss forbids him to withdraw. She lived again in thewaltz; in the gliding motions of it, the delicious fluctuations of thereverse, the long trance-like union, the instinctive avoidances of othercontact. She whispered the music, endlessly repeating those poignant andvoluptuous phrases which linger in the memory of all the world. And sherecalled and reconstituted Arthur's physical presence, and the emanatingcharm of his disposition, and dwelt on them long and long. Instead oflessening, the secret commotion within her increased and continued toincrease. While brooding with feverish joy over the immediate past, hermind reached forward and existed in the appalling and fatal moment, forwhose reality however her eagerness could scarcely wait, when she shouldsee him once more. And it asked unanswerable questions about hissurprising return from New York, and his pallor, and the tremor in hisvoice, and his swift departure. Suddenly she knew that she was planningto have the girls out of the house to-morrow afternoon between four andfive o'clock. .. . Her spine shivered, she grew painfully hot, and tearsrushed to her eyes. She pitied herself profoundly. She said that she didnot know what was the matter with her, or what was going to happen. Shecould not give names to things. She only felt that she was tooviolently alive. 

'Now, missis, ' John roused her. The carriage had stopped and he hadalready descended. She got out last, and Carpenter drove away while Johnwas still fumbling in his hip-pocket for the latchkey. The night washumid and very dark. Leonora and the girls stood waiting on the gravel, and John groped his way into the blackness of the portico to unfastenthe door. A faint gleam from the hall-gas came through the leadedfanlight. This scarcely perceptible glow and the murmur of John'sexpletives were all that came to the women from the mystery of thehouse. The key grated in the lock, and the door opened. 

'G----d d----n!' Stanway exclaimed distinctly, with fierce annoyance. Hehad fallen headlong into the hall, and his silk hat could be heardhopping towards the staircase. 

'Pa! 'Milly protested, shocked. 

John sprang up, fuming, turned the gas on to the full, and rushed backto the doorway. 

'Ah!' he shouted. 'I knew it was a tramp lying there. Get up. Is thebeggar asleep?'

They all bent down, startled into gravity, to examine a form which layin the portico, nearly parallel with the step and below it. 

'It's Uncle Meshach, ' said Ethel. 'Oh! mother!'

'Then my aunt's had another attack, ' cried John, 'and he's come up totell us, and--Milly, run for Carpenter. '

It seemed to Leonora, as with sudden awe she vaguely figured an augustand capricious power which conferred experience on mortals like awonderful gift, that that bestowing hand was never more full than whenit had given most. 

CHAPTER IX

A DEATH IN THE FAMILY

While Prince, tethered summarily outside the stable-door with all hisharness on, was trying in vain to understand this singular caprice onthe part of Carpenter, Carpenter and the head of the house lifted UncleMeshach's form and carried it into the hall. The women watched, ceasingtheir wild useless questions. 

'Into the breakfast-room, on the sofa, ' said John, breathing hard, tothe man. 

'No, no, ' Leonora intervened, 'you had better take him upstairs at once, to Ethel and Milly's bedroom. '

The procession, undignified and yet impressive, came to a halt, andCarpenter, who was holding Meshach's feet, glanced with canine anxietyfrom his master to his mistress. 

'But look here, Nora, ' John began. 

'Yes, father, upstairs, ' said Rose, cutting him short. 

Preoccupied with the cumbrous weight of Meshach's shoulders, John couldnot maintain the discussion; he hesitated, and then Carpenter movedtowards the stairs. The small dangling body seemed to say: 'I amindifferent, but it is perhaps as well that you have done arguing. '

'Run over to Dr. Hawley's, and ask him to come across at _once_, Johninstructed Carpenter, when they had steered Uncle Meshach round thetwist of the staircase, and insinuated him through a doorway, and laidhim at length, in his overcoat and his muffler and his quaint boots, onEthel's virginal bed. 

'But has the doctor come home, Jack?' Leonora inquired. 

'Of course he has, ' said John. 'He drove up with Dain, and they passedus at Shawport. Didn't you hear me call out to them?'

'Oh yes, ' she agreed. 

Then John, hatless but in his ulster, and the women, hooded and shawled, drew round the bed; but Ethel and Milly stood at the foot. The inanimateform embarrassed them all, made them feel self-conscious and afraid tomeet one another's eyes. 

'Better loosen his things, ' said Leonora, and Rose's fingers wereinstantly at work to help her. 

Uncle Meshach was white, rigid, and stonecold; the stiff 'Myatt' jawwas set; the eyes, wide open, looked upwards, and strangely outwards, ina fixed stare. And his audience thought, as they gazed in a sort offoolish astonishment at the puny, grotesque, and unfamiliar thing, 'Isthis really Uncle Meshach?' John lifted the wrist and felt for thepulse, but he could distinguish no beat, and he shook his headaccordingly. 'Try the heart, mother, ' Rose suggested, and Leonora, afterpenetrating beneath garment after garment, placed her hand on Meshach'sicy and tranquil breast. And she too shook her head. Then John, with anair of finality, took out his gold repeater and when he had polished theglass he held it to Uncle Meshach's parted lips. 'Can you see anymoisture on it?' he asked, taking it to the light, but none of themcould detect the slightest dimness. 

'I do wish the doctor would be quick, ' said Milly. 

'Doctor'll be no use, ' John remarked gruffly, returning to gaze again atthe immovable face. 'Except for an inquest, ' he added. 

'I think some one had better walk down to Church Street at once, andtell Aunt Hannah that uncle is here, ' said Leonora. 'Perhaps she _is_ill. Anyhow, she'll be very anxious. ' But she faltered before thecomplicated problem. 'Rose, go and wake Bessie, and ask her if unclecalled here during the evening, and tell her to get up at once and lightthe gas-stove and put some water on to boil, and then to light a firehere. '

'And who's to go to Church Street?' John asked quickly. 

Leonora looked for an instant at Rose, as the girl left the room. Shefelt that on such an occasion she could more easily spare Ethel's sweeteagerness to help than Rose's almost sinister self-possession. 'Etheland Milly, ' she said promptly. 'At least they can run on first. And bevery careful what you say to Aunt Hannah, my dears. And one of you musthurry back at once in any case, by the road, not by the fields, and tellus what has happened. '

Rose came in to say that Bessie and the other servants had seen nothingof Uncle Meshach, and that they were all three getting up, and then shedisappeared into the kitchen. Ethel and Milly departed, a little scared, a little regretful, but inspirited by the dreadful charm and fascinationof the whole inexplicable adventure. 

'Aunt Hannah's had another attack, depend on it, ' said John, 'that'sit. '

'I hope not, ' Leonora murmured perfunctorily. Now that she had brokenthe spell of futile inactivity which the discovery of Uncle Meshach'sbody seemed for a few dire moments to have laid upon them, she was moreat ease. 

'I fancy you'd better go down there yourself as soon as the doctor'sbeen, ' John continued. 'You're perhaps more likely to be useful therethan here. What do you think?'

She looked at him under her eyelids, saying nothing, and reading all hismind. He had obstinately determined that Uncle Meshach was dead, and hewas striving to conceal both his satisfaction on that account and hisrapidly growing anxiety as to the condition of Aunt Hannah. His terriblelack of frankness, that instinct for the devious and the underhand whichgoverned his entire existence, struck her afresh and seemed to devastateher heart. She felt that she could have tolerated in her husband anyvice with less effort than that one vice which was specially his, thatvice so contemptible and odious, so destructive of every noble andgenerous sentiment. Her silent, measured indignation fed itself onalmost nothing--on a mere word, a mere inflection of his voice, a singletransient gleam of his guilty eye. And though she was right by unerringintuition, John, could he have seen into her soul, might have beenexcused for demanding, 'What have I said, what have I done, to deservethis scorn?'

Rose returned, bearing materials for a fire; she had changed herLiberty dress for the dark severe frock of her studious hours, and shehad an irritating air of being perfectly equal to the occasion. John, having thrown off his ulster, endeavoured to assist her in lighting thefire, but she at once proved to him that his incapacity was a hindranceto her; whereupon he wondered what in the name of goodness Carpenter andthe doctor were doing to be so long. Leonora began to tidy the room, which bore witness to the regardless frenzy of anticipation with whichits occupants had cast aside the soiled commonplaces of life six hoursbefore. 

'But look!' Rose cried suddenly, examining Uncle Meshach anew, after thefire was lighted. 

'What?' John and Leonora demanded together, rushing to the bed. 

'His lips weren't like that!' the girl asserted with eagerness. 

All three gazed long at the impassive face. 

'Of course they were, ' said John, coldly discouraging. Leonora made noremark. 

The unblinking eyes of Uncle Meshach continued to stare upwards andoutwards, indifferently, interested in the ceiling. Outside could beheard the creaking of stairs, and the affrighted whisper of the maids asthey descended in deshabillé from their attics at the bidding of thisunconscious, cynical, and sardonic enigma on the bed. 

 * * * * *

'His heart is beating faintly. '

Old Dr. Hawley dropped the antique stethoscope back into the pocket ofhis tight dress coat, and, still bending over Uncle Meshach, but turningslightly towards John and Leonora, smiled with all his invinciblejollity. 

'Is it, by Jove?' John exclaimed. 

'You thought he was dead?' said the doctor, beaming. 

Leonora nodded. 

'Well, he isn't, ' the doctor announced with curt cheerfulness. 

'That's good, ' said John. 

'But I don't think he can get over it, ' the doctor concluded, withundiminished brightness, his eyes twinkling. 

While he spoke he was busy with the hot water and the cloths whichLeonora and Rose had produced immediately upon demand. In a few minutesUncle Meshach was covered almost from head to foot with cloths drenchedin hot mustard-and-water; he had hot-water bags under his arms, and hewas swathed in a huge blanket. 

'There!' said the rotund doctor. 'You must keep that up, and I'll send astimulant at once. I can't stop now; not another minute. I was calledto an obstetric case just as I started out. I'll come back the momentI'm free. '

'What is it--this thing?' John inquired. 

'What is it!' the doctor repeated genially. 'I'll tell you what it is. Put your nose there. ' He indicated Uncle Meshach's mouth. 'Do you noticethat ammoniacal smell? That's due to uraemia, a sequel of Bright'sdisease. '

'Bright's disease?' John muttered. 

'Bright's disease, ' affirmed the doctor, dwelling on the famous andstriking syllables. 'Your uncle is the typical instance of the man whohas never been ill in his life. He walks up a little slope or up somesteps to a friend's house, and just as he is lifting his hand to theknocker, he has a convulsion and falls down unconscious. That's Bright'sdisease. Never been ill in his life! Not so far as _he_ knew! Not so faras _he_ knew! Nearly all you Myatts had weak kidneys. Do you rememberyour great-uncle Ebenezer? You've sent down to Miss Myatt, you say?Good. .. . Perhaps he was lying on your steps for two or three hours. Hemay pull round. He may. We must hope so. '

The doctor put on his overcoat, and his cap with the ear-flaps, andafter a final glance at the patient and a friendly, reassuring smile atLeonora, he went slowly to the door. Girth and good humour and funnystories had something to do with his great reputation in Bursley andHillport. But he possessed shrewdness and sagacity; he belonged to adynasty of doctors; and he was deeply versed in the social traditions ofthe district. Men consulted him because their grandfathers had consultedhis father, and because there had always been a Dr. Hawley in Bursley, and because he was acquainted with the pathological details of theirancestral history on both sides of the hearth. His patients, indeed, were not individuals, but families. There were cleverer doctors in theplace, doctors of more refined appearance and manners, doctors lessmonotonously and loudly gay; but old Hawley, with his knowledge ofpedigrees and his unique instinctive sympathy with the idiosyncrasies oflocal character, could hold his own against the most assertive youngM. D. That ever came out of Edinburgh to monopolise the Five Towns. 

'Can you send some one round with me for the medicine?' he asked in thedoorway. 'Happen you'll come yourself, John?'

There was a momentary hesitation. 

'I'll come, doctor, ' said Rose. 'And then you can give me all yourinstructions. Mother must stay here. ' She completely ignored her father. 

'Do, my dear; come by all means. ' And the doctor beamed again suddenlywith the maximum of cheerfulness. 

 * * * * *

Meshach had given no sign of life; his eyes, staring upwards andoutwards, were still unchangeably fixed on the same portion of theceiling. He ignored equally the nonchalant and expert attentions of thedoctor, the false solicitude of John, Leonora's passionate anxiety, andRose's calm self-confidence. He treated the fomentations with the apathywhich might have been expected from a man who for fifty years had beenaccustomed to receive the meek skilled service of women in augustsilence. One could almost have detected in those eyes a glassy andprofound secret amusement at the disturbance which he had caused--ahumorous appreciation of all the fuss: the maids with their hair downtheir backs bending and whispering over a stove; Ethel and Millytrudging scared through the nocturnal streets; Rose talking with demureexcitement to old Hawley in his aromatic surgery; John officiouslycarrying kettles to and fro, and issuing orders to Bessie in thepassage; Leonora cast violently out of one whirlpool into another; andsome unknown expectant terrified pair wondering why the doctor, who hadbeen warned months before, should thus culpably neglect their urgentsummons. As he lay there so grim and derisive and solitary, so fatiguedwith days and nights, so used up, so steeped in experience, and socontemptuously unconcerned, he somehow baffled all the efforts ofblankets, cloths, and bags to make his miserable frame look ridiculous. He had a majesty which subdued his surroundings. And in this roomhitherto sacred to the charming mysteries of girlhood his cadaverouspresence forced the skirts and petticoats on Milly's bed, and thedisordered apparatus on the dressing-table, and the scented soaps on thewashstand, and the row of tiny boots and shoes which Leonora hadarranged near the wardrobe, to apologise pathetically and wistfully fortheir very existence. 

'Is that enough mustard?' John inquired idly. 

'Yes, ' said Leonora. 

She realised--but not in the least because he had asked a banal questionabout mustard--that he was perfectly insensible to all spiritualsignificances. She had been aware of it for many years, yet the facttouched her now more sharply than ever. It seemed to her that she mustcry out in a long mournful cry: 'Can't you see, can't you feel!' Andonce again her husband might justifiably have demanded: 'What have Idone this time?'

'I wish one of those girls would come back from Church Street, ' heburst out, frowning. 'They're here!' He became excited as he listened tolight rapid footsteps on the stair. But it was Rose who entered. 

'Here's the medicine, mother, ' said Rose eagerly. She was flushed withrunning. 'It's chloric ether and nitrate of potash, a highly diffusiblestimulant. And there's a chance that sooner or later it may put him intoa perspiration. But it will be worse than useless if the hotapplications aren't kept up, the doctor said. You must raise his headand give it him in a spoon in very small doses. '

And then Meshach impassively submitted to the handling of his head andhis mouth. He gurgled faintly in accepting the medicine, and soon histemples and the corners of his lips showed a very slight perspiration. But though the doses were repeated, and the fomentations assiduouslymaintained, no further result occurred, save that Meshach's eyes, according to the shifting of his head, perused new portions of theceiling. 

 * * * * *

As the futile minutes passed, John grew more and more restless. He wasobliged to admit to himself that Uncle Meshach was not dead, but he feltabsolutely sure that he would never revive. Had not the doctor said asmuch? And he wanted desperately to hear that Aunt Hannah still lived, and to take every measure of precaution for her continuance in thisworld. The whole of his future might depend upon the hazard of the nexthour. 

'Look here, Nora, ' he said protestingly, while Rose was on one of herjourneys to the kitchen. 'It's evidently not much use you stopping here, whereas there's no knowing what hasn't happened down at Church Street. '

'Do you mean you wish me to go down there?' she asked coldly. 

'Well, I leave it to your common sense, ' he retorted. 

Rose appeared. 

'Your father thinks I ought to go down to Church Street, ' said Leonora. 

'What! And leave uncle?' Rose added nothing to this question, butproceeded with her tasks. 

'Certainly, ' John insisted. 

Leonora was conscious of an acute resentment against her husband. Theidea of her leaving Uncle Meshach at such a crisis seemed to her to bepositively wicked. Had not John heard what Rose said to the doctor:'Mother must stay here'? Had he not heard that? But of course hedesired that Uncle Meshach should die. Yes, every word, every gesture ofhis in the sick-room was an involuntary expression of that desire. 

'Why don't you go yourself, father?' Rose demanded of him bluntly, aftera pause. 

'Simply because, if there _is_ any illness, I shouldn't be any use. 'John glared at his daughter. 

Then, quite suddenly, Leonora thought how vain, how pitiful, howunseemly, were these acrimonious conflicts of opinion in presence of thestrange and awe-inspiring riddle in the blanket. An impulse seized herto give way, and she found a dozen reasons why she should desert UncleMeshach for Aunt Hannah. 

'Can you manage?' she asked Rose doubtfully. 

'Oh yes, mother, we can manage, ' answered Rose, with an exasperatingmanufactured sweetness of tone. 

