SISTERS

by

Ada Cambridge

JTABLE 5 28 1

CHAPTER I. 

Guthrie Carey began life young. He was not a week over twenty-one when, between two voyages, he married Lily Harrison, simply because she was apoor, pretty, homeless little girl, who had to earn her living as anondescript lady-help in hard situations, and never had a holiday. Hesaw her in a Sandridge boarding-house, slaving beyond her powers, andmade up his mind that she should rest. With sailor zeal andpromptitude, he got the consent of her father, who was glad to be ridof her out of the way of a new wife; took the trembling, clinging childto the nearest parson, and made her a pensioner on his small wages in atiny lodging of her own. They honeymooned for a fortnight, off and on, as his ship could spare him--the happiest pair of mortals in the wideworld--and then parted in tears and anguish unspeakable for the bestpart of a twelvemonth. 

He came back to find himself a father. Wonderful experience fortwenty-one! Never was such a heavenly mystery of a child! Never such anangelic young mother!--eighteen, and with the bloom of that mostbeautifying convalescence like a halo about her. He was first mate now, with a master's certificate and a raised salary; it was time to make ahome. So while she nursed the baby in Sandridge--with the aid of adevoted friend, the landlady's cousin--Guthrie Carey busied himselfacross the way at Williamstown, fixing up a modest house. He also had adevoted friend, in the person of a Customs officer, whose experiencedwife took charge of the operations. Lily was to see nothing until allwas ready for her. It was to be a "pleasant surprise". 

The last touches had been given--tea put in the caddy, meat and butterin the safe, flowers in the vases. Mrs Hardacre, in her best gown, spread a festive supper-table, and Bill, her spouse, stood by with aGovernment launch to take the proud young husband to his wife, and tobring them back together. 

Lily awaited him, trembling, tearful, wild with the joy of going home. Her step-mother had come to Sandridge to see her off, and had broughther a present of a macintosh, on the merits of which she dilated withfervour as she twirled it round and round. 

"Buttons right down to the feet, " she urged persuasively, "and capehanging below the waist"--the second Mrs Harrison was a big woman. "Youmight go through a deluge in it. And so stylish, my dear! You can wearit when you go out in threatening weather of an afternoon, and be quitesmart. "

"Well, it's pretty threatening now, " said Guthrie uneasily. "I don'tknow that it wouldn't be wiser--"

"Oh, no, no!" Lily implored. "No trains tonight! No way but this, Guthrie. I can't get wet--in this nice waterproof. I don't care how itblows--the more the better--with you with me. "

"But baby?"

"We can keep him safe. He is going to be rolled in your 'possum rug. Wecan take him inside if it is cold. Oh, we MUST go by sea, Guthrie!"

"Call this sea?" he mocked. 

It was sea to her, who had never been beyond the Heads. She expected toconcentrate in the fifteen-minutes' trip across the bay the interest ofyears of travel on land. There was nothing like blue water to thissailor's wife, whose heart had been upon it for so many anxious months;the extravagance of her partiality was the joke of husband and friendsagainst her. 

"All right, " said Guthrie; "come along, then!"

He was impatient to get her away from these people, and under his ownroof. 

The second-hand macintosh was again pressed upon her. 

"Oh, thanks--thanks! But I think I won't put it on just yet, as it isnot raining. My dress is warm. "

Her dress was the wedding dress--chosen for use as well as beauty--adelicate pink stuff, with a watered sash to match, in which she lookedlike a school-girl on breaking-up day. She had a fancy to go to herhome in state, and also to make an appearance that would do her husbandcredit before Mr and Mrs Hardacre. 

"Here is your fascinator, my dear, " said the motherly landlady, offering the wisely-selected substitute for Lily's hat. "Let me tie iton for you--there!"

The fascinator of white wool, made and adjusted properly, accounts forits name; and Guthrie was sure that he had never seen a lovelierpicture than his darling's face in that soft frame. She was readynow--as ready as she meant to be until the Customs launch had seenher--and turned to pick up the large bundle that had the little baby inthe middle of it. 

"I'll carry him, Lily. "

"No, no, Mr Carey, I'm going to carry him, " said the landlady's cousin, a strapping young woman, whose arms were equal to the task--"as far asthe boat, at any rate. "

She did so, the elder ladies supporting her on either side. Guthrie andLily led the procession, hand in hand. 

Ah, how like another world it was, coming out upon that breezy platformfrom the gutter-smelling streets! And how royal a proceeding it seemedto Lily to be, the setting apart of a Government vessel solely andentirely to convey her to her new abode, as if she were a little queengoing to her husband's kingdom. She could not help holding herself withdignity, if not with a trifle of vaingloriousness, as, betweenhalf-a-dozen eager hands and admiring eyes, she stepped down into it. 

"Now, have you got everything?" the landlady called from the pier. "Oh, everything--everything in the world!" Guthrie shouted, in reply. 

"Where's your waterproof, Lily?" screeched the step-mother. "Better putit on, my dear; and I'd advise you to sit under cover, both of you. You'll be drenched if you don't, in this wind. Why, Mr Hardacre, it'sblowing a perfect gale!"

"A bit fresh, ma'am, " Bill admitted; "just enough to keep us lively. All aboard, Mr Casey? Pass the word, sir, when you're ready. "

"Ready!" called Guthrie. And then he said something to the men, BillHardacre and his mate Dugald Finlayson, about having everything onboard--all his life and happiness, or something to that effect--atwhich they laughed and chaffed him as the launch backed from the pier, and started off in the tearing hurry characteristic of Customs boats. 

Lily was in the cabin with the baby and the landlady's cousin, who had'got round' Mr Hardacre to give her a return passage, after seeing thelittle family safe home. Husband and wife had frowned at the suggestionof having her with them on the launch, but when they had shut her inout of sight and hearing, and found themselves free to follow their owndevices untrammelled by their child, they did not mind so much. 

"Hadn't you better--?" Guthrie began, when his wife reappeared, clinging to the door-jamb; but she exclaimed again:

"No, no! Let me be outside with you!" She wanted to feel "at sea" withhim, to bathe herself, under the shelter of his protection, in themagnificent, tempestuous, inspiring night. To her, cooped up all herlife in streets and prosaic circumstances, there was something in thepresent situation too poetical for words. No bride who had marriedmoney, and was setting out by P. & O. Upon her luxurious European tour, could have been more keenly sensible of the romance of foreign travelthan she, crossing Hobson's Bay in a borrowed Customs launch; while thesqually darkness surrounding and isolating her and her mateimmeasurably enhanced the charm. "I want to see it--to feel it!" shepleaded. "The air is so clean and fresh! The sea is so grand tonight!How beautiful it smells! Guthrie, I must have been born for a sailor'swife--I love it so!"

"Of course you were, " the sailor assented heartily. "No manner of doubtabout that. Well, sit here, if you prefer it, sweetheart"--on the sterngrating--"only mind you don't catch cold. And don't let us get thatpretty frock spoiled before the Williamstown folks have seen it. "

He steadied her while she stood to have the big macintosh drawn closelyabout her--the round cape, flapping far and wide in the rough wind, waslike an unmanageable sail, he said--and when she was again seated, hetucked it about her knees and feet. Buttons being hard to find andfasten, he pulled the two fronts of the garment one over the otheracross her lap, and she sat upon the outer one. Then he readjusted thewhite fascinator, winding the fluffy ends round her neck, and finallyencircling all with his stalwart arm. There she sat, resting againsthim, her left hand in his left hand, her contented eyes shining likestars in the dark. They were practically alone in space, their deckcompanions having thoughtfully turned their backs and made themselvesas remote as possible. 

A long sigh fluttered through Lily's parted lips from her surchargedheart. Guthrie heard it through all the clamour of the gale--for itreally was a gale--and the noise of the screw and fiercely snortingfunnel. He stopped his face to hers. 

"Tired, pet?"

"No, " she murmured, "oh, no!"

"What, then?"

"Only happy--PERFECTLY happy. "

"Same here, " he said, careless how he tempted Fate--"only more so. "

Their lips met, and were holding that sweetest kiss of lovers that areman and wife, when a wave, driven by the wind, flung a shower of sprayat them, giving each a playful slap of the face as a hint not to be tooconfident. 

"Hadn't you better get inside?" he urged, as he wiped her cheek. "It'llbe rougher still directly. "

"Oh, no, it's splendid! The rougher the better. I'm so glad it's rough. I can't take any harm, so well wrapped up, and with you, my husband. "

"Ah, Lil!" The hug he gave her in acknowledgment of the word made hergasp for breath. He was so carried away that he had to use both arms, whereby a lurch of the boat nearly unseated him. "Never, " he declared, in an intense whisper--"never shall you come to harm, my precious one, while you've got me to protect you; I can promise you that. "

"Dear, " she returned, in the same kind of tone, "I know I never shall. "

And she cuddled closer up to him, and he took a firmer grip of her. There was no rail for either to hold to, and drawing out from theshelter of the pier, and meeting the force of the southerly swell, thelaunch had begun to dance like a cork on boiling water. 

"Why, there's quite a sea on, " remarked Guthrie, with a laugh. "I hopeit won't make you sea-sick. "

"Sea-sick!" she echoed, with fine scorn. "I am a sailor's wife, sir. "

"Bless your little heart, I've been sea-sick myself many a time, andfor not much more than this, either. However, it'll soon be over. There's home waiting for us, Lil--"

"Where? Where?" she interrupted him, with a tender eagerness. Thelaunch was tossed high in the air, and the lights of Williamstownstretched across the darkness in front of them like a band of jewels. 

"Oh, you can't distinguish it, " said Guthrie, "but it's there--it's oneof those lights; Mrs Hardacre said she was going to keep the blind upand the gas flaring, so that we might see it as we came over. "

"That's what I shall do when you come back next time, " said the girl, with a voice like a dove cooing. "Make a beacon to guide you home. "

"No fear that I shall mistake the course, little woman. "

He had an irresistible impulse to hug her with both arms again, andthey happened to be on the verge of the river current. Hardacre andFinlayson both shouted, "Look out, sir!" but he was not lookingout--his sailor eyes were otherwise occupied, and so he did notperceive the enemy of love making the spring to seize him. Just as hewas folding his mate to his breast, he heard the warning cry for'ard, and it was then too late to avert the catastrophe. In the same instanta sudden wave struck the launch, and nearly turned her over, and theyoung wife and husband, holding to nothing but one another, and simplysitting upon an unprotected plank, were tipped out as easily as ballsfrom a capsized basket. 

"Oh, this is too absurd!"

That was Guthrie's mental ejaculation in the astonishing first moment. A deep-sea sailor, who had come through what he had come through, tolet himself be caught unawares by such a paltry mischance as this!Then, what an unspeakable ass to have been so careless--to have shownhimself incapable of protecting his wife, after all his boasts! Wouldhe ever hear the last of it as long as he lived? Poor little woman! Howcold the water felt when he thought of her tender skin. And her prettydress, that she had set such store by, in which she had intended to goto church with him on Sunday--utterly destroyed, of course! Well, hemust make shift to afford her another and smarter one, and get it madequickly. She should have her pick and choice. As the following wavesoused his uprising head, slapping him full in the face, so as toconfuse and blind him for a second or two, the fear that she might get"a dose of it" before they could pull her out made him sharply anxious. If she got a bad cold, a shock to her nerves, perhaps a seriousillness, he would never forgive himself. And what a sell that wouldbe--what waste of this precious holiday, this second honeymoon, so muchsweeter than the first--after the weary waiting for it!

He cleared his eyes, and had a momentary view of the surroundingsbefore another wave rushed upon him. Waves they were, by George! Hewould not have believed it possible that such a sea would be runningright up here, in this little duck-pond of a bay. It had seemed roughon the boat, but viewed from the surface, it might have been the middleof Atlantic wastes. They were in the river channel--worse luck!--andthe south wind was dead on to it, bringing up the swell from outside;and the swell, that had set that way for days, was so heavy as to drivehim back faster than his powerful limbs could propel him in the otherdirection. At first the launch seemed to want to dance over him, butwhen he rose on a swirl of water to take his bearings after the firstbewilderment, she was a couple of lengths away, cutting the mostextraordinary capers in her efforts to put about. Her own lights, andthose of the beacons at the river mouth, showed him all her sterngrating and bright deck fittings as she heeled over, hanging to theside of one of those ridiculous ocean rollers out of bounds; and hethought it no wonder that he--even he--had been tossed off under thecircumstances. The crew, who were not sitting on a skimming dish, as itwere, had their work cut out to hold on. As he looked, he measured hisdrift with serious disquietude, although the preposterous idea ofanybody being drowned had not as yet occurred to him. Drowned HERE! Agood joke, indeed! Why, they were within hail of Sandridge, andhalf-a-dozen ships--or they would have been, but for the noise of windand water, which smothered lesser sounds; and the lights ofWilliamstown--amongst them that of the little home awaitinghim--studded the shore on the other hand, near and clear, like the eyesof a host of watching friends. And in Hobson's Bay, which could hardlycover the body of a sunk yacht; and right up by the river, which had tobe dredged all the time to keep it open!

But where was Lily? It scared him to find himself out of arm's reach ofher, forced back by the swell, and not to see her immediately when hewas able to look. He saw the launch--which of course was entirelyoccupied in her rescue--and saw two white buoys floating, and saw aline thrown, but nothing else, except the wild water that buffeted him, and the moonless night overhead. And he remembered that the riverchannel--indeed, Hobson's Bay in any part--was just as dangerous asmid-Atlantic to one who could not swim. The thought clutched him like ahand at his throat. 

"Got her?" he yelled, in a fury of terror. "Got her? See her?"

He strained to make himself heard by the men on the launch in a way toburst his heart. They shouted something that he could not understand, and a line came whizzing past him. He caught it as it dropped, and soonlessened the distance between them. Then he perceived a long boat-hookstretching out into the darkness; it went up and down with the toss ofthe boat like the fishing-rod of an impatient school-boy, and a fewyards beyond its reach, where it touched water, there was a dim smudge. He knew it for the full cape of Lily's macintosh, outspread upon thewaves. They alternately rumpled and smoothed it, flapping it into allshapes as they tossed and toyed with it; but, by the mercy of Heaven, it had held her up. In the middle of the mass he could see her dearlittle head hanging forward and downward, just under the surface, outof which a larger or smaller speck of her white fascinator rose andgleamed as each roll swung her up into the light of the boat's lampturned upon the spot. This told him that she was already helpless andunconscious, although ten seconds had not elapsed since she went over. God send that she had not struck anything--that her heart was notweak--that she was not subject to any of the mysterious consequences ofshock peculiar to the more than ordinarily complex women! At any rate, she had not had time to drown. He had seen a man recovered after beingunder for forty minutes, and in less than one they would be taking herfull speed to Williamstown, signalling for the doctor as they went. What would the fellows ashore make of the three whistles--three timesthere before they got across? They would know the launch that blewthem, and her present errand, and think, perhaps, that the crew were onthe spree. But no, they would have more sense than that; they wouldlook at the wild night, and conclude that something had happened. Sowould the doctor, who would hear the summons from his bed. What wouldthey all say to him, Guthrie Carey, with his good seaman's recordbehind him, when he brought his wife home in such a state ofdilapidation? However, all's well that ends well. Let him only have hersafely there, and he would not mind what anybody said; and he'd takeprecious good care not to run any risks with her again. 

Water-logged as he was, and cramped in his overcoat, he made a violentbound towards the floating cape, lunged twice, caught it at the secondtry, and pulled it eagerly--alas! too eagerly. He felt the tug ofLily's weight only just long enough to be sure that she was there, andthen--the fastenings gave way, and she slipped through! The emptygarment swam up to him on the edge of a new wave, which clapped it overhis face like a gigantic plaster. 

Oh, this was dreadful! She would be rescued eventually, ofcourse--amongst them they would not let her drown, not if skill andcourage had any show at all--but the fact that she was in danger couldno longer be ignored. She was a little delicate thing, alreadyovercome, and precious time was wasting, when every second was of themost stupendous consequence. With a frenzied gesture, Guthrie shook offthe cloak, spluttered, spat, and made a dive to intercept her as shewent down, wondering as he did so whether breath and strength wouldhold out if he missed her and had to follow her to the bottom. Theswing of the swell was awful, and the darkness of the blind night toocruel for words. 

"If only I had this cursed coat off!" he dumbly sobbed. "If only Icould get rid of these damned laced boots!" Bad words would have beenforgivable even had he not been a sailor. 

He missed her, groped desperately, to the verge of suffocation, andcame up to cough, and groan, and pump breath enough to take him downagain. It would have cost five minutes to get his clothes off, andthere was not a single second to spare--now. 

"See her?" he shrieked. 

"Ne'er a sign, " Bill Hardacre shouted. "But we'll catch her when sherises. Take a turn o' the line round you, sir, so's we can haul youin--"

But there was not even time for that in the frightful race of thesevital moments. She was gone, and she must be found, and there was buther husband to look for her. The two other men were few enough for thesafety of the launch as she was then situated; and besides, Hardacrecould be more useful to Lily above water than below. The neighbouringships lay undisturbed, putting off no boats to help. In all that bandof lights ringing the black welter of the bay, like stars out of theInfinite, shining calmly upon an abandoned world, not one was moving. 

Guthrie Carey gave a last look round, identified the window of what wasto have been his home, where the fire was burning brightly, the littlesupper spread, good Mrs Hardacre watching for them at the door--heardthe landlady's cousin wailing, "Lil! Lil!"--and again plunged under, arms wide and eyes staring, and heart bursting with despair. Everythingin him seemed bursting--an agonising sensation--as his overstrainedlungs collapsed, and the power of his strong limbs failed him; theneverything seemed to break away and let in the floods of Lethe with arush--confusion and forgetfulness and a whirl of dreams, settling to astrange peace, an irresistible sleep, as if he had swallowed a magicopiate. The sea took him, as a nurse takes a helpless child, andfloated him up from the place where he had been savagely groping;something met him half-way, floating down upon him, and his arms wentround it of their own accord. But they were powerless to clasp or holdit. It passed him, sinking gently, and lay where it sank, under all theturmoil, as still as the rocking tide would let it. 

The launch sounded her steam whistle furiously. From both sides of thebay it was heard, screeching through the windy night like a fiendpossessed, and men got up hastily to ask what was the matter. Anotherlaunch put out from Williamstown, and a police boat from Sandridge, andthe anchored ships awoke and hailed them. Soon half-a-dozen boats weretossing about the spot; they tossed for two hours, and Bill Hardacredived seven times with a rope round his waist, while the widowed younghusband lay on the cabin floor between two doctors, the baby and thelandlady's cousin keening over him. 

"Well, " said Dugald Finlayson, as at last they headed for Williamstownthrough the now lessening storm, with a bundle in tarpaulin besidethem, "it do seem as if the Powers above take a pleasure in tripping usup when we least expect it. "

"Aye, " said Bill Hardacre, sitting crying in his wet clothes, "he saidas we were starting he'd got all he wanted now. I thinks to myself atthe time, thinks I, 'That's an unlucky thing to say. '" But who is tojudge luck in this world? Poor little Lily Harrison was a helplesscreature, and had almost 'nothing in her' except vanity. 

CHAPTER II. 

Sincerely he believed, when he was on his feet again, that his life waswrecked for ever. He did suffer from insomnia, even with his splendidsea-seasoned constitution, for months, which proved the poignantinsistency of his grief, making thinking a disease instead of a healthyfunction. He performed his duties mechanically, rigidly, like an enginestoked from the outside. He no longer had pleasure or interest in them. The flavour was gone from life; it had become a necessary burden, to beborne as best he could. At one time he even questioned the right of theMoral Law to ask him to bear it, under the circumstances. He used tolook at the blue water beneath him, and long to be beneath it, sharingthe fate of his loved and lost. He did not want to live without her--hewanted to die. At twenty-one!

At twenty-three he was a man again, physically and mentally sound, doing all reverence to the memory of his dead wife--a flawless angel inthe retrospect--while finding natural solace in the company of livingwomen who were also young and fair. The living women were much inevidence from the first; nothing but the sea could keep them fromtrying to comfort him. A big fellow, with a square, hard face, and afist to fell an ox--that was just the kind of man to call for coddling, apart from the fact that he was a widower--had been married for as longas five weeks altogether--with his heart in his wife's grave, and withthat pathetic adjunct, a baby. When he would consent to recognise theworld of affairs again, and the claims of youth and manhood against it, he found--but of course there is no need to specify all the things hefound. 

One was a batch of invitations awaiting each arrival of his ship inport--first two, then four, then half-a-dozen women's notes, begginghim to come to as many hospitable houses for change and rest, and to"bring the baby". He could not bring the baby, for reasons which he didnot honestly present, as a rule, but which he reluctantly disclosed toAlice Urquhart one night at Five Creeks. Alice had written one of thesix notes (they were six because it was Christmas time), for she wasthe sister of Jim Urquhart, who was the friend of an ex-squatter downon his luck through droughts, and reduced to balancing ledgers in aMelbourne office, who was the friend of one of those doctors ofWilliamstown whose skill had brought Guthrie Carey to life after he hadbeen drowned. Jim, having made the acquaintance of the latter, took hissister to inspect the ship, and to have tea in the mate's cabin; hencethe return visit, which the captain, who loved his chief officer, stretched a point to sanction. 

There were at Five Creeks station, besides Jim, a Mrs Urquhart andseveral children; but Alice, the eldest of the family, was the generalmanager of her household, ever struggling with her brother, whomaintained it, to lift it and herself out of the ruts in which herfather had left it stuck. She was close on thirty, sad to say, andthere were three girls below her; and nothing happened from year toyear, and she was weary of the monotony. "Do come and see us, " shewrote to Guthrie Carey--one of the finest-looking men she had everknown, not excepting the splendid Claud Dalzell--"do come and see us, and bring the baby. Country air will do it good, and the house is fullof nurses for it. "

He went himself, out of friendship for Jim, and after dinner sat in theverandah with Alice, and explained why he had not brought the baby. Jimhad then gone off to doctor a sick horse, and Mrs Urquhart was puttingchildren to bed. 

"I believe, " Alice rallied him, "that you thought it INFRA DIG. "

He protested earnestly that she was wrong. No, it was not that--notTHAT. 

Ignorant of the details of the tragedy of his life, she scented amystery about the child. Was it, perhaps, not right in its head, shewondered--or afflicted with a hare lip?

"Son or daughter?" she ventured cautiously. "A boy, " said GuthrieCarey, still with that unfatherly air of discontent. "Sometimes I wishit was a girl. She could look after me by-and-by; I could have hertrained to be my housekeeper, and sew my buttons on--that sort ofthing, you know. "

"You would have to wait a long time, " said Alice, turning admiring eyesupon his comely person, noting with regret that he could not be withinseveral years of her own age. "It is quite a young infant, isn't it?"

"Yes; that is--let me see--fifteen months and a little over. Yes, itwill be fifteen months on Thursday since he lost his mother. " Time haddone so much for him that he could now speak of her to a stranger. "Andhe was then only a few weeks old. "

"Poor, poor little thing!" sighed Alice Urquhart. 

It was, by the way, a particularly sympathetic night--soft, still, solitary, with a full moon. They both felt it. Besides, he had had anexcellent dinner. Five Creeks was poor, but it lived well. 

"Oh, " laughed the guest, without merriment in his laugh, "you needn'twaste pity on HIM, Miss Urquhart; he's all right. Rolls in fat--neverailed a thing in his life--might take the prize at a baby show. So theytell me. I have not seen him myself for a good while. "

"What! Why, he's in Melbourne, isn't he?"

"Not far out. "

"And you haven't been home to see him?"

"I haven't got a home. I gave it up when--you know. I knew I shouldnever be there, and you can't leave a house and a young child toservants. The little time that I did try to carry on by myself, I madea dismal mess of it. The woman I trusted to'--he meant MrsHardacre--'started feeding it with thick arrowroot. She'd have killedit to a certainty. "

"Indeed, yes. The idea! But it is incredible what some fools of womencan do in the way of mismanaging a baby. " The remark implied expertknowledge on the speaker's part. 

"A mother of children herself, too, " said Guthrie reflectively, "andlooking it, if ever a woman did. While a girl, who'd never had any, took to the job like a duck to water--knew just what to do and how todo it. I will say that for her. " "Instinct, " Miss Urquhart remarked tothe man in the moon, who seemed to survey the couple with his tongue inhis cheek. "I'm sure, though I say it, that I could give many a motherpoints myself. "

"I've no doubt you could. I heard somebody say, the other day, thatmothers are born, not made. Very true, too. You see it in the littlegirls nursing their dolls. I don't think anything of a she-child thatdoesn't want a doll as soon as it can speak. " "I always loved them, "declared Alice casually. 

He leaned forward to look at a spider's web that the silver light hadjust touched, making it shine out from its background of dark leavesand verandah post; and there was danger of rupture to the delicatethread of the topic that was weaving so charming a conversation. Wherefore the young lady hastened to inquire what had become of hislittle son. 

"I suppose, " she said, "he is with his mother's people?"

Slowly resuming his attitude of repose, the guest considered thequestion. 

"No-o--not exactly. With a friend of his mother's, not her family. Unfortunately, she had no family to speak of--and mine is in England. Neither of us had a soul here who really belonged to us. That was justthe difficulty. "

"It must have been a great difficulty, " murmured Alice, in a feelingtone. 

"I believe you, " assented Guthrie, with emphasis. "In fact, it put meinto the most ridiculous hole, the most confounded fix--one that Ican't for the life of me see my way out of; one that--However, Imustn't talk about it to you. It's not a thing that one ought to talkabout to anybody. "

And yet he yearned to talk about it, and now, and to this particularlysympathetic woman, who was not young and giddy, but, like himself, experienced in the troubles of life, such as weighed him down. Therewas "something about her" that irresistibly appealed to him, and he didnot know what; but an author, who knows everything, knows exactly whatit was. It was the moonlight night. 

A few words from her, backed by the nameless influences of the hour, unloosed his tongue. 

"You mustn't think me an unnatural parent, " he said. "It's not that atall. I'm awfully fond of him. I've got his photograph in mypocket--I'll show it to you when we go in--the last one for the timebeing. I get a new one about every other mail, in all sorts of get-up, clothes and no clothes; but all as fat as butter, and grinning from earto ear with the joy of life. You never saw such a fetching little cuss. I'd give anything to get hold of him--if I could. "

"But surely--his own father--"

"No. It sounds absurd to you, naturally; but that's because you don'tunderstand the situation. "

"I can't conceive of any situation--"

"Of course not. It's a preposterous situation. And I just drifted intoit--I don't know how. Oh, I do know--it was for the child's own sake;so that you really mustn't call me a heartless parent any more, MissUrquhart. Nobody would do that who knew what I'd suffered for him. " MrCarey made a gesture, and sighed deeply. "Even in the beginning itwould have been difficult to get out of it, having once got in, " hecontinued, after a pause; "but it has been going on so long, gettingworse and worse every day and every hour, till now I'm all tangled uplike that moth in that spider's web"--pointing to a little insecttragedy going on beside them. 

Miss Urquhart leaned forward, resting her arms on her knees, andspreading her hands in the enchanting moonlight, which made them lookwhite as pearls--and made her rather worn face look as if finely carvedin ivory. It was a graceful, thoughtful, confidential pose, and hereyes, uplifted, soft and kind, gleamed just under his eyes. 

"I'm so sorry!" she murmured. "But if I don't know what the troubleis--oh, don't tell me if you'd rather not!--I can't help you, can I?And I do wish I could!"

"So do I. But I'm afraid nobody can help me. And yet, perhaps a fresheye--a woman's clearer insight--" He paused irresolute, then succumbedto temptation. "Look here, Miss Urquhart, I'll just tell you how it is, if you'll promise not to speak of it again. You are no gossip, Iknow"--how did he know?--"and it will be such a blessed relief to tellsomebody. And perhaps you could advise me, after all--"

"Let me try, " she broke in encouragingly. For an instant her pearlyhand touched his sleeve. "You may trust me, " she said. 

"I'm sure of it--I'm sure of it, " he responded warmly. He drew hischair closer, took a moment to collect himself, and plunged headlong. 

"You see, she was related to the people my poor wife lived with when wewere first married, and she was a lot with her--it was lonesome forher, with me away at sea--and they got to be sort of chums. She waswith us the night I lost my poor girl--I can't talk about that now, butsome day I'll tell you--and I know she was awfully fond of her. Thatwas just the difficulty. "

"You are speaking, " queried Alice gently, "of the person who has thebaby?"

"Exactly. I see you begin to understand. "

"I think so, " said Alice, with a smile broad enough to be visible inmoonlight. "But what was the difficulty?"

"Well, you know, being so really fond of her, and all that--wishing todo it for the sake of her dear friend--what could I say, especially asthose women were killing the unfortunate brat between them? She was notso very young, and was evidently clever at managing--"

"Yes, " interposed Alice, smiling still. 

"And peculiarly situated for undertaking the job, having a good home, and only an old mother, who let her do what she liked. And awfully seton the baby from the first, and wanting an object in life, as she said. But chiefly it was for Lily's sake. To see Lily's child messed about byjust anybody, and killed with arrowroot and stuff, was more than shecould stand--to tell the truth, I couldn't stand it either--and shebegged me to let her have it to look after, as there was no femalefriend or relative nearer to it than she was. What COULD I do? Shelived in a nice, healthy spot, and there was the old mother with herexperience, and I was obliged to go to sea; and--and--well, I just hadto say "yes", and be thankful to say it. We got the--the doctor founda--we engaged the sort of nurse that does everything, you know--a fine, strapping young woman, in the pink of condition; and--and--well, thereit was. And at the first blush the worst of the trouble seemed over, instead of just beginning. I gave up my house, and went off to sea, miserable enough, as you may suppose, but at least with an easy mindabout the boy. As far as he was concerned--as far as my poor Lily wasconcerned, I felt I had acted for the best. Indeed, I don't for thelife of me understand how any man could have acted otherwise, under thecircumstances. "

The listener, listening intently, here put a quiet question--"Did youpay her?"--which caused the narrator to wince like a galled horse. 

"Ah, there you hit the weak spot, Miss Urquhart, right in thebull's-eye, " he declared, sighing furiously. "If I could have paid her, of course there'd have been no difficulty at all. But she wouldn't bepaid. "

"You ought to have insisted on it, " said Alice severely. 

"I did insist. I insisted all I knew. But she said it was a labour oflove for her friend, and seemed so hurt at the idea of money beingbrought into the question, that I was ashamed to press her beyond acertain point. She let me pay for the nurse's board, and that was all. The baby didn't eat anything, you see, and they were comfortably off, with lots of spare room in their house, and I just looked on it as asort of temporary visit--until I came back--until I should be able toturn round a bit. But"--with another sigh--"he's there yet. "

Miss Urquhart nodded, with an air of utter wisdom. 

"Of course you went to see the child?"

"Three times--whenever I was in port. And found him always the same--sobeautifully cared for that, upon my soul, I never saw a baby in my lifeso sweet and clean and wholesome-looking; jolly as a little sandboy allthe time, too. "

"That means that he had a perfect constitution--inherited from youevidently--and that you were fortunate in the nurse. "

"Very fortunate. But it appeared that beyond--beyond running thecommissariat department, so to speak, she did next to nothing for him. Miss--the lady I spoke of--did everything. Made herself a perfect slaveto him. "

"Bought his clothes?"

"Oh, " groaned the wretched man, "I suppose so. What did I know about ababy's clothes? And she wouldn't answer my questions--said he was allright, and didn't want for anything, as I could see with my own eyes. Itried making presents--used to bring her curios and things--found outher birthday, and sent her a jewel--took every chance I could see towork off the obligation. But it was no use. She gave ME a birthdaypresent after I'd given her one. "

"Well, if moths will go into spiders' webs, " laughed his companion, "they must take the consequences. "

"Sometimes they get helped out, " he replied. "Some beneficent, godlikebeing puts out an omnipotent finger--"

He looked at her, and she looked at him. At this moment they seemed tohave known one another intimately for years. The moon again. 

"Tell me everything, " she said, "and I'll help you out. "

So then he told her that he had not "this time" visited his son. Hemight have added that he had come to Five Creeks partly to avoid beingvisited by him. Cowardly and weak he frankly confessed himself. "Butthe thing was too confoundedly awkward--too embarrassing altogether. "

"But she writes--she writes continually. Tells me what he weighs, andwhen he's got a fresh tooth, and how he crawls about the carpet andinto her bed of a morning, and imitates the cat mewing, and drinks Idon't know how many pints of new milk a day, and all that sort ofthing. I believe the rascal has the appetite of a young tiger--and yetI can't pay for what he eats! The nurse was long ago dispensed with, sothat I've not even her board to send a cheque for, that they might bychance make a trifle of profit out of. It seems too late now to simplytake the child away, and there leave it. I haven't the shabby courageto do such a thing; and besides, he might come to any sort of grief, poor little chap, in that case. There's no doubt in the world that hertaking of him and doing for him have been the salvation of his health, and perhaps his life. And I know, by what she tells me, that heregularly dotes on her--as so he ought--and would howl his very headoff if I took him from her. What could I do with him if I did take him?I've no home, and nobody to look after it if I had; and hired servantsare the deuce with a lone man at their mercy. It would be worse nowthan it was at first. And so'--with another heavy sigh--'you see thesituation. I'm just swallowed up, body and bones, drowned fathoms deepin a sea of debt and obligation that I can never by any possibilitystruggle out of, except--"

"Except, " continued Alice, with the candid air of a kind and sensiblesister--"except by marrying her, you mean? Yes, I see the situation. Iappreciate your point of view. I should understand it if it were notthat she unquestionably laid the trap for you deliberately--just asthat spider laid his for moths and flies. And marriage by capture hasgone out. "

"Oh, don't say that!" the man protested, in haste. "I would not for amoment accuse her of that. She was Lily's friend; it was for her--itwas out of pure womanly compassion for the motherless child; at anyrate, in the beginning. And even now I have no right whatever tosuppose--"

"But you know it, all the same. Every word you have said to me tells methat you know it. You may as well be frank. "

He squirmed a little in his chair, but confessed as required. 

"Well--but it's a caddish thing to say--I think she does expect it. Andhasn't she the right to expect it? However, that's neither here northere. The point is that, in common honesty and manliness, I shouldrepay her if I can; and there's no other way--at least, I can't see anyother way. It is my fault, and not hers, that I don't take to thenotion; for a better woman never walked, nor one that would make abetter mother to the boy. But, somehow, you DO like to have your freechoice, don't you?" He had come as far as this--that he could entertainthe idea of choice, which meant a second choice. 

"It would be utterly wrong, absolutely immoral, downright wicked, toforego it, " Alice declaimed, with energy. "It would be nothing short ofcriminal, Mr Carey. "

She argued the point with eloquence, even excitedly; and when she hadbrought him to reason--very willing to be brought--leaned back in herchair with a joyous air. 

"Oh, we will arrange it!" she reassured him. "There are plenty of ways. I'll tell you"--bending forward again and gazing earnestly into eyesfrom which something that had been looking out of them seemed to havedrawn back hastily--"you shall introduce me to her, and I will bringhim away up here for a visit. He ought to be in the country in summer, and he will come with me, I know, and won't miss her after a couple ofdays. I can get you a nurse cheap from some of the selectors, and onemore or less makes not the slightest difference in a house like this;and I will take care of him for you until you come back next voyage, orfor just as long as you will trust him to me. So the difficulty willsolve itself without any fuss. Do you see?"

Guthrie Carey felt unable to reply. He could only murmur again andagain: "You are awfully good, Miss Urquhart. 'Pon my word, you are toogood altogether. " Later, he declared more firmly that he could notthink of troubling her. 

"Nonsense!" she returned lightly. "It is all settled. "

CHAPTER III. 

Decidedly he was a coward, with all his brawn and inches; for he darednot protest straight-forwardly that all was not settled. He certainlytold himself that he did not know what to do, but he also told himselfthat he would be a fool to do practically the same thing that he haddone before. He passed a sleepless night, poor fellow, cogitating thematter; and in the morning, when the moon was gone, saw clearly himselfwhere the path of prudence lay. Still he lacked courage to make itclear to Miss Urquhart, even while he saw her laying out, withenthusiasm, that road of her own which his terrified imaginationpictured her marching along presently, bearing the baby aloft in herarms, and dragging him on a dog-chain behind her. It was not untilmid-day that he suddenly became a brave man--about five minutes afterthe arrival of Deborah Pennycuick. 