'Tell Carpenter to put the horse in, ' John suggested. 'I expect he'swaiting about in the kitchen. '

'No, ' said Leonora, 'I'll pin my skirt up and walk. I shall be half waythere before he's ready to start. '

When Leonora had departed, John redoubled his activity as a nurse. 'There's no object in changing the cloths as often as that, ' said Rose. But his suspense forbade him to keep still. Rose annoyed himexcessively, and the nervous energy which should have helped towardsself-control was expended in concealing that annoyance. He felt asthough he should go mad unless something decisive happened very soon. Tohis surprise, just after the hall clock (which was always kepthalf-an-hour fast) had sounded three through the dark passages of theapprehensive house, Rose left the room. He was alone with what remainedof Uncle Meshach. He moved the blanket, and touched the cloth which layon Meshach's heart. 'Not too hot, that, ' he said aloud. Taking the clothhe walked to the fire, where was a large saucepan full of nearly boilingwater. He picked up the lid of the saucepan, dropped it, crossed over tothe washstand with a brusque movement, and plunged the cloth into thecold water of the ewer. Holding it there, he turned and gazed in a sortof abstract meditation at Uncle Meshach, who steadily ignored him. Hewas possessed by a genuine feeling of righteous indignation against hisuncle. .. . He drew the cloth from the ewer, squeezed it a little, andapproached the bed again. And as he stood over Meshach with the cloth inhis hand, he saw his wife in the doorway. He knew in an instant that hisown face had frightened her and prevented her from saying what she wasabout to say. 

'How you startled me, Nora!' he exclaimed, with his surpassing geniusfor escaping from an apparently fatal situation. 

She ran up to the bed. 'Don't keep uncle uncovered like that, ' she said;'put it on. ' And she took the cloth from his hand. 'Why, ' she cried, 'it's like ice! What on earth are you doing? Where's Rose?'

'I was just taking it off, ' he replied. 'What about aunt?'

'I met the girls down the road, ' she said. 'Your aunt is dead. '

 * * * * *

A few minutes later Uncle Meshach's rigid frame suffered a convulsion;the whole surface of his skin sweated abundantly; his eyes wavered, closed, and opened again; his mouth made the motion of swallowing. Hehad come back from unconsciousness. He was no longer an enigma, wrappedin supercilious and inflexible calm; but a sick, shrivelled little man, so pitiably prostrate that his condition drew the sympathy out ofLeonora with a sharp violent pain, as very cold metal burns the fingers. He could not even whisper; he could only look. Soon afterwards Dr. Hawley returned, explaining that the anxiety of a husband about to be afather had called him too soon by several hours. The doctor, who hadbeen informed of Aunt Hannah's death as he entered the house, said atonce, on seeing him, that Uncle Meshach had had a marvellous escape. Then, when he had succoured the patient further, he turned ratherformidably to Leonora. 

'I want to speak to you, ' he said, and he led her out of the room, leaving Rose, Ethel, and John in charge of Meshach. 

'What is it, doctor?' she asked him plaintively on the landing. 

'Which is your bedroom? Show it me, ' he demanded. She opened a door, andthey both went in. 'I'll light the gas, ' he said, doing so. 'And now, 'he proceeded, 'you'll kindly retire to bed, instantly. Mr. Myatt is outof danger. ' He smiled warmly, just as he had smiled when he predictedthat Meshach would probably not recover. 

'But, doctor, ' Leonora protested. 

'Instantly, ' he said, forcing her gently on to the sofa at the foot ofthe two beds. 

'But some one ought to go down to Church Street to look after things, 'she began. 

'Church Street can wait. There's no hurry at Church Street now. '

'And uncle hasn't been told yet . .. I'm not at all over-tired, doctor. '

'Yes, mother dear, you are, and you must do as the doctor orders. ' Itwas Ethel who had come into the room; she touched Leonora's armcaressingly. 

'And where are you girls to sleep? The spare room isn't----'

'Oh, mother!----Just listen to her, doctor!' said Ethel, stroking hermother's hand, as though she and the doctor were two old and sagepersons, and Leonora was a small child. 

'They think I'm ill! They think I'm going to collapse!' The idea struckher suddenly. 'But I'm not. I'm quite well, and my brain is perfectlyclear. And anyhow, I'm sure I can't sleep. ' She said aloud: 'It wouldn'tbe any use; I shouldn't sleep. '

'Ah! I'll attend to that, I'll attend to that!' the doctor laughed. 'Ethel, help your mother to bed. ' He departed. 

'This is really most absurd, ' Leonora reflected. 'It's ridiculous. However, I'm only doing it to oblige them. '

Before she was entirely undressed, Rose entered with a powder in a whitepaper, and a glass of hot milk. 

'You are to swallow _this_, mother, and then drink _this_. Here, Eth, hold the glass a second. '

And Leonora accepted the powder from Rose and the milk from Ethel, asthey stood side by side in front of her. Great waves seemed to surgethrough her brain. In walking to the bed, she saw herself all white inthe mirror of the wardrobe. 

'My face looks as if it was covered with flour, ' she said to Ethel, witha short laugh. It did not occur to her that she was pale. 'Don't forgetto----' But she had forgotten what Ethel was not to forget. Her headreeled as it lay firmly on the pillow. The waves were waves of soundnow, and they developed into a rhythm, a tune. She had barely time todiscover that the tune was the Blue Danube Waltz, and that she wasdancing, when the whole world came to an end. 

 * * * * *

She awoke to feel the radiant influence of the afternoon sun through thegreen blinds. Impregnated with a delicious languor, she slowly stretchedout her arms, and, lifting her head, gazed first at the intricatetracery of the lace on her silk nightgown, and then into the silentdreamy spaces of the room. Everything was in perfect order; she guessedthat Ethel must have trod softly to make it tidy before leaving her, hours ago. John's bed was turned down, and his pyjamas laid out, withall Bessie's accustomed precision. Presently she noticed on hernight-table a sheet of note-paper, on which had been written in pencil, in large letters: 'Ring the bell before getting up. ' She could not besure whether the hand was Ethel's or Rose's. 'Oh!' she thought, 'howgood my girls are!' She was quite well, quite restored, and slightlyhungry. And she was also calm, content, ready to commence existenceanew. 

'I suppose I had better humour them, ' she murmured, and she rang thebell. 

Bessie entered. The treasure was irreproachably neat and prim in herblack and white. 

'What time is it, Bessie?' Leonora inquired. 

'It's a straight-up three, ma'am. '

'Then I must have slept for eleven hours! How is Mr. Myatt going on?'

Bessie dropped her hands, and smiled benevolently: 'Oh! He's muchbetter, ma'am. And when the doctor told him about poor Miss Myatt, ma'am, he just said the funeral must be on Saturday because he didn'tlike Sunday funerals, and it wouldn't do to wait till Monday. He didn'tsay nothing else. And he keeps on telling us he shall be well enough togo to the funeral, and he's sent master down to Guest's in St. Luke'sSquare to order it, and the hearse is to have two horses, but not thecoaches, ma'am. He's asleep just now, ma'am, and I'm watching him, butMiss Rose is resting on Miss Milly's bed in case, so I can come in herefor a minute or two. He told the doctor and master that Miss Myatt wastook with one of them attacks at half-past eleven o'clock, and he wentfor Dr. Adams as lives at the top of Oldcastle Street. Dr. Adams wasn'tin, and then he saw a cab--it must have been coming from the ball, ma'am, but Mr. Myatt didn't know as there was any ball--and he drove upto Hillport for Dr. Hawley, him being the family doctor. And then hesaid he felt bad-like, and he thought he'd come here and send masteracross the way for Dr. Hawley. And he got out of the cab and paid thecabman, and then he doesn't remember no more. Wasn't it dreadful, ma'am?I don't believe he rightly knew what he was doing, the poor oldgentleman!'

Leonora listened. 'Where are Miss Ethel and Miss Milly?' she asked. 

'Master said they was to go to Oldcastle to order mourning, ma'am. They've but just gone. And master said he should be back himself aboutsix. He never slept a wink, ma'am; nor even sat down. He just had hisbath, and Miss Ethel crept in here for his clothes. '

'And have you been to bed, Bessie?'

'Me? No, ma'am. What should I go to bed for? I'm as well as well, ma'am. Miss Milly slept in Miss Rose's bedroom, for a bit, and Miss Ethel onthe sofy in the drawing-room--not as you might call that sleeping. MissRose said you was to have some tea before you got up, ma'am. Shall Itell cook to get it now?'

'I really think I should prefer to have it downstairs, Bessie, thanks, 'said Leonora. 

'Very well, ma'am. But Miss Rose said----'

'Yes, but I will have it downstairs. In three-quarters of an hour, say. '

'Very well, ma'am. Now is there anything I can do for you, ma'am?'

While dressing, very placidly and deliberately, and while thinking uponall the multitudinous things that seemed to have happened in her worldduring her long slumber, Leonora dwelt too upon the extraordinary lovingkindness of this hireling, who got twenty pounds a year, half-a-day aweek, and a day a month. On the first of every month Leonora handed toBessie one paltry sovereign, thirteen shillings, and the odd fourpencein coppers. She wondered fancifully if she would have the effrontery torequite the girl in coin on the next pay-day; and she was filled with asense of the goodness of humanity. And then there crossed her mind therecollection that she had caught John in a wicked act on the previousnight. Yes; he had not imposed on her for a moment; and she perceivedclearly now that murder had been in his heart. She was not appalled nordesolated. She thought: 'So that is murder, that little thing, thatthing over in a minute!' It appeared to her that murder in the concretewas less dreadful than murder in the abstract, far less horrible thanthe strident sound of the word on the lips of a newsboy, or the look ofit in the 'Signal. ' She felt dimly that she ought to be shocked, unnerved, terrified, at the prospect of living, eating, and sleepingwith a man who had meant to kill. But she could not summon thesesensations. She merely experienced a kind of pity for John. She put theepisode away from her, as being closed, accidental, and unimportant. Uncle Meshach was alive. 

A few minutes before four o'clock, she went quietly into the sick-room. Bessie, sitting upright between the beds, put her finger to her lips. Uncle Meshach was asleep on Ethel's bed, and on the other bed lay Rose, also asleep, stretched in a negligent attitude, but fully dressed andwearing an old black frock that was too tight for her. The fire burnedbrightly. 

'Tea is ready in the drawing-room, ma'am, ' Bessie whispered, 'and Mr. Twemlow has just called. He's waiting to see you. '

 * * * * *

'So you know what has happened to us?'

'Yes, ' he said, 'I met your husband on St. Luke's Square. But I heardsomething before that. At one o'clock, a man told me at Knype Stationthat Mr. Myatt had cut his throat on your doorstep. I didn't believe it. So I called up Twemlow & Stanway over the 'phone and got on to thefacts. '

'What things people say!' she exclaimed. 

'I guess you've stood it very well, ' he remarked, gazing at her, as withquick, sure movements of her gracile hands she poured out the tea. 

'Ah!' she murmured, flushing, 'they sent me to bed. I have only just gotup. '

'I know exactly when you went to bed, ' he smiled. 

His tone filled her with satisfaction. She had hoped and expected thathe would behave naturally, that he would not adopt the desolatingattitude of gloom prescribed by convention for sympathisers with thebereaved; and she was not disappointed. He spoke with an easy andcheerful sincerity, and she was exquisitely conscious of the flatteryimplied in that simple, direct candour which seemed to say to her, 'Youand I have no need of convention--we understand each other. ' Perhapsnever in her life, not even in the wonderful felicities of girlhood, hadLeonora been more peacefully content than during those moments of calmsucceeding stress, as she met Arthur's eyes in the intimacy of afraternal confidence. The large room was so tranquil, the curtains sowhite, and the sunlight so benignant in the caress of its amberhorizontal rays. Rose lay asleep upstairs, Ethel and Millicent were atOldcastle, John would not return for two hours; and she and Arthur werealone together in the middle of the long quiet chamber, talking quietly. She was happy. She had no fear, neither for herself nor for him. Asinnocent as Rose, and more innocent than Ethel, she now regarded thefeverish experience of the dance as accidental, a thing to be forgotten, an episode of which the repetition was merely to be avoided; Death andthe fear of Death had come suddenly and written over its record in thepage of existence. Her present sanity and calmness and mild bliss andself-control--these were to last, these were the real symptoms of hercondition, and of Arthur's condition. No! The memory of the ball did nottrouble her; it had not troubled her since she awoke after the sedative. She had entered the drawing-room without a qualm, and the instant oftheir meeting, anticipated on the previous night as much in terror asin joy, had passed equably and serenely. Relying on his strength, andexulting in her own, she had given him her hand, and he had taken it, and that was all. She knew her native force. She knew that she had theprecious and rare gift of common sense, and she was perfectly convincedthat this common sense, which had never long deserted her in the past, could never permanently desert her in the future. She imagined thatnothing was stronger than common sense; she had small suspicion that intheir noblest hours men and women have invariably despised common sense, and trampled it underfoot as the most contemptible of human attributes. Therefore she was content and unalarmed. And she found pleasure even intrifles, as, for example, that the maid had set two cups-and-saucers andtwo only; the duality struck her as delicious. She looked close atArthur's sagacious, shrewd, and kindly face, with the heavy, clippedmoustache, and the bluish chin, and those grey hairs at the sides of theforehead. 'We belong to the same generation, he and I, ' she thought, eating bread and butter with relish, 'and we are not so very old, afterall!' Aunt Hannah was incomparably older, ripe for death. Who could beprofoundly moved by that unimportant, that trivial, demise? She feltvery sorry for Uncle Meshach, but no more than that. Such sentiments mayhave the appearance of callousness, but they were the authenticsentiments of Leonora, and Leonora was not callous. The financial aspectof Aunt Hannah's death, as it affected John and herself and the girlsand their home, did not disturb her. She was removed far above finance, far above any preoccupation about the latter years, as she sat talkingquietly and blissfully with Arthur in the drawing-room. 

'Yes, ' she was telling him, 'it was just opposite the Clayton-Vernons'that I met them. '

'Where the elm-trees spread over the road?' he questioned. 

She nodded, pleased by his minute interest in her narrative and by hisknowledge of the neighbourhood. 'I saw them both a long way off, walkingquickly, under a gas-lamp. And it's very curious, but although I was soanxious to know what had happened, I couldn't go on to meet them--I wasobliged to wait until they came up. And they didn't notice me at first, and then Ethel shrieked out: "Oh, it's mother!" And Milly said: "AuntHannah's dead, mother. Is Uncle Meshach dead?" You can't understand howqueer I felt. I felt as if Milly would go on asking and asking: "Isfather dead? Is Bessie dead? Is Bran dead? Are you dead?"'

'I know, ' he said reflectively. 

She guessed that he envied her the strange nocturnal adventure. And hersecret pride in the adventure, which hitherto she had endeavoured tosuppress, suddenly became open and legitimate. She allowed her face todisclose the thought: 'You see that I too have lived through crises, andthat I can appreciate how wonderful they are. ' And she proceeded to givehim all the details of Aunt Hannah's death, as she had learnt them fromEthel and Milly during the walk home through sleeping Hillport: how theservant had grown alarmed, and had called a neighbour by breaking abedroom window with a broomstick, leaning from Aunt Hannah's window, andhow the neighbour's eldest boy had run for Dr. Adams and had caught himin the street just as he was returning home, and how Aunt Hannah wasgone before the boy came back with Dr. Adams, and how no one could guesswhat had happened to Uncle Meshach, and no one could suggest what to do, until Ethel and Milly knocked at the door. 

'Isn't it all strange? Don't you think it's strange?' Leonora demanded. 

'No, ' he said. 'It seems strange, but it isn't really. Such things arealways happening. '

'Are they?' She spoke naïvely, with a girlish inflection and a girlishgesture. 

'Well, of course!' He smiled gravely, and yet humorously. And his eyessaid: 'What a charming simple thing you are!' And she liked to think ofhis superiority over her in experience, knowledge, imperturbability, breadth of view, and all those kindred qualities which women give to themen they admire. 

They could not talk further on the subject. 

'By the by, how's your foot?' he inquired. 

'My foot?'

'Yes. You hurt it last night, didn't you, after I'd gone?'

She had completely forgotten the trifling fiction, until it thus ratherstartlingly reappeared on his lips. She might easily have let it dienaturally, had she chosen; but she could not choose. She had a whim tokill it violently, romantically. 

'No, ' she said, 'I didn't hurt it. '

'It was your husband was telling me. '

She went on joyously and fearfully: 'Some one asked me to dance, after--after the Blue Danube. And I didn't want to; I couldn't. And soI said I had hurt my foot. It was just one of those things that onesays, you know!'

He was embarrassed; he had no remark ready. But to preserve appearanceshe lowered the corners of his lips and glanced at the copper tea-kettlethrough half-closed eyes, feigning to suppress a private amusement. Shewas quite aware, however, that she had embarrassed him. And just as, aminute earlier, she had liked him for his lordly, masculine, philosophicsuperiority, so now she liked him for that youthful embarrassment. Shefelt that all men were equally child-like to women, and that the mostadorable were the most child-like. 'How little you understand, afterall!' she thought. 'Poor boy, I unlatched the door, and you dared notpush it open! You were afraid of committing an indiscretion. But I willguide and protect you, and protect us both. '

This was the woman who, half an hour ago, had been exulting in theadequacy of her common sense. Innocent and enchanting creature, with therashness of innocence!

'I guess I couldn't dance again after the Blue Danube, either, ' he saidat length, boldly. 