She rode over from Redford, all by herself, as her frequent custom was, to see how Five Creeks was getting on, and to talk over plans forChristmas. She wore a brown holland habit over the most beautifullymoulded form, and, entering the house, tossed aside a shady hat fromthe most beautiful face that ever delighted eyes of man and virileheart of three-and-twenty. It is in such plain terms that one mustdescribe this noble creature; words in half-tones are unworthy of thetheme. Being introduced by Alice Urquhart, Guthrie Carey, in a sense, expanded on the spot into a fresh stage, a larger scope of being, withhis unleaping recognition of her inspiring greatness. It seemed to himthat he had never looked upon a woman before. Lily, of course, had beenan angel. "I thought I should just strike lunch, " she said, as she camelike a sunbeam into the dim, low-ceiled, threadbare, comfortable roomwhere the meal was ready. "I'm as hungry as a hunter, Mrs Urquhart. "

The homely old woman uttered a cry of joy, and spread her arms. Thevisitor, incarnate dignity, bent to the maternal caress with willingaffection, yet with the tolerant air of good-nature that does not runto gush. The children gathered round her, and hung upon her, undeterredby the fact that she had no kisses or fondlings for them. Jim stoodmotionless, glowing at the back of his fixed eyes. 

When the family had done greeting her, Guthrie was brought forward. 

"This is Mr Carey, Deb, who--"

"Oh, yes, I know"--and the frank hand, large, strong and beautiful, like every bit of her, went out to him as if she had really knownhim--"it is on Mr Carey's account that I have come, to tell you thatyou must bring him over to Redford at once. "

"We were going to, " said Alice; for it was the natural thing to takeevery Five Creeks visitor to Redford as soon as possible. "I waswriting to you only this morning. "

"Well, we just wanted to make sure. My father--you will excuse him fornot calling on you; he is not able to get about as he used, poor oldman--hears that you belong to a family at home which was very intimatewith his family when he was young. Do you come from Norfolk?"

"No, " replied the sailor, still in his dream. 

"Oh, dear, what a pity! He will be so disappointed. We have beenhearing about the Careys of Wellwood all our lives--never were suchpeople, apparently--and when he heard your name, and got the idea thatyou were of the clan, nothing would do but that you must be fetched atonce, to talk to him about them. Aren't you even a second cousin, orsomething?"

"My grandfather was born at Wellwood--"

"Ah, that's right! That's all we want. That makes you a Carey ofWellwood, of course. I hope you know the place?" "I have seen it. Butmy grandfather was a younger son and a ne'er-do-weel; he was kickedout--he quite broke off--"

"Never mind. You needn't go into inconvenient particulars. Try andremember all you know that's nice about the Hall and the family. Didyou ever hear of a Mary Carey? But no--she would be before your time, of course. "

"There was an old Mary Carey; she married a Spencer. She was pointedout to me last time I was at home--the nut-cracker type, nose and chintogether--"

"Goodness! Keep that dark too, for mercy's sake! She is his idealwoman. It is for her sake he wants you to talk Wellwood with. If youspoil his pleasure with that hint of nut-crackers, I'll never forgiveyou. "

"I hope I know better, " Guthrie smiled, coming to himself a little. 

"I am sure you do, " said she, and turned from him to take her chair attable. 

"Then we'll bring him tomorrow, " Alice said, seating herself. 

"This afternoon, " said the visitor commandingly. 

Alice wanted another moonlight talk about the baby, and knew the smallchance of getting it where Deborah Pennycuick was, and she raisedobstacles, fighting for delay. Deborah calmly turned to Jim. 

"Anything to hinder your coming this afternoon, Jim?"

"Nothing, " said Mr Urquhart promptly. 

The matter was evidently settled. 

They sat down to lunch, and the talk was brisk. It was almost confinedto the visitor and Alice, although the former carefully avoided theshutting out of the hostess from the conversation, in which she wasincapable of taking a brilliant part. Jim, in the host's place, satdumb and still, except for his alertness in anticipating his guest'slittle wants. Guthrie Carey, on her other hand, was equally silent. Neither of the two men heard what she talked about for listening to themere notes of her charming voice. 

After luncheon she put on her sensible straw hat. 

"You must drive Mr Carey, " she said to Jim. "I'll just ride ahead, andlet them know you are coming. "

"Let us all go together, " said Alice. "I'll drive Mr Carey, and Jim canescort you. "

But there was no gainsaying Deborah Pennycuick when she had expressedher views. 

"You have to get ready, " she pointed out, "and you'll do it quicker ifI'm not here. Besides, I can't wait. "

They all went out with her to the gate, where her superb, high-temperedhorse pawed the gravel, and champed upon his bit. Jim sent herspringing to the saddle from his horny palm like a bird let out of it, and they watched in silence while she crossed two paddocks, leaped twosets of slip-rails, and disappeared as a small dot of whitehandkerchief from the sun-suffused landscape. 

"What riding!" Guthrie Carey ejaculated, under his breath. 

"She's the best horsewoman in the country, " Jim Urquhart commentedslowly, after a still pause. 

He was a slow--to some people a dull and heavy--man, who talked little, and less of Deborah Pennycuick than of any subject in the world--hisworld. 

"And what a howling beauty!" the sailor added, in the same whisper ofawe. 

Again the bushman spoke, muttering deeply in his beard: "She is as goodas she is beautiful. "

Mrs Urquhart took her levelled hand from her eyes, and turned tocontribute her testimony. 

"There, Mr Carey, goes the flower of the Western District. You won'tfind her match amongst the best in England. I was with her mother whenshe was born--not a soul else--and put her into her first clothes, thatI helped to make; and a bonny one she was, even then, with her blackeyes, that stared up at me as much as to say: 'Who are you, I'd like toknow?' Dear, it seems like yesterday, and it's nigh twenty years ago. All poor Sally Pennycuick's girls are good girls, and the youngest isgoing to be handsome too. Rose, the third, is not at all bad-looking;poor Mary--I don't know who she takes after. The father was the onewith the good looks; but Sally was a fine woman too. Poor dear oldSally! I wish she was here to see that girl. "

Mrs Urquhart and Mrs Pennycuick, plain, brave, working women of therough old times, wives of high-born husbands, incapable of companioningthem as they companioned each other, had been great friends. On themhad devolved the drudgery of the pioneer home-making without itsromance; they had had, year in, year out, the task of 'shepherding' twoheadstrong and unthrifty men, who neither owned their help nor thankedthem for it--the inglorious life-work of so many obscure women--and hadstrengthened each other's hands and hearts that had had so little othersupport. 

"Mrs. Pennycuick--she is not living, I presume?" Guthrie enticed thegarrulous lady to proceed. 

"Dear, no. She died when Francie was a baby, " and Mrs Urquhart gave thedetails of her friend's last illness in full. "Deb was just a littletrot of a thing--her father's idol; he wouldn't allow her mother tocorrect her the least bit, though she was a wilful puss, with a temperof her own; ruled the house, she did, just as she does now. If shehadn't had such a good heart, she'd have grown up unbearable. Therenever was a child in this world so spoiled. But spoiling's good forher, she says. It's to be hoped so, for spoiling she'll have to the endof the chapter. She's born to get the best of everything, is DebbiePennycuick. Fortunately, her father's rich, though not so rich as heused to be; and when she leaves her beautiful home, it'll be to go toanother as good, or better. She's got to marry well, that girl; she'dnever get along as a poor woman, with her extravagant ways. It'd neverdo"--Mrs Urquhart's voice had, subtly changed, and something in it madethe blood rise to the cheeks of the listeners "it'd never do to put herinto an ordinary bush-house, where often she couldn't get servants forlove or money, because of the dull life, and might have to cook forstation hands herself, and even do the washing at a pinch--"

Jim wheeled round suddenly, and strode back to the house--the house, ashe was quite aware, which his mother alluded to. She, agitated by themovement, and without completing her sentence, turned and trotted afterhim. Alice was left leaning over the gate, at Guthrie Carey's side. 

"You will enjoy this visit, " she remarked calmly, ignoring the littlescene. "Redford is a beautiful place--quite one of the show-places ofthe district--and they do things very well there. Mary is ostensiblythe housekeeper; she really does all the hard work, but it is Deb whomakes the house what it is. After she came home from school she got herfather to build the new part. Since then they have had much morecompany than they used to have. Mary, who had been out for some years, didn't care for gaieties. She is a dear girl--we are all awfully fondof her--but she has a most curious complexion--quite bright red, as ifher skin had something the matter with it, although it hasn't. Ofcourse, that goes against her. "

"Miss Deborah's complexion is wonderful. "

"Yes. But oh, Deb isn't to be compared with Mary in anything exceptlooks. She is eaten up with vanity--one can't be surprised--and is verydictatorial and overbearing; you could see that at lunch. But Mary isso gentle, so unselfish--her father's right hand, and everybody'sstand-by. "

"I don't think Miss Deborah seemed--"

"Because you don't know her. I do. She simply loathes children, whileMary would mother all the orphan asylums in the world, if she could. Ialways tell her that her mission in life is to run a creche--or shouldbe. Lawks! How she will envy me when I get that boy of yours to lookafter!"

Guthrie's feet seemed to take tight hold of the ground. "Really, MissUrquhart--er--I can't thank you for your goodness in--in asking him uphere--but I've been thinking--I've made up my mind that the best thingI can do is to take him home to my own people. " The idea was aninspiration of the desperate moment. How to put it into practice heknew not, and she tried to show him that it was impracticable; but hestuck to it as to a life-buoy. He would write to his sister--all the'people' he owned apparently--and find somebody who was going home; and"Isn't it time to be putting our things together? Miss Pennycuick toldus we were to be there for tea at four o'clock, if possible. "

CHAPTER IV

Behold him at Redford, with his tea-cup in his hand. He was safe nowfrom talk about the baby; but he was also cut off from the lovelyDeborah, now wandering about her extensive grounds with another youngman. Old Father Pennycuick had him fast. They sat together under averandah of the great house. 

"There were no pilots then, " said the old man, puffing comfortably athis pipe--"there were no pilots then, and we had to feel our way alongwith the cast 'o the lead. We got ashore at Williamstown, on sailors'backs, and walked to Melbourne. Crossed the Yarra on a punt, not farfrom where Prince's Bridge now is--"

"Yes, " said Guthrie Carey. 

He seemed to be listening attentively, his strong, square face set likea mask; but his eyes roamed here and there. 

"Bread two-and-six the small loaf, " Mr Pennycuick dribbled into hisdreaming ears. "Eggs sixpence apiece. Cheap enough, too, compared withthe gold prices. But gold was not thought of for ten years after that. I tell you, sir, those were the times--before the gold brought all theriff-raff in. "

The sailor murmured something to the effect that he supposed they were. 

"We'd got our club, and a couple of branch banks, and a post-office, and Governor La Trobe, and Bishop Perry, and the nicest lot of fellowsthat ever came together to make a new country. We were as happy askings. All young men. I was barely twenty-three when I took upRedford--named after our place at home. You know our place at home, ofcourse?"

"I have seen it from the road, " answered the guest, arrested in hismental wanderings by the mention of his own age. 

"You must have seen it often, living so close. "

"I never lived close myself; I am a Londoner. "

"It's all the same--your people do. The Pennycuicks and the Careys havebeen neighbours for generations. "

"I am only distantly related to that family. "

"A Carey is a Carey, " persisted the old man, who had determined to haveit so from the first, and he would listen to no disclaimers. 

He had already referred darkly to that Mary Carey of the hooked noseand pointed chin. His eldest daughter, he said, had been named afterher. This eldest daughter, with her too-ruddy face, had shyly drawnnear, and taken a chair at her father's elbow, where she sat veryquietly, busily tatting. Plain though her face was, she had beautifulhands. Her play with thread and shuttle, just under Guthrie's eyes, held them watchful for a time--the time during which no sign ofDeborah's white gown was to be perceived upon the landscape. 

"My brother and I, we never hit it off, somehow. So when my father diedI cleared. You don't remember his funeral, I suppose? No, no--that wasbefore your time. They hung the church all over with black broadclothof the best. That was the way in those days, and the cloth was theparson's perquisite. The funeral hangings used to keep him in coats andtrousers. And they used to deal out long silk hat-scarves to all themourners--silk that would stand alone, as they say--and the wives mademantles and aprons of them. They went down from mother to daughter, like the best china and family spoons. That's how women took care oftheir clothes when I was young. They didn't want new frocks and fallalsevery week, like some folks I could name. " And he pinched hisdaughter's ear. 

"Talk to Deb, father, " said Mary. "I have not had a new frock for agreat many weeks. "

"Aye, Deb's the one! That girl's got to marry a millionaire, or I don'tknow where she'll be. "

Almost Mrs Urquhart's words! And, like hers, they pricked sharply intothe feelings of our young man. His eyes went a-roaming once more, todiscover the white gown afar off, trailing unheeded along a dustygarden path. The old man saw it too, and his genial countenance cloudedover. 

"Well, " he continued, after a thoughtful pause, "poor old Billy Dalzelland I, we emigrated together. He had a devil of a stepfather, and nohome to speak of. We were mates at school, and we made up our minds tostart out for ourselves. You remember the Dalzells of the Grange, ofcourse?"

"I can't say that I do, sir. "

"Well, they're gone now. Billy's father went the pace, and themortgagees sold him up; and if his mother hadn't given him a bit whenwe started, Billy wouldn't have had a penny. She pawned all she couldlay her hands on for him, we found out afterwards--Billy was cut upabout that--and got ill-used by Heggarty for it when he found it out. She was a fool, that woman. Everybody could see what Heggarty was, except her. Old Dalzell was a gentleman, anyhow, with all his faults. "

The white dress drew nearer, and its grey tweed companion. The host wasonce more wasting his story on deaf ears. "So we started off; and whenwe got here we went in together. He had enough to buy a mob of cattleand a dray and team, and so had I. We loaded up with all thenecessaries, and hired three good men, and travelled till we foundcountry. Took us about five months. At last we came here, and put ourpegs in, and I started off to Melbourne for the license--ten pounds, and leave to renew at the end of the year--and here I've stuck eversince. Billy, he took up other land, and got married, and died, poorchap! And that's his boy over there, " pointing with his pipe--"andhe'll never be the man his father was, if he lives to a hundred. "

The person referred to was he in the grey tweed, who sauntered withsuch assurance at white-robed Deborah's side. He was a tall, gracefuland most distinguished-looking young fellow; but Guthrie Carey wasprepared to believe heartily the statement that Dalzell junior wouldnever be the man his father was. 

"You shall see the identical hut, " Mr Pennycuick kindly promised. "Downby the creek, where those big willows are--I planted them myself. Notgood enough for a dog-kennel, my daughters say; but the best thing Ican wish for them is that they may be as happy in their good houses asI was in that old shanty--aye, in spite of many a hard time I hadthere, with blacks and what not. We cut the stuff, Billy and I, and setthe whole thing up; and all our furniture was our sleeping-bunks and afew stools and a table. We washed in a tin bowl on a block outside thedoor. Not so particular about tubbing and clean shirts in those days. Our windows were holes of a handy size for gun barrels, and theshutters we put up o' nights were squares of bark hung on to nails bystrips of green hide. Many's the time I've woke to see one of 'emtilted up, and a pair of eyes looking in--sometimes friends, sometimesfoes; we were ready for either. When Billy went, and I thought I'd getmarried too, then I built a better house--brick this time, and workmenfrom Melbourne to do it; that's it over there, now the kitchens andstore-rooms--and imported furniture--er--I am not boring you, I hope?"

"Oh, dear, no! I am deeply interested. "

"Well, Billy and I"--the tale seemed interminable--"Billy and I, wegave sixty pounds apiece for our stock horses, and the same for a tonof flour; and went right over Ballarat without knowing it. Campedthere, sir, and didn't see the gold we must actually have crunchedunder our boot heels. And Billy had misfortunes, and died poor as arat. It was in the family. Mrs D. Was all right, though. She used tosend a brother of hers to Melbourne market with her cattle, and cashbeing scarce, he would sometimes have to take land deeds for them, andshe'd be wild with him for it. But what was the consequence? Those bitsof paper that she thought so worthless that it's a wonder she took thetrouble to save them, gave her city lots that turned out as good asgold mines. She sold too soon, or she'd have made millions--and died ofa broken heart, they say, when she found out that mistake. Still, sheleft a lot more than it's good for a young fellow to start life with. That boy has been to Cambridge, and now he loafs about the club, pretends to be a judge of wine, gets every stitch of clothes fromLondon--pah!" Mr Pennycuick spat neatly and with precision over theverandah floor into a flower-bed. "But these mother's darlings--youknow them. If Mrs Dalzell could see him now, I daresay she'd bebursting with pride, for there's no denying that he's a smart-lookingchap. But his father would be ashamed of him. "

"Daddy dear!" Mary gently expostulated. 

"So he would. An idle, finicking scamp, that'll never do an honeststroke of work as long as he lives. And I wish Deb wouldn't waste hertime listening to his nonsense. Isn't it about time to be getting readyfor dinner, Moll?"

Mary looked through a window at a clock indoors, and said it was. Guthrie hailed the news, and rose to his feet. 

But not yet did he escape. His host, hoisting himself heavily out ofhis big cane chair, hollowed like a basin under his vast weight, extended a detaining hand. 

"Come with me to my office a minute, " he half whispered. "I'd like toshow you something. "

With apparent alertness, but sighing inwardly, Guthrie followed hishost to the room in the old part of the house which he called hisoffice. Mr Pennycuick carefully shut the door, opened a desk full ofdrawers and pigeon-holes, and brought forth a bit of cardboard with ashy air. He had never shown it to his family, and doubtless would nothave shown it now if he had not been growing old and soft andsentimental. It was a prim and niggling little water-colour drawing ofEnglish Redford--a flat facade, with swallows as big as condors flyingover the roofs, and dogs that could never have got through any doorwaygambolling on the lawn in front. A tiny 'Mary Carey' in one corner wasjust, and only just, visible to the naked eye. 

"This was done for me, when we were both young, by her--your aunt, "said Mr Pennycuick, gloating upon his treasure over Guthrie's shoulder. 

"Not my aunt, " explained Guthrie. "I don't know what relation, but along way farther off than that. I am only a very small Carey, you know, sir. "

Mr Pennycuick testily intimated, as before, that to be a Carey at allwas enough for him. It was his excuse for these confidences, of whichhe was half ashamed. 

While Guthrie studied the poor picture, trying to look as interested ashe was expected to be, his host turned and stared down into the drawerthat had held it for so many years. Other things were there--the usualdead flowers, still holding together, still fusty to the nose; theusual yellowing ball glove, the usual dance and invitation cards, andfaded letters, with their edges frayed; a book-marker with anembroidered 'Friendship', mixed up with forget-me-nots, in colouredsilks upon perforated card, backed by a still gleaming red satin ribbonlooped at one end and fringed out at the other; the book that it wastucked into ("The Language of Flowers"), a large valentine in a wrapperwith many broken seals, some newspaper cuttings, half a sixpence, witha hole in it, and a daguerreotype in a leather case. 

This last he took up, opened and gazed at steadily, until his companionwas compelled to interrupt him with an inquiring eye. Then he passed itover, and Guthrie turned it this way and that, until he caught theoutlines of a long aquiline face between bunched ringlets, and a longbodice with a deep point, which he understood to have belonged to hisdistant relative at some period before he was born. 

"And this?" he murmured politely. 

"Yes, " said Mr Pennycuick; "that's her. And I've never shown it to asoul before--not even to my wife. "

"A--a sweet expression. Fair, was she?"

"Fair as a lily, and as pure, and as beautiful. Gentle as a dove. Withblue eyes. "

Guthrie did not care for this type just now. He liked them dark andflashing and spirited, like Miss Deborah. But he murmured "Hm-m-m"sympathetically. 

"The loveliest woman in England, " the old man maundered on. "Surely youmust have heard of her, in the family?"

Guthrie had not only heard of her, as we know, he had seen her; but heshook a denying head, and dropped another hint of his own position inthe family--outside the royal enclosure, as it were. 

"Well, now, I'll just tell you what happened, " said Mr Pennycuick, turning to the open drawer again. "Strictly between ourselves, ofcourse--and only because you are a Carey, you understand--somehow youbring it all back--"

He was fumbling with the big valentine, getting it out of its case. 

"Yes?" Guthrie encouraged him, while inwardly chafing to be gone. 

"You see this?" It was an exquisite structure of foamy paper lace, silver doves, gauzed-winged Cupids, transfixed hearts and wreaths offlowers, miraculously delicate. How it had kept its frail form intactfor the many years of its age was a wonder to behold. "You see this?"said the old man. "Well, when I was a young fellow, the 14th ofFebruary was a time, I can tell you! You fellows nowadays, you don'tknow what fun is, nor how to go a-courting, nor anything. . . . I was atold Redford that year, and she was at Wellwood, and all through thesleet and snow I rode there after dark, tied my horse to a tree, creptup that nut-walk--you know it?--and round by the east terrace to theporch, and laid my valentine on the door-step, and clanged the bell, and hid behind the yew-fence till the man came out to get it. Then Iwent home. And last thing at night there was a clatter-clatter at thedoor at Redford, and I dashed out to catch whoever it was--her brothershe sent--but wasn't quite smart enough. If only I'd seen him. I shouldhave known--as I ought to have, without that; but I didn't. It neveroccurred to me that she'd send the answer so soon, and she haddisguised her writing in the address, and there was another girl--nameof Myrtle Vining--who used to have myrtle on her note-paper, and allover the place--and here these flowers looked to me as if they weremeant for myrtle, and these two crossed arrows are like capital V--andhow I came to be such an egregious dolt, Lord only knows! Well, I'vepaid for it--that I have--I've paid for it. Look here--don't touch!I'll show you what I found out when it was too late--after she'd playedshy with me till I got angry and left her, and it was all over--my eyesaren't good enough to see it now, but I suppose it's there still--"

With infinite care and the small blade of his pocket-knife, he liftedthe tiny tip of a tiny Cupid's wing. With bent head and puckeredeyelids, Guthrie peered under, and read: "Yours, M. C. , " written on aspace of paper hardly larger than a pin's head. 

"In my valentine that night, " said Mr Pennycuick, "I'd asked her tohave me. I didn't hide it up in this way; I knew, while I wondered thatshe took no notice, that she must have seen it. This was her answer. And I never got it, sir, till she was married to another man--and thenby the merest accident. Then I couldn't even have the satisfaction oftelling her that I'd got it, and how it was I hadn't got it before. Ofcourse, I wasn't going to upset her after she was married to anotherman. I've had to let her think what she liked of me. "

Guthrie was certainly interested now, but not as interested as he wouldhave been the day before. The day before, this story would have movedhim to pour out the tale of his own untimely and irreparable loss. Heand old Mr Pennycuick would--metaphorically speaking--have mingledtheir tears together. 

"You forget, off and on, " said Mr Pennycuick, as he wrapped up histreasure with shaking hands and excessive care--"perhaps for years at atime, while you are at work and full of affairs; but it comesback--especially when you are old and lonely, and you think howdifferent your life might have been. You don't know anything aboutthese things yet. Perhaps, when you are an old man like me, you will. "

Guthrie did know--no one better, he believed. But he did not say. Unknown to himself, he had reached that stage which Mr Pennycuick cameto when he began courting Sally Dimsdale, who had made him such a goodand faithful (and uninteresting) wife. 

"It is better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all, "says the old proverb. True enough. But one might write it this way, with even more truth: "It is better to love and lose than to love andgain. " One means by love, romantic love, of course. 

CHAPTER V. 

Dinner was over. They had all gone up to the big drawing-room, whichwas the feature of the 'new part'--the third house of the series whichnow made one. The new part was incongruously solid and modern, with astorey (comprising the drawing-room and its staircase only) whichovertopped the adjacent roofs. Below it was a correspondingdining-room, and both apartments were furnished richly in the fashionof the time--tons of solid mahogany in the latter, and a pasture ofgrass-green carpet and brocade upholsterings in the former, lit up withgilded wall-paper and curtain-cornices as by rays of a pale sun. Curlyrosewood sofas and arm-chairs, and marbled and mirrored chiffonniers, and the like, were in such profusion upstairs as to do away with theair of bleakness common to a right-angled chamber of large size andmiddle-class arrangement. A fine grand piano stood open in a prominentplace. Four large shaded lamps and four piano candles pleasantlyirradiated the whole; while three French windows, opening on a balcony, still stood wide to the summer night. 

By the great white marble mantelpiece, under the great gilt-framedpier-glass, filling the huge chair specially dedicated to his use, Father Pennycuick sat in comfortable gossip with his old friend, Thornycroft of Bundaboo. It irked him to separate himself from pipe andnewspaper, baggy coat and slouchy slippers, and his corpulent frameobjected to stairs; but when he had guests he considered it his duty totoil up after them, in patent shoes and dining costume, and sit amongstthem until music or card games were on the way, when he would retire asunobtrusively as his size and heavy footstep permitted. It was thecustom to pretend not to see or hear him go, and it would have annoyedhim exceedingly had anyone bidden him good-night. 

The pair talked shop, after the manner of old squatters when they sitapart; but the tall, spare, grey man with the thoughtful face--morelike a soldier than a sheep-farmer--was not thinking much of his flocksand herds. His thoughts followed the direction of his quiet eyes, focussed upon an amber silk gown and its immediate surroundings. MrThornycroft was Deborah's godfather, and at forty-seven was to all thesisters quite an elderly man, a sort of bachelor uncle to the family, one with no concern in such youthful pastimes as love-making andmarrying, except as a benevolent onlooker and present-giver; and so theveiled vigilance of his regard was not noticed, as it would not havebeen understood, by anybody. 

But other eyes, similarly occupied, were plainer to read. 

Jim Urquhart's, of course. Jim--as ineligible for the most coveted postin the Western District as he well could be, by reason of the familyalready depending upon him, together with the load of debt left alongwith it by his deceased father, a "pal" of Mr Pennycuick's in the gayand good old times--still contrived to bring himself within the radiusof Deborah's observation whenever occasion served. And being there, although silent and keeping to the background, his gaze followed her asthe gaze of an opossum follows a light on a dark night, with the samestill absorption. Nothing but her returning gaze could divert it fromits mark. It was so natural, so calmly customary, so unobtrusive, thatnobody cared to attach importance to it. 

He sat now, far back against the green brocade hangings of a cornerwindow, where he could see the beloved profile in the middle of theroom. His big, work-roughened hands clasped his big, bony knees, andhis long, loose body hung forward out of the little chair that wasnever built for such as he; and he seemed given over to RosePennycuick's tale of the pony that had corns, and the cat that had beenmangled in a cruel rabbit trap. He gave her wise counsel regarding thetreatment of these poor things, his deep, drawling voice an unnoticedinstrument in the orchestra of tongues; but his crude-featured, sunburnt face held itself steadily in the one direction. From the daythat he came to manhood his soul had kept the same attitude towards thewoman to whom the profile belonged. But he never alluded to the fact, save in this silent way. 

Then there was the Reverend Bennet Goldsworthy, "Church of Englandminister", as his style and title ran. Privately, Mr Pennycuick did notlike him; but for the sake of the priestly office, and as being aparishioner, he gave him the freedom of the house, and much besides. The parson's buggy never went empty away. Redford hams, vegetables, poultry, butter and eggs, etc. , kept his larder supplied. Hishorse-feed was derived therefrom; also his horse; also his cow. Whenhis cow began to fail, he promptly mentioned the fact--he wasmentioning it now to Mary Pennycuick. "Yes, " he was saying, A PROPOS ofhis motherless little girl--whom he often brought to Redford for changeof air, leaving her to the care of the sisters until convenient to himto reclaim her--"yes, it will mean much to my child in after life tohave had the refining influences of this house at the mostimpressionable age. " Truth was, that Ruby was growing a little old forher Kindergarten, and he wanted Redford to offer her (gratis, ofcourse) a share in Francie's governess. "I could not endure to see hergrow up like the daughters of so many of my brother clergy, ignorant ofthe very rudiments of decent life"--meaning not decent life in theordinary acceptation of the term, but the life that included eveningdress and finger-glasses. "She has caught the colonial accent alreadyat that horrid school. 'When is the new keeow coming?' says she. And, by the way, that reminds me--your good father promised me the cow afortnight ago. The one we have gives us hardly enough milk for thetable; we have had no butter from her for months. "

"I am so sorry, " grieved Mary, as if Redford had failed in its sacredduty of hospitality. "I will tell him about it. The men have all beenso busy with the shearing. "

She was also distressed that she could not definitely invite Ruby forthe impending holidays. But Deb had issued her commands that Redfordwas not to be saddled with a nurseless child at Christmas, wheneverybody's hands would be full. 

Mary was Ruby's willing foster-mother when Redford had her in charge;she was also the kindest hostess of them all to Ruby's father. To herwas left the task of entertaining him, and she never neglected it. Naturally, he gave her no thanks. When he said that what Ruby neededwas a mother's tender care, it was at Deborah he looked, who neverturned a hair's-breadth in his direction at any time, except when goodmanners obliged her, and who was not tender to Ruby, whom she called"that brat", and had smartly spanked on several occasions. 

A beautiful woman cannot help having objectionable lovers any more thana king can help a cat looking at him. This man--a most well-meaning, good-hearted, useful little underbred person, typical of so large aclass in the Colonial Church--was Deb's pet aversion, and did not knowit. He was not made to see his own deficiencies as she saw them. Whenfirst she flashed upon his dazzled vision, splendid in a scarlet dinnergown, and carrying her regal head as if the earth belonged to her, hereally saw no reason why he, with his qualifications of comparativeyouth, good looks (his sort of good looks), and notorious pulpiteloquence, should not aspire to rush in where so many feared to tread. His rush had been checked at the outset, but he was still unaware ofthe nature of the barrier that Deb held rigid between them. Hecontinued to gaze at her with his ardent little black eyes as if nobarrier were there. And it was because he did so that Deb, who couldnot slap him for it, slapped Ruby sometimes, and called her a brat, andwould not have her asked to Redford for the holidays; thereby givingoccasion to envious Alice Urquhart for that warning to Guthrie Careynot to trust his baby to her. 

There was still another lover present--the favoured lover. He sat withAlice near the piano where Francie and her governess were playingduets, listening without listening to his companion's jerky talk--thosepathetic attempts to attract him which so many second-rate girls werenot too proud to make obvious to his keen apprehension. Claud Dalzell'sdistinction was that he was the most polished young man of his socialcircle. He had had all the advantages that money could give and inaddition, was naturally refined and handsome. To hear Claud Dalzellread poetry, or sing German folk-songs to his own gracefulaccompaniment, was to make a poet of the listener; to dance with himwas pure enchantment (to another good dancer); he was the best horsemanin the land; and if his present host could not appreciate his manycharms--except perhaps the last named--others did. The whole race ofgirls, more or less, fell down and worshipped him. 

He sat with Alice Urquhart because he could not sit with Deborah; orrather, because he would not condescend to share her with that"t'penny-ha'penny mate of a tramp cargo boat", as he styled GuthrieCarey, whom she had made happy at last. She had rescued him from herfather's clutches; she had called him to a chair beside her, wherethere was no room for a third chair. Her glistening skirt flowed overhis modest toes. Her firm, round arm, flung along the chair arm betweenthem, made him feel like Peter Ibbotson before the Venus of Milo--itwas so perfect a piece of human sculpture. She lay back, slowly fanningherself, and smiling, her eyes wandering all the time in Dalzell'sneighbourhood, without actually touching him--a tall, deep-bosomed, dark-eyed, dignified as well as beautiful young woman, knowing herselfto be such, and unspoiled by the knowledge. She wore her crown with theair of feeling herself entitled to it; but it was an unconscious air, without a trace of petty vanity behind it. Everything about her waslarge and generous and incorruptibly wholesome, even her undoubted hightemper. And this was her charm to every man who knew her--not less thanher lovely face. 

Guthrie Carey--and who shall blame him?--basked in his good luck. Butevery now and then he looked up and met the glower of Claud Dalzellwith a steely eye. These two men, each so fine of his kind, met withthe sentiments of rival stags in the mating season; the impulse tofight 'on sight' and assure the non-survival of the unfittest came justas naturally to them as to the less civilised animals. Each recognisedin the other not merely a personal rival, but an opposing type. 

It amused Deborah, who grasped the situation as surely as they did, tonote the bristling antipathy behind the careful politeness of theirmutual regard. If it did not bristle under her immediate eye, itcrawled. 

"Look out for the articles of virtue, " Claud had warned her earlier inthe evening. "That big sailor of yours is rather like a bull in a chinashop; he nearly had the carved table over just now. He doesn't knowjust how to judge distance in relation to his bulk. I'd like to knowhis fighting weight. When he plants his hoof you can feel the floorshake. "

"He IS a fine figure of a man, " Deb commented, with a smile. 

"I can't, " yawned Mr Dalzell casually, "stand a person who eats currywith a knife and fork. "

"It was pretty tough, that curry. I expect he couldn't get it to pieceswith a spoon. "

"He did not try to. "

"I never noticed. I shouldn't remember to notice a little trifle likethat. "

"My dear girl, it is the little trifle that marks the man. "

"Oh!" said Deb. And then she sought Guthrie Carey, and brought him tosit beside her. 

"That gentleman sings well, " remarked Guthrie tepidly, at theconclusion of a finely rendered song. "I often wish I could do thoseornamental things. Unfortunately, a man who has his work--if he sticksto it properly--gets no time to qualify. I'm afraid I shall never shineat drawing-room tricks. "

"Tell me about your work, " said clever Deb, smiling behind her wavingfan. 

At once she had him quite happy, talking about himself. No effort wasnecessary to draw him out; that she deigned to listen to him wasenough. His struggles as boy--blue-nose boy; his tough battle for thefirst certificate; his complicated trials as second mate, holdingtheoretically an authority that was practically none; his rise to bequalified master and actual mate--no "t'penny-ha'penny" position in hiseyes evidently; his anticipation of the "master extra" and the pass insteam, which might lead to anything--the whole tale was told her interse, straightforward fashion, but with an art new to the modestsailor-man, who hated brag as much as cowardice. He bragged inself-defence, in challenge of the formidable equipment of his rival. And how interested she was! How well she understood his case--that itwas better than the swellest training-ship to make your own way by yourown exertions, and splendid to have done so much while still on theright side of thirty. 

So much! He had done more than that--he had been a husband and fatherat twenty-one. But this, his most distinguished exploit, was notmentioned. 

CHAPTER VI. 

He mentioned it next day, however. He had to; for after breakfast aletter, forwarded from Five Creeks, reached him from the baby'scaretaker--the lady of whom he stood in such undignified dread. Thesight of her handwriting paled his brown face and set his stout heartfluttering. What did she want of him? He kept the letter unopened forsome time, because he was afraid to know, although convinced beforehandthat he did know--that, of course, it was the visit he should have paidbefore coming up country. When at last he drew the sheet from itsenvelope, as if it had come from an infected house, and had not beenfumigated, and cast a hurried glance over the contents, he found thatthe unexpected had happened once more--the wildly unexpected. 

She was going to be married. He was a "general merchant" in prosperousbusiness, and there was nothing to wait for--except Mr Carey'sinstructions as to what was to be done with the dear little boy. Shewould feel acutely the parting from him, after he had been from hisbirth like a child of her own, but Mr Carey would understand that shecould not now continue her labour of love on his behalf--that she hadothers to consider. But she knew of a most excellent substitute--a dearfriend of her own, who had long taken the deepest interest in darlingHarry, and with whom she was sure he would be as safe and happy as withherself. She had expected to see Mr Carey when he arrived, to arrangematters; she hoped he would come as soon as possible. 

In the bewilderment of his mingled elation and anxieties, the youngfather did not know what to do for the moment, while recognising theurgent need for action. He must go as soon as possible, of course; buthe could not depart suddenly without a reason, and to give the reasonwould be to give himself away to Alice Urquhart. Besides, a day'souting had been planned on purpose for him; the possibilities inconnection with it were enormous; and five days of his leave wereunexpended still. He must think it over. He must have advice. So, as afirst instalment of duty, he scrawled a recklessly affectionate letter, full of gratitude to her who had been his good genius and the guardianangel of his boy. He did not disguise his envy of the general merchant, whose vows of love could not have excelled in fervent expression thegood wishes of the writer for the happiness of the betrothed pair. Hehoped to have the pleasure of seeing his dear old friend on thefollowing day, or the day after that at latest; and he promised himselfthe satisfaction of squandering his saved pay on such a wedding presentas would at least cover the cost of the bread and milk the boy haddevoured at her expense. Guthrie dropped his letter in the post-bagwhile they were calling to him that it was time to start. And he turnedthe key of silence upon his secret until he could pour it into theright ear. 

It was a wonder he did not pour it into Mary's, for she drove him toBundaboo, and nobody could have been more sympathetic than she. She wasthe virtual mother of the family, who loved children, and she wasnot--she could not be--a husband-hunter; a sensible man in domesticdifficulties could not have sought a wiser confidante. Yet he resistedstubbornly all her gentle invitations to confide. In the first place, he did not want to go with her in the pony-carriage, while Deb andDalzell rode. He did not like to see it taken for granted, as it seemedto be by all, that a sailor on horseback must necessarily make a foolof himself; the slight to his self-respect was enough to dull the edgeof his joy in the general merchant's proceedings--for, as the readerwill remember, he was still but three-and-twenty. 

He had to weigh down the springs of a little basket thing no betterthan an invalid's wheel-chair, and see the young exquisite, whom hecould have tossed over his shoulder with one hand, show off feats offancy horsemanship to make Deb's dark eyes kindle. Mr Pennycuick hadcarelessly asked Billy's degenerate son to "school a bit" a creaturewhich for weeks had not allowed a man upon his back, and had had noexercise beyond his voluntary scamperings about the paddock from whichhe had been brought, dancing with excitement and indignation. All thestablemen had been required to get his bridle and saddle on; he nowwheeled round and round in the large space left for him, while ClaudDalzell, in his London riding clothes, and with his air of a reigningprince, warily turned with him. Guthrie Carey, in the waitingpony-carriage, had but one interest in the performance--his hopefulanticipation of a fatal, or at least a ridiculous, result. 

But there was no fear of that, and evidently Deb knew it. Sitting herown dancing chestnut, how her beautiful eyes glowed! She gloried in thering of breathless witnesses to the prowess of her knight. Many a timedid she scoff and scowl at the dandyisms which she deemed effeminate;this was one of the moments which showed the man as she desired him. Through those fine fingers, with the polished filbert nails, theshortened reins were drawn and held as by clamps of steel; so was thewild-eyed head by the lock of mane in the same hand. When no one waslooking--although every eye believed itself fixed upon him--his leftfoot found its stirrup, his right gave a hop, and like lightning he hadsprung up and round, without touching the horse until fairly down inthe saddle; so that the animal was robbed of his best chance of gettingthe rider off, which is at the moment before he is quite on. No otherchance was offered to the baffled one, although he kicked like a demonfor nearly ten minutes. 

"I wish, " Guthrie Carey ground through his strong teeth, "that thecranky beast would break his neck. " It was not the beast's neck hemeant. 

But Deb called: "Bravo! Well done, indeed!" and when the battle wasover called the victor to her with her lovely face of pride and joy. Right willingly he went, and they sailed away together like the wind, and were lost to view. Yes, this was Dalzell's hour. She knew nothingof the brave deeds of sailor-men--common and constant as eating anddrinking, and performed to no audience and for no reward. 

Alice Urquhart and Rose Pennycuick, also on horseback, followed theflying pair; then a buggy containing Jim and schoolgirl Francie (hergoverness gone home for holidays today), and a load of ironwork for ablacksmith on the route; last of all, Mary and the sailor, for all theworld like the old father and mother of the party. Mr Pennycuickexcused himself from excursions nowadays, and so did Miss Keene, theelderly and quite uninfluential duenna of the house, when one wasneeded (she "did the flowers" and knitted singlets for everybody). 

The Shetlands pattered along at a great rate, but did not come up withthe riders until they were nearly at Bundaboo. And all the way--a longway--Guthrie Carey had to make efforts not to bore his hostess. Theytalked about the clear air and the dun-coloured land--the richestsheep-country in the colony, but now without a blade of green uponit--and made comments upon three bullock drays piled with wool bales, and two camping sundowners, and one Chinaman hawker's cart, which theyencountered on the way. And that was about all. 

The home-coming was a different affair. 

Tea had been served in Mr Thornycroft's cool drawing-room, hats andgloves had been collected, orders sent to the stables; and the youngsailor, panting to emulate the prowess of his rival, and thereby compelMiss Deborah to respect him, was asking one and another what were thearrangements for the return journey. 

"I, " said Rose, who hugged a puppy in her arms--a puppy long possessed, but only now old enough to leave its mother--"I am going in the buggywith Jim. "

"Wouldn't you rather go in the pony-carriage?" inquired Careyanxiously. "You could make a better lap on the lower seat. I could rideyour horse home for you if they'll lend me a saddle; yours could be putin the buggy--"

Even as he spoke, Deb came round the corner from somewhere, with swiftsteps and a brilliant complexion, Dalzell hurrying after her. 

"Mr Carey, " she called, while the sailor was still yards away from her, "Molly and I are going to change skirts. I am tired with my ride thismorning, and am going to drive home. Will you trust your neck to me?"

Would he not, indeed? He was but a pawn in the game, but what did thatmatter? Eighteen miles absolutely alone with her! And possibly half ofthem in the dark! No saddle horse in the world could have tempted himnow. He could hardly speak his gratitude and joy. 

"Delighted, Miss Deborah!--delighted!--delighted!"

But Dalzell, black as thunder, swung aside, muttering in his teeth. 

"Oh, oh!" Francie's loud whisper followed. "DID you hear what he said?He said 'damn'. That's because--"

"You cut along, " Jim's drawl broke in, "and get ready if you want toride. "

Mr Thornycroft tucked Deb into the pony-carriage with the solicitude ofa mother fixing up a young baby going out with its nurse. He insistedthat she should wear a shawl over her linen jacket, and brought forthan armful of softest WOOL, Indian wove. 

"Where did you get this?" she asked, fondling it, for she loved finefabrics. 

"Never mind, " said he. "Put it on. "

"I am suspicious of these shawls and fallals that Bundaboo seems fullof. Who is the hidden lady?"

He only smiled at her. 

"Ah, godpapa, you spoil me!"

She drew the wrap about her, and he assisted to adjust it, with gentleskill. Then he turned abruptly to Carey, as to a groom. 

"See that she doesn't throw that off. It will be chilly presently. No, she'd better drive--she knows the road. But take care of her. Good-night. "

"Isn't he an old dear?" said Deb to Carey, as they drove off. "He hasbeen a second father to me ever since I was a child. "

She did not hurry the ponies, being anxious not to appear to be tearingafter her offended swain. 

"The evening is the pleasantest time to be out, this weather, " shesaid, lolling back in her seat. "And I'm sure I don't want to look atdinner after such a lunch as I have eaten. I don't know how you feel. "

"I feel the same, " he assured her, with truth. 

So, for her own purposes, she made their drive half as long again as itneed have been. And was so friendly, so free, so intimate!--leadingthat poor innocent to the belief that his great rival was alreadyvirtually out of his way. He was an unsophisticated sailor-lad, who, with that rival's help, had reached a certain stage and crisis--anotherone--of his man's life; and--let us be honest in our diagnosis--thebubbles of Mr Thornycroft's fine champagne still ran in his blood andbrightened his brain, lifting him above the prosaic ground-level wherea craven timidity would have smothered him. Not touching the balance ofhis wits, be it understood; just heartening him--no more. 

Twice and thrice she branched off from the road to show him somethingthat could well have waited for another day. She was imprudent enoughto introduce him to so sentimental a spot as the familycemetery--established at a time when there were only Dalzells andPennycuicks to feed it. "Their shepherds were killed by the blacks, "said Deb, as she pushed the ponies up to the wall, and he rose in thecarriage to look over the top, "and they buried them here, marking theplace with a pile of stones. There were other deaths, and they enclosedthe piece of land. Then a brother of Mr Dalzell's, and a girl; and MrDalzell himself wished to be put here, beside his brother. Not hiswife, she wouldn't; she lies in the Melbourne cemetery. Then some ofour babies, then mother. She was the last. I don't suppose there willbe any more now. The State will insist on taking charge of us. "

Real English churchyard elms crowded about the wall and blightinglyovershadowed the lonely group of graves. English ivy, instead of neatlyclothing the wall, as it had been meant to do, straggled wildly overthe part of the enclosure which had once been a garden around them. Outof it, like sea-stripped wrecks, dead sticks of rose-bushes poked up, and ragged things that had gone to seed. The turf was parched away, like the grass of the surrounding paddocks; the mounds were cracked;the head-stones--several of them ornate and costly--stained with thedrip from the trees and birds, and some distinctly out of theperpendicular. 

"It ought not to look like this, " Deb apologised for it. "It ought tohave been seen to. We used to come often, and bring water from the dam. But one forgets as time goes on; one doesn't think--or care. Poor deadpeople! How out of it they are! And we shall be the same someday--neglected and abandoned, just like this. "

"DON'T!" muttered Guthrie Carey, shivering. The ghost of his sweet Lilyseemed to reproach him with Deb's voice. But the ghost-woman fifteenmonths old had no chance with the glowing live woman born into his lifebut yesterday; and no blame to him either, and no wrong to the dead, ifone can look at the thing dispassionately and with an unbiased mind. 

"Let us go and see the dam, " Deb cheered him, as she turned the ponies'heads. "You haven't seen our big dam, have you? Everybody that comes toRedford must see that, or father will want to know the reason why. 'Pennycuick's Folly' some people call it, because he spent so muchmoney on it; but father is not one to spoil the ship for a pen'orth ofpaint. He likes to do things thoroughly. So do I. "

And soon they halted on the embankment of a mile-wide sheet of water, shining like a mirror in a setting of soft-bosomed hills, their dun daycolour changed to a heavenly rose-purple under the poetic evening sky. 

"Why, it is a lake, " said Guthrie Carey. "You could hold regattas onit. " "We do, now and then, with our little boats. We have three overthere"--pointing with her whip to a white shed on the farther shore. "And swimming matches. We used sometimes, when we were younger, to comedown on hot nights and be mermaids. Once we moored ourselves out in themiddle, away from the mosquitoes, and slept in the bottom of the boat, under the stars. "

"How charming!"

"It was holiday time, and our parents were away. We took cushions andthings, and it was great fun; but Keziah reported us, and we were neverallowed to do it again. "

They sat in the pony-carriage on the dam embankment, gazing silently. Aflock of wildfowl had been scared away by their approach, and now not awing, not an eye was near. At a great distance curlews wailed, only tomake the stillness and solitude more exquisite, more profound. Thepurple of the hills grew deeper and softer, the lake a mere pulselessshimmer through the twilight haze. And then, last touch of magic, themoon swam up--the same moon that had transfigured Five Creeks gardenand Alice Urquhart last night. 

He poured out his soul to Deborah Pennycuick. 

First, it was only the story of the baby--the story he had told Alice, with some omissions and additions. He took advantage of the opportunityto ask Deb's invaluable advice. 

Deb, well aware of the influence of a summer night and certainaccessories, tried her best to be practical. She asked straightquestions about the baby. 

"Where have you got him? Where does this friend live who has beenrecommended to you?"

"In Sandridge--all at Sandridge--"

"That dirty, low part! That's no place to rear a boy in. Bring him intothe bush, to clean air, if you want to make a man of him. I know adear, nice woman--she is our overseer's wife--who has no children, andis dying to get hold of one somehow or other. We might make somearrangement with her, I am sure; and, if so, the little fellow would bein clover. We'd all look after him, of course, while you were at sea--"

"Oh! oh! oh!" The young father's heart simply exhaled itself ingratitude too vast for words. Ah! there was no hanging back now! Notthe baby only, but the dog-chain, was laid at Deborah's feet. 

"You go and fetch him tomorrow, " said she, "and I'll talk to Mrs Kelseywhile you are away. Then I'll meet you at the station on your return, to help you with him, and tell you what Mrs Kelsey says--though I haveno doubt of what it will be. But we'll keep him at Redford for a bit, till he gets used to everybody; and you must stay with him all you canuntil your ship sails. . . . "

His eyes were full of tears. He laid his hand on her shawl again. Heleaned to her. It was no use--the moon and his feelings were too muchfor him. They were talking of the baby, and the word "love" had notbeen, and was not going to be, mentioned; but there the thing was, unmistakable to her keen intelligence, looming like a frontiercustom-house on the road ahead. 

She grasped his big, trembling hand, and with it held him back, meetinghis adoring gaze with steady eyes and mouth. 

"My dear boy, don't--don't! Don't spoil this nice evening--"

It was all that was necessary. And still so kind, so gentle with him!No scorn, no offended dignity, no displeasure even. She, who couldpunish insolence with anybody, was never hard upon the humbleadmirer--only too soft, in fact, with all her basic firmness, andincapable of the hard-hearted coquetry that so commonly makes beautyvile. "Face of waxen angel, with paw of desert beast"--that was notDeborah Pennycuick. 

A sob broke from him. 

"I am a damned fool!" he muttered savagely, and by a violent effortcollected himself. "I beg your pardon. "

"That's all right, " she said, turning the ponies from the embankmentand whipping them to a gallop. 

CHAPTER VII. 

There was a moon the next night also. It did not appreciably affect himthis time--down in dirty Sandridge, hobnobbing with the baby'scaretaker and the general merchant, who, shutting his shop at six, wasfree to make the sailor's acquaintance, and help him to spend apleasant evening. But it turned Redford garden, with its fine old treesand lawns, into the usual bit of fairyland for those who strayedtherein. 

Redford was packed with Christmas guests. The waggonette that had takenGuthrie Carey to the train had returned full of them, and batches hadbeen arriving at intervals through the day. At bed-time the sisterswere sharing rooms; Rose had come to Deb's, Frances to Mary's; and theunmarried men were all at the bachelors' quarters. 

It was a hot night, and Deb, under the circumstances, was disinclinedfor sleep. She paid visits to one guest chamber and another, forprivate gossips and good-nights; when she returned to her own, whereplacid Rose had long composed herself, she roamed the floor like acaged animal. 

"It is no use my coming to bed yet, " she addressed her sister. "I couldnot sleep. I should only kick about and disturb you. I'll sit down andread a bit. "

She found a novel and an easy-chair, and made deliberate efforts totranquillise herself. Soon Rose heard sighs and phews, and suddenrustlings and slappings, and then the bang of a book upon the floor. 

"I can't read! and the light brings the mosquitoes. It's too hot inhere. I'm going out to get cool, Rosie. "

"A'right, " mumbled drowsy Rose. And the light was extinguished, and theblind of the French window rattled up. 

Deb flung both leaves wide--like all the Redford doors, they were neverlocked or barred--and drifting over the verandah, sat down on the edgeof it, with her feet on the gravel. She had tossed off her pearlnecklace and a breast-knot of wilted roses; otherwise, she sat in fullevening dress, and the night air bathed her bare neck and arms. Alsothe mosquitoes found them--a delicious morsel!--so that she had to turnher lacy skirt up over her head to be quite comfortable. From underthis hood the dark lamps of her eyes shone forth, gazing steadily intothe dim world--into the bit of future that she thought she sawunveiled. The loom of the trees, the glimmer of flowering bushes, theopen spaces of lawn and pallid pathways, the translucent blue-greensky, the rising moon--these things made the picture, but were to allintents invisible to the inward sight. She really saw nothing, untilsuddenly a pin-point spark appeared out of the shadows, moved along ahedge of laurels, and fixed itself in the neighbourhood of a distantgarden-seat. Then at once she stiffened like a cat that has heard amouse squeak or a bird's wing rustle; she was alert on the instant, concentrated upon the phenomenon. Instinct recognised the tip of acigar which had the handsome face of Claud Dalzell behind it. 

"What is he doing out of doors at this time of night?" she wondered;and the little star began to draw her like a magnet. The world becomesanother world in these mystic hours; it has new rulers and new laws--orrather, it has none. The moon sways more than ocean tides. In broad dayDeb would no more have stalked a man than she would a crocodile; inthis soft, free, empty, irresponsible night the primal woman was out ofher husk, one with the desert-prowling animal that calls through themoonlit silence for its mate. Twenty times had she snubbed an ardentlover at the behest of all sorts of reasons and so-called instinctscultivated for her guidance by generations of wise men, now, all in amoment, came this moon-born impulse to give herself to him unasked. Shecould not resist it. 

Like Deb, Claud had not been inclined to sleep, and for much the samereason. The guest chamber usually allotted to him being needed for alady, he had been sent to the bachelors' quarters--a barrack-likedormitory amongst the outbuildings, very useful for the accommodationof the occasional 'vet' or cattle-buyer, and to take the overflow ofcompany on festive occasions. Jim Urquhart, when at Redford, alwaysslept there; he preferred it, particularly when he had companions withwhom to smoke and talk sheep, and perhaps play cards, at liberty; forthe bachelors' quarters had its own wood-stack and supplies, and onecould sit by a blazing hearth all night, if so disposed, withoutincommoding anybody. 

Generally four bachelor beds were made up, and a screened end of theroom stacked with the material for twice as many more. At Christmas allwere in use, and lined the two long walls--which Dalzell called"herding", and disliked extremely, while recognising that it was anecessary arrangement to which it was his duty to conform. 

The herd was undressing itself in a miscellaneous manner--yawning, chaffing, cutting stupid jokes, some of them at his expense; until theprocess was at an end, and he could reasonably assume the fellows to beasleep, he preferred the gardens to the bachelors' quarters. 

And the free night enfolded him--the rising moon uplifted him--in theusual way, he being, like Deb, like Guthrie Carey, an instrument fittedto respond to their mute appeals. Perhaps even more finely fitted thanGuthrie or Deb; for he had what are called "gifts" of intellect andimagination transcending theirs--faculties of mind which, lackingworthy use, bred in him a sort of chronic melancholy, the poeticdiscontent of the unappreciated and misunderstood--a mood to whichmoonlight ministers as wine to the drinking fever, at once an exquisiteexasperation and a divine appeasement. He was a poet, a painter, amusician--possibly a soldier, or a king--possibly anything--spoiled, blighted by that misnamed good fortune which the lucky workers who hadto work so naturally and stupidly envied him. The proper stimulus tothe worthy development of the manhood latent in him had been taken fromhim at the start. And now he wandered amongst his dilettantisms, dissatisfied and ineffectual. He lived beneath himself in his commonintercourse with others; he ate his heart when he was alone. 

Unconsciously, by force of habit, he selected the most comfortable andcleanly of the garden-seats, and made sure that the best of cigars wasdrawing perfectly, before he gave himself to his meditations on thisparticular moonlight night. Then he began to think of Deb--in the samenew way that Carey had begun to think of her after discovering adangerous rival in the field. To Claud, Guthrie was dangerous in hisrude bulk and strength, the knitted brute power that the sea and hishard life had given him; to Guthrie, Claud was dangerous in thehighbred beauty and finish of his person, clothes and manners, and inthe astounding "cleverness" that he displayed. Each man feared theforce of those qualities which he lacked himself, and was secretlyashamed of lacking. 

Claud Dalzell considered this matter of the rival--not a probable but apossible rival--seriously, for the first time. Hitherto he had had aneasy mind in his relations with the beauty of the countryside. She washis for all he wanted of her. And feeling this, he had taken no stepsto register his claim; he had not even yet proposed to her. Matrimonywas not a fashionable institution--it was, indeed, a jest--in his set. A young man with a heap of money was not expected to tie himself downas if he were a poor clerk on a hundred a year. The conditions of clublife, with as many domestic hearths to visit as he wished, and to stayaway from when he chose, the luxury and freedom of pamperedbachelorhood, had not only been deemed appropriate, but necessary tohis peculiar needs and organisation. He had not considered himself amarrying man. But now the new idea came to him--to make his rights inDeb secure. 

Certainly he could not contemplate the possibility of doing withouther. He had loved her that much for years. Within the last day or twohe had loved her twice that much. And now the moonlight showed him hislove enthroned above all his lesser loves--a thing of heaven, wherethey were of the earth--consecrated a great passion, to lift him out ofhimself. He sat and smoked, spiritually bemused, his brain running likea fountain with melodies of music and poetry, notes and words that sangin his ears and murmured on his lips without his hearing them. So adistant curlew thrilled him to a more ecstatic melancholy with its callthrough the moon-transfigured world, and he did not notice it. All theinfluences of the gentle night contributed to his inspired mood, butLove was the first violin in that orchestra under Nature'sconductorship--Nature, whose hour it was, walking, a god, in the Gardenof Eden in the cool of the day. 

And here came Deb, gliding towards him by a path that he could not see, holding her lace skirts tightly bunched in her nervous hands. Youth toyouth, beauty to beauty, man to woman, woman to man, the magnet to thesteel--they were just elements of the elements, for once in their lives. 

"How fortunate that I put on black tonight, " thought Deb, as shepursued her stealthy way at the back of bushes--"and something thatdoes not rustle!"

"How beautiful she was tonight!" thought Claud. "How a dark dressthrows up that superb neck of hers! I'll take her to Europe, and showher to the sculptors and painters; but where's the hand that couldcarve that shape, or the paint that could give her colour? I'll have aLondon season with her, and see her snuff out the milk-and-waterdebutantes. No milk-and-water about Deb--wine and fire!--and withal soproud and unapproachable. That hulking brute imagines--but he'll findhis mistake if he attempts to cross the line. Beauty, passion, purity--what a blend! She's a woman alone--the blue rose of women--andshe is mine. " He murmured, to some cadence of a Schubert serenade: "MyDeb! My love! My love! My queen!" and suddenly stopped short in hismusings. 

Her foot crunched the gravel behind him. Without turning his head, hesat alertly motionless for several minutes, listening, holding hisbreath. Then he dropped his cigar gently. 

"Fine night, Deb, " he remarked aloud. 

There was no immediate answer, but presently a low chuckle from thelaurel bushes. 

"How did you know it was me?" she asked, imitating his casual tone. 

"Couldn't explain, I'm sure. It was borne in on me, somehow. "

"You did not see me. "

"I don't want to see, in your case. I feel you. "

There was another brief silence, and then she rustled off a step or two. 

"Well, good-night! I just came out to look for a book I left heresomewhere. "

"What book?" "It doesn't matter. It is too late to read tonight, anyhow. "

"It spoils books to leave them out all night. I will help you to findit. " He got up, and pretended to look about. "It is not on this seat--"

"Perhaps Miss Keene has taken it in. She is always after me to pick upmy litters. It won't rain, anyway, so it doesn't matter. "

"No, it won't rain tonight. Awfully nice night, isn't it? I came overhere to get a quiet smoke and let those fellows subside a bit. I couldnot stand their noise, and the place is stifling. "

"I'm afraid so. I'm so sorry we have to put you there; but you know--"

"Oh, of course! I don't mind a bit. It is hot indoors, wherever youare. If it were not for the mosquitoes, it would be nice to sleep inhammocks under the trees this weather. " "I have often thought so. Ican't breathe shut up. Rose is in my room tonight, and she seems like awhole crowd. I had to come out to cool myself. " "And to get your book. What book was it?" "The--er--Clough's poems. " "How many copies haveyou?--because one of them has been in my pocket for two days. "

"Well, I don't want it. Good-night!"

She put out her hand. He took it and held it. The moonlight now wasvery bright, but not bright enough to reveal his smile or her blush. However, neither could be hidden from the second sight of love. "Don'tgo yet, Debbie. I never get a word with you these days, you are sotaken up with all sorts of people. And you haven't had time to get coolyet. I know you haven't--by the feel of your hand. "

She tried to withdraw it, but did not try very hard. 

"My dear boy, " she trembled, "do you know what time it is? It must besimply ALL hours. "

"What does that matter? We are not keeping anybody up. " "And there'stomorrow to be considered. Christmas Eve is always such a busy, tiring--"

"Sufficient for the day. Let us take things as we can get them. Besides, you will sleep all the better for it. Five minutes more orless--"

He pulled gently but firmly at the imprisoned hand. "Well, just fiveminutes--although it's really--"

She was drawn down to the bench beside him, and the man in the moon, ashe looked into their shining, happy eyes, seemed to wink knowingly. 

"Oh, Debbie, isn't it a heavenly night? Oh, Debbie!" His arms wentround her, and she simply melted into them. "Oh, my love!. . . "

Five minutes! It ran to an hour and a half before she scudded acrossthe lawn to bed. 

And it was Mary, the busy housekeeper, who, on her busiest day, droveto the station to meet Guthrie Carey and the baby, and the baby's cheapand temporary child-nurse. 

Mary, though she was not Deb, was too sweet and good for words. She putthe little hired girl on the front seat with the groom, and sat in thebody of the waggonette to talk to Guthrie and to take care of hischild. There was no awkward shyness on her part now, and no boredom onhis. Little Harry fused them. She had remembered to bring fresh milkand rusks for a possibly hungry baby, and he sat on her lap as she fedhim, and cooed to her when his mouth was not too full, and seemed toforget that any other foster-mother had ever existed. His father'srelieved and astonished pleasure in the sight was only equalled byMary's pleasure in seeing his pleasure. "Isn't he a jolly little cuss, Miss Pennycuick?" "He is a perfect darling, " crooned Mary, kissing him. 

And, in fact, Harry Carey was a fine, clean, wholesome child, as worthyof his old family as any born under the ancestral roof. 

Mary shouldered him as if he belonged to her when they arrived atRedford, shortly before the dinner hour. 

"Now, Mr Carey, you must go to the bachelors' quarters, I am sorry tosay; but he will not miss you, since you have been away from him for solong. He knows me now, " said Mary proudly, "and I will take charge ofhim. You may safely leave him to us now. "

"Indeed, yes, I know that, " said the thankful parent, and hastened tohis new quarters to receive the greetings and chaffings of the youngbachelors, and to dress himself for dinner, while Mary carried the babyinto the house, calling on Keziah Moon to come to her, the inadequatenurse-girl trailing at her heels. 

The house party gathered in the glazed corridor of the "middle part"--along, narrow room, that had once been a verandah, and that led to thenew big dining-room--to await the summons to the meal. Here Deb, beautiful in limp white silk that showed up the lovely carmine of hercheeks, came forward to welcome the returned guest with an eager warmththat sadly misled him. He sat down to his dinner a few minutes laterwith his head in a whirl and his appetite nowhere, as an effect of thatcordial pressure of the hand, those tender eyes, and that deep-huedblush upon him. 

Then, as he came to himself, there crept into his mind a sense thatthings had been happening while he was away. All the eyes around thetable seemed continually to turn either towards Deb, who, stillflushed, and bestowing absent-minded smiles upon anybody and anything, was certainly different from her usual stately self; or upon ClaudDalzell, who sat beside her, and seemed to have appropriated some ofher lost dignity; or upon Mr Pennycuick, who fumbled oddly with carvingknife and gravy spoon, and gave other evidences, Guthrie thought, ofhaving been upset and shaken. The young man was still fumbling himselffor light upon these mysteries, when they were dispelled by a shockthat for the moment stunned him. 

Mr Pennycuick called for a certain brand of wine long famous at hisboard. When it came, and the bottles were being sent round, he stoodup, with a trembling goblet in his hand. The eyes round the tabledropped--all but Guthrie's, which stared at the old man. 

"There's no time like the present, " began the host, "if a thing has tobe done. " He repeated this strange and embarrassing introductoryremark, and then spent some time in clearing his throat and blowing hisnose, and trying to wipe up the wine he was shaking over. When thefidgets had seized upon the whole company, he rushed his fence. "Ahem!I must ask you, my friends, to fill your glasses in honour of anevent--an event--that has just transpired in our midst--that--that I amsure will interest you all--that--in short, my dear daughterDeborah--and the man of her choice--who knows, I hope, what a lucky doghe is--"

"He does!" Claud interjected; and there was eager dumb-show all roundthe table, everyone--again excepting Guthrie--leaning forward to castwreathed smiles at the seated couple. "I have given my consent, " saidMr Pennycuick--"I have given my consent. My daughter shall be happy inher own way--and I hope he'll see to it that she gets all she bargainsfor. He is the son of my oldest friend, a man that was better than abrother to me--the whitest, straightest--But there's no words to saywhat he was. Only, the son of such a man--anybody with Billy Dalzell'sblood in him--ought to be--if he isn't--"

"He is!" sang Deb, in her rich, ringing voice. "Oh, please, don't sayany more, father!"

"Well, my dear, I know I am no hand at speech-making, but I can wishyou luck, both of you, and I do. And I want our friends here--oldfriends of the family--to do the same. Good wishes mayn't bring goodfortune, but for all we know they may do something towards it; andanyway, she may as well have all her chances. Ladies and gentlemen, long life and happiness to Deborah Pennycuick and her husband that isto be!"

A general turmoil broke out, glass-clinkings, cheers, handshakings;kissings, with a sob or two from the overwrought. And Guthrie, with noheart upon his sleeve, bowed and drank with the rest. When thedemonstration was over, and the company back in its chairs, Dalzell wasleft standing. His bride-elect sat beside him, her elbow on the table, her face shaded by her hand. 

"On behalf of my dear wife that is to be, " said Claud, with a quietmastery of himself that was in striking contrast to the old man'sagitation, "and as a grateful duty of my own, I beg to thank you all, and especially Mr Pennycuick, for this great kindness--for yourgenerous sympathy with us in our present happiness. Mr Pennycuick seemsto have a doubt--natural to anyone in the circumstances, but inevitablein a father--the father of such a daughter--as to my being qualified toappreciate the gift he has just bestowed upon me; I can assure him, andall of you, that I am overwhelmed with the sense of my good fortune, and of my unworthiness of it. I am unworthy--I admit it; but it shallbe the business of my life to correct that fault--if it is a fault, andnot merely a misfortune that I cannot help. To the best of my power Iwill prove--by deeds, not words--that I do know her value. " Deb's handunder the table here stole towards his that hung at his side, and hestood holding it until he finished speaking. "Fortune has been kind ingranting me the means to surround her with material comfort--to give sorare a jewel the setting appropriate to it; for the rest, I must trustto her generosity. I feel quite safe in trusting to it. We have knowneach other--I believe we have loved each other--from childhood; I hopeMr Pennycuick will take that as some guarantee that his littlemisgivings are unnecessary. " The orator twisted his moustache, andglanced down at the bowed head beside him. "She seems to be a littletaken aback by the suddenness of this public announcement, but I cansay that it does not come a moment too soon for me. Mr Pennycuick hasmade me a proud man. I glory in my position as his daughter's affiancedhusband; I wish to parade it as openly as possible. However, to spareher, I will say no more just now. Ladies and gentlemen"--bowing toright and left--"I thank you again. "

He sat down amid thunders of applause; and leaning back in his chair, he looked straight and full at Guthrie Carey. Guthrie Carey, erect, calm as a stone image, returned the look steadily. There was absolutelyno expression in his eyes. 

CHAPTER VIII. 

Carey junior joined the Christmas party after breakfast, and was handedround. Mary introduced him. He was spick-and-span, with shining cheeksand a damp and glossy top-knot, and his blue eyes stared at the strangecrowd stolidly for several minutes before he suddenly crumpled up hisface and uttered a howl of terror. 

"What is it?" queried Dalzell, with raised brows, pretending that hehad never seen such a thing before. 

"It's a baby, " Frances explained, dancing round it. "Baby!Baby!"--shaking the new rattle that was one of its Christmasgifts--"look at me, baby! It is Mr Carey's baby. Oh, come and speak tohim, Mr Carey! He is frightened of so many strangers. "

The stalwart father in the background glowered upon the son disgracinghim. Red as beetroot, embarrassed and annoyed, he strode forward. Theyelling infant cast one glance at him, and yelled louder than before. "I shouldn't have let him come, " the sailor growled. He had got up fromthe wrong side of the bed that morning, and was in the mood to regreteverything, even that he had been born. "I don't know what possessed meto let you be bothered with the brat. I'll ring for his nurse. "

This was unanimously objected to. The ladies gathered round, withhoneyed words and tinkling baubles to pacify the little guest. Deborahsnatched him from her sister's arms, and ran with him into the garden, where she tossed him, still writhing and wailing, up and down, anddipped his face into flowers, and played other pranks calculated toenchant the average baby. This baby turned on her for her pains, andhaving slapped her cheeks, grabbed her beautiful hair and tore it downabout her ears. The next instant he felt the weight of the hand fromwhich his own had derived its strength. 

"You brute!" cried Deb, shielding the offending little arm from asecond blow. "A great big man like you, to strike a tender mite likethis!"

"'Tender' is hardly the word, " the irate parent sneered. "And mite ashe is, he is not to do things of that sort. " Guthrie glared at hersacred locks, dishevelled. "I'm awfully sorry. He shan't do it again. I'll take him away tomorrow. "

"You will do nothing of the sort, " flashed Deb. "You are not fit tohave the care of him. He shall stay here, where he will be treated as ababy ought to be--not smacked and knocked about for nothing at all. "

"I admire his pluck, " quoth Dalzell, sauntering up. 

"So do I, " said Deb; but she handed her sobbing burden to Mary. "Here, take him, Moll, while I put my hair up. POOR little fellow!"

She need not have been so severe. She might have known that it wasbecause the cheeks and hair were hers that the baby had been punishedfor his assault on them. She could have seen that she was wringing theculprit's heart. Perhaps she did, and had no room in her own to care. She stood on the sunny garden path and lifted her hands to her head--alovely pose. 

"Here, let me, " said Claud Dalzell. 

She let him--which was cruellest of all. Guthrie turned his murderouseyes from the group and sauntered away, out of the garden, out of theirsight, unrecalled, apparently unnoticed. Mary carried the crying childinto the house. 

Then for an hour the silly fellow walked alone in the most solitaryplaces that he could find, revelling in the thought that it wasChristmas Day, and he singled out by Fate to have no share in its happycircumstances: no home, no friends, no love, like other men--nothing tomake life worth living, save only the baby son that he had ill-used. Apart from the sting of Deb's comment on it, he repented him of thatblow. A great big man like him, to strike a tender mite like this--amotherless babe, his precious Lily's bequest to him--aye, indeed! Itwas the act of a brute, whatever the provocation. The mite was a waiftoo, alone in the world when his father was at sea, patheticallyhelpless, with no defence against blows and unkindness. The reflectionbrought dimness to the man's hard blue eyes, and turned his stepshouseward. 

He arrived to find a large four-horsed brake at the door. The body wasfilling with other persons--the sailor knew not, cared not whom. Helooked up at the radiant figure in front. She looked down on him withheart-melting kindness, as if nothing had happened. 

"Why, Mr Carey, aren't you coming to church?" she called to him. "Not--not today, I think, " he answered, without premeditation. 

"Christmas Day, " she hinted invitingly. "You don't always get thechance, you know. "

"I know. But--thanks--I'd rather not, " he bluntly persisted, hatinghimself for the churlish response, and all the time wanting togo--certain to have gone if he had given himself time to think. Soldiers and sailors, with their habit of unquestioning obedience toauthority, are almost always "good" churchmen, and, as she had pointedout, this offer of Christian privileges did not come to him every year. He had not anticipated it on this occasion, knowing Redford to besituated at least ten miles from a church. 

"Oh, well, " said Deborah, scenting spite, "I daresay it IS morecomfortable in the cool house. "

And then she left him, in the position of a self-indulgent idler, preferring comfort to duty, a foil to his more conscientious rival. When the dust of the departure had cleared away, he sat on, not in thecool house, but on the hot verandah, nursing his griefs in solitude. Heseemed the only person left behind, or else he seemed forgotten, as aguest of no account. "What a Christmas Day!" was again his thought, while he dragged before his mind's eye old pictures of his Englishhome, his dead mother, Santa Claus stockings, and all sorts of patheticthings. He resolved to quit Redford on the morrow, and spend the lasthours of his leave in establishing his son elsewhere. 

Then Mary Pennycuick came out to him, with that son in her arms. Herface was redeemed from its plainness by the tender motherliness and theno less tender friendliness of its expression; that of little Harry wascherubic. The heart of the lonely man warmed to both. 

"He has come to tell daddy that he is a good boy now, " explained Maryproudly. Guthrie ejaculated "Sonny boy!" and held out his arms. Thebaby, bearing no malice, tumbled into them, and was at once occupiedwith his father's watch-chain. The three subsided upon two cane chairs, looking, as Mary keenly comprehended, like a self-contained family. 

"You have stayed at home because of him!" the man complained fretfully. 

But the girl hastened to perjure herself with the assertion that shehad done nothing of the kind. She then persuaded him to the half-beliefthat his child was not only no nuisance to the house, but its positivedelight; and she earnestly talked him out of his cruel resolve toreturn it to bad air and all sorts of domestic risks. "How can he beany burden on us?" she pleaded. "We need never see him unless welike--only, of course, we shall like. It is entirely an arrangementbetween you and Mrs Kelsey. Unless, " she bethought herself--"unlessyou'd like to consider an idea of Alice Urquhart's--"

"Oh, no!" he broke in. "I'd rather Mrs Kelsey--a proper businessagreement--if I could feel absolutely certain--"

"Well, you can, " said Mary. "The beginning and end of all the troubleto us is our answering for Mrs Kelsey. She was once our nurse, and weknow her ways; for the rest, she is as independent of us as that ladyin Sandridge. "

"In that case--of course, I've very little time, and really I don'tknow where to turn--perhaps until after this voyage--"

"Yes. Then, if you are dissatisfied, you can make a change. " Sheassumed the matter settled, and began to go into details. "Deb saw MrsKelsey while you were away; she's willing enough. She says tenshillings a week would cover everything. The drainage is all right. Kelsey will see that he has one cow's milk. They'll feed him well, butthey won't give him rich things; she's the most careful woman. He'll beout in the air, getting strong, all the time. He'll want hardly anyclothes in the country. Deb says he'd be better without shoes andsocks. "

"I hope he'll be kept out of Miss Deborah's way, after thatexhibition--"

"Nonsense! She was too rough and ready with him. And she didn't mind abit--of course not. She says she likes boys to be boys. He is athorough boy, " Mary proudly declared, bending to kiss a chubby knee. 

Harry acknowledged the caress with a thumping smack of her bowed head. 

"Gently--gently!" warned the father amiably. 