She made no answer; perhaps she was a little intimidated; but she lookedat him with eyes and lips full of latent vivacity. 

'That was why I left, ' he finished firmly. There was in his tone a hintof that engaging and piquant antagonism which springs up between loversand dies away; he had the air of telling her that since she had inviteda confession she was welcome to it. 

She retreated, still admiring, and said evenly that the ball had been agreat success. 

Soon afterwards Ethel and Milly unexpectedly entered the room. They hadput on the formal aspect of dejection which they deemed proper for them, but on perceiving that their elders were talking quite naturally, theyat once abandoned constraint and became natural too. From the sight oftheir unaffected pleasure in seeing Arthur Twemlow again, Leonora drewfurther sustenance for her mood of serene content. 

'Just fancy, Mr. Twemlow, ' Millicent burst out. 'We walked all the wayto Oldcastle, and we never thought, and no one reminded us. It'sfather's fault, really. '

'What is father's fault, really?'

'It's Thursday afternoon and the shops were all shut. We shall have togo to-morrow morning. '

'Ah!' he said. 'The stores don't shut on Thursday afternoon in NewYork. '

'Mother will be able to come with us to-morrow morning, ' said Ethel, andapproaching Leonora she asked: 'Are you all right, mother?'

This simple, familiar conversation, and the free movements of the girls, and the graver suavity of Arthur and herself, seemed to Leonora toconstitute a picture, a scene, of mysterious and profound charm. 

Arthur rose to depart. The girls wished him to stay, but Leonora did notsupport them. In a house where an aged relative lay ill, and thatrelative so pathetically bereaved, it was not meet that a visitor shouldremain too long. Immediately he had gone she began to anticipate theirnext meeting. The eagerness of that anticipation surprised her. And, moreover, the environment of her life closed quickly round her; shecould not ignore it. She demanded of herself what was Arthur's excusefor calling, and how it was that she should be so happy in the midst ofwoe and death. Her joyous confidence was shaken. Feeling that on such aday she ought to have been something other than a delicate châtelaineidly dispensing tea in a drawing-room, she went upstairs, determined tofind some useful activity. 

The light was failing in the sick-room, and the fire shone brighter. Bessie had disappeared, and Rose sat in her place. Uncle Meshach stillslept. 

'Have you had a good rest, my dear?' she whispered, kissing Rosefondly. 'You had better go downstairs. I've had some tea, and I'll takecharge here now. '

'Very well, ' the girl assented, yawning. 'Who's that just gone?'

'Mr. Twemlow. '

'Oh, mother!' Rose exclaimed in angry disappointment. 'Why didn't someone tell me he was here?'

 * * * * *

'The cortège will move at 2. 15, ' said the mourning invitation cards, andon Saturday at two o'clock Uncle Meshach, dressed in deep black, sat ona cane-chair against the wall in the bedroom of his late sister. He hadnot been able to conceive Hannah's funeral without himself as chiefmourner, and therefore he had accomplished his own recovery in theamazing period of fifty hours; and in addition to accomplishing hisrecovery he had given an uninterrupted series of the most minutecommands concerning the arrangements for the obsequies. Protests hadbeen utterly useless. 'It will kill him, ' said Leonora to the doctor asMeshach, risen straight out of bed, was getting into a cab at Hillportthat morning to drive to Church Street. 'It may, ' old Hawley answered. 'But what can one do?' Smiling, first at Meshach, and then at Leonora, the doctor had joined his aged patient in the cab and they had gone offtogether. 

Next to the cane-chair was Hannah's mahogany bed, which had beenstripped. On the bed lay a massive oaken coffin, and, accurately fittedinto the coffin, lay the withered remains of Meshach's slave. The primand spotless bedroom, with its chest of drawers, its small glass, itsthree-cornered wardrobe, its narrow washstand, its odd bonnet-boxes, itstrunk, its skirts hung inside-out behind the door, its Bible with thespectacle-case on it, its texts, its miniature portraits, its samplers, framed in maple, and its engraving of the infant John Wesley being savedfrom the fire at Epworth Vicarage, framed in gold, was eloquent of thehabits of the woman who had used it, without ambition, without repining, and without hope, save an everlasting hope, for more than fifty years. 

Into this room, obedient to the rigid etiquette of an old-fashioned FiveTowns funeral, every person asked to the burial was bound to come, inorder to take a last look at the departed, and to offer a few words ofsympathy to the chief mourner. As they entered--Stanway, David Dain, Fred Ryley, Dr. Hawley, Leonora, the servant, and lastly ArthurTwemlow--unwillingly desecrating the almost sæcular modesty of thechamber, Meshach received them one by one with calmness, withdetachment, with the air of the curator of the museum. 'Here she is, 'his mien indicated. 'That is to say, what's left. Gaze your fill. 'Beyond a monotonous 'Thank ye, thank ye, ' in response to expressions ofsympathy for him, and of appreciation of Hannah's manifold excellences, he made no remarks to any one except Leonora and Arthur Twemlow. 

'Has that ginger wine come?' he asked Leonora anxiously. The feast afterthe sepulture was as important, and as strictly controlled by etiquette, as the lying-in-state. Leonora, who had charge of the meal, was able togive him an affirmative. 

'I'm glad as you've come, ' he said to Twemlow. 'I had a fancy for you tosee her again as soon as they told me you was back. Her makes a goodcorpse, eh?'

Twemlow agreed. 'To die suddenly, that's the best, ' he murmuredawkwardly; he did not know what to say. 

'Her was a good sister, a good sister!' Meshach pronounced with anemotion which was doubtless genuine and profound, but whichsuperficially resembled that of an examiner awarding pass-marks to apupil. 'By the way, Twemlow, ' he added as Arthur was leaving the room, 'didst ever thrash that business out wi' our John? I've been thinkingover a lot of things while I was fast abed up yon'. '

Arthur stared at him. 

'Thou knowst what I mean?' continued Meshach, putting his thin tremuloushand on the edge of the coffin in order to rise from the chair. 

'Yes, ' Arthur replied, 'I know. I haven't settled it yet, I haven't hadtime. '

'I should ha' thought thou'dst had time enough, lad, ' said Meshach. 

Then the undertaker's men adjusted the lid of the coffin, hiding AuntHannah's face, and screwed in the eight brass screws, and clumped downthe dark stairs with their burden, and so across the pavement betweentwo rows of sluttish sightseers, to the hearse. Uncle Meshach, with theaid only of his stick, entered the first coach; John Stanway and FredRyley--the rules of precedence were thus inflexible!--occupied thesecond; and Arthur Twemlow, with the family lawyer and the familydoctor, took the third. Leonora remained in the house with the servantto spread the feast. 

The church was barely four hundred yards away, and in less than half anhour they were all in the house again; all save Aunt Hannah, who hadalready, in the vault of the Myatts, passed the first five minutes ofthe tedium of waiting for the Day of Judgment. And now, as theygathered round the fish, the fowl, the ham, the cake, the preserves, thetea, the wines and the spirits, etiquette demanded that they should becheerful, should show a resignation to the will of heaven, and shouldeat heartily. And although the rapid-ticking clock on the mantelpiece inthe parlour pointed only to a little better than three o'clock they wereobliged to eat heartily, for fear of giving pain to Uncle Meshach; todrink much was not essential, but nothing could have excused abstentionfrom the solid fare. The repast, actively conducted by the mourninghost, was not finished until nearly half-past four. Then Twemlow and thedoctor said that they must leave. 

'Nay, nay, ' Meshach complained. 'There's the will to be read. It's rightand proper as all the guests should hear the will, and it'll take nobbuta few minutes. '

The enfeebled old man talked more and more the dialect which his fatherand mother had talked over his cradle. 

'Better without us, old friend!' the doctor said jauntily. 'Besides, mypatients!' And by dint of blithe obstinacy he managed to get away, andalso to cover the retreat of Twemlow. 

'I shall call in a day or two, ' said Arthur to Uncle Meshach as theyshook hands. 

'Ay! call and see th' old ruin!' Meshach replied, and dropping backinto his chair, 'Now, Dain!' he ordered. 

David Dain drew a long white envelope from his breast pocket. 

'"This is the last will and testament of me, Hannah Margaret Myatt, "'the lawyer began to read quickly in his thick voice, '"of Church Street, Bursley, in the county of Stafford, spinster. I commit my body to thegrave and my soul to God in the sure hope of a blessed resurrectionthrough my Redeemer the Lord Jesus Christ. I bequeath ten pounds each tomy dear nephew John Stanway, and to his wife Leonora, to purchasemourning at my decease, and five pounds each for the same purpose to mydear great-nephew Frederick Wellington Ryley, and to my great-niecesEthel, Rosalys, and Millicent Stanway, and to any other children of thesaid John and Leonora Stanway should they have such, and should suchchildren survive me. " This will is dated twelve years ago, ' the lawyerstopped to explain. He continued: '"I further bequeath to mygreat-nephew Frederick Wellington Ryley the sum of two hundred and fiftypounds. "'

'Something for you there, Frederick Wellington Ryley!' exclaimed Stanwayin a frigid tone, biting his thumb and looking up at the ceiling. 

Ryley blushed. He had scarcely spoken during the meal, and he did notbreak his silence now. 

With much verbiage the will proceeded to state that the testatrix leftthe residue of her private savings to Meshach, 'to dispose of absolutelyaccording to his own discretion, ' in case he should survive her; andthat in case she should survive him she left her private savings and thewhole of the estate of which she and Meshach were joint tenants to JohnStanway. 

'There is a short codicil, ' Dain added, 'which revokes the legacy of twohundred and fifty pounds to Mr. Ryley in case Mr. Myatt should survivethe testatrix. It is dated some six months ago. '

'Kindly read it, ' said Stanway coldly. 

'With pleasure, ' the lawyer agreed, and he read it. 

'Then, as it turns out, ' Stanway remarked, looking defiantly at hisuncle, 'Ryley gets nothing but five pounds under this will. '

'Under this will, nephew, ' the old man assented. 

'And may one inquire, ' Stanway persisted, 'the nature of your intentionsin regard to aunt's savings which she leaves you to dispose of accordingto your discretion?'

'What dost mean, nephew?'

Leonora saw with anxiety that her husband, while intending to be calm, pompous, and superior, was, in fact, losing control of himself. 

'I mean, ' said John, 'are you going to distribute them?'

'No, nephew. They're well enough where they lie. I shall none touch'em. '

Stanway gave the sigh of a martyr who has sufficient spirit to bedisdainful. Throwing his serviette on the disordered table, he pushedback his chair and stood up. 'You'll excuse me now, uncle, ' he said, bitterly polite, 'I must be off to the works. Ryley, I shall want you. 'And without another word he left the room and the house. 

 * * * * *

Leonora was the last to go. Meshach would not allow her to stay afterthe tea-things were washed up. He declined firmly every offer of help orcompanionship, and since the middle-aged servant made no objection tobeing alone with her convalescent master, Leonora could only submit tohis wishes. 

When she was gone he lighted his pipe. At seven o'clock, the servantcame into the parlour and found him dozing in the dark; his pipe hungloosely from his teeth. 

'Eh, mester, ' she cried, lighting the gas. 'Hadn't ye better go to bed?Ye've had a worriting day. '

'Happen I'd better, ' he answered deliberately, taking hold of the pipeand adjusting his spectacles. 

'Can ye undress yeself?' she asked him. 

'Ay, ' he said, 'I can do that, wench. My candle!'

And he went carefully up to bed. 

CHAPTER X

IN THE GARDEN

'Father's in a horrid temper. Did anything go wrong?' said Rose, whenLeonora reached Hillport. 

'No, ' Leonora replied. 'Where is he?'

'In the drawing-room. He says he won't have any tea. '

'You must remember, my dear, that your father has been through a greatdeal this last day or two. '

'So have all of us, as far as that goes, ' Rose stated ruthlessly. 'However----' She turned away, shrugging her shoulders. 

Leonora wondered by means of what sad experience Rose would ultimatelydiscover that, whereas men have the right to cry out when they are hurt, it is the whole business of a woman's life to suffer in cheerfulsilence. She sat with the girls during tea, drinking a cup for the sakeof form, and giving them disconnected items of information about thefuneral, which at their own passionate request they had been excusedfrom attending. The talk was carried on in low tones, so that the rattleof a spoon in a saucer sounded loud and distinct. And in thedrawing-room John steadily perused the 'Signal, ' column by column, fromthe announcement of 'Pink Dominoes' at the Hanbridge Theatre Royal onthe first page, to the bait of a sporting bookmaker in Holland at theend of the last. The evening was desolating, but Leonora endured it withphilosophy, because she appreciated John's state of mind. 

It was the disclosure of the legacy of two hundred and fifty pounds toFred Ryley, and of the recent conditional revocation of that legacy, which had galled her husband's sensibilities by bringing home to himwhat he had lost through Aunt Hannah's sudden death and through thesenile whim of Uncle Meshach to alter his will. He could well havetolerated Meshach's refusal to distribute Aunt Hannah's savingsimmediately (Leonora thought), had the old man's original testamentremained uncancelled. Once upon a time, Ryley, the despised poorrelation, the offspring of an outcast from the family, was to have beenput off with two hundred and fifty pounds, and the bulk of the Myattjoint fortune was to have passed in any case to John. The withdrawal ofthe paltry legacy, as shown in the codicil, was the outward andirritating sign that Ryley had been lifted from his humble position tothe level of John himself. John, of course, had known months ago that heand Ryley stood level in the hazard of gaining the inheritance, but thehistory of the legacy, revealed after the funeral, aroused his disgustedimagination, as it had not been roused before. 

He was beaten; and, more important, he knew it now; he had the incensed, futile, malevolent, devil-may-care feeling of being beaten. He bitterlyinvited Fate not to stop at half-measures but to come on and do herworst. And Fate, with that mysterious responsiveness which oftendistinguishes her movements, came on. 'Of course! I might have expectedit!' John exclaimed savagely, two days later, when he received acircular to the effect that a small and desperate minority ofshareholders were trying to put the famous brewery company intoliquidation under the supervision of the Court. The shares fell anotherfive in twenty-four hours. The Bursley Conservative Club knew positivelythe same night that John had 'got out' at a ruinous loss, and thisepisode seemed to give vigorous life to certain rumours, hitherto faint, that John and his uncle had violently quarrelled at his aunt's funeral, and that when Meshach died Fred Ryley would be found to be the heir. Other rumours, that Ethel Stanway and Fred Ryley were about to besecretly married, that Dain would have been the owner of Prince but forthe difference between guineas and pounds, and that the real object ofArthur Twemlow's presence in the Five Towns was to buy up the concern ofTwemlow & Stanway, were received with reserve, though not entirelydiscredited. The town, however, was more titillated than perturbed, forevery one said that old Meshach, for the sake of the family's good name, would never under any circumstances permit a catastrophe to occur. Thetown saw little of Meshach now--he had almost ceased to figure in thestreets; it knew, however, the Myatt pride in the Myatt respectability. 

 * * * * *

Leonora sympathised with John, but her sympathy, weakened by hissurliness, was also limited by her ignorance of his real plight, and bythe secret preoccupation of her own existence. From the evening of thefuneral the desire to see Arthur again, to study his features, to hearhis voice, definitely took the uppermost place in her mind. She thoughtof him always, and she ceased to pretend to herself that this was notso. She continually expected him to call, or to meet some one who hadmet him, or to receive a letter from him. She forced her memory toreconstitute in detail his last visit to Hillport, and all theexacerbating scene of the funeral feast, in order that she might dwelltenderly upon his gestures, his glances, his remarks, the inflections ofhis voice. The eyes of her soul were ever beholding his form. Even atbreakfast, after the disappointment of the post, she would indulge inridiculous hopes that he might be abroad very early and would look in, and not until bedtime did she cease to listen for his ring at the frontdoor. No chance of a meeting was too remote for her wild fancy. But shedared not breathe his name, dared not even adumbrate an inquiry; and herhusband and daughters appeared to have entered into a compact not tomention him. She did not take counsel with herself, examine herself, demand from herself what was the significance of these symptoms; shecould not; she could only live from one moment to the next engrossed inan eternal expectancy which instead of slackening became hourly moreintense and painful. Towards the close of the afternoon of the thirdday, in the drawing-room, she whispered that something decisive musthappen soon, soon. .. . The bell rang; her ears caught the distant soundfor which they had so long waited. Shuddering, she thanked heaven thatshe was alone. She could hear the opening and closing of the front door. In three seconds Bessie would appear. She heard the knob of thedrawing-room door turn, and to hide her agitation she glanced aside atthe clock. It was a quarter to six. 'He will stay the evening, ' shethought. 

'Mr. Dain, ' Bessie proclaimed. 

'Oh, how do you do, Mrs. Stanway? Stanway not come in yet, eh?' said thestout lawyer, approaching her hurriedly with his fussy, awkward gait. 

She could have laughed; but the visit was at any rate a distraction. 

A few minutes later John arrived. 

'Dain will stay for tea, Nora. Eh, Dain?' he said. 

'Well--thanks, ' was Dain's reply. 

She asked herself, with sudden misgiving, what new thing was afoot. 

After tea, the two men were left together at the table. 

'Mother, ' Ethel inquired eagerly, coming into the drawing-room, 'why arefather and Mr. Dain measuring the dining-room?'