"Now, what do you say to our walking over to interview Mrs Kelsey?"Mary pushed her advantage home. "I daresay she will be busy, but she'dgive us a few minutes. It would be a satisfaction to her to speak toyou herself, and here is a good opportunity. They won't be home muchbefore two. "

Guthrie fetched his straw hat. Mary retied the baby's flappinghead-gear, and they set forth. 

"Let me have him, " she begged, mother-like. 

"No. He is too heavy for you. "

The father carried the child, who loved the feel of the strong arms, inwhich he jumped up and down, continuing to make play with his sturdylittle fists. Instead of striking back, Guthrie answered the babyassaults with wild-beast roars and gestures that sent the little maninto fits of delight. Mary laughed in chorus, keeping touch with thehappy creature over the towering shoulder reared between them. It wasmore than ever like a little self-contained family, taking its Sundaystroll. 

Mrs Kelsey had her Christmas dinner in hand, but came to them in herbig white apron and sleeves rolled to her dimpled elbows, smiling, business-like, charming in her plain, reposeful, straightforwardattitude towards the visitors and their mission. No sooner had hebeheld her orderly and cheerful house, looked into her kind eyes, andheard her sincere speech, than the young father was satisfied that hehad found a good place for his little son. The child seemed to know ittoo, for when the strange woman drew him to her broad lap--calmly, asif used to doing it--he surrendered himself without a protest. Whenpresently she gave him a drink of milk and a biscuit to munch, heregaled himself peaceably, with the air of feeling quite at home. Whenhe had finished his lunch he played with a collie puppy. 

"I'll do my best for him, sir, and I'll not let these young ladiesspoil him if I can help it, " said Mrs Kelsey, with a smile at MaryPennycuick. 

Terms had been arranged, and everything settled. 

"I hope you will be able to keep him from being any bother to them, "said Guthrie earnestly. 

"Bother!" crowed Mary, whose intention was to visit the child daily. "We'll see to that, Mr Carey--never fear. "

Mrs Kelsey suggested beginning her duties, with the aid of the littlenurse, at once; but Mary would not hear of parting the boy from hisfather while they could be together. So he was carried back to Redford, to be the plaything of the housekeeper's room for the rest of the day. 

"MY baby, " Mary began to call him. She had to preside at the greatdinner, but was not visible to her family for hours before and after. 

It was a better Christmas to Guthrie Carey in the end than in thebeginning. Deb came back from church chastened in spirit, to make up tohim for her unkindness, on the score of which her warm heart hadreproached her. She made him play billiards with her after tea, whileClaud was resting after his labours; she chaffed him deliciously on hiserrors in the game. She forgot to ask after his baby; but she askedwhether it would not be possible to get his leave extended. When hesaid "No"--he had had more than his share already--she commended himfor his sense of duty, and in her seriousness was more enchanting thanin her fun. 

"But I do wish we could have kept you longer, " she flattered him, inher sweet way. "However, we shall have a hostage for your return. "

Several new people came to dinner, including Mr Goldsworthy andRuby--the latter sent at once, by Deb's command, to keep little Careycompany. Spacious Redford was taxed to the utmost to accommodate itsguests, and never was better Christmas cheer provided in the old hallof English Redford than its son in exile dispensed under his Australianroof. When every leaf was put into the dining-table, it was so longthat Mary at one end was beyond speaking distance of her father at theother, and those at the sides could scarce use their elbows as theyate. The banquet was prodigious, with speeches to wind up with (MrGoldsworthy, in his oration, disgusted Deb by referring to the host as"princely", and to the ladies of the house as his "bevy of beautifuldaughters"); and if the truth must be told, the crowning ceremony ofthe loving cup was a bit superfluous. It found the host already fuddledbeyond a doubt, and several of the guests under suspicion of being so. But in the opinion of all, Redford had celebrated Christmas in anunsurpassably proper manner. 

Two mornings later, a waggonette was packed with luggage and fourpassengers--Mary Pennycuick, Guthrie Carey, the baby and the baby'slittle nurse. They proceeded in a body to the overseer's house, wherethe load was halved. Mary, the baby, and one box were left with MrsKelsey (reinforced by the collie puppy and a plate of sugaredstrawberries); the sailor and the nursemaid, after a few poignantmoments, went on to a distant railway station. 

"Have an easy mind, " said Mary, outside the parlour door. "He will bewell off with her, and we shall all be looking after him. "

"How can I thank you?" said the parting guest, barely able toarticulate. He wrung her hand, and looked at her kind, red face withfeelings unspeakable. "God bless you! God reward you for your goodnessto the little chap and me. "

He was including all the family in his benediction, and it was thefather in him that was so touched and overcome. None the less, sheaccepted the tribute for her own, and to her poverty-stricken womanhoodit was wealth indeed. 

She stood in the porch to watch the wheels of his departing chariotflash through the sun and dust. She stared long at the vacant point ofdisappearance, like one entranced. When she came to herself, she raninto the house and fell upon little Harry. 

"My baby, " she crooned passionately, "MY baby!"

Carey Junior responded with his ready fist, pushing her from him. Hewas feeding the puppy with a strawberry, and she put her head in theway. 

"Fie! You mustn't do that, " said Mrs Kelsey, mindful of herresponsibilities. "That's rude. "

"Oh, let him, " pleaded the girl, infatuated with that look of hisfather in his face; and she dropped on her knees before him and kisseda dangling foot, with which he kicked her mouth. "Let him do what helikes, so long as he's happy. "

"Not at all, " her old nurse reproved her. "I promised Mr Carey that heshould not be spoiled. "

He was not spoiled. The admirable foster-mother, brooking nointerference with her system, improved him into a well-behaved child, as well as the healthiest and most beautiful in all that countryside. It was a standing grievance at Redford that she would not allow him tobe always on show there, subject to Mary's indulgence, and Deb'scaprices, and the temptations of the housekeeper's store-room. Only MrKelsey, who was his idol, was permitted to withdraw him from MrsKelsey's eye. The man used to take the child, with a toy whip in hislittle hand, on the saddle before him, and let him think he was guidingthe steady horse and doing all the business of the station as well. Theoverseer confessed, in bad weather, when he had to ride alone, that hewas lost without his little mate. "Hardly weaned, " he used to brag, "and knows every beast on the place as well as I do myself. " This wasgross exaggeration, yet was the infant Harry a conspicuously forwardchild, with the "makings of a man" in him visible to all. His heartywhoas and gee-ups carried as far as the overseer's gruff voice; and thepicture of the jolly boy, with his rosy, joyous face, and his faircurls blowing in the wind, was one to kindle the admiration of all whosaw it. The phrase continually on the lips of his adopted family andconnections was: 'Won't his father be surprised when he sees him!' Theyenjoyed in anticipation the grateful praises that would be heaped uponthem then. 

But Guthrie Carey never saw his son again. 

The baby went a-visiting with his foster-parents to the local township, and it was supposed caught the infection of typhoid there from someunknown source. Having caught it, the robust little body, unused to anyailment, was wrecked at once, where a frail child might easily haveweathered the storm. No little prince of blood royal could have beenbetter nursed and more strenuously fought for; but three days after hehad visibly sickened he was dead. And then the wail went up, "Oh! whatwill his father say?"

When Guthrie came, prepared by letters from fellow-mourners as bereavedas himself, it was but from one day to the next--only to "hear theparticulars" and to see the little grave. Deborah was away from home, but in any case Mary would have been the one to perform the sad dutiesof the occasion; they were hers by right. She took him to the familycemetery on the only evening of his stay, and, herself speechless andweeping, showed him the whole place renovated and made beautiful forthe sake of the latest comer. No weeds, no dead rose-bushes, no vampireivy now; but an orderly garden, new planted and watered, and in themidst a small mound heaped with fresh-cut flowers. She had visited thechild daily while he lived at Mrs Kelsey's; now she almost dailyvisited his grave. 

They dropped on their knees beside it, close as bride and bridegroom onaltar steps, as father and mother at the firstborn's cradle. The duskwas melting into moonlight; they could not see each other's faces. Whenhis big frame heaved with heavy sobs, she laid a timid hand--herbeautiful hand--on his shoulder; and when he felt that sympatheticwoman's touch, he turned suddenly and kissed her. Afterwards he did notremember that he had done it. 

She seemed to cling to him when, next morning, the time came for him togo. 

"You will come again?" she implored him, in a trembling whisper. "Youwill come here when you return next time?"

"Oh, surely, " he replied, whispering too, and to the full as deeplymoved. But when he got away it was to other lands that he turned hiseyes, in the search for new interests to occupy his lonely life. WithLily and the baby dead, and Deborah Pennycuick given to another man, Australia had no more hold on him. His first letter to Redford notifiedthat he had changed into another line, and that the name of his newship was the DOVEDALE. She traded to the West Indies. 

He forgot to write again when, not very long afterwards, he went backto his old line, at the invitation of the Company, as captain of theship on which he had served as mate. 

CHAPTER IX. 

"'Dovedale'--DOVEDALE--hullo!" Mr Pennycuick broke the silence of hisnewspaper reading. "Why, isn't that--Well, upon my soul! it does seemas if some folks were born unlucky. Here's that poor youngfellow--first he loses a charming wife, before he's been married anytime, and then the finest child going, and now here he's gone himself, before his prime, with no end of a career before him--"

"Who?" cried Deb from the tea-table, where she was helping herself to ahot cake. 

"Young Carey--our Carey; oh, it's him all right, worse luck! His ship'sbeen wrecked, and only two A. B. S saved to tell the tale. Look here. "

He passed the newspaper, pressed under his broad thumb. 

Deb stood to read the indicated item, while her father watched herface. Neither of them noticed Mary's peculiar appearance, nor markedher departure from the room. 

"We must inquire about this, " said Deb earnestly. "We must get thenames of those on board. He may have been on leave. " She was a promptperson, and as she spoke looked at the clock--a little after four--andlaid the paper down. "I'll drive you to the station, daddy, and we'lltelegraph to the shipping people and his doctor friend. We'll getauthentic information somehow, if we have to cable home for it. "

They were off in a quarter of an hour, having sent a message to Mary byMiss Keene to explain their errand. They dined in the township whilewaiting for replies, and came home late at night, heavy-hearted, withthe melancholy news confirmed. Since it happened to be the transitionmoment, when Mr Carey had ceased to be a mate, and was only aprospective commander, the authorities in Melbourne, consulting latestadvices, had no doubt of his having been on the DOVEDALE to the last. Those of them who presently found themselves mistaken did not take thetrouble to say so. They left it to time and the newspapers. 

But meanwhile Mary Pennycuick sadly complicated the case. When Deb andher father returned from their expedition, it was to hear from Francesan excited story of how the elder sister had hidden behind lockeddoors, and not only refused dinner but denied speech to all comers. 

"We know she's there, because she said 'Go away' to Miss Keene when sheknocked first; but since then she hasn't said a word--not for hours andhours. I've been listening at her door since Miss Madden let me out ofschool. I shouldn't be surprised, " said Frances, who had a fineimagination, "if she's committed suicide. Poor Mr Carey was her lover, you know. "

"Pooh!" said Deb. 

SHE knew whose lover poor Mr Carey had been. But she ran to Mary's roomin some concern. She tried the handle of the door, and then rappedsharply. 

"Molly, open this door!" she commanded. 

And there was a rustle inside, a shuffling step, and the lock clicked. She marched in, to see Mary fling herself back on the bed from whichshe had risen, with a protesting wail:

"Oh, why can't you all let me alone?"

"Why, what's the matter?" Deb climbed on the bed, and tried to lift thehalf-buried head to her breast--a signal for the pent-up grief to burstforth. "Molly, sweetheart, what's all this about?"

"Oh, my love! my love!" keened Mary wildly. "Oh, Deb! oh, Deb! He wasmy all, and he's dead, and I can't bear it--I can't! I can't!"

Deb pursed her lips, and the colour rose in her clear cheek. She sawthe situation, so pathetic and so ignominious! SHE could not understanda woman falling in love with, and then breaking her heart for, a manwho had never cared for her. But then Deb's face was not heavy andbricky, with prominent cheek-bones, and a forehead four inches high. 

"My precious, " she crooned, as tenderly as if she understood it all, and as if her immense pity was not mixed with contempt--"don't, don't!It doesn't matter about me, but don't let the others think--It would betoo undignified, darling--a casual acquaintance--though a dear, goodboy as ever lived--"

"There was nobody like him, Deb, and he was my all--"

"No, no, Mary--"

"You don't know, Debbie--oh, nobody knows!" And wrapping her head inher arms again, Mary abandoned herself to her despair. 

Deb got off the bed, lit dressing-table candles, and poured water andeau de Cologne into a wash-basin. She returned with a fragrant sponge, with which she stroked what she could reach of her sister's face. 

"Come now, " said she briskly, "you must have a little pride, dear. Youmustn't give way like this--for a man who did not--and you know he didnot--"

Mary broke in with sudden passion, lifting her distorted countenance tothe cruel light. 

"He did!" she affirmed. "You have no business to sneer and say hedidn't--he DID!"

It was not for nothing that the heart-hungry girl had brooded formonths over a few acts and words, magnifying them through thespectacles that Nature and her needs had provided. Deb put her pityingarms round her sister's shoulders. 

"But, my dear, I know--we all know--"

"How could you know when you were not at home? Nobody knows--nobody buthim and me. " Feeling Deb's continued scepticism in the silence of hercaresses, Mary burst out recklessly: "Would he have KISSED me if he hadnot?"

Deb's arm was withdrawn. She twisted half round to look in Mary's face. Mary covered it with her pretty hands, weeping bitterly. 

"Is that--did he do that?" asked Deb, in a low tone. 

"That night--that last night--oh, I ought not to have spoken ofit!--when we were at our little grave. It was that precious child thatdrew us together. You think he had gone away and forgotten, but I knowhe had not; he would have come back--he promised to. He gave me hisdear photograph. I have not shown it to anybody, but here it is--"

And still sobbing, and with tears running down her cheeks, she reachedto a drawer by the bedside, and dragged out this further testimony toher claim--it was wrapped in layers of tissue-paper, like her father'svalentine--and displayed it with a touching pride. Before handing it toDeb, she gazed at it with grotesquely distorted face, kissed it, pressed it to her bosom, kissed it again, and moaned over it, rockingto and fro; then, when she had pushed it from her, flung herself intoher former attitude of complete abandonment to grief. 

Very calmly Deb carried the picture to the dressing-table, and held itbehind a candle. There he was, big, strong, healthy, manly, with thatclear brow, that square chin, that steady, good mouth; and he lookedher straight in the eyes. Was it possible that a countenance could sodeceive? No more tears from Deb for his untimely fate. Had it been hisface in the flesh, it could not possibly have gazed in that undauntedway at hers; her expression would have withered him. 

She returned to the morning-room--drawing-room also when no guests werein the house--to report to her father. 

"Mary has gone to bed, " she said quietly. "She is very much upset bythis business. It appears there was something between her and Mr Carey. She expected him to come back for her--"

"What! MARY?" cried Rose, waiting with Frances to say goodnight. 

"There!" triumphed Frances, "what did I say?"

"MARY!" their father echoed Rose's surprised tone. "The dickens! Youdon't say so. Poor little soul! Poor little girlie! Well, I neverthought of that. Did you, Deb?"

"Never, father. Not for a moment. "

"I suppose it was the child. It must have been the child. " MrPennycuick was deeply concerned. "I wonder why he never said anything, "he addressed Deb, when Rose and Frances had been sent to bed. "Eh, Deb?Seems strange, don't it? We had so much talk together. Quite like asort of son, he was. Aye, I could have made a son of that fellow. Poorlad!--poor lad! Suppose he thought it wasn't the straight thing to binda girl of ours till he was in a better position--it'd be just like him. Well--but Mary, of all people!" (This was the puzzle to all. ) "It musthave been the baby. She certainly did dote on that child, and 'love me, love my dog'--eh? But to think of her keeping it so close all thattime! Afraid I'd make a fuss, I suppose. You could have told her, Deb, that I don't stand in my children's way for the sake of my ownfeelings; and a Carey of Wellwood isn't for us to sniff at either, ifhe is poor. A Carey has been good enough for a Pennycuick before today. God! I wish I'd known. I might have got him something better to do, andsaved them both from this. Poor old girl! Is she very bad, Debbie?Shall I go and talk to her a bit?"

"I wouldn't tonight, father, if I were you, " replied Deb, with a wearyair. "She is quieter now, and I have given her something to send her tosleep. I will keep my door open, and go and look at her through thenight. I think she will be better tomorrow. "

On the morrow Mary was at least more self-controlled. She came amongsther family with the look of one who had passed through an illness, andshrinking from the first words and glances. But they all gathered herto their hearts, and murmured loving sympathy in her ears, and tenderlyfussed over her and waited upon her. Her father took her to hissanctum, and showed her his old daguerreotype and valentine, and toldher they should be hers at his death. Miss Keene excited as an old maidis over anybody's love affair, wanted to take over the house-keeping aswell as the doing of the flowers, in order to leave the mourner free toenjoy the full luxury of her state. The governess, assumed to be abovelove affairs, was very strict with Frances, holding her to tasks set onpurpose to prevent her from teasing her eldest sister. But Frances hadinformed the servants overnight that Mr Carey was drowned, and that hehad been Miss Pennycuick's affianced husband all the time, unbeknown toanybody. And the tale was already spreading far and wide--to theUrquharts at Five Creeks, to Mr Thornycroft at Bundaboo, to MrGoldsworthy and his parishioners, to the editor of the local paper--sothat soon the family friends were arriving, to press Mary's hand andcondole with her--to show her how she had risen in the world, as awoman in the eyes of all. 

"No, no, " she protested, when the affianced husband was too literallytaken for granted; "it was not a formal engagement. It wasonly"--defending herself against the puzzled stare and liftedeyebrow--"only that we understood each other. He was coming back, if hehad lived. "

The wish was father to the thought. Good, honest girl as she was, shehad persuaded herself to this--that he would have come back if he hadlived, and that then the omitted formalities called for by thatgraveside kiss would certainly have been observed. It seems incredible, but rampant sex does stranger things every day of the week. There is, at any rate, nothing extraordinary in the way she clung to the sweetdignity that a similar belief on the part of others brought to her--thepoor, plain girl, who had always been "out of it". 

The long-hidden photograph was now put into a costly frame, and set upin her room for anybody to see. Frances would often sneak in with avisitor, to show the manner of man who would have married Molly; therewere even times when Mary herself was the exhibitor. At other times shemight have been found kneeling before it as at a shrine, and weepingher eyes out. And she put off her colours and ornaments, and woreblack, and nobody made any objection. The hero of romance was given toher unquestioningly, and with him a respect and consideration such asshe had never known before. Lovers talked to her of their love affairs, feeling that she was now one of them. Her father maundered to her forhours at a stretch of the old Mary Carey, at last secure of sympathyand a perfect listener. Deb was reserved and silent, but otherwise asdevoted as the rest. 

And then came the inevitable discovery that Guthrie Carey was not dead, after all. It was made at Five Creeks, while Frances was on a holidayvisit to her friend, Belle Urquhart. At Redford, nobody thought ofreading the shipping columns in the newspaper--their interest wassupposed to be gone for ever; but Jim Urquhart glanced at them daily, looking for the arrival of a friend from overseas. And one day he saw aship's name that was familiar to him, and bracketed with it the name ofG. Carey as its commander. The coincidence was startling. He pointed itout to a man staying in the house--a stranger to the Redford family andto the district. 

"There was a mate named Carey on this ship a while ago. He changed intothat unfortunate DOVEDALE that was wrecked, and was lost with her. Oddthat the captain of his old vessel should have the same name--sameinitial too. Our friend was Guthrie--"

"Guthrie Carey? Oh, I know Guthrie Carey. Met him in London last year, just after the DOVEDALE wreck. He told me of his narrow escape--wasreally going with her on her last voyage, and only prevented at thelast moment by the offer of this captaincy from his former owners. It'sthe same man. Do you know him?"

They all told how much they knew him; and there was great commotion atFive Creeks. Jim was for driving hot-foot to Redford to warn MrPennycuick against disseminating the newspaper through the house toorashly. Alice and her mother each volunteered to go with him, so as to"break it" with feminine skilfulness to Mary, whose reason might bedestroyed by too sudden a gorge of joy, like the stomach of a starvedman by clumsy feeding. But while they anxiously discussed what ought tobe done, Frances was doing. The enterprising young lady slipped away, and with Belle's help caught and saddled her pony, and was off toRedford as if wolves were at her heels. No war correspondent on activeservice ever did a smarter trick to get ahead of other papers. 

She burst into the family circle violently. 

"Mary--Mary! Deb! Rose! father! Mr Carey is alive! He wasn't drowned!He wasn't on the DOVEDALE--he was just going; but they wanted him back, and they made him a captain, and he's here now. His ship came in lastnight, and there it is in the paper, and his name; and Mr Mills at FiveCreeks saw him himself after the Dovedale was wrecked, and he knows himwell, and he's in Melbourne now, and I expect he'll be heredirectly--perhaps he's coming up now, this very minute--"

She was checked by angry exclamations from all persons addressed, except Mary. She, at the moment bending over a table, cutting outneedle-work, straightened herself, and stood stockstill and staring, while first her bricky face went dark purple all over, and then seemeddrained in three seconds of every drop of blood. She heard the words:'Mr Carey is alive, ' and instantly believed them; at the same momenther dream-palace vanished, and she saw the bare ground of her loveaffair exactly as it was--as Guthrie himself would see it--and just howshe had deceived herself and others. Her healthy heart and nervoussystem could not support her under the impact of such a shock. Shereeled as she stood, spun half round, and fell backwards into Deborah'sarms. 

"You little FOOL!" Deb rated the dismayed child, "to blurt it out likethat. Never mind, father, it's all right. She has fainted, but she'llsoon come round. Go and get a smelling-bottle, somebody. Tell Keziah tobring a little brandy--don't speak to anybody else. Where's today'sARGUS?"

While Rose was flying for restoratives, and Frances speeding throughthe house with her great news, Deb and her father exchanged significantglances over Mary's prostrate form. 

"It is more than a year, " said Deb, "and he has not even written toher. "

"I'll write to him, " said Mr Pennycuick, grinding his teeth--"I'llwrite to him!" It was the tone in which he might have said, "I'll wringhis neck for him!"

But when Mary came round and perceived his mood and intentions, sheimplored him not to write--went on her knees, and almost shrieked inher frantic fear of his doing so. 

"Oh, father, don't--DON'T! If he does not remember--if he does not wantto come--you would not drag him by force? And he never boundhimself--he never really asked me; very likely he did not meananything, after all. "

"Not mean anything!" shouted the indignant father. "He can kiss agirl--a daughter of mine--and not mean anything! I'll make him tell mewhether he dared not to mean anything--"

"No, father, " commanded Deb. "You must not write to him. It is not fora Pennycuick to fling herself at any man's head. Let him alone; wedon't want him. Treat him--as I hope Molly is going to do--with thecontempt that he deserves. "

Mr Pennycuick stormed and muttered, but obeyed; and for two daysCaptain Carey was left to the anathemas of Redford and the countrysideas a heartless jilt, to Mary's extreme anguish. She tried to water downthe concoction that she stood answerable for, to take blame off him andput it on herself; but she dared not go far enough to convince anybodythat she was not sacrificing herself to shield him. 

It was a horrible position for a delicate-minded and even high-mindedgirl, and the misery of it was aggravated by the constant effort toefface its signs and evidences. She was left with no outlook in lifebut to get through twenty, thirty, forty years somehow, and come to alittle peace at last, when everything would be forgotten; and her oneforlorn hope was that Guthrie would not discover her crime--would keepup the neglect with which he had treated his old friends, and not comenear them. 

He might have done this--for the fact was that he now had a dawning"affair" in another quarter--had not Frances intervened. To her, inaction at such a crisis was intolerable, and since nobody else woulddo it, she wrote to Guthrie Carey herself. She wrote, she said, towelcome him back to life and to Australia, and to congratulate him onbeing a captain; incidentally she mentioned other matters, and askedinnocent-seeming questions which she was well aware could only beanswered in person. 

Frances, since his first acquaintance with her, had shot up into aslim, tall girl, exquisite in colouring and the daintiness of herfigure and face. Although unlike Deb in every way, people werebeginning to compare them as rival beauties--Frances' private opinionbeing that there was no comparison. She had nearly done withgovernesses, short frocks and pigtails, and was ardently anticipatingthe power and glory coming to her when she should be a full-grown woman. 

Two days after the clandestine postage of her letter to Captain Carey, a new housemaid brought Mary his visiting-card on a silver tray. Maryknew, before looking at it--having heard nothing of the letter, and nosound of his arrival in his hired buggy--what name it bore. Her forlornhope had been too forlorn to stand for anything but despair. She hadexpected the catastrophe from the first. 

CHAPTER X. 

How she got into the room--the isolated big drawing-room, whichsomebody else, who was aware of his arrival, had directed that he wasto be shown into--Mary knew not; but she was there. He stood perfectlystill, massive and inflexible, to receive her. Without approachinghim--or he her--to shake hands, without looking at his face or anywherenear it, she perceived the adamantine set of lips, the cold gaze, morewithering than fire, which informed her that he knew all; and she sankcrouching into a chair, and hid her face. But her back was against thewall now. The coward stage was past. In the most desperately falseposition that a girl could occupy, she made no further attempt to runaway from the truth, perhaps because she saw that it was useless. Whenhe began, very politely, but with no beating about the bush, to say: "Idaresay you are surprised to see me, Miss Pennycuick, but I wastold--and since I came up here I have been told again by severaldifferent persons--something that I want you to help me to understand, "she jerked herself upright, and stopped him with a swift gesture andthe cry of: "I know! I know what you have been told; and I have nothingto say. I cannot contradict it. "

She was a piteous object, in her shaking anguish; but he looked at her, of course, without a scrap of pity. 

"Do you think you really know?" he questioned her, with cold gravity. "Perhaps I have been given an exaggerated version. I was in hopes thatit was altogether an invention of Miss Francie's--I know of old thatshe is prone to make reckless statements--"

"Ah-h--Francie!"

"She was kind enough to write me a long letter, to congratulate me onmy promotion. She told me all the family news. And she said--she askedme--but really I haven't the cheek to repeat her words--"

His cold face had become hot, and his manner agitated. 

"Go on, " said she, calming under the perception that the worst had comeutterly to the worst. 

"Well, if you will forgive me--she asked me, in effect, when I wascoming to marry you, and why I had kept the engagement a secret solong. " He paused, one dark red blush, to note the effect of so brutal astroke. 

She said, meeting his eyes for the first time:

"And you believed it at once--of ME?"

"No, Miss Pennycuick. I laughed. I said to myself: 'Here is another ofMiss Francie's mare's nests. ' But when I read on--she told me so manythings--they were incredible, but still I felt I had to sift thematter; and since I came up today, other people--I've been to FiveCreeks and had a talk with Jim Urquhart--now I don't know what tothink; at least, there is but one thing that I can think. "

The chair she had taken had a high back, and against this she laid herhead, as if too weary to support it. Lack of sleep and appetite hadpaled her florid colour to a sickly hue, and she looked wan and languidas a dying woman. But still he did not pity her, as he must have donehad her face been half as beautiful as Deb's or Francie's. 

"Miss Pennycuick, " he continued, as she kept silence, "I want to getthe hang of this thing. Will you tell me straight--yes or no--have youbeen giving it out that I left Redford two years ago engaged to you?"

Her first impulse was to cry out: "Oh, no, no! Not quite so bad asthat!" But on second thoughts she said:

"Yes--practically. "

Sudden rage seemed to seize him. He sat up, he crossed his knees, heuncrossed them, he twisted this way and that, he muttered "Good God!"as if the pious ejaculation had referred to the Other Person, and hisstare at her was cruel. 

"But--but--I have been racking my brains to remember anything--surely Inever gave you--I am perfectly convinced, I have the best reason forbeing absolutely certain, that I could not have given you--"

"Never!" she broke in. "Of course not. It was all my own invention. "

"You admit it? Thank you. You formally relieve me of the imputation Ihave so long lain under without knowing it, of having run away from myduty?"

She said lifelessly: "We thought you were dead. "

"Hah! I see. You thought it didn't matter what you said of a dead man?But dead men's characters should be all the more sacred because theycannot defend them. I should be sorry indeed to leave behind me such areputation as I seem to have hereabouts--though, indeed, a man is veryhelpless in these cases. He is at a hopeless disadvantage when a womanis his traducer. I can see that Jim Urquhart will never be a friend ofmine again, whatever happens. "

"He shall know the truth. Everybody shall know the truth, " said Mary. 

"How can everybody know the truth? Only by my own affidavit, and thatwould not be believed. Besides, it is not for me to deny--at the costof branding a lady a liar. "

It was the straight word, regardless of manners, with this sea-bred man. 

"You need not. I know how to do it so that people will believe. I amgoing to write a letter to the newspaper--a plain statement, that willfully exonerate you. "

He nearly jumped out of his chair with the fright she gave him. 

"You will do nothing so ridiculous!" he exclaimed angrily. 

"It is the only way, " said she--"the only way to make sure. "

"If you do, " he menaced her, "I shall simply write another for the nextissue to flatly contradict you. "

"Then you would be a liar. "

"That doesn't matter in the least. I must be a man first. I am notgoing to let you ruin yourself. "

"Ah, that is done already! Nothing can make it worse--for me. "

He looked at her, taking in the words, in some sort understanding them. She lifted her eyes to look at him, and what he saw behind the lookwent to his kindly heart. He "felt" for her for the first time. 

"May I go now?" she whispered. 

His answer was to move to a seat beside her. 

"I wish you would tell me, " he said, in more humane tones, "how youcame to do it. I would like to understand, and I can't, for the life ofme. You must have had some reason. DID I do anything, unknowing--"

She shook her head hopelessly. 

"No. You were only kind and good, as you would have been to anyone. "

"Kind and good? Rubbish! It was you--all of you--who were kind andgood. Oh, I don't forget what you did for me, and never shall. Ifeel"--it was the very feeling that had so oppressed him in the case ofthe lady at Sandridge--"under a load of obligation to you that I cannever hope to discharge. But still--but still--though I trust I showedsome of the gratitude I felt--I cannot remember how I came to give youthe idea--I must have done something, I suppose; one is a blunderingfool without knowing it--"

"No, " she protested--"no, no! It was my own idea entirely. "

"But I can't reconcile that with your character, Miss Pennycuick. "

"Nor can I, " she laughed bitterly. 

"There's a mystery somewhere. Did anybody tell you anything? Did MissFrances put constructions on innocent appearances? Did--"

"No, " Mary resolutely stopped him. "It is good of you to try to makeexcuses, but there is no excuse for me--none. Francie only said whatshe knew. I let them believe you were my lover; I am twenty-seven--Inever had one--and--and--oh, I thought that, at least, you might bemine when you were dead! I did not mean to be a liar, as you calledme--yes, that is the right word--"

"Forgive me for using it, " he muttered. "You do not realise at firstthat you are lying, when you only act lies and don't speak them. And IDID think that perhaps, that possibly--of course, I was ridiculouslywrong--it was atrocious, unforgivable--I don't ask you to forgive me--Idon't want you to--but those dear days when our little boy--oh, youknow!--and when you kissed me that night beside his grave--"

"WHAT!" A lightning change came over the young man, as if the word hadbeen an electric current suddenly shot into him. "KISSED YOU?"

"It was nothing; you did not know you did it--"

"But here--hold on--this is serious. DID I kiss YOU? You are sure youare not dreaming?"

"I would not be very likely to dream that, " she said, with a strangesmile. "But of course it was only--at such a time--as you would havekissed your sister--anybody. Your very forgetting it shows that. "

But a dim memory was awakening in him, frightfully perturbing to hismind. 

"I KISSED you!" he repeated, and slowly realised that he had been thatconsummate ass. The poor baby's dead hand had retained its old power toentrap a simpleton unawares. 

Well, simpleton or not, Guthrie Carey was Guthrie Carey--sailor-bred, accustomed to meet vital emergencies with boldness and promptness;accustomed also to take his own views of what was a man's part at suchtimes. While she implored him to say no more about that kiss, cryingshame upon herself for mentioning it, he sat in silence, thinking hard. As soon as she had done, he spoke:

"Miss Pennycuick, I now understand everything. You are completelyjustified. It is I who have been to blame. " And he then, in preciselanguage, such as no real lover could have used, but still as prettilyas was possible under the circumstances, requested the honour of herhand in marriage. 

To his astonishment, she laughed. It was a wild-sounding cackle, andquickly turned into a wail. 

"Ah-h! Ah-h-h!" She faced him again, head up and hands down. "That, MrCarey, is the one way out of it that is utterly, absolutely, eternallyimpossible. "

"Why?" he demanded, with his man's dull incomprehension, and went on todemonstrate that there was no other. "I do not wish, " he liedchivalrously, "to take any other. I--I--believe me, I am not ungratefulfor your--for your thinking a great deal more of me than I deserve. Iwill try to show myself worthy--"

A magnanimous arm attempted to encircle her. She backed from it, androse hurriedly from her chair, with what he would have imagined agesture of repulsion if he had not known her, from her own showing, soover-eager for his embraces. He rose too. 

"Do not!" she cried breathlessly, passionately. "As if I coulddream--What can you think of me, to imagine that I would for a moment--"

She broke from him and ran towards the door, sobbing, with herhandkerchief to her eyes. In three strides he was there before her, cutting off her retreat; so she swung back into the room, cast herselfon the floor beside a sofa, and throwing up her arms, plunged her headdown between them into the depths of a large cushion, which smotheredcries that would otherwise have been shrieks. She abandoned all effortto control herself, except the effort to hide, which was futile. 

Guthrie Carey's first feeling was of alarm, lest anyone should hear andcome in to see what was the matter; he felt like wanting to guard thedoor. But in a minute or two his soft heart was so worked upon by thespectacle before him that he could think of nothing else. Howeverlittle he might want to marry Mary Pennycuick, he was not going to beanswerable for this sort of thing; so he marched resolutely to thesofa, and stooped to lift the convulsed creature bodily into his arms. 

He might as well have tried to grasp a sleeping porcupine. 

"How dare you?" she cried shrilly, whirling to her feet, dilating likea hooded snake before his astonished eyes. "How dare you touch me?" Hewas too cowed to answer, and she stood a moment, all fire and fury, glaring at him, her tear-ravaged face distorted, her hands clenched;then she whirled out of the room, and this time he made no effort tostop her. 

He dropped back on the sofa, and said to himself helplessly:

"Well, I'm blowed!"

There was stillness for some time. This part of the house seemed quiteempty, save for one buzzing fly, which he or Mary had let in. Thelittle housekeeper was very particular about flies in summer, everywindow and chimney-opening being wire-netted, every door labelled witha printed request to the user to shut it; and his dazed mind occupieditself with the idea of how this insect would have distressed her ifshe had not had so much else to think of. He had an impulse to hunt it, for her sake, through the green-shadowed space in which it careered inlong tacks with such energy and noise; but, standing up, he was seizedwith a stronger impulse to leave the house forthwith, and everything init. He wanted liberty to consider his position and further proceedingsbefore he faced the family. 

As he approached the door, it was opened from without. Deb stood on thethreshold, pale, proud, with tight lips and sombre eyes. She bowed tohim as only she could bow to a person she was offended with. 

"Would you kindly see my father in his office, Mr Carey?" she inquired, with stony formality. "He wishes to speak to you. "

"Certainly, Miss Deborah, " he replied, not daring to preface the wordswith even a "How-do-you-do". "I want to see him--I want to see himparticularly. "

Deb swept round to lead the way downstairs. 

An embarrassing march it was, tandem fashion, through the long passagesof the rambling house. While trying to arrange his thoughts for thecoming interview, Captain Carey studied her imperious back andshoulders, the haughty poise of her head; and though he was not the onethat had behaved badly, he had never felt so small. At the door of themorning-room she dismissed him with a jerk of the hand. "You know yourway, " said she, and vanished. 

"She is more beautiful than ever, " was his poignant thought, as hewalked away from her, and from all the glorious life that shesuggested--to such a dull and common doom. 

Mr Pennycuick, at first, was a terrible figure, struggling between hisfather-fury and his old-gentleman instincts of courtesy to a guest. 

"Sir, " said he, "I am sorry that I have to speak to you under my ownroof; in another place I could better have expressed what I have tosay--"

But before he could get to the gist of the matter, Mary intervened. 

"Miss Keene has some refreshment for Mr Carey in the dining-room, " shesaid. "And, father, I want, if you please, to have a word with youfirst. " She had recovered self-possession, and wore a rigid, determinedair, contrasting with the sailor's bewilderment, which was so greatthat he found himself driven from the office before he had made up hismind whether he ought to go or stay. 

He sat down to his unnecessary meal, and tried to eat, while anembarrassed maiden lady talked platitudes to him. Didn't he find itvery dusty in town? Miss Keene, knitting feverishly, was anxious to beinformed. And didn't he think the country looked well for the time ofyear?

He was relieved from this tedium by another summons to the office. Fortified with a glass of good wine, he returned to the encounter, inwardly calling upon his gods to direct him how to meet it. He foundpoor old Father Pennycuick aged ten years in the hour since he had seenhim last. But he still stood in massive dignity, a true son of his oldrace. 

"Well, Mr Carey, " said he, "I have had a great many troubles of late, sir, but never one like this. I thought that losing money--the fruitsof a lifetime of hard work--was a thing to fret over; and then, again, I've thought that money's no consequence so long as you've got yourchildren alive and well--that THAT was everything. I know better now. Iknow there's things may happen to a man worse than death--worse thanlosing everything belonging to him, no matter what it is. When thatchild was a little thing, she had an illness, and the doctors gave herup. Two nights her mother and I sat up watching her, expecting everybreath to be the last, and broken-hearted was no word for what we felt. I cried like a calf, and I prayed--I never prayed like it before orsince--and fools we are to ask the Almighty for we don't know what! NowI wish He had taken her. And I've told her so. "

"Then you have been very cruel, Mr Pennycuick, " Guthrie Carey repliedsharply--"and as unjust as cruel. She has done nothing--"

"I know what she's done, " the stern parent interposed. "I wouldn't havebelieved it if anybody else had told me; but I have her own word forit. And if she has been a liar once, I still know when to believe her. "

"If you will be so good as to tell me what she has said, then I willmake MY statement. "

The old man put up his hand. 

"Don't perjure yourself, " said he, grimly smiling. "It is very kind ofyou to try to let us down easily, but you can spare your breath. Excuses only make it worse. There's nothing to be said for her, andyou'll really oblige me by not going into details. I only sent for youto make such amends as I can--to apologise most humbly--to express mysorrow--my shame--my unspeakable humiliation--that a child of mine--aPennycuick--a girl I thought was nothing if not maidenly andself-respecting, and the very soul of honour and straightness andproper pride--"

"You speak as if she was not all that now--"

"NOW!--and done a low, contemptible thing like that! Oh, I don'tunderstand it--I can't; it's too monstrous--except that I have her wordfor it. She says she did it, and so there it is. And, sir, I beg yourpardon on behalf of the house that she has disgraced--the house thatreared her and thought her so different--"

He gulped, coughed, and gave Guthrie a chance to put in a word. 

"Mr Pennycuick, the simple fact is that I made love to your daughter--"

"Made her an offer of marriage?" snarled the other, wheeling round. 

"I kissed her--"

Mr Pennycuick snapped his thumb and finger derisively. 

"THAT kind of kiss!--as good as asked for. "

"It was not as good as asked for. Your daughter is not that kind ofwoman. "

"I thought not, but she says she is. "

"Pay no heed to what she says. Her morbid conscientiousness runs awaywith her. I tell you the plain truth, as man to man, without anyhysterics--I kissed her of my own free will--your daughter, sir. And Iam here now to stand by my act. If she will forgive my--mytardiness--as you know, I was in no position then to aspire to marriagewith a lady of this family; I am not now, but I am better off than Iwas--will you give your consent to our engagement?"

"No!" roared Mr Pennycuick, looking as if threatened with an apoplecticfit. "I'll see her engaged to the devil first!"

Like Mary, he seemed to take the generous offer as a personal insult. Guthrie Carey, conscious of doing the duty of a gentleman at enormouscost, could not understand why. 

CHAPTER XI. 

Captain Carey, while leaving it to be understood that he held himselfengaged to Mary Pennycuick until further orders, realised the welcomefact that in the meantime he was honourably free; and he excusedhimself from staying to dinner. But scarcely had he driven off in hishired buggy than that of Mr Goldsworthy clattered into the stableyard. It was the good man's habit, when on his parochial visitations, to'make' Redford at meal times, or at bed-time, whenever distancesallowed; he called it, most appropriately, his second home, and walkedinto the house as if it really belonged to him two or three times aweek. 

The first person that he encountered on this occasion was Frances, whohad waylaid Guthrie Carey on his departure, and whom he had leftstanding under the back porch, aglow with excitement. She was a picturein her pale blue frock--put on for his eyes--and with her mane ofburnished gold falling about her sparkling blush-rose face; but theparson, accustomed to regard her as a child, was unaffected by thesight. 

"Surely, " he exclaimed, with agitation, "that was young Mr Carey that Ipassed at the gate just now? He had his hat pulled over his eyes, anddid not stop to speak to me; but the figure--" "Was his, " said Frances, bursting to be the first to say it. "Very much in the flesh still, isn't he? And oh, to think he's gone like this, just as we'd got himback--SO big and handsome, and such a DEAR brother-in-law as he wouldhave made!"

She stamped her foot. "What do you think, Mr Goldsworthy?--he came forher today, just as he promised, and then she turned round and wouldn'thave him! We thought he'd jilted her, and instead of that she's jiltedhim. Oh, I could smack her! To have such a chance--SHE!--and after allthe fuss she made about him--and throw it away! But I think he'll comeback before his ship sails--he said he would--and perhaps she'll beless of an idiot by then; she'd better, unless she wants to die an oldmaid. Oh, if it was ME--!"

Mr Goldsworthy penetrated to the morning-room, where something of thesame tale was repeated to him. Yes, Guthrie Carey was alive and well, and had been up to see them. Yes, he had asked for Mary--now that hewas a captain--but she had finally decided against marrying a sailor. Wisely, perhaps; at any rate, it was her business; the family did notwish to discuss the matter. 

When Mr Goldsworthy found that Mary did not come to dinner, he drewsome conclusions for himself. He told himself there was something"fishy" in the affair--something behind, that was purposely kept fromhim. But he was hungry, and the fragrant soup steamed under his noseand glittered in his spoon--it was so admirably clear. Just now thedoings of the Redford cook were of more concern to him than Mary'sdoings. 

But although he enjoyed the meal to which he had looked forward allday, he enjoyed it much less than usual. A more sensitive person in hisplace must have found it wretched. Deb was a chilling hostess. Herfrigid dignity and forced politeness caused discomfort even to him, thereby lowering her status in his eyes, lessening the ardour of hisadmiration for her. Mr Pennycuick, such a stickler for hospitality, scarcely spoke a word to the guest. Rose was a nobody, but still mighthave done something in the way of entertainment; and she quite ignoredhim, looking down as if to hide eyes that had been crying. Frances waseager to engage in conversation, but was bidden roughly by her fatherto hold her tongue. The stately governess wore only more ostentatiouslythan usual the detached air that always marked her out of school; andit was left to poor Miss Keene, with her timid platitudes, to keep upan appearance of civility. 

Mr Pennycuick vanished abruptly after dinner; it was presently rumouredthat he was not well, and had gone to bed. Frances was taken away toprepare lessons. Rose and Deborah came and went. Coffee was served. Theparson was again left to Miss Keene, who would not be pumped forconfidences, further than to admit that Mary was keeping her room witha headache, in consequence of the agitating visit of Captain Carey, butlaboriously talked parish to him, without appearing to know anything ofthe subject. So the poor man actually became so bored that he changedhis mind about staying for the night. He remembered that there was agood moon, and that he had an early engagement next morning, andordered his buggy soon after nine o'clock. Afterwards he believed thatit was the direct voice of the Lord that had called him to take hisjourney home at that hour. 

He drove alone, having a steady (Redford) mare, that stood quietly atgates and doors, and no groom--a luxury almost unknown amongst countryparsons, who must all keep horses. The night was beautiful, still, cooland clear, the moon so full that he could see for miles. Because ofthis, he took his daylight short cuts across country, preferring grasswhen he could get it to the dusty summer road. And one of his shortcuts led along the top of the embankment of the big dam. 

He slackened speed at this spot, touched by the beauty of the scene, which could hardly have appealed in vain to any man who had just had agood dinner. How peacefully the still water lay under the shiningmoon--that moon which is capable of making, not soft young lovers only, but the toughest old stagers sentimental--nay, maudlin--at times; anintoxicant purged of the grossness of spirituous liquors, but acting onthe brain in precisely the same way. Mr Goldsworthy, already upliftedby good Redford wine, felt the effect of the lovely night in dim poeticstirrings of his sordid little soul. He mused of God and heaven, andthe other things that he made sermons out of, in a disinterested, unprofessional way, these being the lines along which his imaginationworked. "Surely the Lord is in this place, " was the unspoken thought, elevating and inspiring, with which he surveyed the placid lake and thedreaming hills; and "it is good for me to be here, " he felt, even atthe cost of a Redford bed and breakfast, and the choice vegetables thatthe gardener would have put into his buggy in the morning. 

But what was this? A boat adrift! From out of the shadow of the whiteshed on the further shore a black spot moved--one of the boats thatshould have been locked up, since no one was allowed to use themwithout Mr Pennycuick's permission. It came into the open moonlight, into the middle of that silver mirror, and he saw that oars propelledit, and saw the figure of the person wielding them. Who had dared totake this liberty with sacred Redford property? he wondered, with theindignation of a co-proprietor; and he assumed a poacher after the fishthat Mr Pennycuick had been trying with characteristic perseverance andunsuccess to naturalise in his dam. But looking harder, the clergymansaw the figure rise in the boat, and that it was a woman's. Almost atthe same instant he saw that it had disappeared. Seizing whip andreins, he lashed his mare to a gallop along the embankment and down itssteep side, where she nearly upset him, and round the lake shore--thebuggy rocking like a cradle--to the point nearest to the boat, nowvisibly adrift and empty. He jumped to the ground, tore off his coatand vest (which had a valuable watch attached), flinging them and hishat, and presently his boots, into the buggy; and with a word ofwarning to the mare, he plunged into the water to the rescue of somepoor fool whom as yet he had not identified. 

He returned to shore with Mary Pennycuick in his arms. Spent andpanting from his struggle, and awed by the tragical significance of theaffair, his heart exulted at his deed. He thanked God that he had beenin time--with a fervour proportionate to her rank and consequence--andanticipated the splendid reward awaiting him as the benefactor of thegreat family, entitled to their full confidence and eternal gratitude. But also he was filled with solicitude for the poor girl. 

She was unconscious when he laid her down on the grass, but choked andmoaned when he set to work to revive her, and realised that she wasback in life and misery after he had succeeded in getting some whiskydown her throat--contents of the flask he always carried, as apreventive of chills and remedy for undue fatigues, and from which hehad first helped himself. They sat upon the ground side by side, hisarm round her waist, her head--feeling only that it was cushionedsomewhere--on his shoulder. The night was so warm and windless thattheir wet clothes were little discomfort to them, but he kept graspingand wringing handfuls with the hand at liberty, while he supported herwith the other. The danger of damp "things" was more terrifying to himnow than the danger of death had been a few minutes ago. 

"There, there, " he said soothingly, "you feel better now--don't you?Then I'll just put on my coat, if you don't mind. I'll wrap you up inthe buggy rug--and we'll get back to Redford as soon as we can. And inthe morning, dear, you'll wake up sorry for this--this madness, andyou'll never do it again, will you?"

"Hysteria, " he said to himself. "Her head turned by this love affair. He's treated her badly, whatever they may say, and it has unhinged hermind. "

This thought disposed him to be gentle with her when she positivelyrefused to be taken back to Redford. 

"Leave me here, " she implored him. "I cannot go home! I will not gohome! My father told me he wished I was dead. Oh, I should have beendead now if you had left me alone, and then they would have beensatisfied, and I should have been out of my misery, which is more thanI can bear. Oh, Mr Goldsworthy, don't--don't!" "Mad as a hatter, poorthing, " he thought, as he desisted from his effort to raise her. "Why, her father thinks the world of her!"

But something had to be done. It was unwise to use force in thesecases--nor could he have brought himself to use it--and of course hecould not leave her at the dam, or leave her at all, while she was inher present mood, and without other protection; at the same time, itwas imperatively necessary that he should get out of his wetclothes--her also. He mentioned this latter fact, and it was touchingto see her own careful housewifely instincts assert themselves throughall her mental agony. 

"Oh, you ARE wet, " she mourned, feeling him--it did not matter aboutherself; "oh, I am so sorry! Do--do go home at once, and take them off, and have something hot before you go to bed. "

"I will, " he said, "if you will go with me. " A moment's reflectionshowed him that this was the best course--to take her to his own house, and send a message to Mr Pennycuick that she was there, and safe. 

The thought of the town frightened her. She dreaded to go anywhere outof the solitude of Nature in which she had tried to hide. But heassured her of privacy and protection, and she was spent and beaten, and she gave in. Like a child, she stood to be wrapped in the rug andlifted into the buggy, and they proceeded on their way to his home, where his old sister kept house for him and mothered his child, withthe aid of one servant. 

It was nearly midnight when they arrived, and the parsonage was dark. Miss Goldsworthy, not expecting him, was sitting up with a sickparishioner half a mile off; Ruby and the maid were fast asleep. Whenthe latter was heard stirring in her room, her master called a fewquestions to her, and then bade her go back to bed. 

"We don't want her poking round, " he whispered to Mary, as (whentogether they had hurried the mare into her stall) he led the droopinggirl to his study--and how grateful she was to him for thisconsideration! He closed the door behind them, and led her gently tohis own arm-chair--she clung to the hand that was so kind to her in herneed--bidding her keep the rug about her (so as not to wet thefurniture); and he lit a kerosene stove that was one of his privateluxuries, always available when the maid-of-all-work was not. Heexhorted his charge to comfort herself by the poor blaze while hefetched such odds and ends of clothes as he could gather from hissister's room; and then he told her to change her wet garments forthese dry ones while he performed the same operation for himselfelsewhere. She obeyed him as meekly as a child, and was sitting huddledin Miss Goldsworthy's faded flannel dressing-gown when he returned, carrying a kettle and a tray. 

"Now I will make you a nice hot cup of tea, " said he cheerily, plantingthe kettle on a round hole at the top of the stove and the tray on hiswriting table. "You put your clothes in the passage? That's right. We'll dry them presently. Oh, yes"--starting to cut bread andbutter--"you must have something to eat. You have had no dinner. "

He forced her to eat, and to drink the hot tea, and she did feel thebetter for it. Over her cup she lifted swimming eyes to his face, whispering: "You are good to me!" And he remarked to himself that shewas not mad, as he had thought. 

When the meal was disposed of, he felt that the time for explanationsand for considering how to deal with the extraordinary situation hadcome. 

"Now, my dear, " he began, taking on something of the parson air atlast, "the first thing to be done is to inform your family of yourwhereabouts. I must go and find up somebody to take a message to them, to relieve their minds. "

She roused from her semi-torpor to plead for a reprieve. Not yet--notyet! Whatever she had to face, let her rest for a little first. Theyhad parted with her for the night; they would not go to her room, sheknew--outcast as she now was from the sympathy of them all; they wouldnot miss her before the morning. And, oh, she could not go home! Shehad disgraced her family--her own father had wished her dead. She was awicked woman, not fit to live; but, if she must live, let it beanywhere--anywhere--rather than at Redford now!

At this repetition of her strange charge against a doting father, andthe mention of disgrace, a distressing suspicion came into the parson'smind. He calculated the length of time between Guthrie Carey's visits;he looked at her searchingly. No, there was no evidence that she haddone the special wrong. But that there was wrong of some sort somewherewas evident enough. 

"I know your father's affection for you, " he said seriously, "and Icannot believe that he would express himself as you say he did. "

"I deserved it, " she said. "I don't blame him--nobody could. "

"There must indeed have been some grave reason--"

"There was--there was!"

"What was it?"

"Oh, don't ask me!" she wailed, covering her face. But, crossing overto her side, he took one of the shielding hands, and holding ittenderly, assured her that she must tell him. He was her pastor--he washer best friend; just now he was her champion, prepared to fight herbattle, whatever it was. And to do this successfully it was necessarythat he should know all. In the end she told him--not all, but the mainfacts. He thought it the silliest case of making a mountain of amolehill that he had ever heard of. He was convinced there was more inthe background, to account for the violent emotions aroused--to accountfor a good girl leaving a good home in the middle of the night to drownherself. In his conjectures he made Guthrie Carey the villain of thepiece--the young man who, after creating all the disturbance, hadsignificantly cleared out. Sailors were an immoral lot--a sweetheart inevery port, as the world knew. And this fellow--why, you had only tolook at his big, brawny build (Mr Goldsworthy was a small man) to seethat he had a brutal nature. 

At any rate, the parson was satisfied that the heroine of the storyremained a "pure" girl--foolish, but womanly, and very, veryunfortunate. As she sat weeping by his side, dependent solely upon hisprotection, he stroked her hand and looked at it--so shapely andhigh-bred, the hand of a Pennycuick of the great house--a hand thatwould be full of gold some day; and his thoughts were busy. 

The beautiful Deborah was gone, and could never have been for him; hehad been an idiot to think it. She had no bent towards religion, wasruinously dressy and extravagant, unhousewifely as a woman could be;but Miss Pennycuick, great lady as she was, could cook and sew, was amaster hand with servants and with children, and had never failed ofinterest in the church--nor in him. They had always been the best offriends, he and she; did it not seem that Providence had decreed theyshould be more? Why had he been sent to the dam in the nick of time, when he had intended to stay at Redford until morning? Why was shesitting here now, alone with him in his study, cut off from everybodyelse in the world? The hand of the Lord was in it. Looks were of smallaccount when one considered her rank and the fortune she would inherit;but, of course, he did not admit to himself that he considered any oneof these three things; nor that she was of age and her own mistress, although she had just forced the fact upon him when, promising him tomake no further attempt upon her life, she announced an intention tofind a situation somewhere in which she would be able to supportherself apart from her family, and away from all who knew her. No, whathe considered was the will of God and the dictates of his conscience. She had been given into his hands; he was bound to take care of her, and there was but one way to do it. It would be wrong and cruel toforce her back to Redford. It was preposterous to think of making agoverness or companion of her, a daughter of the proud Pennycuicks. Shecould not remain in his house as she was, without scandal, although hewas a clergyman, with a sister housekeeper. Here they were now--pastmidnight, and practically without a soul in the house--and he so youngstill, and, if he might presume to say it, so attractive!

He put the case to her guardedly, gradually, plainly at last, andargued it for a full hour, while she drooped and wept, gazing at thesmelly stove and shaking her head wearily. By the time dawn came, andshe was quite worn out, he had won her consent to be his wife, whichmeant for her a footing somewhere, and at the same time a means tocommit suicide without violating the law. 

Miss Goldsworthy, who was but his humble slave, came home, put theforlorn girl to bed, and made a wedding breakfast for her while she wasthere; Mr Goldsworthy took the opportunity to fill up marriage papersin his study. Ruby was sent to school, as usual. Before her returntherefrom, Mary Pennycuick had been led to the altar of the adjacentchurch, the white frock in which she had tried to drown herself driedand ironed to make her bridal robe. A neighbouring clergyman and cronyof the bridegroom's performed the ceremony. Old Miss Goldsworthy, thechief witness, deposed, bewildered, wept bitterly. The bride wasunmoved--until little Ruby, returning during the course of the ghastlywedding breakfast, was brought up, giggling and staring, to "kiss hernew mamma", when the new mamma snatched the child to her breast, andwent off into wild hysterics. 

"There, there, " said the new husband, pleased with the maternalgesture, but alarmed by her excitement, "you are overwrought. You havehad no sleep. You must come and rest, my dear. Come and lie down. Youcan have Ruby with you, if you like--while I go and settle things atRedford. No, I won't be long; I'll just see your father, and be back bytea-time. Have the drawing-room opened, Charlotte"--it never was openedexcept for visitors--"and we will sit there this evening. Andmeanwhile, make her some tea or something, and see that she has all shewants. Come, my love--"

He led her to the door of a room, and she shrank back from it with ashriek. 

"Well, well, " he soothed her; "the spare room, if you like--"

"Oh, promise me--promise me--!"

"Yes, yes; just as you wish, darling. I would not hurry you. "

She turned to Miss Goldsworthy and clung to her. "Save me! save me!"was what the desperate clutch meant, but what the paralysed tonguecould not articulate. 

She was in a high fever and delirious on her wedding night, and a weeklater at death's door. When she came out of her illness, reconciled toher family, meekly obedient to her husband, she was a wreck ofherself--a prisoner for life, bound hand and foot, more pitiable thanshe would have been as a dead body fished out of the dam. 

The tragic disproportion between crimes and punishments in this world!

CHAPTER XII. 

Mrs Goldsworthy was reconciled to her relations through herillness--the greatest peacemaker in families, save death; and for hersake they made a show of tolerating her husband, after they had givenhim some bad hours behind her back. But the whole affair was like ablight on Redford, which was never the same place again. Mr Pennycuickhad a slight "stroke" on hearing all the bad news at once. It was lightenough to be passed over and hushed up, but his vigour and facultiesdeclined from that hour with a rapidity that could be marked from dayto day. "A changed man, " observed his neighbours, one to another. Atthe same time, they hinted that other things were not as they used tobe--that the old man had had losses--that Redford was heavilyburdened--that the proud Pennycuicks, already humbled, were likely toexperience a further fall. Certainly, the governess was dispensed with, and the dashing four-in-hand withdrawn from the local racecourses andagricultural show-grounds, of which it had long been the constant andconspicuous ornament, to be sold at public auction, without reasongiven. The great, hospitable house got a character for dullness for thefirst time in its history. No lights or laughter flowed from thewindows of the big drawing-room of an evening; the lawns lay dark andstill, while downstairs a rubber of whist or a hand at cribbage withJim Urquhart or Mr Thornycroft represented what was left of thegaieties of the past. These men--these old fogies, as fretful Francesstyled them both--were not of those who shunned Redford because it hadgrown dull; on the contrary, they now--according to Francesagain--virtually lived there. And it was the absent pleasure-seekers, her true kindred, for whom her soul longed. 

He who most openly resented the change, having (next to Mary) been mostinstrumental in causing it, was Deborah's lover, Claud Dalzell. 

He had been none too gracious a lover--although graceful enough, whenall was well--seeing that he had continued his bachelor life, with allits social obligations, after as before his engagement, and had allowedthis to run to nearly two years, without coming to any effectiveunderstanding about the wedding-day; but when, in the thick of hertroubles, he descended upon Redford merely to denounce the Goldsworthymarriage as a personal affront, and, as it were, to tax her with it, then her loving indulgence did not suffice to excuse him. 

As usual, he went to his room first, to wash and change. He hated topass the door of a sitting-room with the dust of travel on him; hecould not shake hands with equanimity until he had restored his personand toilet to their normal perfection, which meant more or less therestoring of his nerves and temper to repose. So he appeared on thisoccasion, fresh and finished to the last degree, the finest gentlemanin the world--the very light of Deb's eyes, and the satisfaction of herown fastidious taste--walking in to her where she awaited him, in themorning-room, herself 'groomed' to match, with as much care as she hadtaken when she had no more serious matter to think of than how to dressto please him. 

He met her, apparently, as usual. She, turning to him as to a rock in aweary land, flung herself into his arms with more than her usualself-abandonment. 

"Oh, darling!" she breathed, in that delicious voice of hers, "it isgood to see you. I have wanted you so badly. "

"I am sorry I did not come before, " he replied, kissing her gravely. "Somebody has been wanted to deal with that extraordinary girl. "

"Ah, poor girl! Do you know she is very ill with brain fever? Keziahhas gone to nurse her. It must have been that coming on. She was out ofher mind. "

"I should think so--and everybody else too, apparently. What were youall about, Debbie, not to see this Goldsworthy affair going on underyour noses?"

"It hasn't been going on. It has been Guthrie Carey--until now. "

"I am told"--it was Frances who had told him in the passage justnow--"that she refused Carey only the day before. "

"She did. "

"In order to make a runaway match with this parson fellow. The factsspeak for themselves. "

"Ah!" sighed Deb, turning to the tea-table, "I expect we don't know allthe facts. "

She meant that he did not know them. He only knew what Frances knew, and providentially they had been able to keep the episode of the damout of the published story. That was the secret of Mary herself, herhusband, her father, and this one sister; and they kept it close, evenfrom Claud Dalzell. "I will tell him some day when we are married, " Debhad promised herself; but as things fell out, she never did tell him. And it was on account of her brother-in-law's part in the suppressedevent that she now forbore to call him behind his back what she had nothesitated to call him before his face--that is, failed to show that shefully shared her lover's indignation at the MESALLIANCE, and thescandalous way that it had been brought about. 

"But, good heavens!"--Claud took his cup perfunctorily from her hand, and at once set it down--"are more facts necessary? She has made aclandestine marriage with a man whose bishop will turn him out of thechurch, I hope. They were right, I suppose, in concluding that no onehere would consent to it; and what conceivable circumstances couldexcuse such an act?"

"Illness, " said Deb. "Madness. "

"Nonsense! There's too much method in it. It is obviously but theclimax of a long intrigue--a course of duplicity that I could neverhave believed possible in a girl like Mary, although I have alwaysthought HIM cad enough for anything. "

"Have your tea, " said Deb, a trifle off-hand; "it will be cold. "

And she sat down with her own cup, and began to sip it with a leisurelyair. 

"A clandestine marriage, " remarked Claud, ignoring her advice, "logically implies a clandestine engagement. Carey was but a redherring across the trail. And you ought to have known it, Deb. "

"Well, I didn't, " said she shortly. 

He took a turn up and down the room, trying to preserve his wontedwell-bred calm. But he was intensely irritated by her attitude. 

"I cannot understand you, " he complained, with a hard edge to hisvoice. "I should have thought that you--YOU of all people--would havebeen wild--as wild as I am. "

She exasperated him with a little laugh and a truly cutting sarcasm. "It is bad form to SHOW that you are wild, you know, even if you feelso. "

"I am just wondering whether you feel so. You are not used to hidingyour feelings--at any rate, from me. I expected to find you out of yourmind almost. "

"What's the use? If I raved till doomsday I couldn't alter anything. The mischief is done. It is no use crying over spilt milk, my dear. "

"You look as if you did not want to cry. " "Do I?"

"As if it did not much matter to you whether it was spilt or not. " "Itdoesn't matter to me, compared with what it matters to her. " "Well, itmatters to ME, " Claud Dalzell announced, in a high tone, the crust ofhis fine manners giving to the pressure of the volcano within. "I can'tstand the connection, if you can. Carey was bad enough, but he had someclaim beside his coat to rank as a gentleman. This crawling ass, whowould lick your boots for sixpence, to have him patting me on the backand calling himself my brother--Good God! it's too sickening. "

"Not YOUR brother, " Deb gently corrected him. 

"He is mine if he is yours. " "Oh, not necessarily!"

"Deb, " said Claud, with an air of desperation, planting himself beforeher, "what are you going to do?"

She looked up at him with narrowing eyes and stiffening lips. 

"What IS there to do?" she returned. "Are you going to put up withthis--this outrage--to condone everything--to tolerate that fellow atRedford, taking the position of a son of the house, or are you going toshow them both that they have forfeited their right ever to set footupon the place again?"

"My sister too, you mean?"

"Certainly--if you can still bring yourself to call her your sister. She belongs to him now, not to us. She has voluntarily cut herself offfrom her world. Let her go. Deb, if you love me--"

He paused, and Deb smiled into his handsome but disgusted face. 

"Ah, is that to be a test of love?" she asked. "I understand. I am tochoose between you. Well"--she rose, towering, drawing the big diamondfrom her engagement finger--"I am going to her now. I ought to havebeen there hours ago, but waited back to receive you. Good-bye! Andpray, don't come again to this contaminated house. We have too horriblygone down in the world. I know it, and I would not have you compromisedon any account. We Pennycuicks, we don't abandon our belongings, especially when they may be dying; we sink or swim together. " She heldthe jewel out to him. 

"What rot!" he blurted vulgarly, flushing with anger that was notunmixed with shame. "Why will you wilfully misunderstand me? Put it on, Deb--put it on, and don't be so childish. "

"I will not put it on, " said she, "until you apologise for the thingsyou have been saying to me, and the manner of your saying them. "

"My dear child, I do apologise humbly, if I have said what I shouldn't. Perhaps I have; but I thought we were past the need for reserves andfor weighing words, you and I. And really, Debbie, you know--"

"Hush!" She stopped him from further arguing; but she did not stop himfrom taking her hand and cramming the diamond back into its old place. "I must go. Father cannot--he is ill himself; and Miss Keene is toofrightfully modest to nurse him alone, so that I must send Keziah back, and stay--"

"Can't Miss Keene go and send her back, and stay?"

"Oh, she would be no use in such an illness as Mary's. And I must seefor myself how things are--whether they are taking proper care of thepoor, unfortunate child--"

"Is she so very ill? I did not know that. "

There was commiseration in his tone, but in his heart he hoped that thedeservedly sick woman would crown her escapades by dying as quickly aspossible. Then, perhaps, he could forgive her. 

Deb gave him sundry confidences. On his appearing to take them in aproper spirit, she gave him some more tea. And so they lapsed intotheir normal relations. When she again urged the need for her to begetting off on her errand of mercy, he magnanimously offered to driveher. She accepted with a full heart, and her arms about his neck. Whileshe was getting ready, he repacked his portmanteau, and ordered it tobe put into the buggy. 

"It's no use my going back, " he said to her, when they were on theroad, "with you away, and your father too ill to see me. I'll put up atthe hotel tonight, and go on to town in the morning. You can send forme there whenever you want me, you know. "

"Just as you like, dear, " said Deb quietly; and for the rest of theirjourney they talked commonplaces. 

When they reached the parsonage gate, from which the maid-of-all-workand a group of street gossips scattered in panic at their approach, thelovers shook hands perfunctorily. 

"Goodbye, then, for a little while, " said Claud. "You don't want me tocome in, do you?"

"Certainly not, " said she coldly. 

"You know that it is totally against my judgment--and my wishes--thatyou go in yourself, Deb?"

"Yes. But one's own judgment must be one's guide. "

Thus they parted, each with a grievance against the other--a root ofbitterness to be nourished by much thinking about it, and by thecircumstance that poor Mary neither died nor was repudiated. Clauddrove on to the hotel, to be further disgusted with his accommodationand his dinner; Deb walked into the house which hitherto she hadvisited in a spirit of kindly condescension, to be revolted by the newaspect which her changed relations with it now gave to its everyfeature. Ruby, neglected, with a jam-smeared face--the flustered maid, tousled, grubby, her frock gaping--the horrible hall, with itsimitation-marble paper and staring linoleum--the prim, trivial, unaired, unused drawing-room, with its pathetic attempts atelegance--Deb inwardly curled up at the sight of these things as thingsnow belonging to the family. When the master of the house came hurryingin to her, rusty, unshaven, abject, she would have changed places witha Christian of old Rome facing a lion of the amphitheatre. 

"Oh, this is good of you! This is kind indeed!" Mr Goldsworthy greetedher, and threatened in his grateful emotion to fall at her feet. "I didnot dare to hope--"

But Deb shudderingly swept him aside, with his gratitude and hisexcuses and his timid justifications. He could stand up before hisother critics--he had a clear conscience, he said; but before her heknew himself for what he was. He followed her like a dog to Mary'sroom, obeyed her directions like a slave, wept when she consented to"say no more", and stooped to beg from him a solemn vow and promisethat he would be good to his wife. This was after the doctors hadrefused to permit his wife's removal to Redford to be nursed, and afterRedford had practically been in command of his establishment for sevenweeks. 

Christmas is the time for reconciliations, and by Christmas Mary wasconvalescent--pale as she had never been since childhood, and wearing alittle cap over her shaved head; very humble and gentle, and strangelydocile in her attitude towards her captor, who now gave himself all theairs of a husband of his class. He was the benevolent despot of hiswomen-kind--the god of the machine; she was as properly submissive asif born in the ranks. Negatively so, that is to say; positively, hermanifestations of duty to him took the form of services and endearmentsbestowed upon his child and sister. Her first occupation after shecould use her hands was to improve Ruby's wardrobe--the little girl, now her own, appealed to her motherly heart, a saving interest in herwrecked life. The poor old ex-housekeeper was the other prop to whichshe clung for a footing in the new and alien world which was now allher home. When Miss Goldsworthy proposed to go out into a situation, not to "be in the way of" the new wife, and when her brother would haveapproved the plan as only right and proper (and as facilitating hisschemes for the raising of the "tone" of his establishment to Redfordlevel), Mary protested vehemently and with tears, the only occasion ofher showing a Pennycuick spirit since renouncing the Pennycuick name. The old maid, for her part, was enthusiastically devoted to the newsister-in-law, whom it was her joy to pet and coddle. "I can be of useto her, " she tremblingly commended herself to her brother. "I can takethe drudgery of the housework off her, and save her in the parish. ""Well, perhaps so, " said Mr Goldsworthy. And, sincerely desiring toendear himself to his aristocratic wife, he consented to her wish. 

The whole Goldsworthy family was transferred to Redford, while, on thepretext of disinfecting it, the parsonage was painted and papered whatDeb called "decently", and its more offensive furniture replaced. Marywas provided with a trousseau and many useful wedding presents, acheque from her father for 500 pounds amongst them. They did notforgive her, but they pretended excellently that they did. Without anypretence at all, they tried to make the best of a bad job. To this end, they gathered their friends together as usual at Christmas. MrThornycroft and the Urquharts needed no pressing; they came to see Marythe day she returned home, and showed her the old affection withoutasking questions. Mr Thornycroft's wedding presents to her weremagnificent--a complete service of silver plate and house linen of thefinest. Deb wrote to Claud: "I suppose we shall see you, asusual?"--for he had always spent Christmas at Redford unless away onthe other side of the world. He wrote back: "I think not, this time. "He was the only defaulter. 

"He will never have a chance to refuse again, " said Deb fiercely, asshe tore up his note. 

His absence was too marked not to provoke frequent comment, andwhenever it was alluded to in her hearing, her spine stiffened and herhead went up. It was quite evident to her family that the rift in thelute was serious, and strange to say, it was her father, who might havebeen expected to hail the signs, who was most concerned to see them. Heexpostulated with her when she spoke bitterly of Billy's son, as oncehe had been so ready to do himself. 

"Well, my dear, " said he, "I can understand it, if you can't. Iwouldn't come myself, if I was in his place, to mix-up with the sort ofthing we've got to mix up with. "

"If I can mix up with it--!" quoth proud Deborah. 

"Yes, yes--I know; but you must consider the silly way that he's beenreared. I don't like his taking upon himself to criticise what wechoose to do; but no doubt Goldsworthy IS a pretty big pill toswallow--to a chap like him, always so faddy about breeding andmanners, and that sort of thing. "

"If he is too faddy for the society that I can put up with, though itbe that of chimney-sweeps, " said Deb, "he is too faddy for me, father. "

"Now, my dear, don't talk so, " the old man pleaded with her, quiteagitated by her mood. "We all have our little weaknesses--we have tomake allowances for temperament and for bringing up. Don't let a triflelike this estrange you two--don't, Debbie, for my sake. Let me go downto my grave feeling that one of you, at least, is safe and happy, andwell provided for. "

"Decidedly, " thought Deborah, "father is not the same man that he wasbefore his illness. "

She understood the cause of his change of views on her engagementbetter a few weeks later. 

He had parted with his eldest daughter then, and the emotion of theevent had fatally affected him. Owing to some obscure working of the"influence" which her social position had brought to her husband, thelatter had been promoted to the charge of a Melbourne parish. Theaffair was arranged while they were still at Redford, and just on thecompletion of the improvements to the local parsonage. In spite of allthey had done to make this first home fit for her, family and friendswere unanimous in hailing her removal to another and more distantone--out of the buzz of the gossip of her native neighbourhood--as thebest thing that could have happened. But when it came to the point ofsending her forth to battle with her fate alone for the rest of herlife, the wrench was dreadful. She was the bravest of them all underthe ordeal. The shattered father, whose right hand she had been for somany happy years, and whose heart was broken with the weight of hisresponsibility for her misfortunes, was completely overwhelmed. She hadnot been gone twelve hours when Deb found him in his office chair, unable to rise from it, or to answer her questions. And he never spokeagain. He made signs that he wanted Claud sent for, and when the youngman quickly came, looked significant things at him and Deb, as theystood by his bedside hand in hand. Then he lapsed into stupor and died, without waiting for a third stroke. 

Through all the shock and sorrow of the time, Claud was Deborah'smainstay and consolation. He took the role of nearest male relative, the right to which was undisputed by Mr Goldsworthy, preoccupied withthe important interests of his new parish; also by Mr Thornycroft andJim Urquhart, who, of course, "stood by" to serve her as far as shewould allow them. It was Claud who gave the orders for the funeral, andsuperintended the ceremonies, and acted as chief mourner; it was Claudto whom the household looked for direction, as if acknowledging him tobe the new master; it was on Claud's breast that Deb wept--who sorarely wept--and his word that she obeyed, as if he were already herhusband; and in all that he did for her, and in all that he did not do, he showed the grace, the tact, the tenderness, the thoughtfulness ofher ideal lover and gentleman. 