'I don't know, ' said Leonora. 'Are they?'

'Yes, Mr. Dain has got ever such a long tape. '

Leonora went into the kitchen and talked to the cook. 

The next morning an idea occurred to her. Since the funeral, the girlshad been down to see Uncle Meshach each afternoon, and Leonora hadcalled at Church Street in the forenoon, so that the solitude of the oldman might be broken at least twice a day. When she had suggested thearrangement to her husband, John had answered stiffly, with anunimpeachable righteousness, that everything possible must be done forhis uncle. On this fourth day, Leonora sent Ethel and Milly in themorning, with a message that she herself would come in the afternoon, byway of change. The phrase that sang in her head was Arthur's promise toMeshach: 'I shall call in a day or two. ' She knew that he had not yetcalled. 'Don't wait tea, if I should be late, dears, ' she said smilinglyto the girls; 'I may stay with uncle a while. ' And she nearly ran out ofthe house. 

 * * * * *

When they had had tea, and when Leonora had performed the delicate featof arranging Uncle Meshach's domestic affairs without affronting hisservant, she sat down opposite to him before the fire in the parlour. 

'You're for stopping a bit, eh?' he said, as if surprised. 

'Well, ' she laughed, 'wouldn't you like me to?'

'Oh, ay!' he admitted readily, 'I'st like it well enough. I don't knowbut what you aren't all on ye very good--you and th' wenches, and Fredas calls in of nights. But it's all one to me, I reckon. I take nopleasure i' life. Nay, ' he went on, 'it isn't because of _her_. I'vefelt as I was done for for months past. I mun just drag on. '

'Don't talk like that, uncle. ' She tried conventionally to cheer him. 'You must rouse yourself. '

'What for?'

She sought a good answer to this conundrum. 'For all of us, ' she saidlamely, at length. 

'Leonora, my lass, ' he remarked drily, 'you're no better than the restof 'em. '

And as she sat there in the age-worn parlour, and thought of the distantdays of his energy, when with his own hands he had pulled down a walland replaced it by a glass partition, and of the night when he lay likea corpse on Ethel's bed at the mercy of his nephew, and of Aunt Hannahresting in the cold tomb just at the end of the street, her heart wasfilled for a moment with an awful, ineffable, devastating sadness. Itseemed to her that every grief, anxiety, apprehension was joy itselfcompared to this supreme tragedy of natural decay. 

'Shall I light the gas?' she suggested. The room was always obscure, andthat evening happened to be a sombre one. 

'Ay!'

'There!' she said brightly, when the gas flared, 'that's better, isn'tit? Aren't you going to smoke?'

'Ay!'

In reaching a second spill from the spill-jar on the mantelpiece shenoticed the clock. It was only a quarter past five. 'He may call yet, 'she dreamed, and then a more piquant thought: 'He may be at home when Iget back. '

There was a perfunctory knock at the house-door. She started. 

'It's the "Signal" lad, ' Meshach explained. 'He keeps on bringing it, but I never look at it. '

She went into the lobby for the paper, and then read aloud to UncleMeshach the items of local news. The clock showed a quarter to six. Suddenly it struck her that Arthur Twemlow might have called quite earlyin the afternoon and that Meshach might have forgotten to tell her. Ifhe had perchance called, and perchance informed Meshach that he wasgoing on to Hillport, and if he had walked up by the road while she camedown by the fields! The idea was too dreadful. 

'Has Mr. Twemlow been to see you yet?' she demanded, after a longsilence, pretending to be interested in the 'Signal. '

'No, ' said Meshach; 'why dost ask?'

'I remembered he said he should. '

'He'll come, he'll come, ' Meshach murmured confidently. 'Dain's beenin, ' he added, 'wi' papers to sign, probate o' Hannah's will. SeeminglyJohn's not satisfied, from what Dain hints. '

'Not satisfied with what?' Flushing a little, she dropped the paper; butshe was still busily employed in expecting Arthur to arrive. 

'Eh, I canna' tell you, lass. ' Meshach gave a grim sigh. 'You know as Ialtered my will?'

'Jack mentioned it. '

'Me and her, we thought it over. It was her as first said that Fred wasgetting a nice young chap, and very respectable, and why should he beleft out in the cold? And so I says to her, I says, "Well, you can makeyour will i' favour o' Fred, if you've a mind. " "Nay, Meshach, " hersays, "never ask me to cut out our John's name. " "Well, " I says to her, "if you won't, I will. It'll give 'em both an even chance. Us'n diepretty near together, me and you, Hannah, it'll be a toss-up, " I says. Wasn't that fair?' Leonora made no reply. 'Wasn't that fair?' herepeated. 

She could not be sure, even then, whether Uncle Meshach had devised inperfect seriousness this extraordinary arrangement for dealing justlybetween the surviving members of the Myatt family, or whether he hadalways had a private humorous appreciation of the fantastic element init. 

'I don't know, ' she said. 

'Well, lass, ' he continued persuasively, sitting up in his chair, 'usignored young Fred for more till twenty year. And it wasna' right. Hannah said it wasna' right as Fred should suffer for his mother and hisgrandfeyther. And then us give Fred and your John an equal chance, andJohn's lost, and now John isna' satisfied, by all accounts. ' She gazedat him with a gentle smile. 'Why dostna' speak, lass?'

'What am I to say, uncle?'

'Wouldst like me to make a new will, and halve it between John and Fred?It wouldna' be fair to Fred, not rightly fair, because he's run his riskfor th' lot. But wouldst like it, lass?'

There was a trace of the old vitality in his shrivelled features, as helaid this offering on the altar of her feminine charm. 

'Oh, do, uncle!' she was about to say eagerly, but she thought in thesame instant of John standing over Meshach's body, with the ice-coldcloth in his hand, and something, some dim instinct of a fundamentalpropriety, prevented her from uttering those words. 'I would like you todo whatever you think right, ' she answered with calmness. 

Meshach was evidently disappointed. 

'I shall see, ' he ejaculated. And after a pause, 'John's i' smooth wateragain, isn't he? I meant to ask Dain. '

'I think so, ' said Leonora. 

She had become restive. Soon afterwards she bade him good-night anddeparted. And all the way up to Hillport she speculated upon the chancesof finding Arthur in her drawing-room when she got home. 

 * * * * *

As she passed through the hall she knew at once that Arthur was not inthe house and had not been there; and the agitation of her heartsubsided suddenly into the melancholy stillness of defeated hope. Shesadly admitted that she no longer knew herself, and that the Leonora ofold had been supplanted by a creature of incalculable moods, a feeblevictim of strange crises of secret folly. Through the open door of thedrawing-room she could see Rose reading, and Millicent searching amonga pile of music on the piano. Bessie emerged from the dining-room with awhite cloth and the crumb-tray. 

'Master's in there, ' said Bessie; 'they didn't wait tea, ma'am. '

Leonora went into the dining-room, where John sat alone at the baremahogany, smoking. With her deep knowledge of him, she detectedinstantly that he had been annoyed by her absence from tea. Thecondition of the sharp end of his cigar showed that he was perturbed, fretful, and perhaps in a state of suspense. 'Well, ' she thought withresignation, 'I may as well play the wife, ' and she sat down in a chairnear him, put her purse on the table, and smiled generously. Then sheraised her veil, loosed the buttons of her new black coat, and began todraw off her gloves. 

'I've been waiting for you, ' he said, and to her surprise his tone wasextremely pacific. 

'Have you?' she answered, intensifying all her alluring grace. 'Ihurried home. '

'Yes, I wanted to ask you----' He stopped, ostensibly to put the cigarinto his meerschaum holder. 

She perceived that the desire to ingratiate fought within him againsthis vexation, and she wondered, with a touch of cynicism, what newscheme had got possession of him, and how her assistance was necessaryto it. 

'Would you like to go and live in the country, Nora?' He looked at heraudaciously for a moment and then his eyes shifted. 

'For the summer, you mean?'

'Yes, ' he said, 'for the summer and the winter too. Somewhere out Sneydway. '

'And leave here?'

'Exactly. '

'But what about the house, Jack?'

'Sell it, if you like, ' said John lightly. 

'Oh, no! I shouldn't like that at all, ' she replied, nervously butamiably. She wished to believe that his suggestion about selling thehouse was merely an idle notion thrown out on the spur of the moment, but she could not. 

'You wouldn't?'

She shook her head. 'What has made you think of going to live in thecountry?' she asked him, using a tone of gentle, mild curiosity. 'Howshould you get to the works in the morning?'

'There's a very good train service from Sneyd to Knype, ' he said. 'Butlook here, Nora, why wouldn't you care to sell the house?'

It was perfectly clear to her that, having mortgaged her house, he hadnow made up his mind to sell it. He must therefore still be infinancial difficulties, and she had unwittingly misled Uncle Meshach. 

'I don't know, ' she answered coldly. 'I can't explain to you why. But Ishouldn't. ' And she privately resolved that nothing should induce her toassent to this monstrous proposal. Her heart hardened to steel. She feltprepared to suffer any unpleasantness, any indignity, rather than giveway. 

'It isn't as if Hillport wasn't changing, ' he went on, politelyargumentative. 'It is changing. In another ten years all the decentestates will have been broken up, and we shall be left alone in themiddle of streets of villas rented at nineteen guineas to escape thehouse duty. You know the sort of thing. .. . And I've had a very fairoffer for the place. '

'Whom from?'

'Well, Dain. I know he's wanted the house a long time. Of course, he's ahard nut to crack, is Dain. But he went up to two thousand, andyesterday I got him to make it guineas. That's a good price, Nora. '

'Is it?' she exclaimed absently. 

'I should just imagine it was!' said John. 

So it was expected of her that she should surrender her home, herdomain, her kingdom, the beautiful and mellow creation of herintelligence; and that she should surrender it to David Dain, and tothe impossible Mrs. Dain, and to their impossible niece. She rememberedone of Milly's wicked tales about Mrs. Dain and the niece. Milly had metMrs. Dain in the street, and in response to an inquiry about the healthof the hypochondriacal niece, Mrs. Dain, gorgeously attired, hadreplied: 'Her had but just rallied up off th' squab as I come out. 'These were the people who wanted to evict her from her house. And theywould cover its walls with new papers, and its floors with new carpets, in their own appalling taste; and they would crowd the rooms withfurniture as fat, clumsy, and disgusting as themselves. And Mrs. Dainwould hold sewing meetings in the drawing-room, and would standchattering with tradesmen at the front door, and would drive out toSneyd to pay a call on Leonora and tell her how _pleased_ they all werewith the place!

'Do you absolutely need the money, John?' She came to the point with afrank, blunt directness which angered him. 

'I don't absolutely need anything, ' he retorted, controlling himself. 'But Dain made the offer----'

'Because if you do, ' she proceeded, 'I dare say Uncle Meshach----'

'Look here, my girl, ' he interrupted in turn, 'I've had exactly as muchof Uncle Meshach as I can stand. I know all about Uncle Meshach, what Iwanted to know was whether you cared to sell the house. ' And then headded, after hesitating, and with a false graciousness, 'To oblige me. '

There was a marked pause. 

'I really shouldn't like to sell the house, John, ' she answered quietly. 'It was aunt's, and----'

'Enough said! enough said!' he cried. 'That finishes it. I suppose youdon't mind my having asked you!'

He walked out of the room in a rage. 

Tears came into her eyes, the tears of a wounded and proud heart. Was itconceivable that he expected her to be willing to sell her house?. .. Hemust indeed be in serious straits. She would consult Uncle Meshach. 

The front door banged. And then Rose entered the room. 

Leonora drove back the tears. 

'Your father has been suggesting that we sell this house, and go andlive at Sneyd, ' she said to the girl in a trembling voice. 'Aren't yousurprised?' She seldom talked about John to her daughters, but at thatmoment a desire for sympathy overwhelmed her. 

'I should never be surprised at anything where father was concerned, 'said Rose coldly, with a slight hint of aloofness and of mentalsuperiority. 'Not at anything. '

Leonora got up, and, leaving the room, went into the garden through theside door opposite the stable. She could hear Millicent practising theJewel Song from Gounod's _Faust_. As she passed down the sombre gardenthe sound of the piano and of Milly's voice in the brilliant ecstaticphrases of the song grew fainter. She shook violently, like a child whois recovering from a fit of sobs, and without thinking she fastened hercoat. 'What a shame it is that he should want to sell my house! What ashame!' she murmured, full of an aggrieved resentment. At the same timeshe was surprised to find herself so suddenly and so deeply disturbed. 

 * * * * *

At the foot of the long garden was a low fence separating it from themeadow, and in the fence a wicket from which ran a faint track to themain field-path. She leaned against the fence, a few yards away from thewicket, at a spot where a clump of bushes screened the house. No onecould possibly have seen her from the house, even had the bushes notbeen there; but she wished to isolate herself completely, and to findtranquillity in the isolation. The calm spring night, chill but not toocold, cloudy but not too dark, favoured her intention. She gazed abouther at the obscure nocturnal forms of things, at the silent trees, andthe mysterious clouds gently rounded in their vast shape, and the sharpslant of the meadow. Far below could be seen the red signal of therailway, and, mapped in points of light on the opposite slope, thestreets of Bursley. To the right the eternal conflagration of theCauldon Bar furnaces illumined the sky with wavering amber. And on thekeen air came to her from the distance noises, soft but impressive, ofimmense industrial activities. 

She thought she could decipher a figure moving from the field-pathacross the gloom of the meadow, and as she strained her eyes the figurebecame an indubitable fact. Presently she knew that it was Arthur. 'Atlast!' her heart passionately exclaimed, and she was swept and drenchedwith happiness as a ship by the ocean. She forgot everything in thetremendous shock of joy. She felt as though she could have waited nomore, and that now she might expire in a bliss intense and fatal, in asigh of supreme content. She could not stir nor speak, and he wasstriding towards the wicket unconscious of her nearness! She coughed, adelicate feminine cough, and then he turned aside from the direction ofthe wicket and approached the fence, peering. 

'Is that you?' he asked. 

'Yes. '

Across the fence they clasped hands. And in spite of her great wish notto do so she clutched his hand tightly in her long fingers, and held itfor a moment. And as she felt the returning pressure of his large, powerful, protective grasp, she covered--but in imagination only--shecovered his face, which she could shadowily see, with brave andabandoned kisses; and she whispered to him, but unheard: 'Admit that Iam made for love. ' She feared, in those beautiful and shamelessinstants, neither John, nor Ethel and Milly, nor even Rose. She knewsuddenly why men and women leave all--honour, duty, and affection--andfollow love. Then her arm dropped, and there was silence. 

'What are you doing here?' She was unable to speak in an ordinary tone, but she spoke. Her voice exquisitely trembled, and its vibrations saideverything that the words did not say. 

'Why, ' he answered, and his voice too bore strange messages, 'I calledat Church Street and Mr. Myatt said you had only been gone a fewminutes, and so I came right away. I guessed I should overtake you. Idon't know what he would think. ' Arthur laughed nervously. 

She smiled at him, satisfied. And how well she knew that her smilingface, caught by him dimly in the obscurity of the night, troubled himlike an enchanting and enigmatic vision!

After they had looked at each other, speechless, for a while, the stronginfluence of convention forced them again into unnecessary, irrelevanttalk. 

'What's this about you selling this place?' he inquired in a low, mildtone. 

'Have you heard?'

'Yes, ' he said, 'I did hear something. '

'Ah!' she murmured, wrinkling her forehead in a pretty make-believe ofwoe--the question of the sale had ceased to be acute: 'I just came outhere to think about it. '

'But you aren't really going to----'

'No, of course not. '

She had no desire to discuss the tedious affair, because she wasinfallibly certain of his entire sympathy. Explanations on her side, andassurances on his, were equally superfluous. 

'But won't you come into the house?' She invited him as a sort ofafterthought. 

'Why?' he demanded bluntly. 

She hesitated before replying: 'It will look so queer, us staying herelike this. ' As soon as she had uttered the words she suspected that shehad said something decisive and irretrievable. 

He put his hands into the pockets of his overcoat and walked severaltimes to and fro a few paces. Then he stopped in front of her. 

'I guess we are bound to look queer, you and I, some day. So it may aswell be now, ' he said. 

It was in this exchange of sentences that their mutual passion became atlength articulate. A single discreet word spoken quickly, and she mighteven yet perhaps have withdrawn from the situation. But she did notspeak; she could not speak; and soon she knew that her own silence hadbound her. She yielded herself with poignant and magnificent joy to theprofound drama which had been magically created by this apparentlycommonplace dialogue. The climax had been achieved, and she wasconscious of being lifted into a sublime exultation, and of being cutoff from all else in the world save him. She looked at him intently witha sadness that was the cloak of celestial rapture. 'How courageous youare!' her soft eyes said. 'I should never have dared. What a _man_!' Itseemed to her that her heart would break under the strain of thatecstasy. She had not imagined the possibility of such bliss. 