But there came a day when he fell again below the indispensablestandard--when the rift in the lute, that had seemed closed, gapedsuddenly, and this time beyond repair. It was when, after closeinvestigation of the deceased man's affairs, and some heated interviewswith one of the executors (Deb being the other), Claud discovered thatthe Pennycuick wealth was non-existent--that Redford was mortgaged tothe hilt, and that if the estate was realised and cleared, as Debdesired it should be, nothing would be left for her and hersisters--that is to say, a paltry three or four hundred a year amongstthem, less than Deb could spend comfortably on her clothes alone. 

He was too upset by the discovery, and a bad quarter of an hour that MrThornycroft had subsequently given him, to preserve that calm demeanourwhich was his study and his pride. He came in to Deb where she satalone, and expressed his feelings as the ordinary man is wont to do tothe woman who loves and belongs to him. 

"What could your father have been dreaming of, " he rudely interrogatedher, "to let the place go to pieces like this? Drifting behind yearafter year, and doing nothing to stop it--not cutting down one of theliving expenses--not giving us the least hint of how things reallywere--"

"He gave several hints, " said Deb, in that voice which always grew soportentously quiet when his was raised, "if we had had the sense totake them. I have been putting two and two together for some time, sothat I am not altogether taken by surprise. "

"Why didn't you tell me?"

"Because you were not here, for one thing. Because it was father'sprivate business, for another. "

"He seems not to have made it his business to take any care of hischildren's interests, " said Claud bitterly. "Bringing you up as he hasdone, with the right to expect that you were to be properly providedfor, and then leaving you literally paupers--"

"Not LITERALLY paupers, " corrected Deb gently. "We shall be quiteindependent still. And if you want to insult my father now that he isdead--the best of fathers, if he did have misfortunes in business andmake mistakes--do it somewhere else, not in this room. " "You have noright to take that tone with me, Deb. " "No?" She raised sarcasticeyebrows, under which her deep eyes gleamed. "Well, I suppose Ihaven't--now. I forgot my new place. I am very sorry, Claud"--rising, and making a gesture with her hands that he had seen before--"verysorry indeed, that I did not know I was going to be a poor woman and anobody when you did me the honour to select me to be your wife. Nowthat you have shown me that I am disqualified for the position--" sheheld out the big diamond, with a cold smile. "That's vulgar, Deb, " heloftily admonished her, fending off her hand. "You know I am notactuated by those low motives. DON'T let us have this cheap melodrama, for pity's sake! Put it on. "

But no more would she put it on. He had revealed his disappointmentthat she was not something more than herself--that beautiful andadorable self that she quite knew the worth of--and he had permittedhimself to take liberties of speech with her that she instinctivelyfelt to be provoked by the circumstance that she was no longer rich andpowerful. 

Deb's love was great, but her pride was greater. 

CHAPTER XIII. 

Deb sat amid the ruins of her home. She occupied the lid of a dealpacking-case that enclosed a few hundreds of books, and one that washalf filled stood before her, with a scatter of odd volumes on thefloor around. The floor, which was that of the once cosy morning-room, was carpetless; its usual furniture stood about higgledy-piggledy, allin the wrong places, naked and forlorn. Mr Thornycroft leaned againstthe flowerless mantel-shelf, and surveyed the scene, or rather, thecentral figure, black-gowned, holland-aproned, with sleeves turned backfrom her strong wrists, and a grey smudge on her beautiful nose. 

"That cottage that you talk about, " said he, "will not hold all those. "

"Oh, books don't take any space, " she replied brusquely. "They are nomore than tapestry or frescoes. I shall have cases made to fit flat tothe walls. "

"That will cost money. "

"One must have the bare necessaries of life. I presume I shall be ableto afford that much. Pine boards will do. I can Aspinall them. ""Aspinall is very nice, but sometimes it gets on the edges of yourbooks and spoils them. "

"No, it doesn't. I have an Aspinalled book-case in my room now, and nota mark ever came off it. "

"Did you paint it?"

"I did. "

"Are you going to leave it there?"

"I must. It is a fixture. "

"That's all right. I am glad you are going to leave something. ""Something? I leave all. "

"Except a library of books, and a collection of forty odd pictures, that you will have to hang over the books--"

"You would not have us part with family portraits?"

"And a grand piano, extra sized, calculated to fill a suburban villadrawing-room all by itself--"

"Pianos make nothing second-hand, and the girls must practise. Betterkeep a good instrument than sell it for fifty pounds and spend themoney on a bad one. "

"Certainly, if you can stow it. But with seven easy-chairs, and thebiggest Chesterfield sofa extant, and a large writing-table--"

"I can have that in my room. "

"Along with a six-foot dressing-table, and a nine-foot wardrobe, and Idon't know how many chests of drawers--"

"The wardrobe will stand in a passage somewhere. We must have places toput our clothes. "

"A house with passages of that capacity--"

"Well, never you mind. If I can't find room for my things, I can sellthem in Melbourne as well as here. "

"Having squandered a small fortune on the carriage down. Better leavethem with me, Debbie, and let me send you what you want afterwards. "

"Thank you. You would not have them to send afterwards. "

"Oh, I think I would. "

"No. I shall settle everything before I leave, and the sale will beheld immediately. The furniture first, and then the place. " Her mouthclosed upon the words like a steel snap. 

"Just as you please about that, " he said quietly. "Any time will suitme. "

"By public auction, " she added, with a sharp glance at him--"to thehighest bidder. "

"Yes, " was his laconic comment. "Me. "

"Not necessarily, " said she, roused by the small word that held suchlarge meanings. "There are a few other rich persons in the westerndistrict, to whom Redford may appear desirable. "

"There are, " he agreed easily. "I know several. But I shall outbidthem. "

She was strongly agitated. "Oh, I hope they won't let you!"

"Why?" he asked. 

At first she fenced with the question. 

"Because you don't want it. You have more land already than one manought to have. " "I don't know about what I ought to have, but I knowthat if you persist in throwing Redford away, I shall take it. " Hesmiled at her angry perturbation. "If I find I haven't enough money tooutbid everybody--but I think I have--I can sell Bundaboo. If you won'thave Redford, I will--yes, and every stick and stone that belongs toit. "

"And have people talking and saying that you did it for something else, and not business reasons. "

"People would be right, for once. "

"But I won't have it!" cried Deb. "I won't stand being an object ofyour benevolence. You want to pay a lot more than the place is worth, so as to augment our income. You as good as own it--"

"I want to keep your home for you against you change your mind. " "Thelast thing I shall do, I assure you--particularly after your sayingthat. " Her nose, in spite of the smut on it, testified to her indignantdignity, up in the air, with its fine nostrils quivering. "Now, lookhere, godpapa--I will not have Redford put up to auction. I'll sellprivately--and to somebody else. "

"You cannot. "

"Oh, indeed! Not when I am executor?"

"Certainly not--except with the permission of your fellow-executor. "

She fell to pleading. 

"Oh, let me--do let me! You know what I want--to square up all thedebts and have done with them. I can't sleep for thinking of what weowe you already. Do you know how much it is? Nearly forty thou--"

He checked her with an impatient wave of the hand. 

"All the debts will be provided for, of course. The lawyers will adjustthose matters. "

"I don't trust you, " she urged, looking at him less angrily, but stillas puzzled and distressed. "I know you have designs to benefit mesomehow--unfairly, and because it's me--and if you only knew how IHATED to be benefited--"

"I do--nobody better. That is why I am letting you do a lot of thingsthat won't benefit you, but just the opposite--things you will repentof horribly by-and-by. Knowing your independent spirit, I do not offermy advice--"

"Oh!"

"Not effectively. I do not force it upon you. I do not bring myundoubted powers to bear upon you for your good--"

"Ah!"

"Because I know, of course, that you would rather suffer anything thanbe guided by me. "

She softened instantly. "I am not such a fool, I hope. But--but youWILL bring friendship into business. You did things for my father thatyou know you would never have dreamt of doing for strangers--that younever ought to have done at all; and now you want to be twice asidiotically generous to us, because we are girls, and out of pity forus--to do us a kindness, as it is called--when, if you only knew--"

She had risen and drifted to him where he stood, and now laid a hand onhis arm. He put a hand over it, and looked into her pleading eyes. Heseemed not to have heard her last remark, to be far away in mind fromthe point of discussion, and his fixed and strange gaze perplexed andthen embarrassed her. "How he feels our going!" she thought to herself, and turned her face from his, and tried to turn his apparently sadthoughts. 

"If you would only let me sell Redford to somebody else, and have thelump money to pay all the debts in a plain way that I could understand, and take the remainder for ourselves, and know that we were straightand free, I would do anything you liked to ask me in return!"

He still kept silence, and that tight grasp upon her hand. So shelooked at him again; and his far-away stare was bewildering. 

"I wonder, " said he slowly--"I wonder, if I were to take you at yourword, whether you would stick to it?"

"Try me, " said she. 

"I will. Deborah Pennycuick, if I let you sell Redford, and pay alldebts with your own hands, will you--I am your godfather, and somethingover fifty, and it is quite preposterous, of course, but still you saidanything--will you be my wife?"

"Oh!" This was the unexpected happening, with a vengeance. Never hadshe imagined such a notion on the part of this staid and venerableperson. She flushed hotly, and wrenched her imprisoned hand free. "Idon't like stupid jokes, " she muttered, overcome with confusion. "Do Igive you the impression that I am joking?" he asked. 

"If you are serious, that is worse, " said she. "Then I know you areonly trying another way of providing for me. "

"You believe I have only just thought of it?"

"Haven't you?"

"I have thought of it since you were fifteen, my dear. But never mind. We will call it a joke, if you think that the least of two evils. I seeyou do. The incident is closed. The bargain is off. And I can buyRedford when it is put up for sale. Goodbye, goddaughter. No, I can'tstay to lunch today; I have some business to attend to. But of course Ishall see you again before you go. "

And when he did see her again, he gave not the smallest sign of whathad happened, so that she almost grew to feel that she must have dreamtit. 

That same afternoon, Jim Urquhart, who was always doing so, rode overto Redford to see if he could help her pack. He wondered at herabstracted manner, and her sudden change of mind concerning the pianoand wardrobe and other things. Having laboriously packed books andpictures, she now proposed to unpack half of them. She wanted to seewhat room she would have in her cottage first. In fact, it seemed tohim that she did not know what she wanted. She was evidently tired andoverwrought. "Oh, Jim, " she moaned, from amongst the dust and litter, "it is a wrench!"

"What do you suppose it is for us?" he returned gloomily. "Without youat Redford! I'm trying not to think of it. "

"So am I. But it's no use--it has got to come. "

"I suppose there is no way out?"

"None. That is all settled. I have told Mr Thornycroft, and he won'ttease me any more. "

"Do you think you will be happy down there, cooped up in streets?"

"I know I shall not. But the streets down there will be better than thestreets of a bush township. "

"Why streets at all? Why not stay about here somewhere, where you haveus all near you?"

"Exiled from Redford? No, thank you. Besides, where could we stay?Detached cottages don't grow in these parts. "

Then he blurted it out. 

"I have never said anything, Deb. I knew I wasn't fit for you, and. Iam not now. I've got to look after my dear old mother and the children, who haven't got anybody else, and I couldn't give you a home worthy ofyou--perhaps never, no matter how I worked and tried; but if love isany good, and the things that after all make homes--not money and finefurniture--" "Dear old boy, don't!" she pleaded, with twitching lips. 

"I may as well, now I have begun, " said he. "I don't suppose it is anyuse, but I'd just like you to know once--as far as my life is my own, it is yours any day you like. It has been since I was a boy, and itwill be for a good while yet--I won't say for ever, because you can'ttell what's going to happen; but I'm ready to bet my soul that it willbe for ever. Now, do just what you feel inclined to, Debbie. I'm notgoing to press you--I know my place too well; but if you should thinkit a better plan to live with me, and have me work for you and takecare of you the best I can, why, any heaven that's coming to usby-and-by simply won't be in it--not for me. " He looked at her acrossthe packing-case between them, and dropped his voice to add: "But youwouldn't, of course. "

"I would, dear Jim!" she cried, with warm impulsiveness; "that is, Imight. A good man like you is worth a worldful of money and furniture. I don't live for those things, as you seem to think; but--but you knowhow it is--I can't change about from one to another--"

He dropped the saddest "No" into the pregnant pause. 

"No, Deb--no; I expected that. Staunch through everything--that's youall over. Well"--with a movement as if to pull himself together--"I'mstaunch too. We're equals in that, anyhow, and don't you forget it. I'll not bother you any more--I never have bothered you, have I?--butI'm here when you want me, body and soul, at any hour of the day ornight. You'll remember that?" stretching his horny hand across to her, and being in the same instant electrified by the touch of her lips uponit. 

"Oh, I will! I will!"

The evening post brought a ship letter. Guthrie Carey was in port. Hehad been there long enough to hear the news that Deborah Pennycuick waspenniless, and that Claud Dalzell had deserted her. So he had writtento her at length--the longest letter of his life--ten pages. 

She took it to her bedroom and sat down to read it, while at the sametime she rested a little before dinner. She had frowned over theenvelope; now she smiled over the first pages; she sighed over themiddle ones; she even wept a little over the last. Then she wrote outan answer and sent it by a groom to the nearest telegraph office:

"Please do not come. Am writing. "

Thus she cast aside in one day three good men and true, heart-bound toone who was not worthy to be ranked with any of them. But that is theway of love. 

CHAPTER XIV. 

There was an attic at the top of a dark flight of stairs in thesuburban villa that was now the sisters' home. It contained a fireplaceand a long dormer window--three square casements in a row, of which theouter pair opened like doors--facing the morning sun and a countrylandscape. The previous tenants had used it for a box and lumber room, and left it cobwebbed, filthy and asphyxiating. Deb ordered a charwomanto clean it, and a man to distemper the grubby plaster and stain thefloor, and then laid down rugs, and assembled tables and books, andbasket-chairs, and girls' odds and ends; whereby it was transformedinto a cosy boudoir and their favourite room. Hither came Mary when shecould escape from that treadmill of which she never spoke, bringing herblack-eyed boy to astonish his aunts with his cleverness, andastonishing them herself with the heretical notions which an intimateassociation with orthodoxy seemed to have implanted in her. But Bennetwas not admitted, nor any other outsider. 

The little bricked hearth, when reminiscent wood fires burned on it, was a pleasant gathering-place in cold weather; but it was the windowin the projecting gable towards which the sisters most commonlyconverged. It was about eight feet long by two feet high, and close upunder it, nearly flush with its sill, stood a substantialsix-foot-by-four table, the chairs at either end comfortably fillingthe rest of the alcove. They could sit here to write or sew, or drinkafternoon tea, and look out upon as pleasant a rural landscape--theMalvern Hills--as any suburban villa could command. It was that view, indeed, which had decided Deb to take the house. 

There was, of course, a towny foreground to it; and this it was, ratherthan the distant blue ranges, that held the gaze of Rose Pennycuickwhen she looked forth--the back-yard of the villa next to their own. Itwas a well-washed-and-swept enclosure, spacious and well-appointed, andamongst its appointments displayed a semi-circular platform ofbrickwork, slightly raised above the asphalted ground, and supportingthe biggest and best dog-kennel that she had ever seen. 

"Those are nice people, " she remarked, "for they have given their dogas good a house as they have given themselves. Isn't it a beauty? Iwish to goodness everybody was as considerate for the poor things. Iwonder what sort of a dear beast it is?"

She watched so long for its appearance that she thought the kenneluntenanted, but presently saw a maid come out from the kitchen with atin dish. This she dumped upon the brick platform, turning her backinstantly; and a fine, ruffed, feather-tailed collie stepped over thekennel threshold to get his dinner. 

"Chained!" cried Rose. "And she never spoke to him!"

Deb looked over her shoulder, sympathetically concerned. "Is he really?What a shame! I expect they are too awfully clean and tidy to stand adog's paws on anything; but no doubt they let him out for a run. "

Rose waited for days, and never saw this happen. The master of thehouse and a dapper young man, his son, went to town every morning at acertain hour, evidently for the day's business; a stout, smart lady, with smart daughters, was seen going forth in the afternoons; the maidstook their little outings; but no one took the dog. He lived alone onhis patch of brick, either hidden in the kennel or lying in the sunwith his nose between his paws. He had his food regularly, for it was aregular household; but beyond that, no notice seemed taken of him. Rose, worked up from day to day, declared at last that she could notstand it. "Why, what can you do?" said Deb. "He is their dog, notyours. " "Oh, I don't know; but I must do something. "

One moonlight night she heard him--always silent and supine, exceptwhen suspicious persons came into the yard--baying softly to himself, plainly (to her) voicing the weariness of his unhappy life. She sat upin bed and listened to him, and to his master shouting to him atintervals to "be quiet"; and she wept with sympathetic grief. 

It was a Saturday night. On Sunday morning she excused herself fromgoing to church. She saw Deb and Francie go, and she saw the family ofthe next house go--heard their front door bang, and caught gleams ofsmart dresses through the foliage of their front garden. Then she puton her hat and stole forth to intercede for the collie with the cook ofhis establishment, a kindly-looking person, who had once been observedto pat his head. 

The gleaming imitation-mahogany door at which she rang with adetermined hand but a fluttering heart, was, to her dismay, opened toher by a young man--the son of the house, whom she had seen going tobusiness every week-day morning, tailored beautifully, and wearing asilk hat that dazzled one. He was now in a very old suit, flannel-shirted and collarless, so that at first she did not recognisehim. 

The desire of each was to turn and fly, but the necessity upon them wasto face their joint mishap and see it through. Crimson, the young manmumbled apologies for his state of unreadiness to receive ladies;equally crimson, Rose begged him not to mention it, and apologised forher own untimely call. 

"Miss Pennycuick, I believe?" stammered he, with an awkward bow. 

"Miss Rose Pennycuick--yes, " said she, struggling through heroverwhelming embarrassment. "I called--I wanted--I--I--MIGHT I speak toyou for just one minute, Mr Breen?"

She had lived beside him long enough to know his name, also hisoccupation. The Breens were drapers. Their shop in the city was not tobe compared with Buckley & Nunn's or Robertson & Moffat's, but it was agood shop in its way, as this good home of the proprietors testified. 

"Certainly, " said young Mr Breen, whose name was Peter. "With pleasure. By all means. Walk in, Miss Pennycuick. "

She walked into a gorgeous drawing-room, where all was of the best, andwore that shining air of furniture too valuable for daily use. Mr Peterdrew up a cream linen blind that was one mass of lace insertion, andapologised anew for his unseemly costume. 

"The fact is, Miss Pennycuick--I hope you won't be shocked at my doingsuch things on Sunday--I was cleaning my gun. There is a holiday thisweek, and I am going shooting with a friend. It was he I expected tosee when I went to the door in this state. " "Oh, " said Rose, more ather ease, "I often do things on Sundays; I don't see why not. In fact, I am doing something now--"

She cast about for words wherein to explain her errand, while he shot astealthy glance at her. Though not beautiful, like Deb and Francie, shewas a wholesome, healthy, bonnie creature, and he was as well aware ofher position in life as she was of his. 

"I came, Mr Breen--I thought there were only servants in the house--Iam sure you must wonder how I can take such a liberty, such an utterstranger, but I wanted to speak about that poor dog of yours--"

"Bruce--ah!" Enlightenment seemed to come to the young man. "You havecalled to complain of the row he made last night. We were only sayingat breakfast--"

"No, no, indeed!" Rose spread out protesting hands, and ceased to feelembarrassed. "Not to complain of him, poor dear, but--but--if you willforgive such impertinence, to ask somebody--I thought I should see yourcook, who looks kind--to do something to make his life a little lessmiserable. "

"Miserable!" Mr Breen broke in, and sat up, stiffening, as if halfinclined to be offended, even with this very nice young lady. 

"There isn't a dog in the country better off. We had his place in theyard built on purpose for him; had his kennel made to a specialdesign--"

"A lovely kennel! I never saw a better. "

"Clean straw every few days; all his food cooked--"

"But CHAINED, Mr Breen. And a collie, too!"

"Well, we couldn't have him messing all over the place; at any rate, mypeople wouldn't. Oh, I assure you, Miss Pennycuick, Bruce is in clover. He was only baying the moon. Dogs often do that. It's only theirfun--though it isn't fun to us. "

"Fun!" sighed Rose helplessly. And she fixed her eyes upon hercompanion, as they sat VIS-A-VIS on the edges of their brocaded chairs, with no sense that he was a strange young man--a gaze that troubled anddisconcerted him. "I am sure, " she answered earnestly, "that you have akind heart. One has only to look at you to know it. "

"The idea never occurred to me before, " he mumbled, flattered by herdiscernment, and no more offended with her. 

"I am sure no one could mean better by a dog than you, giving him allthose nice things, " she continued. "But--but you don't THINK. You don'ttry to imagine yourself chained up in one spot night and day, week inand week out, with nothing to do--no interests, no amusements, unableto get to your work, to go shooting with your friends, to do anythingthat you were born to do--and consider how you would like it. "

Mr Peter submitted to her humbly the fact that he was not a dog. 

"And you think you are not both made of the same stuff? That's justwhere people make the mistake, even the kindest of them. Mr Breen, Ionce had a long talk with the curator of a zoological garden, and hetold me that animals in confinement suffer mentally, just as we shoulddo in their place. Unless they have occupation and companionship theygo out of their minds. They get sullen and savage, and people say theyare vicious, and punish them, when it is only misery. He said no happydog ever got hydrophobia unless it was bitten; and that it was to savethemselves from going mad that squirrels kept whirling their wheel andtigers running round and round their cages. They want notice, andchange, and work, or they cannot bear it. The stagnation kills them--orI wish it did kill them quicker than it does. Look at your Bruce, bornto work sheep, to scamper over miles of country, free as air, to bemates with some man who would know the value of such a friend, and beworthy of him. Oh, it is too cruel!"

Never had Rose displayed such eloquence, and a sudden glisten in hercandid eyes put the piercing climax to it. Mr Peter's kind heart, whichhad been growing softer and softer with every word she spoke, was inmelting state. 

"Upon my soul, " he declared, "you put quite a new light on it; you doindeed, Miss Pennycuick. I see your point of view exactly. But--"

With the utmost willingness to meet her views, he was unable to see howto do it. It was easy to say "Let him off the chain, " but the mater, who was very particular, would never stand a dog muddying the verandahsand digging holes for his bones in the flower-beds. He, Mr Peter, wasan only son, and she would do most things for him, but he was afraidshe would draw the line at that. 

"Well, you might at least take him for walks, " Rose pleaded. "Nobodycould object to that. " "Yes, I might take him for walks, " the young manconceded thoughtfully. "Of course, I don't get home from business tilltea-time, and I have to leave directly after breakfast--"

"Our Pepper, when we go to town, takes us to the station and sees usoff; and you are not at business on Saturday afternoons. " "I usuallyplay tennis or something on Saturday afternoons--"

"Well, take him and let him see you play tennis. He'd love it. "

"I question whether my club would. But see here, Miss Pennycuick, I WASgoing to meet some lady friends this afternoon, but now I won't; I willtake him for a walk instead. And I'll get up in the mornings, and givehim a run before breakfast. There!"

"Oh, how kind, how good you are!" she exclaimed delightedly. 

"Not at all, " he returned, glowing. "It is you who are good, taking allthis trouble about us. I am only ashamed that you should have had to doit, and that you should have caught me in this state"--another blushingreference to his distressing toilet. 

"Never mind your state, " she consoled him sweetly, rising from herchair. "I like you better in this state than I do when you are smart. Ithought you were too smart to--to condescend to trouble yourself abouta poor dog. "

"I am sorry you had such a bad opinion of me. It was simply--the thingdidn't occur to me until you mentioned it. "

"I know. But it is all right now. Well, I must go. You will never getyour gun cleaned at this rate. "

"Bother the gun! This is better than--I mean--won't you take a glass ofwine?"

She declined emphatically and with haste, and hurried into the hall. Heopened the front door for her, and they stood together for a moment onthe dustless door-mat, mathematically laid upon verandah boards aswhite as new-peeled almonds. 

"What a lovely garden!" remarked Rose, as she stepped down to it. Thosewere her words, but what she really said in her mind was: "Who wouldthink he was a draper?"

Francie was aroused from her Sunday afternoon snooze on thedrawing-room sofa. 

"What IS the matter with that dog?" she complained pettishly. "Surely, after howling like a starved dingo all night--be quiet, Pepper! One ofyou is enough. " Rose's terrier was up and fidgeting, with pricked ears. 

"They must be killing him!" cried Deb, lifting her handsome head fromher book. 

"Oh, no, " said Rose; "that sort of bark means joy, not pain. "

"Poor, dear beast! What's making him joyful, I wonder?"

"I must go up and see, " said Rose, who had carefully refrained frommentioning her forenoon proceedings. 

The drowsy pair sank back upon their cushions; only Pepper accompaniedher to the attic room. He jumped upon the window seat, wriggling andyapping, and they looked forth together from the open casement upon thespectacle of Bruce and Mr Peter apparently engaged in mortal combat. The collie had realised that he was off the chain and about to take awalk, and was expressing himself not merely in frenzied yells, but inacrobatic feats that threatened to overwhelm his master. The latter, tall-hatted, frock-coated, lavender-trousered, with a cane in his handand a flower in his button-hole, jumped and dodged wildly to escape theleaping mass, his face puckered with anxiety for the results of hisexperiment. Pepper's delighted comments drew his eyes upwards, and hemade shift to raise his hat, with a smile that was instantly andgenerously repaid. Rose nodded and waved her hand, and Peter went off, making gestures and casting backward glances at her, until he was amere dot upon the distant road, with another dot circling around him. 

"Dear fellow!" she mused, when he was out of sight. 

CHAPTER XV. 

Bruce went unchained, within limits, and had a run nearly every day. Workmen came to put a railing and gate to the back verandah of hisestablishment, and Mrs Breen kept a fidgety watch upon his movements;but evidently the only son's will ruled, and he was more than faithfulto his compact with Rose. She was able to see this from her commandingwindow, and to hear it from Bruce's mouth; and day by day her heartwarmed towards Bruce's master. Many were the friendly smiles andsalutes that passed between the attic window and the Breen back-yard, all unknown to Rose's sisters. 

They were walking with her one Saturday afternoon, when they met MrPeter and the collie. Pepper ran forward to greet Bruce, and theysniffed at each other's noses and wagged their respective tails in afriendly way. Deb was remarking to Rose that their pity for the Breens'dog had been quite misplaced, when a bow from her sister and a lift ofthe hat by the young man caused her to stop short and raise her finebrows inquiringly. 

"Rose!"

"I--I spoke to him one day, " explained Rose, pink as her pinkestnamesake. "About Bruce. "

"Who's Bruce?"

"That's Bruce--his dog. "

Frances came running up. "Rose, " said she indignantly, "did you bow tothat man?"

"He is our neighbour next door, " mumbled Rose. 

"I know that. So is the wood-carter. But is that a reason why youshould bow to him? Do you know who those people are?"

"They are perfectly respectable people, I believe, " said Rose, growingrestive. 

"DRAPERS, " said Frances witheringly. 

"I shouldn't care if they were chimney-sweeps. They have a beautifuldog, and young Mr Breen is very kind to him, and I--I thanked him forit. " "Oh, Deb!"

"Was that necessary, my dear?"

"Perhaps not. But I did. "

"Well, be careful, Rosie. We are not at Redford now, you know. Girlsliving alone and going about in public places--"

"And that sort of person, " Frances broke in crossly, "always takesadvantage of a little notice. Why, he looked at you as if you werefriends and equals, Rose!"

Rose turned to retort again, but feeling the weight of opinion againsther, forbore. And she was glad she had never mentioned thecircumstances under which she had made poor Peter Breen's acquaintance. 

On a later afternoon she was in the attic room, sewing at a frock forRobbie Goldsworthy--Robert Pennycuick, after the grandfather who hadbeen expected to leave much money--while Deb and Frances entertainedvisitors downstairs. Old Keziah had brought her tea and cakes, and shehad had a pleasant time with her work and her thoughts, and her view ofBruce and his premises, when suddenly Frances flounced in. 

"Now, madam!" exclaimed the irate young lady, "we have to thank you forthis. What did I say? Give these people an inch and they will take anell--a mile indeed, if they can get it. "

"What people?" inquired Rose faintly. 

"Those Breen people--those DRAPERS. They have had the cheek to come andcall on us--to call and leave their cards, 'First and third Wednesday', as if they expected us to call back again!"

"Who came?"

"Mrs and Miss--with half the shop upon their backs. Debbie"--Deb wascoming in behind her--"you are NOT going to return the call of thosepeople, I TRUST?"

"Oh, I don't know, " smiled Deb easily. "It would please them, and itwouldn't hurt us. There would be no need, of course, to return a secondone. "

"I should think it would NOT hurt us, " Rose spoke up, "to behave likedecent people. I never heard that it was considered high breeding andfine manners to snub your inferiors--if they are your inferiors. " "Youhave to snub them, " said Frances, "if they don't know mannersthemselves. "

"A very GENTLE snub, " said Deb. "We are not going to be rude to thepoor things. We will call once--that is, I will--in a few months' time. After all, it was hardly their fault. "

"No; it is Rose's fault. Please, Rose, in future be so good as toconsider your family a little, as well as your neighbours' dogs. "

Rose's only reply was to start the sewing-machine and drive itvehemently. But her heart burned within her. Evidently Peter's motherand sister had been insulted in her house, after he had been so good toher. 

He did not appear in the yard that evening, and next day when he did, his face was turned from her all the time. The day after that, sherattled the window and encouraged Pepper to bark to draw the youngman's attention, having ready for him a smile that should counteractFrancie's frowns, if smiles could do it; but again he took no notice. Then she was sure that his feelings had been hurt. Mrs and Miss Breenhad returned to report a cool reception of the overtures that had beenmade almost certainly at his instigation--had probably reproached himfor exposing them to the insolence of stuck-up snobs. Oh, it washorrid! And doubtless he thought her as bad as the rest. She had notgone downstairs to see his mother and sister, and how was he to knowshe had been ignorant that they were there? And still he took Bruce outfor walks, before breakfast and after business in the afternoons, whenhe might have been playing tennis and enjoying himself. 

She bore with this state of things for some time, then suddenlydetermined to end it. "Where there's a will there's a way. " One ofDeb's petticoats showed signs of fraying, and, Deb-like, she must havefresh lace for it immediately. Rose offered to go to town to fetch it, taking with her the money for her purchase. 

Never before had she been to "Breen's. " Second-rate, if not third orfourth, was its class amongst Melbourne shops, and the Pennycuicks hadalways been accustomed to the best. But when she turned in at thesomewhat narrow and encumbered doorway, she was pleasantly surprised tonote how far the shop ran back, and how well-stocked and busy andsolidly prosperous it seemed. 

He was there--not, to her great relief, behind the counter, but in asort of raised office place at the farther end--attending to the booksapparently, while keeping an eye upon other matters. Hardly had she setfoot upon the carpeted aisle when his head popped up from behind hisdesk, and she saw herself recognised. As it was her object to berecognised, and to speak to him, she passed the lace department, theribbons, the silks, the dress stuffs, until she reached the Manchesterdepartment, where they sold towels and table-cloths, and beautifulsatin eider-downs in all the colours of the rainbow. Here she haltedand asked sweetly for torchon lace. 

All the way had Peter watched her, but with his head down, as ifwishing to hide from her. "He fancies I shall be ashamed of him becausehe keeps a shop, " thought she; and that was exactly what he did fancy, knowing the world and its funny little inconsistent social ways. So, when informed that she had left the lace counter far behind her, andwhile turning to retrace her steps, she frankly sought his eye, andcatching it, bowed and smiled with all the friendliness that could beexpressed in such fashion. 

That smile drew Peter out. But still he came with a bashful andhesitating air, as if uncertain of his reception; so that she had tomeet him half-way, with bold hand extended. 

"How do you do, Mr Breen? How is Bruce? But I see how well he is, andhappy--thanks to you. I am so sorry I did not have the pleasure ofseeing your mother and sister when they were so kind as to call theother day; but I did not know they were in the house till they weregone. "

He glowed with joy. He clasped her hand with a vigour that made ittingle for a minute afterwards. 

"I was sorry too, " he said. "My old mater is a good soul. I think youand she--I wanted her to see you. Another time, perhaps--"

"Oh, I hope so! We are such near neighbours. " She was ready to sayanything that would make him feel he was not being treated as ashopman. "And did you have your day's shooting? Were you successful?""Well, " with modest pride, "I came upon snipe unexpectedly, and broughthome a couple of brace. If I had thought you would condescend to acceptthem, Miss Pennycuick--if I had dared--"

"Oh, thank you very much, but I could not have let you rob yourmother--"

Conscious of heightened colour, and several pairs of watching eyes, Rose hastily put out her hand. Peter took it respectfully, slightlyabashed. 

"Can I--is there anything--anything I can do for you?"

"Yes, please, " she said, struggling to remember what it was. "Some--er--lace--torchon--for my sister; that is what I came for. "

"This way, " said Peter gently; and they walked down the long, narrowshop together, closely scrutinised by the young women behind thecounters. Two or three of these, with ingratiating smirks, convergedupon the spot where their young chief halted and called aloud fortorchon lace. The favoured one brought forth the stock, unexpectedlylarge and valuable, and the girl was soon able to make her choice. Shewanted one dozen yards, and there was a piece of fourteen that Peterstyled a "remnant" for her benefit. If he could have presented it toher free of cost, he would have loved to do so; as it was, she made anexcellent bargain. 

"I only hope they won't ask me where I got it, " she said to herself onthe way home. Happily, they did not. The usual Buckley was taken forgranted, and Deb slashed up the lace without noticing that she hadfourteen yards for twelve. 

But Rose was a poor schemer, and it was inevitable that she should soonbe found out. 

The sisters were gathered about their window table in the attic room onthe following afternoon. Keziah had brought their tea, and amid thelitter of their needlework they drank it leisurely, enjoying a spell ofrest. Both casements stood wide. Deb, at one end, gazed wistfully atthe Malvern Hills; Frances, at the other, looked down on objects nearerhome. Rose had purposely drawn her chair back farther into the room. Ajoyous bark arose. 

"There's your young man, Rose, " said Frances flippantly. "Really, thedandy has surpassed himself. Knickerbockers and a Norfolk jacket, ifyou please! Why, actually a horse! He is going out to ride. This it isto be a counter-jumper in these levelling times!"

"He is not a counter-jumper, " said reckless Rose. 

"How do you know?" returned Frances swiftly. 

"Proprietors don't wait behind the counter. "

"That is where he has had to learn his business, of course, " said Deb. "But there is nothing disgraceful in counters. Don't be snobbish, Francie. Every trade--profession too, for that matter--has to have acounter of some sort. "

"Of course it has, " said Rose, heartened. 

"Oh, but to see a man--a miserable apology for a man--measuring outcalicoes and ribbons, and tapes and buttons, and stays and garters, andall sorts of things that a man has no right to touch--pugh!"

"Only women sell the stays and garters, " corrected Rose vehemently. "And at least young Mr Breen is not a miserable apology for a man. Heis as much a real man as anybody else--goes out shooting--playstennis--"

Again Francie's cat's-paw pounced on her. "How do you know?"

"Why--why--you can see he is one of that sort, " squirmed poor Rose. 

"Oh!" said Frances significantly, with a firm stare at her sister'sscarlet face. "Deb, there is more in this than meets the eye--even thanmeets the eye. "

"I don't care what you say, " struck Rose blindly. 

"Don't tease her, " Deb interposed. "And don't be putting preposterousideas into the child's head. "

"Please, Deb, I am not a child. "

"No, my dear, you are not; and therefore you know, as well as we do, that young Mr Breen is nothing to us. "

"Did I say he was anything? It is Francie that makes horrid, vulgarinsinuations. "

"But how do you know that he shoots and plays tennis?" persistedFrances, with a darkling smile. 

"Because he told me so--there!"

In five minutes the inquisitor had drawn forth the whole innocent tale. She fell back in her chair, while Deb seemed to congeal slowly. 

"Oh, " moaned Frances, "no wonder they thought they could come and calland make friends with us! And no wonder, " she added, more viciously, "that there he stands leering up at this window, when his horse hasbeen ready this half hour. "

"Is he doing that?" asked Deb quickly. 

"Look at him!"

Deb rose and looked; then, with a firm hand, closed the two littlewindows and drew down the blinds. With a sob of rage, Rose jumped fromher basket-chair, almost flung her cup and saucer upon the tea-tray, and rushed out of the room. 

Thereupon the little family resolved itself into a strong governmentand one rebel. 

"When I DO want to marry a shopkeeper, " said weeping Rose to hersisters, "then it will be time enough to make yourselves ridiculous. "

But they thought not. "No use, " said they, "to shut the stable doorafter the steed is stolen. " Danger, or the beginning of danger, haddistinctly declared itself, and it was their part to guard thethreatened point. So they took steps to guard it. The name of Breen wasnot mentioned, but its flavour lurked in every mouthful ofconversation, like the taste of garlic that has been rubbed round thesalad bowl in the salad that has not touched it; it filled the domesticatmosphere with a subtle acrimoniousness unknown to it before. And Rosewas watched--not openly, but systematically enough for her to knowit--never allowed to go out alone, or to sit in the attic after acertain hour; driven into brooding loneliness and disaffection--inother words, towards her fellow-victim instead of from him. 

CHAPTER XVI. 

Now that she could no longer entertain, Deb refused to be entertained, much to the discontent of Frances, who pined continually for a largerand brighter life, so that the invitations fell off to nothing beforethe excuse of the deep mourning was worn out. But when Mrs Urquhart, always maternally solicitous for her poor Sally's girls, wrote to begthem to spend Christmas at Five Creeks, Deb and Frances, who did not, for different reasons, wish to go themselves, agreed that it would be'the very thing' for Rose to do so. She would be absolutely safe upthere, and with her old social world about her, and old interests tooccupy her mind, would recover that respect for herself which seemed tohave been more or less impaired by association with suburban villadom. They hoped she would stay at Five Creeks a long, long time. 

"And if only Jim would keep her altogether!" sighed Frances. "I wouldbe content with Jim now. "

"I wish to goodness he would!" said Deb, with fervour--not thinkingparticularly of her sister as she spoke. 

The matter was put to Rose, and she consented to go. Five Creeks wasbetter than Lorne, which had been spoken of, and the companionship ofAlice than the shepherding sisters in the close limits of seasidelodgings; besides, Rose was a born bush girl. 

She was tenderly escorted to Spencer Street, and put into the hands ofJim himself, in town on station business. Alice met them at the otherend, and the two friends slept, or rather bunked, together--the housebeing full for the Christmas dance--and talked the night through. Butnot a word about Peter Breen passed Rose's lips, so full of words asthey were. 

Next day the trestle-tables and Chinese lanterns, the sandwiches andcreams, and what not, occupied her every moment and thought until itwas time to dress, when the interest of the ball itself became supreme. 

"Well, there's one good thing, " said Alice, as, hemmed into a corner ofa small room crowded with girls, she laced Rose's bodice, "we shall notwant for men. There'll be one to each girl, and three over. TheSimpsons alone have promised to bring six. "

The Simpsons were new people at Bundaboo, which Mr Thornycroft had let. He now lived at Redford--in a third part of the great house, the othertwo-thirds being closed. He was not coming to the ball, Alice said. "Getting too old for balls. "

In their white frocks and flowers, the friends went to thedrawing-room, and in the thick of the arrivals Jim brought up from thebachelors' quarters the six Bundaboo young men. Mrs Simpson introducedthem to Mrs Urquhart and her bevy of assistant hostesses. 

"Mr Leader--Mr Henry Leader--down from Queensland; MrParkinson--English--globe-trotter; my two sons, whom you know; mynephew, Mr Breen. "

Thus do the sportive Fates love to make mock of the most carefully-laidfamily plans!

Rose and Peter faced each other, sharing one blush between them. Theirnatural pleasure and astonishment was only equalled by their mutualadmiration. 

"What a little love she is in that pretty gown, " thought he, aconnoisseur in gowns. And "Who would take him for a draper now?"thought she, noting the vigorous frame and the perfect correctness ofits garb. As a matter of fact, no one did take him for a draper, and noone cared what he was, since he was Mrs Simpson's nephew and a man. 

As soon as it was understood that a previous acquaintanceship existedbetween them, Rose was given Peter to take care of--to show round andintroduce. They walked off, elated. 

"Well, I never expected to see you here!" said she. 

"Nor I you, " said he. "I thought I was never going to see you any more. "

"How is your mother? How is dear Bruce? Will anyone take him for walkswhile you are away? How terribly he will miss you!"

"Well, it is something to be missed, even by a dog. "

"What a nice face your aunt has! Is she your father's--?"

"No, my mother's. They are very much alike. But--you don't know mymother--"

The blessed Urquhart children romped up to them at this opportunemoment, thrusting forward their basket of programmes. Rose and Petereach took a card, and Peter proceeded to business. 

"With pleasure, " said Rose. And then: "Oh, if you like. "--"Well, onlyone more round one. "--"I belong to the house, and must distributemyself. "--"No, no, that's enough; leave room for all the nice girls Iam going to introduce you to--Miss Alice Urquhart--Mr Breen, dear--MrsSimpson's nephew, and a friend of mine in town. "

It slipped out unawares. Peter's air, as he scribbled "Miss Urquhart"on his card, was seraphic. Later, Alice snatched a chance to whisper toRose: "What a good-looking fellow! Who is he?" And Rose hastened toexplain that she knew him only very slightly. 

They had their first waltz together, and he danced delightfully. Thiswas a fresh agreeable surprise to Rose--as if drapers did not takedancing lessons and make use of them like other people; she was almostindiscreet in her eulogies on his performance. But there was not roomfor all, or half, or a quarter, to dance at once; and the crowded housewas hot, and the night outside soft, dry, delicious; and the FiveCreeks garden was simply made to be sat out in. 

So presently Rose and Peter found themselves leaning over a gate at theend of a long, sequestered path. 

"That, " said Rose, nodding towards open paddock, "is the boys' cricketground. They play matches in the holidays with the stations round. Thatfence leads to Alice's fowl-yards--"

"Yes, " said Peter. "But now, look here, Miss Rose--tell me straight andtrue--am I to understand that my position in life makes me unfit toassociate with you?"

"What nonsense!" she protested, scarlet in the darkness. "What utterstuff!"

"I am in retail trade, " confessed Peter mournfully, "and lots of peoplethink that awful. Why, even the bookmakers and Jew usurers look down onus! Not that I care a straw--"

"I should think not!"

"Except when it comes to your family--"

"What does it matter about my family--when I--"

"Ah, do you? Do you forgive me for being a shopkeeper?"

"As if I ever thought of it!" mocked Rose, which was disingenuous ofher. "I don't mind what anybody is if he's nice himself. "

"Do you think I'm nice?"

"I am not going to pander to such egregious vanity. "

"Do you think I am a gentleman? Do I pass for one--say, in a house likethis?"

"I am not going to answer any more of those horrid, indelicate, unnecessary questions. "

"Ah, I see--you don't. "

"I DO, " she flamed out, indignant with him. "You KNOW I do! Would I--ifI didn't--"

Her mouth was stopped. In the twinkling of an eye it happened, beforeeither of them knew it. He was carried away, and she was overwhelmed. An earthquake could not have given them a greater shock. 

"Forgive me, " he muttered tremulously, when it was too late. "I know Ioughtn't to have--but I couldn't help it! You are not angry? It wasdashed impudence--but--oh, I say! we shall never get such a chance asthis again--could you, do you think, put up with me? Could you--I haveloved you ever since that dear morning that you came about Bruce--couldyou try to care for me a little bit? I'd give up the business, if youwished, and go into something else--" "If you mention that blessedbusiness again, " laughed Rose hysterically, "I won't speak to you anymore. "

"I won't--I won't!" he promised, a joyful ring in his young voice. "Aslong as you don't mind--and of course I wouldn't like to disappoint theold pater--and, thank God, there's plenty of money to make youcomfortable wherever you like to live--Yes, yes, I know it's awfulcheek--I've no business to count chickens like this; but here we are, face to face at last, no one to keep me from speaking to you--and oh, darling, it must be time for the next dance, and I'm engaged for it--"

"Then go--go, " she urged. "The one after this is ours, and I will waithere for you till you come back. It is only Jim, and he doesn't matter. I must be alone to think--to make up my mind--"

"You ANGEL!" for he knew what that meant. 

Off he went, wing-footed, to get through his duty dance as best hecould. Rose stayed behind, dodging amongst the bushes to hide her whitedress, deaf to Jim's strident calls. And then, presently, the loversflitted out of the gate, across the boys' cricket ground, and down thebank of one of the five creeks, where Rose knew of a nice seat beyondthe area of possible disturbance. As they sat down on it together, theyleaned inwards, her head drooping to his shoulder, and his arm slidinground her waist in the most natural way in the world. Then silence, packed full. Beyond, in the moonlit waste, curlews wailing sweetly;behind, a piano barely audible from the humming house. . . . 

* * * * *

"What's the matter?" asked Alice Urquhart, when her bedfellow broke outcrying suddenly, for no reason that appeared. 

"Oh, I don't know, " cackled Rose. "I am upset with all this--this--"

"What has upset you? Aha! I saw you and that good-looking young MrBreen making off into the garden. You've been having a proposal, Isuppose?"

"Yes, " sobbed Rose, between two foolish laughs, and forthwith pouredout the whole story to her bosom friend. She and Peter had decided notto disclose it to a soul until further consideration; but she was sofull that a touch caused her to run over. 

Miss Urquhart's feelings, when she realised the fact that one of thePennycuicks was committed to marry a draper, expressed themselves atfirst in a rather chilling silence. But subsequently, having reviewedthe situation from its several sides, and weighed the pros and cons, she decided to assist her friend to make the best of it, as against allpotential enemies. 

"Of course, they will be as mad as so many March hares, " said Alice, referring to the other Pennycuicks. "But after all, when you come tothink of it, what is there in a draper's shop any more than in asoft-goods warehouse?--and that's quite aristocratic, if it's bigenough. Trade is trade, and why we should make chalk of one and cheeseof another passes me. Oh, you've only got to be rich nowadays to bereceived anywhere. These Breens seem well off, and anyway, there arethe Simpsons--they are all right. Solid comfort, my dear, is not to bedespised, especially when a girl can't pick and choose, and maypossibly never get another chance. He is awfully presentable, too, andmost gentlemanly, I am sure. Oh, on the whole--if you ask me--I'd say, stick to him. "

Alice's voice was sad, and she sighed inwardly. 

"I'm going to stick to him, " said Rose. 

"Well, you may count on me. I'll get them all asked here for a picnic, and we'll go over to Bundaboo to invite them--tomorrow. Mrs Simpsonsaid he was only with her for a few days. "

"You darling!"

"And if I were in your place, Rose, I'd marry him just as soon as hewanted me to. I'd walk out and get it done quietly, and tell themafterwards. It would save a lot of unpleasantness, and it wouldn'tforce the hostile clans to try and make one family when they nevercould. "

"I don't see why they couldn't. Mrs Simpson is his mother's sister--"

"Oh, well, we shall see. I don't know about Deb and Mary, but Francecan be all sorts of a cat when the fit takes her; and as she is certainto oppose it to the bitter end, she will never have done irritating hispeople and setting everybody at loggerheads. However, never mind thatnow. " She enveloped Rose in a comforting embrace. "We'll just enjoyourselves while we can. And until we MUST start the fuss with the girlsat home, we'll keep things dark, shall we? Just you and I and he. Youcan tell him, when you see him tomorrow, that I am his friend. "

"I will--I will! And he will adore you for your goodness. "

Alice, with still no lover of her own, was pleased with this prospect. And so Rose had a heavenly time for a week or two--Peter extending hisvisit to match hers--and went home, within a day of him, in good heartfor the inevitable struggle. 

CHAPTER XVII. 

The starting of the fuss was thus described by the starter in her firstletter to her friend:

"Oh, my dear, it is simply awful! There is not a scrap of hope. Dearold Deb is the worst, because she cries--fancy DEB crying! I don't carewhat Francie says and does, only, if she were not my sister, I wouldnever speak to her again. Even Mary is antagonistic, though I don'tbelieve she would be if it were not for that insufferable husband ofhers; he thinks himself, and puts it into her head, that we are allgoing to fall into the bottomless pit if we let trade into thefamily--as if nine-tenths and more of the aristocracy of the countrywere not traders, and my Peter is as good as her parson any day. But Idon't care, except for Deb. I do hate her to have to cry, through me, and to be so kind at the same time. She scolds Francie for beinghorrid--that does no good, she says, and she is quite right--and thenasks me if I have any love left for her, and all that kind of thing. Itmakes me feel like a selfish brute; and yet it would not be unselfishto sacrifice Peter. Really, I am quite distracted. I have hardly slepta wink since I came back. "

Further details followed:

"I did not know until I got a letter from him (by the gardener) thatPeter came this morning to call--THE call--and was not let in. Keziahhad been got at, you must know, and works against us; the old liar toldhim (under instructions, of course) that none of us was at home!--shethat goes to church every Sunday, and pretends to be so pious. Oldhypocrite! Well, as I was reading Peter's letter, the door-bell rings, and who should it be but old Daddy Breen coming to demand what we meanby it, snubbing his precious son, whom he thinks good enough for aprincess (and so he is). HE was not going to be turned from thedoor--not he; and presently I heard him and Deb at it hammer and tongsin the drawing-room, and she came up to me afterwards simply in flames. She WAS wild. My dear, she has left off crying and started to fight. Papa Breen (I am afraid he is a bit bumptious for what she calls hisclass in life) turned the scale, and now she is as implacable asFrancie. She says she will NOT have the house of Pennycuick disgraced(or words to that effect) while she is alive to prevent it; and when Iask her to be just to Peter, who is no more answerable for his familythan I am for mine, and not to judge him off-hand before she knows ascrap about him, she simply looks at me as if she itched to box myears. Isn't it too hard? Other girls have such a lovely time when theyare engaged--everybody considering them and giving them opportunitiesto be together. There's not going to be anything of that sort for us, Ican plainly see. Well, I shall not give him up, so they need not thinkit. . . . 

"I have seen my poor old boy. He was much cut up, but feels betternow. . . . He asked me to go and see his mother. . . . The moment I walked inand he said, 'Mother, here she is, ' the darling opened her arms, and wejust hugged as if I was her daughter already. There is nobody likemothers. . . . 

"Papa Breen came home while I was there. I thought he was going to beaggrieved, but he was not with ME. If it is not a snobbish thing tosay, he is rather proud of his son's choice. He was a bit too fussy andoutspoken, and dear Peter got the fidgets wondering what he would saynext; but I did not mind. He talked about building us a house, butPeter whispered to me that that would take too long, and that alreadyhe had one in his eye (I know it--a lovely place, with the prettiestgrounds, and stables, and coach-house, and all). Nothing is too goodfor me. I tried to pacify the girls by telling them I should have acomfortable home; but they seem to think that the vulgarest feature ofthe whole affair. It may be, but it's nice. Would you condescend tocome and stay with a draper's wife sometimes? We are going to haveBruce to live with us. . . . 

"Then I made Peter come home with me, and I took him in myself to seeDeb. He behaved as nicely as possible, but it was no use. 'She is ofage, Mr Breen, ' says Deb, with that look of hers; 'she will do as shechooses, but she will never do this with my consent. ' And I feel Inever shall. Papa Breen sticks in her throat. If only she had seenPeter before his father came, and not after! But I daresay it wouldhave been the same. They are too eaten up with their prejudices tobegin to know him. . . . 

"It is quite hopeless! Here I live in my own home without a friend, andhe is treated like a pariah, my poor dear boy! He has been to see metwo or three times, as he has a perfect right to do, and they have justhad him shown into the drawing-room, and left him to me, neither ofthem coming near. And this while Bennet Goldsworthy loafs all over thehouse, as if it was his own, and presumes to look at me in a superiorsort of way, as if I was one of his dirty little Sunday-school childrenin disgrace. They bring him up into the attic even--our own privateroom--mine as much as theirs; they never did it before, and it is onlybecause he is banded with them against me. Well, I wouldn't marryBennet Goldsworthy if there was not another man in the world. . . 

"I have my ring--SUCH diamonds! too valuable, I tell Peter; but he saysnothing can be that--and I know they can't help seeing it, because thewhole room flashes when I turn it this way and that, like bluelightning playing; but they all pretend not to. Since they find theycannot break our engagement, the idea is to ignore it as if it wassomething so low as to be beneath their notice. Perhaps they fancy thatwill wear me out; but it won't. . . . If they had been nice, and pleadedwith me, and if Peter had not been so VERY dear and good, I might havecaved in; but not now. And indeed, I am sure I never should anyway, only we might have agreed to differ without quarrelling, which we neverdid before. Oh, it is too miserable! Poor Mr and Mrs Breen must hatethe very name of Pennycuick, and they will end by hating me if thisgoes on. . . . Peter has bought the house, and is asking me to hurry ourmarriage, to get me out of it. He says a private ceremony would not bedishonourable under the circumstances. It seems to me a mean sort ofway to go to him, but--what do YOU think?"

"My dear, " wrote Alice Urquhart, "I think Peter is right. Next time heasks you, you say yes. It will be a real kindness to both families, whowould never know what to do with a house wedding. Besides, then youmight have to be given away by B. G. Walk out quietly and unbeknown, and don't come back. Write from the Blue Mountains or somewhere--'Yoursever, Rose Breen. ' And later on, when things have settled down, theirhearts will melt, and they will come and see you. Let me know what day, and I will run down (to the dentist) to see fair play and sign theregister. 

"Now, you need not have any scruples, child, because the whole of yourhusband's family approve of the match (Simpsons delighted, if a littlehuffy for the moment to see solid worth looked down upon), and Deb andthe others are certain to come round when they find it is no use doinganything else. Outsiders don't matter; and I should hate touting forwedding presents in such a mixed concern. As for your clothes, you haveplenty; when you want more, you can get them cost price at the shop. Itis a very good shop, I hear, and I mean to be a steady customer fromthis out. Oh, yes, and I will come and see you, old girl, nows andthens, when I have to go to town. And you and Peter must spend all yourChristmases up here. While he is seeing his people at Bundaboo, you cancamp with me, like old times. "

* * * * *

At the last moment Rose broke down, and wept upon the breast of herfavourite sister in the act of bidding her goodbye--perhaps becauseFrances chanced to be absent at the time. 

"Oh, Debbie darling, I won't deceive you--I am not going shopping; I amgoing into Melbourne to get married--to get married quietly and havedone with it, so as not to be a nuisance to you any more. "

"Married!" gasped Deb, holding the agitated creature at arm's-length. "What--NOW? And you spring this on us without a word of warning--"

"What was the use, Deb? You know what you would have said. I have GOTto have him, dear--I really have--and this seemed the only way. "

"Where is he?"

"Waiting till I'm ready. They have a carriage outside. His mother andsister are going with us. His father will join us when we get there. And Alice Urquhart, who is in town, and one of his cousins fromBundaboo--quite respectable and above-board, you see, only very quiet, so as not to trouble you and the girls and poor dear Bennet Goldsworthymore than we can help--"

"Not trouble us!" broke in Deb, her face, that had paled a moment ago, flaming scarlet. "Rose, in your wildest aberrations, I did not credityou with being capable of humiliating us to this extent. "

"Ah, you always say that! If you only knew him; but some day you will, and then you will wonder how you could have set yourself against us so. I can't help it, Deb. I did it for the best. Marry him I must and will, and I am only trying to do it in a way as inoffensive to you aspossible. "

"You call this an inoffensive way? But those people cannot be expectedto know--"

"They can--they do. Don't insult them any more. They are giving meeverything they can think of to make me happy, and here I have nohome--no love--no sympathy from anybody--"

Tears gushed from her eyes and Deb's as from the same spring; they wereinstantly locked in each other's arms. 

"Poor little Rosie! Poor dear child! But you don't understand pet--youdon't know what you are doing--going right out of your class--out ofyour world--"

"But to a good husband, Debbie, and the man I love--and that's first ofall! And I must go to him now--I must not keep him waiting. Bless you, dearest! I am happy now. Never mind the others. You can tell them afterI'm gone. But I felt that I must speak to YOU before I went. Oh, I amso glad I did! Goodbye, darling! I must go. "

"You must NOT go, " said Deb, swallowing her tears and resuming herimperious air. "Not this way, Rose, as if your family had cast you off. How can you treat us so, child? But perhaps we deserve it; only youdon't see what you are doing as clearly as we do--"

"Deb, Deb, don't stop me! They are waiting. It is late now!"

The bride-elect, pale with fright, struggled in her sister's stronghands, which held her fast. 

"Where is Mr Breen?" demanded Deb. 

"Waiting at his house--waiting for me--"

"I must send for him. "

"Oh, Deb, not now, when everything is settled, and they have had allthe expense and trouble--"

"Will you fetch him, Rose, if I let you go? For one minute only. No, Iwon't stop it. I can't, of course; but I must go with you, Rose--IMUST. "

"Oh, Debbie, WOULD you? Oh, how I wish I had known before! Yes, I'llrun and bring him. We must drive faster, that's all. Oh, Deb, how happythis will make us! But--"

"Run away and fetch him--ask him, with my compliments if he will be sogood--and I will get my hat on while you are gone. "

How she managed it was a mystery, but by the time the bridegroomappeared, Deb was in her best walking costume, hatted and veiled, witha pair of new pale-coloured gloves in her hand. 

"Mr Breen, " said she, grave and stately, "I am going to ask a favour ofyou. Allow me to take my sister to the church and give her away. "

Peter was naturally flurried, besides being a trifle overawed. Hemumbled something to the effect that he was sure his family would be"quite agreeable", and that his sister would give up her place in thecarriage and go by train; and Deb, facing him with the air of aduchess, thought how thoroughly "shoppy" his manner was. His splendidnew clothes helped to give her that impression. Fine dressing was oneof the Breens' trifling errors of taste (as drapers) which damned themin her eyes. But what would she have thought if he had not done allhonour to his bride in this respect?

"WE will go by train, " said she decisively. "I have already delayed youa little, and you must be there first. The train will be quicker thandriving, so that we shall be quite in time. " She smiled as she caughthis swift glance of alarm at Rose. "No, I am not going to kidnap her; Ionly wish to observe the proprieties a little--for her sake. "

"If the proprieties have not been observed, " retorted Peter, suddenlybold, "it has not been ALL my fault, Miss Pennycuick. " "Perhaps not, "she said gently, for she was a generous woman--"perhaps not. At anyrate, " holding out her hand, "we must let bygones be bygones now. Begood to her--that is all I ask. " Peter seized her hand in his superfineglove, and wrung it emotionally, while Rose embraced her sister's leftarm and kissed her sleeve. Then, after a hurried consultation oftimetables, the bridegroom retired, and was presently seen to clatterpast the house in the bridal carriage, which had white horses to it, toDeb's disgust. 

She and Rose talked little on their journey. Rose was questioned aboutclothes and pocket-money, and asked whether she had a safe pocketanywhere. On Rose answering that she had, Deb pressed into it a closedenvelope, which she charged her sister not to open until away on herhoneymoon. Rose disobeyed the order, and found a hastily scrawledcheque for one hundred pounds--money which she knew could ill be spared. 

"Oh, you darling!" she murmured fondly. "But I won't take it, Deb--IWON'T. It would leave you poor for years, while I shall have heaps ofeverything--"

"If you don't, " broke in Deb, tragically stern and determined--"if youdon't take it and buy your first clothes with it, I will never forgiveyou as long as I live. Child, don't you see--?"

Rose saw this much--Deb's horror of the thought of being beholden tothe Breens for a post-nuptial trousseau. Reluctantly she pocketed thegift. 

"But I shall never want it, you know. "

"I don't care about that, " said Deb. 

The bridegroom's relief of mind when he saw the bride coming was sogreat as to do away with all the usual embarrassment of a man socircumstanced. 

"Ha! now we are all right, " he said to Harry Simpson, cousin and bestman; and forthwith acted as if the trouble were over instead of justbeginning. There was nothing shoppy in his demeanour now, even to Deb'sprejudiced eye. 

The sisters walked up the nave to the altar, hand in hand. Deb passedthe bridesmaid, Alice Urquhart, without a look--her people had broughtthe young pair together, and were answerable for theseconsequences--and similarly ignored those walking fashion-plates, Mrsand Miss Breen. She landed her charge at the appointed hassock, andquietly facing the clergyman, stood still and dry-eyed amid the usualtearful flutter, apparently the calmest of the party. But poor Debsuffered pangs unspeakable, and her excessive dignity was maintainedonly by the sternest effort. 

In the vestry, after the ceremony, she was introduced by the bride toher new relations; and Papa Breen, with a great show of magnanimity, expressed his satisfaction at seeing Miss Pennycuick "on thissuspicious occasion", and formally invited her to what he called "alittle snack" at Menzies', where a gorgeous wedding breakfast had beenprepared at his orders. 

"Thank you very much, Mr Breen, " she said affably. "It would have givenme great pleasure, but if you will excuse me, I must run home to myother sisters, whom I left in ignorance of this--this event--whichconcerns them so nearly. "

"Oh, Deb, DO come!" pleaded the bride. 

No; the line had to be drawn somewhere. Deb was very kind, very polite, very plausible with her excuses; but to Menzies' with those people andtheir white-horsed carriage she would not go. 

CHAPTER XVIII. 

Rose had never been reckoned a person of importance by her family, butnow that she was gone, there remained a terrible emptiness where shehad been. She was one of those unselfish, good-natured members ofhouseholds to whom falls the stocking-mending, the errand-going, thefetching and carrying, the filling of gaps generally; and at every turnDeb and Frances missed her unobtrusive ministrations, which they hadaccepted as as much matters of course as the attentions of the butcherand baker. It was presently perceived that Keziah missed her too--thatKeziah, who had loyally opposed the plebeian marriage, was become aturncoat and renegade, blessing where she should have cursed, blamingwhere she should have praised--yes, blaming even Queen Deborah, who, needless to say, took her head off for it. 

It had been Keziah's own choice to follow the sisters into exile, andto share the privations involved in their change of life. She had givenup her Redford luxuries and importance to become a general servant, with only her kitchen to sit in, for their sakes; and she hadcheerfully abided by her choice--until Rose went. Rose was the one whohad understood the cost of the sacrifice, and who had lightened it bysympathetic companionship. They had cleaned rooms, and made cakes andpuddings, and set hens, and stirred jam, and ironed frocks and lacestogether; they had spent hours in pleasant gossip over the many homelysubjects that interested both; their relation had been more that ofmother and daughter than of servant and mistress. Regarding her asvirtually her child, Keziah had been quick to spring to the side ofauthority in the matter of the irregular love-affair; the naturalparental impulse was to nip it in the bud. But "Providence" had decidedthe issue in this case. And a flirtatious girl was one thing, and arespectable married woman another. And Keziah was lonely, and feltneglected and "put upon" when nobody came to talk to her in herkitchen, or to help her with her cooking and ironing--and particularlyafter she had told Deb that it was a shame to bear malice to Miss Rosenow, and Deb had commanded her to mind her own business. 

She was suspected of treacherous visits to the house next door; she wasknown to have spent Sunday afternoons with Mrs Peter herself. Theiniquity of these proceedings was in the secrecy she observed, or triedto observe, regarding them. It was she who knew, before anybody else, when a baby Breen was coming--and if a married woman was a personage toKeziah, an incipient mother was a being of the highest rank. She hadforgiven Mary everything for the sake of her black-eyed boy; now shetook the news that Rose was what she called "interesting" to Deb, anddemanded that action should be taken upon it, with an air that wasalmost truculent. Deb, of course, did not believe in being spoken to, even by Keziah, in that way. 

"Has the muffin boy been?" she inquired, with a steady look. 

"It's too soon yet--and I can tell you, Miss Deb, that if it was you inher place, SHE wouldn't keep it up like this--and at such a time too. "

"When the muffin boy comes, Keziah, please pay him the sixpence we owehim from last week. You will find the money on my writing-table. "

"Well, I don't care--I call it a shame not to go to her--"

"Perhaps you would like to go to her yourself?" Deb swiftly changed hertone. 

"I'd like nothing better, " the old woman retorted, with spirit, "if youare agreeable. "

"I am perfectly agreeable. "

"Well, it was only the other day she said she'd give anything to haveme, if it wasn't for taking me away from you. "

"Oh, pray don't consider that. I can easily get somebody else, " saidDeb affably, though her surprise at the idea of Keziah wanting to leaveher was only equalled by her dismay. 

Keziah, also surprised to find herself of so much less consequence thanshe had supposed, said that, if that was the case, she'd go and seeMiss Rose about it. 

"You can go now, " said Deb. 

"Thank you, Miss Deb, I will, " said Keziah, "as soon as I have clearedup. Would a month's notice suit you? I don't wish to put you about atall. "

"A month will be ample, " said Deb. "A week, if you like. "

"I'll see what Miss Rose says, " said Keziah. 

Rose, after the interview, wrote affectionately to Deb, to say shewould not dream of taking Keziah if Deb wanted her; Deb wroteaffectionately to Rose, to say that she would be rather glad thanotherwise to make the change, as the work was too much for such an oldwoman. So Keziah went over to the Breen camp, where she had comfort andcompanionship, and her own way in everything; and Deb began toexperiment with the common or garden 'general' as purveyed by Melbourneregistry offices. 

She loathed these creatures, one and all. They were of a race unknownat Redford, and she was singularly unlucky in the specimens that fellto her; although some of them could have been made something of by amistress who knew how to do it. It is only fair to state that theyloathed her--for a finicking, unreasonable, stuck-up poor woman, whogave herself the airs of a wealthy lady. They came at the rate of two amonth, and each one as she passed seemed to leave the little housemeaner, dingier, more damaged than before. It was not living, it was"pigging", Frances said--and Deb agreed with her--although when Keziahventured to call one day to inquire into the state of things, Debcalmly asserted that all was well. 

In despair she tried a lady-help, in the person of Miss Keene, dying toreturn to her dear family (from relations who did not want her) on anyterms. 

"Whatever we ask her to do we must do ourselves, " said Deb to grumblingFrances, who seemed never willing to do anything; "and of course weshall have to get a washwoman, and a charwoman to scrub; but it will becheaper in the end. And oh, anything rather than sticky door-handlesand greasy spoons, and those awful voices hailing one all over thehouse!"

But it was not cheaper, nor was the arrangement satisfactory in any wayafter the first fortnight. Miss Keene, spoiled at Redford as they hadbeen, was as unfit for crude housework, and she aggravated herincompetence by weeping over it. She had not gathered from Deb'sletters that the change in the family fortunes was as great as it nowproved to be; and Deb had not anticipated the effect of adversity uponone so easily depressed. She had no 'heart', poor thing. She struggledand muddled, sighing for flowers for the vases while the beds wereunmade; and when she saw a certain look on Deb's face, wept and mournedand gave up hope. So they "pigged" still, although they did not defilethe furniture with unwashed hands, and the plate and crockery withgreasy dish-cloths. With no knowledge of cookery, they lived too muchon tinned provisions--a diet as wasteful as it was unwholesome--feedingtheir wash-and-scrub-women with the same; and their efforts to supportthe burden of their domestic responsibilities deprived them of outdoorexercise and mental rest and recreation--kept them at too closequarters with one another, each rubbing her quivering prickles upon theirritable skins of the other two. Frances bore the strain with leastgood-nature and self-control, and since she had to vent her ill-humouron someone, naturally made Miss Keene her victim when it was a choicebetween her and Deb. The poor lady grew more and more disappointed, discouraged and tearful. She became subject to indigestion, headaches, disordered nerves; finally fell ill and had to have the doctor. Thedoctor said she was completely run down, and that rest and change ofair were indispensable. She went away to her relatives, weeping still, wrapped in Deb's cloak, and with all Deb's ready money in her pocket;and she did not come back. 

Then Deb tried to carry on alone. Any sort of registry office drudgewould have been welcome now, but had become an expense that she darednot continue. Moreover, the spectre of poverty, looming so distinct andunmistakable in the house, was a thing to hide, if possible, fromanybody who could go outside and talk about it. The thing had become aliving terror to herself--its claws Jew money-lenders, so velvety andinnocent when her wilful ignorance made first acquaintance with them;but nobody--not even Mr Thornycroft, not even Jim, CERTAINLY notRose--could be allowed to play Perseus to this proud Andromeda. Untilshe could free herself, they were not even to know that she was bound. Of course, she need not have been bound; it was her own fault. Sheshould have managed better with the resources at her disposal than tobring herself to such a pass, and that so soon; either Mary or Rosewould certainly have done so in her place. But Nature had not made heror Frances--whose rapacities had been one cause of the financialbreakdown--for the role of domestic economists; they had been doweredwith their lovely faces for other purposes. 

That the fine plumage is for the sun was a fact well understood byFrances, at any rate. And she was wild at the wrongs wrought by sordidcircumstances--her father's and sister's heedlessness--upon herself. She thought only of herself. Deb was getting old, and she deserved tosuffer anyway; but what had Frances done to be deprived of herbirth-right, of all her chances of success in life? Eighteen, and nocoming out--beautiful, and nobody to see it--marriageable, and out ofthe track of all the eligible men, amongst whom she might have had herpick and choice. She had reason for her passionate rebelliousnessagainst this state of things; for, while a pretty face is theoreticallyits own fortune anywhere, we all see for ourselves how many are passedover simply for want of an attractive setting. It was quite on thecards that she might share the fate of those beauties in humble life towhom romantic accidents do not occur, for all her golden hair andaristocratic profile, her figure of a sylph and complexion of a wildrose. 

The fear of this future combined with the acute discomfort of thepresent to make her desperate. She cast about for a way of escape, apathway to the sun. One only offered--the landlord. 

He was an elderly landlord, who had lately buried a frumpy old wife, and he was as deeply tainted with trade as Peter Breen; but he hadretired long since from personal connection with breweries andpublic-houses--and a brewer, in the social scale, was only just below awholesale importer, if that--and he was manifestly rolling in money, after the manner of his kind. Half the streets around belonged to him, and his house towered up in the midst of his other houses, a greatwhite block, with a pillared portico--a young palace by comparison. Above all, he had no known children. 

From the first he had taken an interest in his pretty girl-tenants. Hehad liked to call in person to inquire if the cellar kept dry and thechimney had ceased smoking; and he had been most generous in offeringimprovements and repairs before they were even asked for. Deb hadblighted these unbusiness-like overtures on her own account, andFrances herself had said the rudest things about them and him--but notlately. In the utter dullness and barrenness of her life, she had beenglad to accept the civilities of anything in the shape of a man--to tryher 'prentice hand on any material. All the armoury of the born beautywas hers, and she knew as well how to use each weapon effectively as ablind kitten knows how to suck milk. They were easily successful withthe old fool, who is ever more of a fool than the young fool; and whenshe found that, she found something to entertain her. She not onlyreceived Mr Ewing when he called, but talked to him at the gate when hewent past--and he went past several times a day. Now, when thesituation at home had grown desperate, and she was looking all ways formeans to save herself, his amusing infatuation became a matter forserious thought. COULD she? She was a hard case, but even she wavered. He was probably sixty, and she was eighteen. Oh, she couldn't! Butwhen, after Miss Keene's departure, Deb told her they could no longerafford hired help, and that she (Frances) must give up her lazy waysand take her share of that intolerable housework, then Frances changedher mind. Beggars could not be choosers. 

Deb felt like the camel under the last straw when the announcement ofthe proposed marriage was made to her. It was worse than Mary's--worsethan Rose's--worse than any other misfortune that had befallen thefamily. She sat down and wept at the thought of what the Pennycuickshad come to. She rated Frances furiously; she reasoned with her; shepleaded with her; she tried to bribe her; but Frances was getting boxesof diamonds, and sets of furs and lace, and what not, and it wasuseless for Deb to attempt to outbid the giver of these things, or topart her sister from them. She loved the old man, Frances said--hecertainly was a decently-mannered, good-natured, rather fine-looking, and most generous old man--and he was going to take her everywhere andgive her a good time--and she would never have to go shabby again aslong as she lived; and if Deb refused her a proper wedding, law or nolaw, she would run away with him, as Mary had run away with BennetGoldsworthy, and Rose with Peter Breen. 

Whether this dire threat prevailed, or the temptation of the money, orwhether she could not any longer fight against fate, Deb gave in. Afterall, Frances was not to be judged as an ordinary girl--she was ahard-hearted, tough-fibred, prosaic little minx, for which reason Debpitied the prospective husband more than she did her; and if she didnot do this bad thing now, the chances were that she would do a worsething later on. She was made to disport herself in the sunshine of theworld; she was of the type of woman that must have men about her; shewould get her "rights", as she called them, somehow, by fair means orfoul. Deb was sufficiently a woman of the world herself to recognisethis, and the uselessness of thinking she could alter it. Well, moneyis a consolatory thing--she knew its value now; and there was thatadditional comfort, which, of course, she did not own to--the thoughtof where Mr Ewing would be when Mrs Ewing was in her prime. 

"You dear old thing!" the bride-elect patronised her elder sister. "James is so pleased to have your consent, and he says he won't ask youto give me my share of what father left us--it would be but a drop inthe bucket anyway; you are to keep it all yourself. "

Deb had had whole control of the fragments of his once large fortuneleft by Mr Pennycuick to his four daughters, on behalf of any of themunmarried or under age; but Mary and Rose--although Peter had alsoprotested against it--had been paid the value of their shares (whencethe Jew element in the present difficulties); and the unforeseenmarriage of Frances at eighteen threatened total bankruptcy to theremaining sister. Yet Deb said, with fierce determination:

"Of course you will have what is your due, like the others. "

"I'm sure he won't take it, Deb. He said he wouldn't. "

"I don't care what he says. It concerns you and me--not him. "

"I really should not miss it, dear. I am to have a thousand a year todraw against, for just nothing but my clothes and pocket-money. "

"I am glad to hear it, " said Deb. "You can give your own income to thepoor. "

"You really won't keep it?"