'Listen!' he proceeded. 'I ought to be in New York--I oughtn't to behere. I must tell you. Scarcely a fortnight ago, one afternoon while Iwas working in my office in Fourteenth Street, I had a feeling I wouldbe bound to come over. I said to myself the idea was preposterous. Butthe next thing I knew I was arranging to come. I couldn't believe I wascoming. Not even when I had booked my berth and boarded the steamer, noteven when the steamer was actually passing Sandy Hook, could I believethat I was really coming. I said to myself I was mad. I said to myselfthat no man in his senses could behave as I was behaving. And when I gotto Southampton I said I would go right back. And yet I couldn't helpgetting into the special for London. And when I got to London I said Iwould act sensible and go back. But I met young Burgess, and the nextthing I knew I was at Euston. And here I am pretending that it's my newLondon branch that brings me over, and doing business I don't want to doin Knype and Cauldon and Bursley. And I'm killing myself--yes, I am; Itell you I couldn't stand much more--and I wouldn't be sure I wasn'tkilling you. Some folks would say the whole thing was perfectlydreadful, but I don't care so long as you--so long as you don't. I'm notconceited really, but it looks like conceit--me talking like this andassuming that you're ready to stand and listen. I assure you it isn'tconceit. I only know--that's all. It's difficult for you to sayanything--I can feel that--but I'd like you just to tell me you're gladI came and glad I've spoken. I'd just like to hear that. '

She gazed fondly at him, at the male creature in whom she could findonly perfection, and she was filled with glorious pride that her imageshould have drawn this strong, shrewd self-possessed man across theAtlantic. It was incredible, but it was true. 'And, ' said the secretfeminine in her, 'why not?'

He waited for her answer, facing her. 

'Oh, yes!' she breathed. 'Oh, yes!. .. I'm glad--I'm so glad. '

'I wish, ' he broke out, 'I wish I could explain to you what I think ofyou, what I feel about you. You're so quiet and simple and direct andyet--you don't know it, but you are. You're absolutely the most--Oh!it's no use. '

She saw that he was growing very excited, and this, too, gave her deeppleasure. 

'We're in a hell of a fix!' he sighed. 

Like many women, she took a fearful, almost thrilling joy in hearing aman swear earnestly and religiously. 

'That's it, ' she said, 'there's nothing to be done?'

'Nothing to be done?' he demanded, imperiously. 'Nothing to be done?'

She examined his face, which was close to hers, with a meditative, expectant smile. She loved to see him out of repose, eager, masterful, and daring. 'What is there to be done?' she asked. 

'I don't know yet, ' he said firmly, 'I must think. ' Then, in a delicioussurrender, she felt towards him as though they were on the brink of arushing river, and he was about to pick her up in his arms, like atrifle, and carry her safely through the flood; and she had the illusionof pressing her face, which she knew he adored, against his shoulder. 

'Oh, you innocent angel!' he cried, seizing her hand (she let it lieinert), 'do you suppose I'm the sort of man to sit down and cross mylegs and say that fate, or whatever you call it, hasn't done me right?Do you suppose that two sensible persons like you and me are going to bebeaten by a mere set of circumstances? We aren't children, and we aren'tfools. '

'But----'

'You're not afraid, are you?' He drank in her charm. 

'What of?'

'Anything. '

'It's when you aren't there, ' she murmured tenderly. She really thought, then, that by some marvellous plan he would perform the impossible featof reconciling the duty of fulfilling love with all the other duties. 

'I shall reckon it up, ' he said. 'Ah!'

Silence fell. And with the feel of the grass under her feet, and thesoft clouds overhead, and the patient trees, and the glare in thesouthern smoke, and the lamps of Bursley, and the solitary red signal inthe valley, she breathed out her spirit like an aerial essence, andmerged into unity with him. And the strange far-off noises of nocturnalindustry wandered faintly across the void and seemed fraught with amysterious significance. Everything, in that unique hour, had the samemysterious significance. 

'Mother!' Millicent's distant voice, fresh and strong and pure in thenight, chanted the word startlingly to the first notes of a phrase fromthe Jewel Song. 'Mother! Aren't you coming in?' The girl finished thephrase with inviting gaiety, holding the final syllable. And the soundfaded, went out, like the flare of a rocket in the sky, and the darkstillness was emphasised. 

They did not move; they did not speak; but Leonora pressed his hand. Thepassing thought of the orderly, multifarious existence of the housebehind her, of the warmed and lighted rooms, of the preoccupied lives, only increased the felicity of her halcyon dream. And in the dreamy andbrooding silence all things retreated and gradually lapsed away, and thepair were left sole amid the ineffable spaces of the universe to listento the irregular beatings of their own hearts. Time itself had paused. 

'Mother!' Millicent sang again, nearer, more strongly and purely in thenight. 'We are waiting for you to come in!' She varied a little thephrase from the Jewel Song. 'To come in!' The long sustained notesseemed to become a beautiful warning, and then the sound expired. 

Leonora withdrew her hand. 

'I shall think it out, and write you to-morrow, ' Arthur whispered, andwas gone. 

 * * * * *

The next day, after a futile morning of hesitations, Leonora decided inthe afternoon that she would go out for a walk and return in somedefinite state of mind. She loosed Bran, and the dog, when he hadfinished his elephantine gambades, followed her close at heel, with allstateliness, to the wide marsh on the brow of the hill. Here she beganactively and seriously to cogitate. 

John was sulking; and it was seldom that he sulked. He had not spoken toher again, neither on the previous evening nor at breakfast; he had saidnothing whatever to any one, except to tell Bessie that he should not beat home for dinner; on committee-meeting days, when he was engaged atthe Town Hall, John sometimes dined at the Tiger. His attitude producedsmall effect on Leonora. She was far too completely absorbed in herselfto be perturbed by the offensive symptoms of her husband's wrath. Shehad neglected even to call on Uncle Meshach; and as she strolled aboutthe marsh she thought vaguely and perfunctorily that she must see UncleMeshach soon and acquaint him with John's difficulties. 

Pride as much as joy and alarm filled her heart. She was proud of herperilous love; she would have liked proudly to confide it to somefriend, some mature and brilliant woman who knew the world andunderstood things, and who would talk rationally; it seemed to her thatthis secret idyll, at once tender and sincere and rather dashing, wasworthy of pride. She knew that many women, languishing in the greynessof an impeccable and frigid domesticity, would be capable of envyingher; she remembered that, in reading the newspapers, she had sometimestimidly envied the heroines of the matrimonial court who had boughtromance at the price of esteem and of peace. Then suddenly the wholematter slipped into unreality, and she could not credit it. Was itpossible that she, a respectable matron, a known figure, the mother ofadult daughters, had fallen in love with a man not her husband, had hada secret interview with her lover, and was anticipating, not a retreat, but an advance? And she thought, as every honest woman has thought inlike case: 'This may happen to others; one hears of it, one reads aboutit; but surely it cannot have happened to _me_!' And when she hadadmitted that it had in fact happened to her, and had perceived with akind of shock that the heroines of the matrimonial court were realpersons, everyday creatures of flesh-and-blood, she thought, again likethe rest: 'Ah! But my affair is different from all the others. There issomething in it, something indefinable and precious, which makes itdifferent. '

She said: 'Can one help falling in love? Can one be blamed for that?'

For John she had little compassion, and the gay and feverish existenceof New York spread out invitingly before her in a vision full of piquantcontrasts with the death-in-life of the Five Towns! But her belovedgirls! They were an insuperable barrier. She could not leave them; shecould not forfeit the right to look them in the eyes withoutembarrassment . .. And then the next moment--somehow, she did not knowhow--the difficulty of the girls was arranged. And she had departed. Shehad left the Five Towns for ever. And she was in the train, in thehotel, on the steamer; she saw every detail of the escape. Oh! Therapture! The tremors! The long sigh! The surrender! The intense living!Surely no price could be too great. .. . 

No! Common sense, the acquirement of forty years, supervened, andinformed her wild heart, with all the cold arrogance of sagacity, thatthese imaginings were vain. She felt that she must write a brief andfirm letter to Arthur and tell him to desist. She saw with extraordinaryclearness that this course was inevitable. And lest her resolution mightslacken, she turned instantly towards home and began to hurry. The dogglanced up questioningly, and hurried too. 

'Why!' she reflected. 'People would say: "And her husband's auntscarcely cold in her grave!"' She laughed scornfully. 

A carriage overtook her. It was Mrs. Dain's, coming from the directionof Oldcastle. 

'Good afternoon to you, ' Mrs. Dain shouted, without stopping, and then, when she caught sight of Bran: 'Bless us! The dog hasn't brukken his legafter all!'

'Broken his leg!' Leonora repeated, astonished. The carriage was now infront of her. 

'Our Polly come in this morning and sat hersen down on a chair and toldus as your dog had brukken his leg. What tales one hears!' Mrs. Dain hadto twist her stout neck dangerously in order to finish the sentence. 

'I should think so!' was Leonora's private comment, her gaze fixed onthe scarlet of Mrs. Dain's nodding bonnet. 

In the little room off the dining-room Leonora dipped pen in ink towrite to Arthur. She wrote the date, and she wrote the word 'Dear. ' Andshe could not proceed. She knew that she could not compose a letterwhich would be effective. She went to the window and looked out, bitingthe pen. 'What am I to do?' she whispered, in terror. 'What am I to do?'Then she saw Ethel running hard down the drive to the front door. 

'Oh, mother!' The pale girl burst into the room. 'Father's donesomething to himself. Fred's come up. They're bringing him. '

 * * * * *

John Stanway had called at the chemist's in the Market Place and hadgiven a circumstantial description of an accident to Bran. It appearedthat while Carpenter was washing the waggonette, Bran being loose in thestable-yard, the groom had suddenly slipped the lever of thecarriage-jack and the off hind wheel had caught Bran's hind leg andsnapped it like a piece of wood. The chemist had suggested prussic acid, and John had laughingly answered that perhaps the chemist would be goodenough to come up and show them how to administer prussic acid to a dogof Bran's size in great pain. John explained that the animal was nowfast by the collar, and he had demanded a large dose of morphia, together with a hypodermic instrument. Having obtained these, andprecise instructions for their use, John had hurried away. It was nottill three hours had elapsed that a startling suspicion had disturbedthe chemist's easy mind. By that time, his preparations completed, Johnhad dropped unconscious from the arm-chair in his office at the works, and Bursley was provided with one of those morbid sensations which morethan joy or triumph electrify the stagnant pulses of a provincial town. Scores of persons followed the cab which conveyed Stanway from the worksto his house; and on the route most of the inhabitants seemed to know inadvance, by some strange intuition, that the vehicle was coming, and attheir windows or at their gates (according to social status) they stoodready to watch it pass. And even after John had entered his home and hadbeen carried upstairs, and the cab and the policeman had gone, and thedoctor had gone, and Fred Ryley and Mr. Mayer, the works manager, hadgone, a crowd still remained on the footpath, staring at the gravelleddrive and at the front door, silent, patient, implacable. 

The doctor had tried hot coffee, artificial respiration, and otherremedies, but without the least success, and he had reluctantlydeparted, solemn for once, leaving four women to understand that therewas nothing to do save to wait for the final sigh. The inactivity wasdreadful for them. They could only look at each other and think, andmove to and fro aimlessly in the large bedroom, and light the gas atdusk, and examine from moment to moment those contracted pupils and thatdamp white brow, and listen for the faint occasional breaths. They didnot think the thoughts which, could they have foreseen the situation, they might have expected to think. It did not occur to them to searchfor the causes of the disaster, nor to speculate upon its results inregard to themselves: they surrendered to the supreme fact. They wereall incapable of logical and ordered reflections, and in the hushedtorpor of their secret hearts there wandered, loosely, littledisconnected ideas and sensations; as that the Stanway family was atlength getting its full share of vicissitude and misfortune, that Johnwas after all more important and more truly dominant and more intimatelya part of their lives than they had imagined, that this affair was athousand miles removed from that of Uncle Meshach, that they were fullysupplied with mourning, and that suicide was mysteriously different fromtheir previous notion of it. The impressive thoughts, the obviousthoughts--that if their creeds were sound, a soul was about to enterinto eternal torment, and that their lives would be violently changed, and that they would be branded before the world as the wife and thedaughters of a defaulter and a self-murderer--did not by any meansabsorb their minds in those first hours. 

In the attitude of the girls towards Leonora there was a sort ofreligious deference, as of priestesses to one soon to be sacrificed. 'She is the central figure of the tragedy, ' they had the air of sayingto each other. 'We feel the affliction, but it cannot be demanded fromus that we should feel it as she feels it. We are only beginning tolive; we have the future; but she--she will have nothing. She will bethe widow. ' And the significance of that terrible word--all that itimplied of social diminishment, of feeding on memory, and of merewaiting for death--seemed to cling about Leonora as she stood restlesslyobservant by the bed. And when Rose urged her to drink some tea, shecould not help drinking the tea humbly, from a sense of the duty ofdoing what she was told. It was not Rose's fault that Rose was superior, and that only twenty-four hours ago she had coldly informed her motherthat no act of her father's would surprise her. Leonora resigned herselfto humility. 

'Mamma, ' said Millicent, creeping into the room after an absence, 'UncleMeshach is here with Mr. Twemlow, and he says he's coming in. Must he?'

'Of course, darling, ' Leonora answered, without turning her head. 

Uncle Meshach appeared, leaning on his stick and on Arthur's arm. Hewore his overcoat and even his hat, and a white knitted mufflerencircled his shrivelled neck in loose folds. No one spoke as the oldand feeble man, with short uncertain steps, drew Arthur towards the bedand gazed at his dying nephew. Meshach looked long, and sighed. Suddenlyhe demanded of Leonora in a whisper:

'Is he unconscious?'

Leonora nodded. 

Drawing a little nearer to the bed, Meshach signed to Millicent toapproach, and gave her his stick. Then he unbuttoned his overcoat, andhis coat, and the flap-pocket of his trousers, and after much searchingfound a box of matches. He shook out a match clumsily, and struck it, and came still nearer to the bed. All wondered apprehensively what theold man was going to do, but none dared interfere or protest because hewas so old, and so precariously attached to life, and because he was thehead of the family. With his thin, veined, trembling hand, he passed thelighted match close across John's eyeballs; not a muscle twitched. Thenhe extinguished the match, put it in the box, returned the box to hispocket, and buttoned the pocket and his coats. 

'Ay!' he breathed. 'The lad's unconscious right enough. Let's be going. '

Taking his stick from Milly, he clutched Arthur's arm again, and veryslowly left the room. 

After a moment's hesitation Leonora followed and overtook them at thebottom of the stairs; it was the first time she had forsaken thebedside. She was surprised to see Fred Ryley in the hall, self-consciousbut apparently determined to be quite at home. She remembered that hesaid he should come up again as soon as he had arranged matters at theworks. 

'Just take Mr. Myatt to the cab, will you?' said Twemlow quietly toFred. 'I'll follow. '

'Certainly, ' Fred agreed, pulling his moustache nervously. 'Now, Mr. Myatt, let me help you. '

'Ay!' said Meshach. 'Thou shalt help me if thou'n a mind. ' As he wasfeeling for the step with his stick he stopped and looked round atLeonora. 'Lass!' he exclaimed, 'thou toldst me John was i' smoothwater. ' Then he departed and they could hear his shuffling steps on thegravel. 

Twemlow glanced inquiringly at Leonora. 

'Come in here, ' she said briefly, pointing to the drawing-room. Theyentered; it was dark. 

'Your uncle made me drive up with him, ' Arthur explained, as if inapology. 

She ignored the remark. 'You must go back to New York--at once, ' shetold him, in a dry, curt voice. 

'Yes, ' he assented, 'I suppose I'd better. '

'And don't write to me--until after I have written. '

'Oh, but----' he began. 

She thought wildly: 'This man, with his reason and his judgment, has notthe slightest notion how I feel, not the slightest!'

'I must write, ' he said in a persuasive tone. 

'No!' she cried passionately and vehemently. 'You aren't to write, andyou aren't to see me. You must promise, absolutely. '

'For how long?' he asked. 

She shook her head. 'I don't know, I can't tell. '

'But isn't that rather----'

'Will you promise?' she cried once more, quite loudly and almostfiercely. And her accents were so full of entreaty, of command, and ofdespair, that Arthur feared a nervous crisis for her. 

'If you wish it, ' he said, forced to yield. 

And even then she could not be content. 

'You give me your word to do nothing at all until you hear from me?'

He paused, but he saw no alternative to submission. 'Yes. '

She thanked him, and without shaking hands or saying good-night she wentupstairs and resumed her place by the bedside. She could hear UncleMeshach's cab drive away. 

'How came Mr. Twemlow to be here, mother?' Rose demanded quietly. 

'I don't know, ' Leonora replied. 'He must have been at uncle's. '

When the doctor had been again and gone, and various neighbours and the'Signal' reporter had called to inquire for news, and the hour wasgrowing late, Ethel said to her mother, 'Fred thinks he had better stayall night. '

'But why?' Leonora asked. 

'Well, mother, ' said Milly, 'it's just as well to have a man in thehouse. '

'He can rest on the Chesterfield in the drawing-room, ' Ethel added. 'Then if he's wanted----'

'Yes, yes, ' Leonora agreed. 'And tell him he's very kind. '

At midnight, Fred was reading in the drawing-room, the man in the house, the ultimate fount of security for seven women. Bessie, having refusedpositively to go to bed, slept in a chair in the kitchen, her heelstouching the scrap of hearthrug which lay like a little island on thered tiles in front of the range. Rose and Millicent had retired to bedtill three o'clock. Ethel, as the eldest, stayed with her mother. Whenthe hall-clock sounded one, meaning half past twelve, Leonora glancedat her daughter, who reclined on the sofa at the foot of the beds; thegirl had fallen into a doze. 

John's condition was unchanged; the doctor had said that he mightpossibly survive for many hours. He lay on his back, with open eyes, anddamp face and hair; his arms rested inert on the sheet; and underneaththat thin covering his chest rose and fell from time to time, with ascarcely perceptible movement. It seemed to Leonora that she couldrealise now what had happened and what was to happen. In the nocturnalsolemnity of the house filled with sleeping and quiescent youth, she whowas so mature and so satiate had the sensation of being alone with hermate. Images of Arthur Twemlow did not distract her. With the fullstrength of her mind she had shut an iron door on the episode in thegarden; it was as though it had never existed. And she gazed at Johnwith calm and sad compassion. 'I would not sell my home, ' she reflected, 'and here is the consequence of refusal. ' She wished she hadyielded--and she could perceive how unimportant, comparatively, bricks-and-mortar might be--but she did not blame herself for not havingyielded. She merely regretted her sensitive obstinacy as a misfortunefor both of them. She had a vision of humanity in a hurried procession, driven along by some force unseen and ruthless, a procession in whichthe grotesque and the pitiable were always occurring. She thought ofJohn standing over Meshach with the cold towel, and of Meshach passingthe flame across John's dying eyes, and these juxtapositions appeared toher intolerably mournful in their ridiculous grimness. 

Impelled by a physical curiosity, she lifted the sheet and scrutinisedJohn's breast, so pallid against the dark red of his neck, and bent downto catch the last tired efforts of the heart within. And the idea of herextraordinary intimacy with this man, of the incessant familiarity ofmore than twenty years, struck her and overwhelmed her. She saw thatnothing is so subtly influential as constant uninterrupted familiarity, nothing so binding, and perhaps nothing so sacred. It was a trifle thatthey had not loved. They had lived. Ah! she knew him so profoundly thatwords could not describe her knowledge. He kept his own secrets, hundreds of them; and he had, in a way, astounded and shocked her by hissuicide. Yet, in another way, this miserable termination did not at allsurprise her; and his secrets were petty, factual things of no essentialimport, which left her mystic omniscience of him unimpaired. 

She looked at his eyes, and thought pitifully: 'These eyes cannot seethat I uncover him. ' Then she looked again at his breast, which heavedin shallow respirations. And at the moment he exhaled a sigh, so softlydelicate and gentle that it might have been the sigh of an infantsinking to sleep. She put her ear quickly to the still breast, as to asea-shell, and listened intently, and caught no rumour of life there. Startled, she glanced at the jaw, which had dropped, and then at Etheldozing on the sofa. 

The room was filled for her with the majestic sound of trumpets, loud, sustained, and thrilling, but heard only by the soul; a noble andtriumphant fanfare announcing the awful advent of those forces which arebeyond the earthly sense. John's body lay suddenly deserted andresidual; that deceitful brain, and that lying tongue, and thatmurderous hand had already begun to decay; and the informing fragment ofeternal and universal energy was gone to its next manifestation and itsnext task, unconscious, irresponsible, and unchanged. The ineptitude ofhuman judgments had been once more emphasised, and the great excellenceof charity. 

'Ethel, ' said Leonora timorously, waking with a touch the young andbeautiful girl whose flushed cheek was pressed against the cushion ofthe sofa. 'He's gone. .. . Call Fred. '

CHAPTER XI

THE REFUSAL

Fifteen months after John's death, and the inquest on his body, and theclandestine funeral, Leonora sat alone one evening in the garden of thehouse at Hillport. She wore a black dress trimmed with jet; a narrowband of white muslin clasped her neck, and from her shoulders hung along thin antique gold chain, once the ornament of Aunt Hannah. Her headwas uncovered, and the mild breeze which stirred the new leaves of thepoplars moved also the stray locks of her hair. Her calm and maturebeauty was unchanged; it was a common remark in the town that during thepast year she had looked handsomer than ever, more content, radiant, andserene. 'And it's not surprising, either!' people added. The homesteadappeared to be as of old. Carpenter was feeding Prince in the stable;Bran lay huge and benign at the feet of his mistress; the borders of thelawn were vivid with bloom; and within the house Bessie still ruled thekitchen. No luxury was abated, and no custom altered. Time apparentlyhad nothing to show there, save an engagement ring on Bessie's finger. Many things, however, had occurred; but they had seemed to occur soplacidly, and the days had been so even, that the term of her widowhoodwas to Leonora more like three months than fifteen, and she oftenreminded herself: 'It was last spring, not this, that he died. '

'The business is right enough!' Fred Ryley had said positively, with anemphasis on the word 'business, ' when he met Leonora and Uncle Meshachin family council, during the first week of the disaster; and Meshachhad replied: 'Thou shalt prove it, lad!' The next morning Mr. Mayer, themanager, and everybody on the bank, learned that Fred, with old Myatt athis back, was in sole control of the works at Shawport; creditorsbreathed with relief; and the whole of Bursley remembered that it hadalways prophesied that Fred's sterling qualities were bound to succeed. Meshach lent several thousands of pounds to Fred at five per cent. , andFred was to pay half the net profits of the business to Leonora as longas she lived. The youth did not change his lodgings, nor his tailor, norhis modest manners; but he became nevertheless suddenly important, andnone appreciated this fact better than Mr. Mayer, whose sandy hair wasgetting grey, and who, having six children but no rich great-uncle, could never hope to earn more than three pounds a week. Fred was now anofficial member of the Myatt clan, and, in the town, men of position, pompous individuals who used to ignore him, greeted the sole principalof Twemlow & Stanway's with a certain cordiality. After an interval hisengagement to Ethel was announced. Every evening he came up to Hillport. The couple were ardently and openly in love; they expected always tohave the dining-room at their private disposal, and they had it. Ethelsimply adored him, and he was immeasurably proud of her. Even inpresence of the family they would sit hand in hand, making no attempt toconceal their bliss. For the rest Fred's attitude to Leonora was veryaffectionate and deferential; it touched her, though she knew heworshipped her ignorantly. Rose and Millicent wondered 'what Ethel couldsee in him'; he was neither amusing nor smart nor clever, nor evenvivacious; he had little acquaintance with games, music, novels, or thefeminist movement; he was indeed rather dull; but they liked him becausehe was fundamentally and invariably 'nice. ' At the close of the year ofStanway's death, Fred had paid to Leonora four hundred and fifty poundsas her share of the profits of the firm for nine months. But longbefore that Leonora was rich. Uncle Meshach had died and left her theMyatt fortune for life, with remainder to the three girls absolutely inequal shares. Fred was the executor and trustee, and Fred's own share ofthe bounty was a total remission of Meshach's loan to him. Thus it isthat providence watches over the wealthy, the luxurious, and thewell-connected, and over the lilies of the field who toil not. 

Aroused from lethargy by the dramatic circumstances of her father'sdeath, Rose had resumed her reading with a vigour that amounted almostto fury. In the following January she miraculously passed theMatriculation examination of London University in the first division, and on returning home she informed Leonora that she had decided to goback to London and study medicine at a hospital for women. 

But of the three girls, it was Millicent who had made the most history. Millicent was rapidly developing the natural gift, so precious to thetheatrical artist, of existing picturesquely in the eye of the public. When the rehearsals of _Princess Ida_ began for the annual performanceof the Operatic Society Milly confidently expected to receive theprincipal part, despite the fact that Lucy Turner, who had theprescriptive right to it, was once more in a position to sing; and Millywas not disappointed. As a heroine of comic opera she now accountedherself an extremely serious person, and it soon became apparent thatthe conductor and his prima donna would have to decide between them whowas to control the rehearsals while Milly was on the stage. One eveninga difference of opinion as to the _tempo_ of a song and chorus reachedthe condition of being acute. Exasperated by the pretty and waywardchild, the conductor laid down his stick and lighted a cigarette, andthose who knew him knew that the rehearsal would not proceed until theduel had been fought to a finish. Milly thought hard and said: 'Mr. Corfe says the Hanbridge people would jump at me!' 'My good girl, ' theconductor replied, 'Mr. Corfe's views on the acrobatic propensities ofthe Hanbridge people are just a shade off the point. ' Every one laughed, except Milly. She possessed little appreciation of wit, and she hadscarcely understood the remark; but she had an objection to thelaughter, and a very strong objection to being the conductor's goodgirl. The instant result was that she vowed never again to sing or actunder his baton, and took the entire Society to witness; her place wasfilled by Lucy Turner. The Hanbridge Society happened to be doing_Patience_ that year, and they justified Mr. Corfe's prediction. Moreover, they hired the Hanbridge Theatre Royal for six nights. On thefirst night Milly was enthusiastically applauded by two thousand people, and in addition to half a column of praise in the 'Signal, ' she had thehappiness of being mentioned in the district news of the 'ManchesterGuardian' and the 'Birmingham Daily Post. ' She deemed it magnificent forher; Leonora tried to think so too. But on the fourth day the Hanbridgeconductor was in bed with influenza; and the Bursley conductor, upon aflattering request, undertook his work for the remaining nights. Millybroke her vow; her practical common sense was really wonderful. On thelast and most glorious night of the six, after responding to severalfrenzied calls, Milly was inspired to seize the conductor in the wingsand drag him with her before the curtain. The effect was tremendous. Theconductor had won, but he very willingly admitted that, in losing, theadorable chit had triumphed over him. The episode was gossip for manydays. 

And this was by no means the end of the matter. The agent-in-advance ofone of the touring musical-comedy companies of Lionel Belmont, thefamous Anglo-American manager, was in Hanbridge during that week, andafter seeing Milly in the piece he telegraphed to Liverpool, where hiscompany was, and the next day the manager visited Hanbridge incognito. Then Harry Burgess began to play a part in Millicent's history. Harryhad abandoned his stool at the Bank, expressing his intention toundertake some large commercial enterprise; he had persuaded his motherto find the capital. The leisurely search for a large commercialenterprise precisely suited to Harry's tastes necessitated frequentsojourns in London. Harry became a man-about-town and a member of therenowned New Fantastics Club. The New Fantastics were powerfulsupporters of the dramatic art, and the roll of the club includednumerous theatrical stars of magnitudes varying from the first to thetenth. It was during one of the club's official excursions--inpantechnicon vans--to a suburban theatre where a good French actress wasperforming, that Harry made the acquaintance of that important man, Louis Lewis, Belmont's head representative in Europe. Louis Lewis, overchampagne, asked Harry if he knew a Millicent Stanway of Bursley. Theeffect of the conversation was that Harry came home and astounded Millyby telling her what Louis Lewis had authorised him to say. There wereconferences between Leonora and Milly and Mr. Cecil Corfe, a journey toManchester, hesitations, excitations, thrills, and in the end anarrangement. Millicent was to go to London to be finally appraised, andprobably to sign a contract for a sixteen-weeks provincial tour at threepounds a week. 

 * * * * *

Leonora's prevailing mood was the serenity of high resolve and ofresignation. She had renounced the chance of ecstasy. She was sad, butshe was not unhappy. The melancholy which filled the secret places ofher soul was sweet and radiant, and she had proved the ancient truththat he who gives up all, finds all. Still in rich possession of beautyand health, she nevertheless looked forward to nothing but old age--anold age of solitude and sufferance. Hannah and Meshach were gone; Johnwas gone; and she alone seemed to be left of the elder generations. Infour days Ethel was to be married. Already for more than three monthsRose had been in London, and in a fortnight Leonora was to takeMillicent there. And when Ethel was married and perhaps a mother, andRose versed and absorbed in the art and craft of obstetrics, and thename of Millicent familiar in the mouths of clubmen, what was Leonora todo then? She could not control her daughters; she could scarcely guidethem. Ethel knew only one law, Fred's wish; and Rose had too muchintellect, and Millicent too little heart, to submit to her. SinceJohn's death the house had been the abode of peace and amiability, butit had also been Liberty Hall. If sometimes Leonora regretted that shecould not more dominantly impress herself upon her children, she neverdoubted that on the whole the new republic was preferable to the oldtyranny. What then had she to do? She had to watch over her girls, andespecially over Rose and Milly. And as she sat in the garden with Branat her feet, in the solitude which foreshadowed the more poignantsolitude to come, she said to herself with passionate maternity: 'Ishall watch over them. If anything occurs I shall always be ready. ' Andthis blissful and transforming thought, this vehement purpose, allayedsomewhat the misgivings which she had long had about Millicent, andwhich her recent glimpses into the factitious and erratic world of thetheatre had only served to increase. 

It was Milly's affair which had at length brought Leonora to the pointof communicating with Arthur Twemlow. In the first weeks of widowhood, the most terrible of her life, she could not dream of writing to him. Then the sacrifice had dimly shaped itself in her mind, and whileactually engaged in fighting against it she hesitated to send anymessage whatever. And when she realised that the sacrifice wasinevitable for her, when she inwardly knew that Arthur and the splendidrushing life of New York must be renounced in obedience to the doubleinstinct of maternity and of repentance, she could not write. She felttimorous; she was unable to frame the sentences. And she procrastinated, ruled by her characteristic quality of supineness. Once she heard thathe had been over to London and gone back; she drew a deep breath asthough a peril had been escaped, and procrastinated further. Then camethe overtures from Lionel Belmont, or at least from his agents, toMilly. Belmont was a New Yorker, and the notion suddenly struck her ofwriting to Arthur for information about Belmont. It was a capriciousnotion, but it provided an extrinsic excuse for a letter which might befollowed by another of more definite import. In the end she was obligedto yield to it. She wrote, as she had performed every act of herrelationship with Arthur, unwillingly, in spite of her reason, governedby a strange and arbitrary impulse. No sooner was the letter in thepillar-box than she began to wonder what Arthur would say in hisresponse, and how she should answer that response. She grew impatientand restless, and called at the chief Post Office in Bursley forinformation about the American mails. On this evening, as Leonora satin the garden, Milly was reciting at a concert at Knype, and Ethel andFred had accompanied her. Leonora, resisting some pressure, had declinedto go with them. Assuming that Arthur wrote on the day he received hermissive, his reply, she had ascertained, ought to be delivered inHillport the next morning, but there was just a chance that it might bedelivered that night. Hence she had stayed at home, expectant, and--withall her serenity--a little nervous and excited. 

Carpenter emerged from the region of the stable and began to water someflower-beds in the vicinity of her seat. 

'Terrible dry month we've had, ma'am, ' he murmured in his quiet pastoralvoice, waving the can to and fro. 

She agreed perfunctorily. Her mind was divided between suspenseconcerning the postman, contemplation of the placid vista of theremainder of her career, and pleasure in the languorous charm of the Mayevening. 

Bran moved his head, and rising ponderously walked round the seattowards the house. Then Carpenter, following the dog with his eyes, smiled and touched his cap. Leonora turned sharply. Arthur Twemlowhimself stood on the step of the drawing-room window, and Bessie'swhite apron was just disappearing within. 

In the first glance Leonora noticed that Arthur was considerablythinner. She was overcome by a violent emotion that contained both fearand joy. And as he approached her, agitated and unsmiling, the joy said:'How heavenly it is to see him again!' But the fear asked: 'Why is he soworn? What have you been doing to him all these months, Leonora?' Shemet him in the middle of the lawn, and they shook hands timidly, clumsily, embarrassed. Carpenter, with that inborn delicacy of tactwhich is the mark of a simple soul, walked away out of sight, and Bran, receiving no attention, followed him. 

'Were you surprised to see me?' Arthur lamely questioned. 

In their hearts a thousand sensations struggled, some for expression, others for concealment; and speech, pathetically unequal to the swiftcrisis, was disconcerted by it almost to the verge of impotence. 

'Yes, ' she said. 'Very. '

'You ought not to have been, ' he replied. 

His tone alarmed her. 'Why?' she said. 'When did you get my letter?'

'Just after one o'clock to-day. '

'To-day?'

'I was in London. It was sent on to me from New York. '

She was relieved. When she saw him first at the window, she had alightning vision of him tearing open her letter in New York, jumpinginstantly into a cab, and boarding the English steamer. This hadfrightened her. It was, if not exactly reassuring, at any rate lessterrifying, to learn that he had flown to her only from London. 

'Well, ' he exclaimed, 'how's everybody? And where are the girls?'

She gave the news, and then they walked together to the seat and satdown, in silence. 

'You don't look too well, ' she ventured. 'You've been working too hard. '

He passed his hand across his forehead and moved on the seat so as tomeet her eyes directly. 

'Quite the reverse, ' he said. 'I haven't been working half hard enough. '

'Not half hard enough?' she repeated mechanically. 

As his eyes caught hers and held them she was conscious of an exquisitebut mortal tremor; her spine seemed to give way. The old desire foryouth and love, for that brilliant and tender existence in which wereunited virtue and the flavour of sin, dalliance and high endeavour, eternal appetite and eternal satisfaction, rushed wondrously over her. The life which she had mapped out for herself suddenly appearedmiserable, inadequate, even contemptible. Was she, with her rich blood, her perfect health, her proud carriage, her indestructible beauty, andher passionate soul, to wither solitary in the cold shadow? She feltintensely, as every human heart feels sometimes, that the satisfactionsof duty were chimerical, and that the only authentic bliss was to befound in a wild and utter abandonment to instinct. No matter what thecost of rapture, in self-respect or in remorse, it was worth the cost. Why did not mankind rise up and put an end to this endless crucifixionof instinct which saddened the whole earth, and say gloriously, 'Let uslive'? And in a moment dalliance without endeavour, and the flavour ofsin without virtue, were beautiful ideals for her. She could have puther arms round Arthur's neck and drawn him to her, and blotted out allthe past and sullied all the future with one kiss. She wondered whatrecondite force dissuaded her from doing so. 'I have but to lift my armsand smile, ' she thought. 

'You've been very cruel, ' said Arthur. 'I wouldn't have believed youcould have been so cruel. I guess you didn't know how cruel you were. Why didn't you write before?'

'I couldn't, ' she answered submissively. 'Didn't you understand?' Thequestion was not quite ingenuous, but she meant it well. 

'I understood at first, ' he said. 'I knew you would want to wait. I knewhow upset you'd be--I--I think I knew all you'd feel. .. . But it willsoon be eighteen months ago. ' His voice was full of emotion. Then hesmiled, gravely and charmingly. ' However, it's finished now, and I'mhere. '

His indictment was very kind, very mild; but she could see how he hadsuffered, and that his wrath against her had been none the less genuinebecause it was the wrath of love. She grew more and more humble beforehis gaze so adoring and so reproachful. She knew that she had beenselfish, and that she had ransomed her conscience as much at his expenseas at her own. She perceived the vital inferiority of women to men--thatquality of callousness which allows them to commit all cruelties in thename of self-sacrifice, and that lack of imagination by which they areblinded to the wounds they deal. Women have brief moods in which theyjudge themselves as men judge them, in which they escape from their sexand know the truth. Such a mood came then to Leonora. And she wishedardently to compensate Arthur for the martyrdom which she had inflictedon him. They were close to one another. The atmosphere between them waselectric. And the darkness of a calm and delicious night was falling. Could she not obey her instinct, and in one bright word, one word ladenwith the invitation and acquiescence of femininity, atone for her sinagainst him? Could she not shatter the images of Rose and Milly, wholoved her after their hard fashion, but who would never thank her forher watchful affection--would even resent it? Vain hope!

'Oh!' she exclaimed grievously, trying uselessly to keep the dream ofjoyous indulgence from fading away. 'I must tell you--I cannot leavethem!'

'Leave whom?'

'The girls--Rose and Milly. I daren't. You don't know what I wentthrough after John's death--and I can't desert them. I should have toldyou in my next letter. '

Her tones moved not only him but herself. He was obliged at once toreceive what she said with the utmost seriousness, as something fullyweighed and considered. 

'Do you mean, ' he demanded, 'that you won't marry me and come to NewYork?'

'I can't, I can't, ' she replied. 

He got up and walked along the garden towards the meadow, so far that inthe twilight her eyes could scarcely distinguish his figure against thebushes. Then he returned. 

'Just let me hear all about the girls. ' He stood in front of her. 

'You see, ' she said entreatingly, when she had hurried through herrecital, 'I couldn't leave them, could I?'

But instead of answering, he questioned her further about Milly'sprojects, and made suggestions, and they seemed to have been discussingthe complex subject for an hour before she found a chance to reassert, plaintively: 'I couldn't leave them. '

'You're entirely wrong, ' he said firmly and authoritatively. 'You'vejust got an idea fixed in your head, and it's all wrong, all wrong. '

'It isn't as if they were going to be married, ' she obstinately pursuedthe sequence of her argument. 'Ethel now----'

'Married!' he cried, roused. 'Are we to wait patiently, you and I, untilRose and Milly choose to get married?' He was bitterly scornful. 'Isthat our rôle? I fancy I know something about Rose and Milly, and allowme to tell you they never will get married, neither of them. Theyaren't the marrying sort. Not but what that's beside the point!. .. Yes, 'he continued, 'and if there ever were two girls in this world able tolook after themselves without parental assistance Rose and Milly arethose two. '

'You don't understand women; you don't know, you don't understand, ' shemurmured. She was shocked and hurt by this candid and hostile expressionof opinion concerning Rose and Milly, whom hitherto he had alwaysappeared to like. 

'No, ' he retorted with solemn resentment. 'And no other man either!. .. Before, when they needed your protection perhaps, when your husband wasalive, you would have left Rose and Milly then, wouldn't you?. .. Wouldn't you?'

'Oh!' the exclamation escaped her unawares. She burst into a sob. Shehad not meant to cry, but she was crying. 

He sat down close to her, and put his hand on her shoulder, and leanedover her. 'My dearest girl, ' he whispered in a new voice of infinitesoftness, 'you've forgotten that you have a duty to yourself, and to me, as well as to Rose and Milly. Our lives want looking after, too. We'rehuman creatures, you know, you and I. This row that we're having now hasoccurred thousands of times before, but this time it's going to besettled with common sense, isn't it?' And he kissed her with a kiss assoft as his voice. 

She sighed. Still perplexed and unconvinced, she was nevertheless inthose minutes acutely happy. The mysterious and profound affinity of theflesh had made a truce between the warring principles of the male and ofthe female; a truce only. To the left of the house, over the Marsh, thelast silver relics of day hung in the distant sky. She looked at thedying light, so provocative of melancholy in its reluctance to depart, and at the timidly-appearing stars and the sombre trees, and her thoughtwas: 'World, how beautiful and sad you are!'

Bran emerged forlorn from the gloom, and rested his great chinconfidingly on her knees. 

'Bran!' she condoled with him through her tears, stroking the dog's headtenderly, 'Ah! Bran!'

Arthur stood up, resolute, victorious, but prudent and magnanimous too. He put one foot on the seat beside her, and leaned forward on the raisedknee, tapping his stick. 'I've hired a flat over there, ' he said low inher ear, 'such as can't be gotten outside of New York. And in mythoughts I've made a space for you in New York, where it's life and nomistake, and where I'm known, and where my interests are. And if youdidn't come I don't know what I should do. I tell you fair I don't knowwhat I should do. And wouldn't your life be spoilt? Wouldn't it? But itisn't the flat I've got, and it isn't the space I've sort of cleared, and it isn't the ruin and smash for you and me--it isn't so much thesethings that make me feel wicked when I think of the mere possibility ofyou refusing to come, as the fundamental injustice of the thing to bothof us. My dear girl, no one ever understood you as I do. I can see itall as well as if I'd been here all the time. You took frightafter--after his death. Women are always more frightened after thedanger's over than at the time, especially when they're brave. And youthought, "I must do something very good because it was on the cards Imight have been very wicked. " And so it's Rose and Milly that mustn't beleft . .. I'm not much of an intellect, outside crocks, you know, butthere's one thing I can do, I _can_ see clear?. .. Can't I see clear?'

Their hands met in the dog's fur. She was still crying, but she smiledup at him admiringly and appreciatively. 

'If Rose and Milly want a change any time, ' he continued, 'let 'em comeover. And we can come to Europe just as often as you feel that way . .. Eh?'

'Why, ' she meditated, 'cannot this last for ever?' She felt so feminineand illogical, and the masculine, masterful rationality of his appealtouched her so intimately, that she had discovered in the woe and theindecision of her situation a kind of happiness. And she wished to keepwhat she had got. At length a certain courage and resolution visitedher, and summoning all her sweetness she said to him: 'Don't press me, please, please! In a fortnight I shall be in London with Milly. .. . Willyou wait a fortnight? Will you wait that long? I know that what you sayis--You will wait that long, won't you? You'll be in London then to meetus?'

'God!' he exclaimed, deeply moved by the fainting, beseeching poignancyof her voice, 'I will wait forty fortnights. And I guess I shall be inLondon. '

She sank back on the reprieve as on a pillow. 

'Of course I'll wait, ' he repeated lightly, and his tone said: 'Iunderstand. Life isn't all logic, and allowances must be made. Women arewomen--that's what makes them so adorable--and I'm not in a hurry. '

They did not speak further. 

A moving patch of white on the path indicated Bessie. 

'If you please, ma'am, shall I set supper for five?' she askedvivaciously in the summer darkness. 

There was a silence. 

'I'm not staying, Bessie, ' said Twemlow. 

'Thank you, sir. Come along, Bran, come kennel. '

The great beast slouched off, and left them together. 

 * * * * *

'Guess who's been!' Leonora demanded of her girls and Fred, withfeverish gaiety, when they returned from the concert. The dining-roomwas very cheerful, and brightly lit; outside lay the dark garden andBran reflective in his kennel. No one could guess Arthur, and so Leonorahad to tell. They were surprised; and they were interested, but not forlong. Millicent was preoccupied with her successful performance at theconcert; and Ethel and Fred had had a brilliant idea. This couple wereto commence married life modestly in Uncle Meshach's house; but theplace was being repaired and redecorated, and there seemed to be anannoying probability that it would not be finished for immediateoccupation after the short honeymoon--Fred could only spare 'twoweek-ends' from the works. Why should they not return on the very daywhen Leonora and Milly were to go to London and keep house at Hillportduring Leonora's absence? Such was the brilliant idea, one of thosedomestic ideas whose manifold excellences call for interminableexplanation and discussion. The name of Arthur Twemlow was not againmentioned. 

CHAPTER XII

IN LONDON

The last day of the dramatic portion of Leonora's life was that on whichshe went to London with Milly. They were up early, in order to catch themorning express, and, before leaving, Leonora arranged with the excitedBessie all details for the reception of Ethel and Fred, who were toarrive in the afternoon from their honeymoon. 'I will drive, ' she saidto Carpenter when the cart was brought round, and Carpenter had to sitbehind among the trunks. Bessie in her morning print and her engagementring stood at the front door, and sped them beneficently away whileclinging hard to Bran. 

As the train rushed smoothly across the vast and rich plain of MiddleEngland, Leonora's thoughts dwelt on the house at Hillport, on herskilled and sympathetic servants, on Prince and Bran, and on the calmand the orderliness and the high decency of everything. And she picturedthe homecoming of Ethel and Fred from Wales--Fred stiff and nervous, and Ethel flushed, beautiful, and utterly bewitching in theself-consciousness of the bride. 'May I call her Mrs. Fred, ma'am?'Bessie had asked, recoiling from the formality of 'Mrs. Ryley, ' andaware that 'Miss Ethel' was no longer possible. Leonora saw them in thedining-room consuming the tea which Bessie had determined should be thefinal word of teas; and she saw Bessie, in that perfect black of hersand that miraculous muslin, waiting at table with a superlative and coldprimness that covered a desire to take Ethel in her arms and kiss her. And she saw the pair afterwards, dallying on the lawn with Bran at dusk, simple, unambitious, unassuming, content; and, still later, Fredmeticulously locking up the great house, so much too large andcomplicated for one timid couple, and Ethel standing at the top of thestairs as he extinguished the hall-gas. These visions of them made herfeel sad--sad because Ethel could never again be that which she hadbeen, and because she was so young, inexperienced, confiding, andbeautiful, and would gradually grow old and lose the ineffable grace ofher years and situation; and because they were both so innocent of themeaning of life. Leonora yearned for some magic to stay the destructivehand of time and keep them ever thus, young, naïve, trustful, andunspoilt. And knowing that this could not be, she wanted intensely toshield, and teach, and advise them. She whispered, thinking of Ethel:'Ah! I must always be near, within reach, within call, lest she shouldneed me. '

'Mother, shall you go with me to see Mr. Louis Lewis to-morrow?' Millydemanded suddenly when the train halted at Rugby. 

'Yes, of course, dear. Don't you wish me to?'

'Oh! I don't mind, ' said Milly grandly. 

Two well-dressed, middle-aged men entered the compartment, which, tillthen, Leonora and Milly had had to themselves; and while duly admiringLeonora, they could not refrain from looking continually at Millicent;they talked to one another gravely, and they made a pretence of readingnewspapers, but their eyes always returned furtively to Milly's corner. The girl was not by any means confused by the involuntary homage, whichmerely heightened her restless vitality. She chattered to her mother;she was pert; she looked out of the window; she tapped the floor withher brown shoes. In the unconscious process of displaying herindividuality for admiration, she was never still. The fair, pretty faceunder the straw hat responded to each appreciative glance, and beneathher fine blue coat and skirt the muscles of the immature body and limbsplayed perpetually in graceful and free movement. She was adorable; sheknew it, Leonora knew it, the two middle-aged men knew it. Nothing--nopertness, no audacity, no silliness, no affectation--could impair theextraordinary charm. Leonora was exceedingly proud of her daughter. Andyet she reflected impartially that Millicent was a little fool. Shetrembled for Millicent; she feared to let her out of sight; the idea ofMillicent loose in the world, with no guide but her own rashness and noprotection but her vanity, made Leonora feel sick. Nevertheless, Millicent would soon be loose in the world, and at the best Leonoracould only stand in the background, ready for emergency. 

At Euston they were not surprised to see Harry. The young man was moredandiacal and correct than ever, and he could cut a figure on theplatform; but Leonora observed the pallor of his thin cheeks and thewatery redness of his eyes. He had come to meet them, and he insisted onescorting them to their hotel in South Kensington. 

'Look here, ' he said in the cab, 'I've one dying request to make beforethe luggage drops through the roof. I want you both to come and dinewith me at the Majestic to-night, and then we'll go to the Regency. Lewis has given me a box. By the way, I told him he might rely on me totake you up to see him to-morrow. '

'Shall we, mother?' Milly asked carelessly; but it was obvious that shewished to dine at the Majestic. 

'I don't know, ' said Leonora. 'There's Rose. We're going to fetch Rosefrom the hospital this afternoon, Harry, and she will spend the eveningwith us. '

'Well, Rose must come too, of course, ' Harry replied quickly, after aslight hesitation. 'It will do her good. '

'We will see, ' said Leonora. She had known Harry from his infancy, andwhen she encountered him in these latter days she was always subject tothe illusion that he could not really be a man, but was rather playingat manhood. Moreover, she had warned Arthur Twemlow of their arrival andexpected to find a letter from him at the hotel, and she could make noarrangements until she had seen the letter. 

They drove into the courtyard of the select and austere establishmentwhere John Stanway had brought his wife on her wedding journey. Leonorafound that it had scarcely changed; the dark entrance lounge presentedthe same appearance now as it had done more than twenty years ago; ithad the same air of receiving visitors with condescension; the wholestreet was the same. She grew thoughtful; and Harry's witticisms, as heceremoniously superintended their induction into the place, served onlyto deepen the shadow in her heart. 

'Any letters for me?' she asked the hall porter, loitering behind whileMillicent and Harry went into the _salle à manger_. 

'What name, madam? No, madam. '

But during luncheon, to which Harry stayed, a flunkey approached bearinga telegram on silver. 'In a moment, ' she thought, 'I shall know when weare to meet. ' And she trembled with apprehension. The flunkey, however, gave the telegram to Millicent, who accepted it as though she had beenaccepting telegrams at the hands of flunkeys all her life. 

'_Miss_ Stanway, ' she smiled superiorly with her chin forward, perceiving the look on Leonora's face. She tore the envelope. 'Lewissays I am to go to-day at four, instead of to-morrow. Hooray! the soonerit's over, the sooner to sleep, though the harbour bar be mo--oaning. Ma, that's the very time you have to meet Rose at the hospital. Harry, you shall take me. '

Leonora would have preferred that Harry and Millicent should not goalone together to see Mr. Louis Lewis. But she could not bring herselfto break the appointment with Rose, who was extremely sensitive; norcould she well inform Harry, at this stage of his close intimacy withthe family, that she no longer cared to entrust Milly to his charge. 

She left the hotel before the other two, because she had further todrive. The hansom had scarcely got into the street when she instructedthe driver to return. 

'Of course you will settle nothing definitely with Mr. Lewis, ' she saidto Milly. 'Tell him I wish to see him first. '

'Oh, mother!' the girl cried, pouting. 

 * * * * *

At the New Female and Maternity Hospital in Lamb's Conduit StreetLeonora was shown to a bench in the central hall and requested to sitdown. The clock over the first landing of the double staircase indicatedthree minutes to four. During the drive she had begun by expecting tomeet Arthur on his way to the hotel, and even in Piccadilly, wheredelays of traffic had forced upon her attention the glittering opulenceand afternoon splendour of the London season, she had still thought ofhim and of the interview which was to pass between them. But here shewas obsessed by her immediate environment. The approach to the hospital, through sombre squalid streets, past narrow courts in which innumerablechildren tumbled and yelled, disturbed and desolated her. It appearedthat she had entered the secret breeding-quarter of the immense city, the obscene district where misery teemed and generated, and where therevolting fecundity of nature was proved amid surroundings of horror anddespair. And the hospital itself was the very centre, the innermosttemple of all this ceaseless parturition. In a corner of the hall, neara door, waited a small crowd of embossed women, young and middle-aged, sad, weary, unkempt, lightly dressed in shabby shapeless clothes, andsweltering in the summer heat; a few had babies in their arms. In thedoorway two neatly attired youngish women, either doctors or students, held an animated and interminable conversation, staring absent-mindedlyat the attendant crowd. A pale nurse came hurrying from the back of thehall and vanished through the doorway, squeezing herself between thedoctors or students, who soon afterwards followed her, still talking;and then one by one the embossed women began to vanish through thedoorway also. The clock gently struck four, and Leonora, sighing, watched the hand creep to five minutes and to ten beyond the hour. Shegazed up the well of the staircases, and in imagination saw ward afterward, floor above floor of beds, on which lay repulsive and piteouscreatures in fear, in pain, in exhaustion. And she thought with dismayhow many more poor immortal souls went out of that building than everwent into it. 'Rose is somewhere up there, ' she reflected. At a quarterpast four a stout white-haired lady briskly descended the stairs, and, after being accosted twice by officials, spoke to Leonora. 

'You are Mrs. Stanway? My name is Smithson. I dare say your daughter hasmentioned it in her letters. ' The famous dean of the hospital smiled, and paused while Leonora responded. 'Just at the moment, ' Miss Smithsoncontinued, 'dear Rosalys is engaged, but I hope she will be downdirectly. We are very, very busy. Are you making a long stay in London, Mrs. Stanway? The season is now in full swing, is it not?'

Leonora could find little to say to this experienced spinster, whom sheunwillingly admired but with whom she was not in accord. Miss Smithsonuttered amiable banalities with an evident intention to do nothing more;her demeanour was preoccupied, and she made no further reference toRose. Soon a nurse respectfully called her; she hastened away full ofapologies, leaving Leonora to meditate upon her own shortcomings as aserious person, and upon the futility of her existence of forty-oneyears. 

Another quarter of an hour elapsed, and then Rose ran impetuously downthe stone steps. 

'Mother, I'm so glad to see you! Where's Milly?' she exclaimed eagerly, and they kissed twice. 

As she answered the greeting Leonora noticed the lines of fatigue inRose's face, the brilliancy of her eyes, the emaciation of the bodybeneath her grey alpaca dress, and that air of false serenity maskinghysteric excitement which she seemed to have noticed too in all theother officials--the doctors or students, the nurses, and even the dean. 

'Are you ready now, dear?' she asked. 

'Oh, I can't possibly come to-day, mother. Didn't Miss Smithson tellyou? I'm awfully sorry I can't. But there's a very important case on. Ican only stay a minute. '

'But, my child, we have arranged to take you to the theatre, ' Leonorawas on the point of expostulating. She checked herself, and placidlyreplied: 'I'm sorry, too. When shall you be free?'

'Might be able to get off to-morrow. I'll slip out in the morning andsend you a telegram. '

'I should like you to try and be free to-morrow, my dear. You seem as ifyou needed a rest. Do you take any exercise?'

'As much as I can. '

'But you know, Rose----'

'That's all right, mater, ' Rose interrupted confidently, patting hermother's arm. 'We can look after ourselves here, don't you worry. Haveyou seen Mr. Twemlow yet?'

'Not yet. Why?'

'Nothing. But he called to see me yesterday. We're great friends. I mustrun back now. '

Leonora departed with the girl's hasty kiss on her lips, realising thatshe had fallen to the level of a mere episodic interest in Rose's life. The impassioned student of obstetrics had disappeared up the staircasebefore Leonora could reach the double-doors of the entrance. The motherwas dashed, stricken, a little humiliated. But as she arranged the foldsof her beautiful dress in the hansom which was carrying her away fromLamb's Conduit Street towards South Kensington, she said to herselffirmly, 'I am not a ninny, after all, and I know that Rose will be illsoon. And there are things in that hospital that I could manage better. '

'Mr. Twemlow came to see you just after you left, ' said Harry when herestored Milly to her mother at half-past five. 'I asked him to join usat dinner, but he said he couldn't. However, he's coming to the theatre, to our box. '

'You must excuse us from dining with you to-night, Harry, ' was Leonora'sreply. 'We'll meet you at the theatre. '

'Yes, Harry, ' said Millicent coldly. 'We really can't come to-day. '

'The hand of the Lord is heavy upon me, ' Harry murmured. And he repeatedthe phrase on leaving the hotel. 

Neither he nor Millicent had shown much interest in Rose's defection. The dandy seemed to be relieved, and Millicent said, 'How stupid ofher!' Milly had returned from the visit to Mr. Louis Lewis in a state ofhigh self-satisfaction. Leonora was told that Mr. Lewis was simply themost delightful and polite man that Milly had ever met; he would becharmed to see Mrs. Stanway, and would make an appointment. MeanwhileMilly gave her mother to understand that the affair was practicallysettled. She knew the date when the tour of _Princess Puck_ started, andthe various towns which it would include; and Mr. Lewis had provided herwith a box for the next afternoon at the Queen's Theatre, where thepiece had been most successfully produced a month ago; the music shewould receive by post; and the first rehearsal of the No. I. Companywould occur within a week or so. Millicent walked in flowery paths. Shesaw herself covered with jewels and compliments, flattered, adored, worshipped, and leading always a life of superb luxury. And thisprophetic dream was not the conception of a credulous fancy, but theproduct of the hard and calculating shrewdness which she possessed. Shewas aware of the importance of Mr. Louis Lewis, who, on behalf of LionelBelmont, absolutely controlled three West End theatres; and she was alsoaware of the effect which she had had upon him. She knew that in herpersonality there was a mysterious something which intoxicated, not allthe men with whom she came in contact, but most of them, and men ofutterly different sorts. She did not trouble to attempt any analysis ofthat quality; she accepted it as a natural phenomenon; and she meant touse it ruthlessly, for she was almost incapable of pity or gratitude. Itwas, for instance, her intention to drop Harry; she had no further usefor him now. She was learning to forget her childish awe of Leonora: avery little time, and she would implacably force her mother torecognise that even the semblance of parental control must cease. 

'And I am to have my photograph taken, mamma!' she exclaimedtriumphantly. 'Mr. Lewis says that Antonios in Regent Street will beonly too glad to take it for nothing. He's going to send them a line. '

Leonora was silent. Deep in her heart she made a gesture of appeal toeach of her daughters--to Ethel who was immersed in love, to Rose whowas absorbed by a vocation, and to this seductive minx whose venal lipswould only smile to gain an end--and each seemed to throw her a glanceindifferent or preoccupied, and to say, 'Presently, presently. When Ican spare a moment. ' And she thought bitterly how Rose had been contentto receive her mother in the public hall of the hospital. 

 * * * * *

They were late in arriving at the theatre because the cab could not getthrough Piccadilly, and Harry was impatiently expecting them in thefoyer. His brow smoothed at once when he caught sight of them, and headmired their dresses, and escorted them up the celebrated marble stairswith youthful pride. 

'I thought no one was going to supervene, ' he smiled. 'I was afraidyou'd all been murdered in patent asphyxiating hansoms. I don't knowwhat's happened to Twemlow. I must leave word with the people here whichbox he's to come to. '

'Perhaps he won't come, ' thought Leonora. 'Perhaps I shall not see himtill to-morrow. '

Harry's box was exactly in the middle of the semi-circle of boxes whichsurround the balcony of the Regency Theatre. They were ushered into itwith the precautions of silence, for the three hundred and fifty-fifthperformance of _The Dolmenico Doll_, the unique musical comedy from NewYork, had already commenced. Leonora and Milly sat in front, and Harrydrew up a chair so that he might whisper in their ears; he was verytalkative. Leonora could see nothing clearly at first. Then graduallythe crowded auditorium arranged itself in her mind. She perceived thesemi-circle of boxes, each exactly like their own, and each filled withwomen quite as elegantly gowned as she and Millicent, and men asdandiacal and correct as Harry; and in the balcony and in the stallswere serried regular rows of elaborate coiffures and shining bald heads;and all the seats seemed to be pervaded by the glitter of gems, thewing-like beating of fans, and the restless curving of arms. She had notvisited London for many years, and this multitudinous and wholesaleopulence startled her. Under other circumstances she would have enjoyedit intensely, and basked in it as a flower in the sunshine; to-night, however, she could not dismiss the image of Rose in the gaunt hospitalin Lamb's Conduit Street. She knew the comparison was crude; she assuredherself that there must always be rich and poor, idle and industrious, gay and sorrowful, elegant and shabby, arrogant and meek; but herdiscomfort none the less persisted, and she had the uneasy feeling thatthe whole of civilisation was wrong, and that Rose and the earnest oneswere justified in their scorn of such as her. And concurrently she dweltupon Ethel and Fred at that hour, and listened with anxiety for theopening of the box-door and the entry of Arthur Twemlow. 

She imagined that owing to their late arrival she must have missed theone essential clue to the plot of _The Dolmenico Doll_, and as thegorgeously decorated action was developed on the dazzling stage shetried in vain to grasp its significance. The fall of the curtain came asa surprise to her. The end of the first act had left her with nothingbut a confused notion of the interior of a confectioner's shop, andyoung men therein getting tipsy and stealing kisses, and marvellouslypretty girls submitting to the robbery with a nonchalance born of threehundred and fifty four similar experiences; and old men grotesque in adissolute senility; and sudden bursts of orchestral music, and simperingballads, and comic refrains and crashing choruses; and lights, _lingerie_, picture-hats and short skirts; and over all, dominating all, the set, eternal, mechanical, bored smile of the pretty girls. 

'Awfully good, isn't it?' said Harry, when the generous applause hadceased. 

'It's simply lovely, ' Milly agreed, fidgeting on her chair in juvenilerapture. 

'Yes, ' Leonora admitted. And she indeed thought that parts of it wereamusing and agreeable. 

'Of course, ' Harry remarked hastily to Leonora, '_Princess Puck_ isn'tat all like this. It's an idyll sort of thing, you know. By the way, hadn't I better go out and offer a reward for the recovery of Twemlow?'

He returned just as the curtain went up, bringing a faint odour ofwhisky, but without Twemlow. 

A few moments later, while the principal pretty girl was warbling aninvitation to her lover amid the diversions of Narragansett Pier, thelatch of the door clicked and Arthur noiselessly entered the box. Henodded cheerfully, murmuring 'Sorry I'm so late, ' and then shook handswith Leonora. She could not find her voice. In the hazard of rearrangingthe seats, an operation which Harry from diffidence conducted with acertain clumsiness, Arthur was placed behind Milly while Leonora hadHarry by her side. 

'You've missed all the first act, and everyone says it's the best, 'Milly remarked, leaning towards Arthur with an air of intimacy. AndHarry expressed agreement. 

'But you must remember I saw it in New York two years ago, ' Leonoraheard him whisper in reply. 

She liked his avuncular, slightly quizzical attitude to them. Hereinforced the elder generation in the box, reducing by his merepresence the two young and callow creatures to their proper position inthe scheme of things. 

And now the question of her future relations with Arthur, which hithertoshe had in a manner shunned, at once became peremptory for Leonora. Shewas conscious of a passionate tenderness for him; he seemed to her tohave qualities, indefinable and exquisite touches of character, whichshe had never observed in any other human being. But she was in controlof her heart. She had chosen, and she knew that she could abide by herchoice. She was uplifted by the force of one of those tremendous andinvincible resolutions which women alone, with their instinctive benttowards martyrdom, are capable of making. And the resolution was not thefruit of the day, the result of all that she had recently seen andthought. It was a resolution independent of particular circumstances, asimple admission of the naked fact that she could not desert herdaughters. If Ethel had been shrewd and worldly, and Rose temperate inher altruism, and Milly modest and sage, the resolution would not havebeen modified. She dared not abandon her daughters: the blood in herveins, the stern traits inherited from her irreproachable ancestors, forbade it. She might be convinced in argument--and she vividlyremembered everything that Arthur had said--she might admit that she waswrong, that her sacrifice would be futile, and that she was about to beguilty of a terrible injustice to Arthur and to herself. No matter! Shewould not leave the girls. And if in thus obstinately remaining at theirservice she committed a sin, she could only ask pardon for that sin. Shecould only beg Arthur to forgive her, and assure him that he wouldforget, and submit to his reproaches in silence and humility. Now andthen she gazed at him, but his eyes were always fixed on the stage, andthe corners of his mouth turned down into a slightly ironic smile. Shewondered if he expected to be able to persuade her, and whether anopportunity to convince him and so end the crisis would occur thatevening, or whether she would be compelled to wait through anothernight. 

At last the adventures of the Dolmenico Doll were concluded, the naughtykisses regularised, the old men finally befooled, the gloryextinguished, the music hushed. The audience stood up and began tochatter, and the women curved their long arms backward to receive whitecloaks from the men. Arthur led the way out with Milly, and as the partyslowly proceeded through the crush into the foyer, Leonora could hearthe impetuous and excited child delivering to him her professional viewson the acting and the singing. 

'Well, Burgess, ' Arthur said, in the portico, 'I guess we'll see theseladies home, eh?' And he called to a commissionaire: 'Say, two hansoms. '

In a minute Leonora and Arthur were driving together along thescintillating nocturnal thoroughfare; he had put Harry and Millicentinto the other hansom like school children. And in the sudden privacy ofthe vehicle Leonora thought: 'Now!' She looked up at him furtively frombeneath her eyelashes. He caught the glance and shook his head sadly. 

'Why do you shake your head?' she timidly began. 

His kind shrewd eyes caressed her. 'You mustn't look at me so, ' he said. 

'Why?'

'I can't stand it, ' he replied. 'It's too much for me. You don'tknow--you don't know. You think I'm calm enough, but I tell you the topof my head has nearly come off to-day. '

'But I----'

'Listen here, ' he ran on. 'Let me finish up. What I said a fortnight agowas quite right. It was absolutely unanswerable. But there was somethingabout your letter that upset me. I can't tell you what it was--only itmade my heart beat. And then yesterday I happened to go and worry outRose at that awful hospital. And then Milly to-night! I know how youfeel. I've got it to the eighth of an inch. And I've thought: "Suppose Ido get her to New York, and she isn't happy?" Well, it's right here:I've settled to sell my business over there, and fix up in London. Whatdo I care for New York, anyway? I don't care for anything so long as wecan be happy. I've been a bachelor too long. And if I can be alone withyou in this London, lost in it, just you and me! Oh, well! I want awoman to think about--one woman all mine. I'm simply mad for it. And wecan only live once. We shan't be short of money. Now don't look at meany more like you did. Say yes, and let's begin right away and behappy. '

'Do you really mean----?' She was obliged thus, in weak unfinishedphrases, to gain time in order to recover from the shock. 

'I'm going to cable to-morrow morning, ' he said, joyously. 'Not thatthere's so much hurry as all that, but I shall feel better after I'vecabled. I'm silly, and I want to be silly. .. . I wouldn't live in NewYork for a million now. And don't you think we can keep an eye on Roseand Millicent, between us?'

'Oh, Arthur!'

She breathed a long, deep sigh, shutting her eyes for an instant; andthen the beautiful creature, with all her elegance and her appearance ofimpassive and fastidious calm, permitted herself to moveinfinitesimally, but perceptibly, closer to him in the hansom; and herspirit performed the supreme feminine act of acquiescence and surrender. She thought passionately: 'He has yielded to me--I will be his slave. '

'I shall call you Leo, ' he murmured fondly. 'It occurred to me lastnight. '

She smiled, as if to say: 'How charmingly boyish you are!'

'And I must tell you--but see here, we shall be at your hotel too soon. 'He pushed at the trap-door. 'Say, driver, go up Park Lane and alongOxford Street a bit. '

Then he explained to her how he had refused Harry's invitation todinner, and had arrived late at the theatre, solely that he might nothave to talk to her until they could talk in solitude. 

As, later, the cab rolled swiftly southwards through the mysterious darkavenues of Hyde Park, Leonora had the sensation of being really alonewith him in the very heart of that luxurious, voluptuous, and decadentcivilisation for which she had always yearned, and in which she was nowto participate. The feeling of the beauty of the world, and of itscatholicity and many-sidedness, returned to her. She gave play to herinstincts. And, revelling in the self-confidence and the masterfulascendency which underlay Arthur's usual reticent demeanour, she resumedwith exquisite relief her natural supineness. She began to depend onhim. And she foresaw how he would reason diplomatically with Rose, andwatch between Milly and Mr. Louis Lewis, and perhaps assist Fred Ryley, and do in the best way everything that ought to be done; and how shewould reward him with the consolations of her grace and charm, herfeminine arts, and her sweet acquiescence. 

'So you've come, ' exclaimed Milly, rather desolate in the drawing-roomof the hotel. 

'Yes, Miss Muffet, ' said Arthur, 'we've come. Where is the youth?'

'Harry? I made him go home. '

Leonora smiled indulgently at Millicent with her pretty pouting face andher adorable artificiality, lounging on one of the sofas in the vastgarish chamber. And her thoughts flew to Ethel, and existence inBursley. The Myatt family had risen, flourished, and declined. Some ofits members were dead, in honour or in dishonour; others were scatterednow. Only Ethel and Fred remained; and these two, in the house atHillport (which Leonora meant to give them), were beginning again theeternal effort, and renewing the simple and austere traditions of theFive Towns, where luxury was suspect and decadence unknown. 

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