"Is it likely I would keep what doesn't belong to me?"

"Well, then, " said Frances, her easy conscience satisfied, "we can putit into my trousseau. I MUST have a decent trousseau mustn't I?"

"Of course!"

Frances saw to it that she had a decent one. Now was the time, the onlytime, that she should want her money, and she did not spare it. Sheordered right and left, and Deb seemed equally reckless. The bills wereleft for her to settle--of course made out in her name. Mr Ewingpressed for permission to pay them, and the cost of the wedding, andMiss Pennycuick could hardly forgive him the deadly insult. He alsodesired that she should occupy her villa rent-free, and she gave himnotice on the spot. 

"I shall not continue to keep house when I am alone, " said she grandly. "I intend to travel for a time. "

The wedding was quiet, but as "decent" as the trousseau. The othersisters were invited, and Bennet Goldsworthy--who delighted in theconnection, and received a thumping fee--performed the ceremony. Debgave the bride away, but was also treated as the bridesmaid, and had adiamond bracelet forced upon her. She sold it as soon as the donor'sback was turned, together with every article of jewellery in herpossession, every bit of silver plate, and all her furniture. Thebreakfast was very elegant, and served in a private room at one of thebest hotels; the bride's handsome luggage had also been broughtthither, and it was the meeting-place of the family which so seldommet. There, also, when she had parted from Frances, Deb parted fromMary, so silent and constrained, and from Rose, over-dressed, for herstation, in her rich gown and Brussels lace (but nevertheless sniffedat and condescended to by her still more wealthy sister), and from theuncongenial brothers-in-law, to whom she was so discouragingly polite. Their expressed anxiety to befriend and to see more of her was gentlybut firmly ignored. 

"I will write, " she said. "I will see you again soon. I will let youknow my plans. Good-bye!"

And they went. There were no friends to go, for she had insisted oninviting none--for fear of the lynx eyes and the destructive influenceupon her plans of Mr Thornycroft and Jim. She gained the one end shehad schemed for throughout--to get past the risks of the publicmarriage and back to her struggle in obscurity, unmolested, unpitied, unshamed. The Urquharts wrote, and Mr Thornycroft, when he sent hispresent; but she had "bluffed" them with her impliedmisrepresentations, and hurt their feelings by not wanting them at thewedding. Jim was easily snubbed; Mr Thornycroft--though he did notmention it--was ill at the time. 

So she got rid of all possible hindrances, and then--professing to gotravelling--went nobody knew where, and was virtually lost for years. 

Frances drove away from the hotel in her smart carriage, with her smartluggage and smart maid, and her amorous old husband, and never thoughtor cared what was to become of her abandoned sister. She could onlythink of her own exciting affairs. 

Partly they were unsatisfactory, no doubt. All her rights were not herseven now--no, not by a long way. But oh, how much better was this thanthe drab and shabby and barren existence for ever left behind! She wasbound, indeed; yet she was free--freer than another might have been inher place, and far, far less bound. One must expect to pay some tax toFortune for such extraordinary gifts, and Frances was not the one topay it in heart's blood. She was philosophically prepared to pay it inher own coin, and be done with it, and then give herself to theenjoyment of the pleasures of her lot. 

Her first enjoyment was in her beautiful going-away dress--grey clothand chinchilla fur, with flushes of pink as delicate as the rose of hercheeks--and in her knowledge of the effect she made in that dream of acostume. There was no hiding her light under a bushel any more. Thehighway, and the middle of it, for her now--her proud husband struttingthere beside her--and every passer-by turning to look at and to admireher. There was joy in the occupancy of the best suite of rooms in thebest hotel at every place she stopped at during her gay and well-filledbridal holiday; joy in the dainty meals--so long unknown; in theobsequious servants, in the plentiful theatres, in the ever-readycarriage that took her to them, in the having one's hair done toperfection by an expert maid, in sweeping forth with one's silks andlaces trailing, and one's diamonds on. These were the delights forwhich her little soul had so long yearned; she now pursued themgreedily. She could not rest if she were not doing something to displayherself and feed her craving for what is known as seeing the world. Herhusband was almost as obsequious as the servants--doubtless becausefrom the first she took the beauty's high hand with him, as well as theattitude of the superior, naturally assumed by youth towards age--andhe enjoyed the sensation she made almost as much as she did. Visibly heswelled and preened himself when his venerable contemporaries cast theeye of surprise, not to say of envy, upon the conjunction of hiscomplacent figure and that of the bride who might have been hisgrand-daughter; he toiled for that pleasure, and to make pleasure forher, as no old gentleman should toil; he gave her everything she askedfor, including his own ease and consequence, his own vital health andstrength. 

But the honeymoon waned, and the novelty wore off, and prudence and oldhabits resumed their sway. He grew tired of incessant gadding about, alarmed at his symptoms of physical overstrain, weary for his arm-chairand his club, and his men friends and his masculine occupations. She, on the other hand, insatiable for admiration and excitement still, wasweary of his constant company. It became the kill-joy of her festivedays, growing from a necessary bore to an intolerable irritation as thedimensions of her little court of younger gallants enlarged about her. Therefore she had no objection to his halting on the toilsome path, solong as he allowed her to go on alone. 

It was not a case of allowing, however. He might object, and did; buthe was no match for her either in diplomacy or in fight, and hercajoleries were usually sufficient for her ends, without calling outthe reserves behind them. In any contest between selfishness andunselfishness, the result is a foregone conclusion. 

So she began to go about with miscellaneous escorts, to play thecombined parts of frisky matron and society beauty--an intoxicatingexperience; while the supporter of that proud position played thehumble role of chief comer-stone, unseen and unconsidered in thebasement of the fabric. He attended to his investments and increasinginfirmities, and made secret visits to a married daughter (wife of abig hotel-keeper), who hated her young step-mother, and whose existenceFrances ignored. 

One day, Guthrie Carey, after several voyages to other ports, appearedagain in Melbourne. He had just landed, and was strolling along CollinsStreet, when he encountered a vision of loveliness that almost tookaway his breath. 

"What! It is not Miss Frances, surely?"

"It is not, " smiled she, all her beauty at its conscious best as sherecognised his, which was that of a man of men, splendid in his strongprime. And she told him who she was, and a few other things, as theystood on the pavement--she so graceful in her mature self-possession, he staring at her, stupidly distraught, like a bewildered school-boy. 

"I had no idea--" he mumbled. 

"That I was married? Alas, yes!"--with a sad shake of the head. "Wegirls are fated, I think. "

"Miss Deb?"

"Oh, not Deb; she has escaped so far. "

"Is she well?"

"I have not seen her lately, but I am sure she is, she always is. " "Sheis not in Melbourne?"

"No. I don't quite know where she is. She has got a wandering fit on. Come and have some lunch with me, and I'll tell you all the news. "

They turned into a restaurant, and had a meal which took a long time toget through. In the middle of the afternoon they parted, on theunderstanding that he would dine with her later in her own house. Atthe end of the few days that were virtually filled with him, Mrs Ewingsat down in her fine boudoir to weep over her hard fate. 

"Oh, why wasn't HE the one to have the money! Oh, why do we meet again, now that it is too late!"

At the end of a few more days she went to her old husband to ask himhow he was. He said he was a bit troubled with his lumbago, butotherwise fairly well. 

"What you want, " said she, "is a sea-voyage. "

He thought not. He had never found the sea suit him. And travelling wasa great fatigue. And it was the wrong time of year for it, anyhow. Theyhad a good home, and it was the best place. 

But she knew better. She had made up her mind, and it was useless forhim to rebel. The sea-voyage was decided on--not so much because itwould benefit his health as because his young wife had not seen Englandand Europe, and was dying to do so. 

Then they discussed routes. 

"The thing to do, " said Mrs Ewing, "is not to crowd up with that lot inthe mail steamers, where you can't do as you like, or have any specialattentions, but to go in a smaller vessel, where you would be of someimportance, and have your liberty, and plenty of space, and no tiresomerules and restrictions--"

"My dear child, you don't know those second-rate lines. I do. I assureyou you'd be very sorry for yourself if I let you travel by them. Theyare not YOUR style at all. "

"Yes, I was talking to Captain Carey about it, and that was his advice, and HE knows. On his ship they have accommodation for about sixpassengers, and he suggested that, if we were quick about it, we mightbe able to secure the whole, so as to be exactly as if we were on ayacht of our own. They have a fair cook; but we could take any servantswe liked, and make ourselves comfortable in our own way--nobody tointerfere with us. He doesn't go through the hot canal. He will be backfrom Sydney in three weeks--just nice time to get ready in. "

Of course, they went that way. And perhaps it is better to leave therest of the story to the imagination of the reader, who, one hopes, forGuthrie Carey's sake, is a common-sense person, as well as adispassionate student of human nature. 

CHAPTER XIX. 

Deb was at Redford once more. 

In her own room too, surrounded by familiar objects--the six-footdressing-table and the nine-foot wardrobe, and the Aspinalled book-casethat was a fixture, amongst other things. She had not taken them to hersuburban villa, nor sent for them afterwards. Meanwhile, Mr Thornycrofthad bought them with the place, and taken care of them, as ofeverything that she had left behind. They had been in his possessionnow for several years. 

The strange thing in the room was Mr Thornycroft himself--MrThornycroft on the little white bed that Deb used to sleep on, his hairwhite, his once stalwart frame reduced to a pale wreck of skin and bone. 

"You will forgive me for coming here, " he apologised. "I have not beenusing the things. But they had me moved for coolness--the south-eastaspect, and being able to get a current through--"

"I am thankful they did. It is the best place for you this weather. Butthere's one thing I shall never forgive you--that you didn't let meknow before. "

She was sitting at his bedside, holding his hand--she, too, muchchanged, thinner, sadder, shabbier, or rather, less splendidly turnedout than had been her wont in earlier days; beautiful as ever, notwithstanding--infinitely more so, in the sick man's eyes. 

"Why should I bother you? I haven't been very bad--just the old asthmaoff and on. It is only lately that I have felt it upsetting my heart. And you know I am used to being alone. "

He spoke with the asthma pant, and a throb of the lean throat that shecould not bear to see. His head was propped high, so that they squarelyfaced each other. His eyes were full of tenderness and content--hers oftears. 

"You have been pretty lonely yourself, by all accounts, " said he, stroking her hand. "It's odd to think of you in that case, Debbie. "

"I've felt it odd myself, " she smiled, with a whisk of herhandkerchief. "But, like you, I am getting used to it. "

"Where's Dalzell all this time?" "Don't know. Don't care. Please don'ttalk of him. "

"Nobody else--?"

"Oh, dear, no! Never will be. I am going to take up nursing orsomething. "

"YOU!" he mocked. 

"Do you suppose I can't? Wait till I have got you over this attack, andthen tell me if I can't. I am going to stay with you, godpapa, untilyou are better. I have spoken to your housekeeper, and she is quiteagreeable--if you are. "

He did not think it necessary to reply to that hint, but just smiledand closed his eyes. She took up a palm-leaf fan and fanned him, watching him anxiously. It was a roasting February day, and he wasbreathing very badly. 

"Have you given up your house?" he asked, when he could speak. 

"Long ago. No use my staying there alone. Besides, I could not affordit. "

"Francie not much good to you, I suppose?"

"Oh, I don't want her to be good to me. "

"Keziah Moon hasn't deserted you, of course?"

"Oh, Keziah--she was moped to death, poor old woman--I found her anuisance. And then those babies of Rose's were so irresistible. Ithought she'd better go. As Rose's head-nurse, I believe she is in herelement. "

"Is Rose happy with her draper?"

"I don't know--I suppose so. "

"You don't see much of her?"

"Not much. "

"And Mary?"

"I haven't seen her for months. Her husband and I don't hit it off, somehow. "

"Deb, how much have you to live on?"

"That's my business, sir. "

"Not the business of a doting godfather--in the absence of nearer malerelatives?"

"No. His business is only to see that I learn the catechism and presentmyself to be confirmed; and I've done both. "

"That all?"

"Except to let his doting godchild take care of him when he is ill. Now--don't talk any more. "

He was too exhausted to do so. And while he lay feebly fighting forbreath, the trained nurse came in and took command. 

In the evening that functionary gave a professional opinion. 

"He is worried about something, " she said to Deb, "and it is very badfor him. Do you know what it is?"

"Not in the least, " said Deb promptly. "I have not been seeing him foryears, I am sorry to say, and have not the slightest knowledge of hisaffairs. "

But next day she seemed to get an inkling of what the worry was. MrThornycroft, when they were alone together, begged her to tell him ifshe had any money difficulties--debts, she supposed--and to be frankwith him for old times' and her father's sake. 

"What! are you bothering your mind about that?" she gently scolded him. "I assure you I am all right. I haven't any difficulties--or hardlyany--not now. I have no rent, you see. "

"They don't charge you anything where you board?" "No. Redford neverhas charged folks for board. Seriously, " she hastened to add, inearnest tones, "I have all I want. And if I try presently to earn more, it will be because I think everybody ought to earn his living or hers. You earned yours. I despise people who just batten on the earnings ofothers, and never do a hand's turn for themselves. "

"Batten!" he murmured ironically, with a troubled smile. "You look asif you had been battening, don't you? Debbie, I'm a business man, and Iknow you can't get behindhand in money matters and pull up again justwhen you want to; you can't get straight merely by anticipating income, when there's nothing extra coming in. Tell me, if you don't mind, howyou managed?" She flushed, and her eyes dropped; then she faced himhonestly. 

"I will tell you, " she declared. "I've wanted to confess it, though I'mhorribly ashamed to--and I'm afraid you'll think I did not value it. Idid indeed--I hated to part with it; but I was so hard up, and I didn'tknow which way to turn, or what else to do--"

"And never came to me!"

"Well, I did--in a way. I--I sold your pearls. "

"That's right, Debbie. That's a load off my mind. It is the best thingyou could have done with them. "

"No, indeed! I have regretted it ever since. "

"How much did they give you?" "A tremendous lot--three hundred andfifty guineas. "

"The swindlers! They were worth two thousand. "

"What!" She was thunderstruck. "You gave me a necklace worth twothousand guineas?"

"I only wish you'd let me give you a score or two at the same price, oncondition that you sold them for three-fifty whenever you needed alittle cash. "

She was quite upset by this remark, and what had given rise to it. Impulsively--too impulsively, considering how weak he was--she kissedhis damp forehead, and rushed weeping from his sight. 

In the hot evening, while the trained nurse had her tea at gratefulleisure in the housekeeper's room, Deb again took that nurse's place. She sat by the pillow of the patient, leaning against it, holding hishand in hers. Only the sound of the cruel north wind and his more cruelbreathing disturbed the stillness that enveloped them. She hoped he wassleeping, until he spoke suddenly in a way that showed him only toowide awake. 

"Debbie, " he said, "if I was quite sure I would not get well this time, I should put that question to you again. "

"What question, dear?" she queried softly. 

"The question I asked you just before you left Redford. "

"I don't remember--Oh!"

"Yes--that one. But if you consented, I might recover--it would beenough to make me; then you would repent. "

She was silent, agitated in every fibre of her, but thinking hard. 

"What put that idea into your head?" she whispered, still holding hishand. 

"It was never put in; it was there always--since you were a kiddie. "

"It seems so strange! I thought I was always a kiddie to you. " "Thatdoes seem the natural relationship, doesn't it?" There fell anotherlong silence, and, listening to his dragging breath, her heart smoteher. She squeezed his bony hand. 

"I will stay with you, anyway, " she comforted him. 

He turned his head on the pillow. "Kiss me, " he sighed, with eyesclosed. 

She did, again and again. 

The night was suffocating. She could not sleep for the heat and herthoughts, and when, towards morning, she heard the nurse stirring, shegot up to inquire how he was. 

"Pretty bad, " the nurse said. "It's this awful weather. I can't coolthe room, though I've got all the doors and windows open, and the wetsheets hanging up. It's air he wants, and there isn't any. If it don'tchange soon, I'm afraid his strength won't hold out. "

It did not change, and consequently grew worse to bear, the parchingand scorching of each day being carried over into the next. What thenewspapers call a heat-wave was drawing to its culmination, whichgenerally reaches the verge of the unbearable, even to the well andstrong, just before the "change"--that lightning change to coolness, and even coldness, which comes while one draws a breath. How many alife has hung upon the chance of the blessed moment coming in time!

The nurse looked at the thermometer in despair. Darkness had not taken10 degrees from yesterday's temperature of 102 degrees when anotherblazing sun arose. The fierce wind had raved and calmed, and raved andcalmed, but it had not shifted. She wetted and she fanned, turn andturn about with Deb, the livelong day, without freshening the dead airthat soaked the house and seemed to soak the world. The fagged andperspiring doctor (a great friend of the patient's), who came twicedaily, came again, too tired to care very much even for this specialcase. He looked at it, and shook his head, and begged for a cool drinkfor the Lord's sake; and then, having muddled the wits he had tried tostimulate with quarts of whisky-and-soda, went away, saying: "I can donothing. Send for me at once if you see a change. "

At sunset the sick man was very low, his weak heart and his distressedlungs labouring heavily, while the sweat of agony glistened on hisforehead and plastered his white hair to his backward-tossed head. Debwas frantic with fear and grief. She summoned the doctor again, sendingcommands to him to summon more doctors--the best in Melbourne, and anynumber of them--in defiance of Mr Thornycroft's known wishes to thecontrary. At the same time she sent for the clergyman. 

"Dear, " she crooned in the patient's ear, when he seemed a littleeasier, "Mr Bentley will be here presently. "

Mr Thornycroft's brows seemed to gather a momentary frown over hisclosed eyes. 

"I'd rather not, Deb--"

"Oh, not for THAT! But--the wind will change soon, and then you willfeel better; and then--you said it would help you to get well--Iwill--if you like--"

He opened his eyes and gazed at her. It took him a few seconds tounderstand. 

"Ah--darling!" he breathed, between his pants, and with an effort drewher hand to his lips. Then--they were his last words, whispered verylow--"Never mind now, Debbie--so long as you are here. "

He seemed to drowse into a kind of half-sleep, in spite of his tooobvious and audible suffering. She sat beside him, sponging and fanninghim, listening to his shallow, jerky, wheezy respiration, watching forthe subtle something in the stifling room that should announce a changeof wind, thinking of Mr Bentley's coming, and many other things. Theweary nurse came back from her brief rest and cup of tea, and sat downat the foot of the bed. She studied the patient's face intently forsome time, and felt his feet; then she took the fan from Deborah's hand. 

"You go and lie down, Miss Pennycuick. Mrs Dobson will come and sitwith me for a while. "

"No, no, " said Deb. "He wants me to be here. I cannot leave him. "

After a few more minutes of silence, the nurse said again: "You hadbetter go, Miss Pennycuick. " When Deb repeated her refusal, the nursewent out to fetch the housekeeper to persuade her. 

A minute afterwards, Deb lifted her head with a jerk, and sniffedeagerly. At the same instant she heard a distant door bang. 

"Thank God!" she ejaculated, and flew to the windows that all day hadhad to be shut tight against the furnace blast outside, and flung themwide, one after the other. The trees in the old garden were bending andrustling; the sweet, cool air came pouring in. 

"The wind has changed, " she whispered, almost hysterically, to thenurse and the housekeeper, as they stealthily crept in. "And"--as theyall gathered round the bed--"he is better already. His breathing iseasier. "

The nurse bent over the long figure on the bed. "He is not breathing atall, " said she. 

CHAPTER XX. 

Jim Urquhart had been fighting bush fires for several days when thewind changed and carried them back over the burnt ground thatextinguished them. When he rode home, dead beat, from helping aneighbour who had helped him, it was to meet the news that MrThornycroft was dead, and Mrs Urquhart gone to Redford to supportDeborah Pennycuick. 

Mr Thornycroft had been ailing with his asthma so long, and making solittle fuss about it, that his friends had come to regard him aspractically ailing nothing. The death that had slowly stalked him foryears came upon them with the shock of the unexpected; so thenewspapers said. Jim's heart smote him for that he had been so taken upwith the fire epidemic as to have neglected for over a week to inquireafter the old man; it smote him more when he heard that Deb had been atRedford through the ordeal, without "anyone" near her. He had known toowell--had made it his business to know--that she had had a strugglinglife, heart-breaking to think of, for a long time, but under variouspretexts she had kept "everybody" at arm's-length and further, refusingaid or pity; now there had come a chance to do something for her, andhe had been out of the way. And duty still detained him, to arrangeabout destroyed fences and foodless stock--duty that had to beconsidered first, even before her. When at last he was free to puthimself at her disposal, a dozen men had jumped his claim. 

The manager of Redford met him when a few miles from the place. "Youare behind the fair, Mr Urquhart, " cried he, as they drew reinalongside; and his tone and his face were strangely cheerful, considering that his good employer of twenty years had been buried onlyyesterday--as usual, within a few hours of his death. "But I supposeyou have heard the news. What--you haven't? Then I am the first tocongratulate you, " extending a cordial hand. "The will was read thismorning, and you've got the biggest legacy--a cool five thousand, sir. "

Five thousand! Jim, never on particularly intimate terms with thetestator, had not thought of the will, and the idea that he might havean interest in it never crossed his mind. Five thousand! It is said ofdrowning people that they see the whole panorama of their lives in thelast seconds of consciousness; in the instant's pause that followed themanager's announcement, Jim saw Five Creeks renovated and prosperous, and Deb's children running about the old rooms and paddocks, andcalling him father--a home not quite unworthy of his goddess now, andone that loneliness and poverty would have taught her to appreciate. Hestared at the burly manager like a man in a dream. 

"I get a nice little windfall myself, which I never expected, " thelatter continued his tale. "The servants are well provided for, andthere are odd sums for a lot of English relatives--I suppose theyare--and a good bit for charities. But yours is the biggest individuallegacy; and I'm glad of it, and I'm not surprised, because I've heardhim many a time speak well of you for the way you worked to keep upyour place and look after the family. "

"But, " said Jim, coming down from his clouds of glory, "I thought--Ithought there'd be more than that. " "Than what? You surely didn'texpect--oh, I see!" The manager threw up his head and roared. "My goodfellow, the estate altogether is worth a quarter of a million. "

"Then who--?"

"Gets it? Miss Pennycuick. She's here now. And couldn't believe it whenthey told her--though, when you come to think of it, it was a naturalthing for him to do, having been such friends with the old man, and shehis god-daughter. A lucky young woman--my word!" Jim's swelled heartcollapsed and sank like a burst balloon. His dream-house vanished inthin air, to be built no more. 

"That settles it, " he said to himself. According to his code of manlyhonour and self-respect, a man could not possibly, even with fivethousand pounds in hand, ask a girl with a quarter of a million tomarry him. 

A little more conversation, if it can be called such, when one talkedand the other did not even listen, and he parted with the garrulousmanager and rode on to the house. Deb, wet-eyed, met him with a welcomethat severely tried his Spartan fortitude, without in the leastweakening his resolve. Although she did not know it, being still filledwith grief for her lifelong friend, it was the power and command thathe had endowed her with which gave that charming air of fearless andopen affection to her manner. 

"Oh, my dear, dear boy!" she addressed him, and all but kissed himbefore his mother's eyes. "I am so glad to have you here. Jim dear, MrsUrquhart thinks you can be spared--will you stay here for a bit andhelp me to settle things? There is so much to do, and it is my duty toattend to everything myself. There are the lawyers and people, ofcourse--everybody is so kind--but I want a man of my own beside me. "

"Certainly, Deb, " he replied, without wincing; "for as long as you wantme--if I can run home every other day or so for a look round. "

He stayed, in company with his mother, for a month; then, when he wentto live at home again, he spent at least half his days at Redford, acting as Deb's 'own man' indoors and out--her real legal adviser, herreal station manager, her confidential major-domo, the doer of all the'dirty work' connected with the administration of her estate; andnever--although she exposed him to almost every sort oftemptation--never once stepped off the line that he had marked forhimself. 

Another person was not so scrupulous, though, to be sure, he was not sopoor. 

Claud Dalzell, drifting from one resort of the wealthy toanother--deer-stalking in Scotland, salmon-fishing in Norway, shootingin the Rockies, hunting in the Shires, yachting everywhere, andeverywhere adored of a crowd of women as idle as himself--was loafingat Monte Carlo when he heard of Mr Thornycroft's death and Deb'saccession to his throne. Ennui and satiety possessed the popular youngman at the moment--for he was made for better things, and hisdissatisfied soul tormented him; and a vision of old-time Redford andthe beautiful girl who was like wine and fire, a blend of passion andpurity that now impressed him as unique, rose before his mental eyeswith the effect of water-springs in a dry land. His thoughts went backto the days when they rode and made love together--the sunny days, before the clouds gathered. It was that past which glorified her all atonce, not the present--not Mr Thornycroft's money--not the halo ofelegance and consequence that again adorned her; he never suspectedotherwise for a moment. And that was why he did not hesitate to book apassage to Australia that very day. 

Deb was at Redford when he arrived. That she would never part with theplace again, she had declared on the day that it came into herpossession, and she was now establishing herself there, she said, forlife. She had gone through the whole great rambling house, sorting andrearranging the furniture that was in it, adding the cream of thecontents of the best shops in town. She made a clean sweep of the now'awful' fittings of the big drawing-room, replacing them with parquetrugs and divans, and things of the softest, finest and most costlykind; she arranged the morning-room for herself afresh; also the glazedcorridor, which became a beautiful art gallery and lounging-place; alsothe remainder of the long unused rooms. She called to her all thefavourite old servants--except Keziah Moon, who was happy where shewas--and old Miss Keene to play chaperon once more, with nothing to dobut arrange flowers and doze at peace in the lap of luxury. Deb wantedJim for her manager, at a ridiculous salary, but he would not take thepost; he did, however, procure her an excellent substitute. Shecommissioned him to buy her riding-horses--he "knew what sheliked"--regardless of expense; an English groom was given charge ofthem when they arrived. So easily did the magnificent woman slide backinto her magnificent ways, for all her good taste and unpretentiousness. 

When Claud Dalzell was driven in his hired buggy from the township toher door, his critical eye took in the many changes that the oldhomestead had undergone with high approval. Used as he was to far finerhouses and the best of everything, he felt that here was as fair acamping-place as even he could desire. Redford, with a quarter of amillion behind it, with this setting of sunshine and spaciousness(missed so much more than he had known till now), inclined--what ahaven of rest and pleasure, after the crowded and fatiguing experiencesof his later years!

He was shown upstairs to the big drawing-room. He hardly knew where hewas, with the grass-green carpet and festooned window-draperies andgilding and plate-glass vanished, and these soft-coloured stuffs andsubtle harmonies around him. He could recognise nothing but a fewpictures and the old piano, the latter spread with a gem of Chineseembroidery, on which stood a gem of a Satsuma bowl filled with finechrysanthemums. It was late in autumn now. 

And while he wandered about, examining this and that with the pleasureof a satisfied connoisseur, Deb stood in the sitting-room downstairs, with clenched hands and teeth, staring at his card on a table beforeher. 

"He has the cheek, " she thought, afire with indignation--never so hotand bitter as when directed against one we love who has offendedus--"he has the unspeakable effrontery to come and see me NOW, when henever came near me all those hard years--never cared how I muddled andstruggled, nor whether I was alive or dead!"

But she must see him, of course. And she must maintain her properdignity. No descending to vulgar reproaches--still less to weakcondonation. She took a moment to calm herself, and walked forth to theinterview. Many things upheld her, but the dead hand of Mr Thornycroftwas her stoutest support. 

She needed it when she reached the top of the stairs. Facing thedrawing-room door, awaiting her, stood the figure that really seemedthe one thing wanting to complete the beauty of the beautiful house. Hehad never in his younger days been so distinguished-looking as he wasnow. In any company, in any part of the world, he must have attractednotice, as a gentleman, in person and manners, of the very finest type. And how she did love that sort! How her lonely and hungry heart longedfor him when she saw him--the only man she had ever deemed her naturalmate--and at the same time how she hated him for the disappointment andthe humiliation that he had brought her! Outraged self-respect, herrobust will-power, and her quarter of a million sufficed to save herfrom a temptation she would not have fallen into for the world. 

She swept forward to shake hands with him, with the grave affability ofa great lady to a guest--any guest--and it was plain from theexpression of his sensitive face that he was as keenly appreciative ofher enhanced beauty and 'finish' as she of his. Black was not hercolour--she was too dark--and she had discarded it for pale greys andwhites, with touches of black about them; today a creamy woollen, thickand soft, and hanging about her like the drapery of a Greek statue, wasan inspiration in becoming gowns. The maid who had dressed her hair wasa mistress of the art. And Miss Pennycuick's step and poise--well, sheWAS a great lady, and carried herself accordingly. 

Her old lover was charmed. He held her hand--and would have held itthrice as long--and looked into her eyes, too overcome, it appeared, tospeak. 

"How do you do?" she said, evading his intense gaze. "What a man youare for dropping on one in this unexpected, sensational way! Why didn'tyou write and tell me you were around?"

She made a movement to withdraw her hand. He held it fast. 

"Debbie, " said he, in quite a tremulous voice--remarkable in oneconstitutionally so self-confident and self-possessed--"Debbie, youturned me out of your house when I came to see you last. I hope youhave a different welcome for me this time?"

"To the best of my belief, " she laughed, "you insisted upon going. I amsure you were asked to stay--to lunch, or whatever it was. By the way, have you lunched now?" She showed concern for her obligations as hishostess. 

"Yes, thank you--at least, it doesn't matter. "

He had to relinquish her hand, and when she immediately made towardsthe bell-button, he followed and arrested her. 

"Let us have our talk first, " he pleaded. "I don't want anything to eatuntil I know--until I feel that you don't grudge it. "

"Oh, I don't grudge it, " she took him literally. "Not one square meal, at any rate. The only thing I am obliged to grudge is house-room--forany length of time--to single gentlemen. But that is not a question ofhospitality, as you know. Sit down, and tell me all the news. "

He sat down; she also--about two yards off. Across the gulf of Persianrug he looked at her steadily. 

"You are angry with me, " he observed. "Why, Debbie? Is it still the oldquarrel--after all these years?"

Then her face changed like a filled lamp when you put a match to it. She said, in a deep, breathless way:

"Do you know how many years it is?"

More in sorrow and surprise than in anger, he guessed her meaning aftera moment's thought. 

"Is that my fault? The number of years has been of your choosing, " hepointed out forbearingly. "You sent me away, when I never wanted to go. You broke it off, altogether against my wish. You never relented--nevermade a sign. Even now I come back uninvited. "

It was a clear case, and all he asked for was bare justice. 

"Why didn't you come before--uninvited? Why didn't you come back to mewhen I was poor and lonely? Claud, I have been in every sort oftrouble--my father is dead, I have lost all my sisters in one way andanother, I have been living in cheap lodgings, doing without what Ialways thought were the necessaries of life, to keep Francie going andto get debts paid off--I have been ill, I have been unhappy, I havesometimes been penniless, and you have carefully passed by on the otherside, like that man in the Bible, and left me to my fate. "

He was genuinely shocked. He knew that she had been horribly down inthe world, but not that she had suffered to this extent. Seeing hersitting there in her beautiful gown, in her beautiful room, without onetrace of those sordid years about her, his heart ached to think of them. 

"My darling, I never knew--" "Why not?" she said swiftly. "Because younever tried to know--never cared to know. But now that I can be acredit to you again--the moment you hear that I have had a greatfortune left to me--now you come back. "

"Do you mean to say, " he demanded sternly, "that you think--youhonestly think I have come back to you on account of your money?"

She returned his cold, searching gaze in kind. 

"Honestly, " she said, "I do think so. There is no way out of it. "

He rose deliberately, bowed to her, and picked up his hat. He was notreally mercenary--or, if he was, he did not know it--and he was asintensely proud as she was. He felt that he had received the deadliestinsult ever dealt him in his life, and one that he could never forgetor forgive. 

Without another word, he turned to the door and walked out. She stoodstill and watched him go, a calm smile curving her lips, a very cycloneof passion tearing through her heart; and she scorned to recall him. 

CHAPTER XXI. 

Deb yearned to have her Australian sisters--Frances was European--withher at Redford, as in the old days; she hated to be luxuriating therewithout them. But for a time the husbands stood in the way. She couldnot bring herself to ask them too. The draper she hardly knew atall--in her correspondence with Rose his name was rarely mentioned byeither, except in comprehensive messages at the end of letters; andBennet Goldsworthy's company, Deb said, simply made her ill. 

It had made her ill since, after her father's death, the clergyman hadpermitted himself, in her hearing, to vent his personal disappointmentat the unexpected smallness of his wife's inheritance. The man hadpresumed to take the air of one reasonably aggrieved; he had evendropped angry words about "deception" in the first heat of his chagrin. "As if, " said haughty Deb, "it was not enough for him to have marriedone of us!" When he was understood to say that he had "arranged hislife" in accordance with the expectations he had been given the rightto entertain, Deb's withering comment was: "As if HIS life matters!"

But she was intolerant in her dislikes. 

Poor Mr Goldsworthy, incurable cadger that he was, was bound to feelthe family reverses acutely. When he had married Miss Pennycuick forher good, in that risky manner, he had naturally expected to berewarded for the deed. If ever it be safe to trust to appearances, ithad seemed safe then, so far as the solidity of the Pennycuicks'position was concerned. They had imposed upon him with their carelesssplendour; they had misled him by their condonation of the marriage, which restored Mary to her privileges as a daughter of the house; mostthoroughly had they taken him in by that voluntary wedding gift of fivehundred pounds. With his habit--which he took to be the generalhabit--of getting all he could and giving nothing that he was notobliged to give, he could not understand the airy flinging away of allthat money, when there was no "call" for it, only as a proof that MrPennycuick had more than he needed for all the legitimate claims onhim. And the old man had said, again and again, that his daughterswould share and share alike in whatever he had to leave. 

When Mr Bentley, the new parson, came--young, sincere, self-sacrificing, devoted, a poor preacher and a hard worker, whorefused to batten on Redford bounty--all the old furniture of theparsonage was made over to him (on time payment), and the Goldsworthysbegan life in Melbourne on the basis of a rich wife. It was surprisinghow the legend grew amongst his set that Mr Goldsworthy had a richwife. That she might dress the part on all occasions, so that therewould be no mistake about it, the family-provided trousseau was addedto; it was also subtracted from, for the simplicity that was her tasteand distinction was hateful in his sight. When she looked "common" in acotton gown, she lowered his dignity in the world and amongst hisprofessional fellows--supposed to be so envious of it, in spite of herred face. Deb had had to suffer the shock of seeing her sister in silkof a morning more than once, and it had been reported to her--thoughshe did not believe it--that Mary wore a jewelled necklace to church onSundays. Deb did not go to Bennet's church, which was, fortunately, along way from her suburban-villa home. 

And she had been to his Melbourne house but twice. On her first visitshe had penetrated to Mary's room, and been horrified to find thehusband's clothes hung up in it from her door-pegs, and his razors andbrushes mixed up with her things on her dressing-table. The arrangementin the country parsonage was to be accounted for; to find it here, madedeliberately and of MALICE PREPENSE, was to see what gulfs now yawnedbetween Mary's old life and the new one. Deb reached forth for a comb, and drew back her hand as if she had inadvertently touched a snake. Mary's red face went purple as she explained that there was not spacein that house for a dressing-room. There was space enough going towaste in the drawing-room, where Deb had her feelings hurt on hersecond visit. It was a very large room, sharing the front of the housewith a large study; and behind them all the other rooms huddled as ofno account, none of them bigger than Keziah's Redford storeroom. Thestudy was sacred to the master of the house; the drawing-room to"company". One look showed Deb that Mary never sat there, and that itwas not she who had chosen and arranged the furniture. The foundationof the scheme was a costly "suite", upholstered in palish silk brocade, the separate pieces standing at fixed intervals apart on a gorgeousAxminster carpet. When Deb entered the room, Mr Goldsworthy was bendingover the central sofa, excited and talking loudly. Miss Goldsworthy andMary stood by, mute and drooping; Ruby looked on irresponsibly, withjoy in her eye. 

"What's the matter?" inquired Deb, advancing. 

As she was not a great lady then, but quite the contrary, MrGoldsworthy explained what was the matter, with scarcely anymodification of his minatory air. A caller had called yesterday, bringing with her a little boy. Mary had thoughtlessly fed the littleboy with soft cake, and the little boy had first made his hands stickywith it, and then pawed the sofa, which had cost him (B. G. ) nearlytwenty pounds (part of Mary's 500 pounds). Greasy marks had been lefton that lovely brocade, for which he (not she) had given thirty-fiveshillings a yard, and which he had forbidden children to be allowed tosit on. As if that were not bad enough, "they"--i. E. , those two poorwomen--had, without telling him, tried to take the marks out with somewretched chemist's stuff, which had not taken them out, but only spreadthem more. Now the sofa was completely spoiled, and what to do he didnot know, unless he could match the brocade, which was scarcely likely. And ill could he afford to be buying brocade--and so on. Finally hewent out to consult with a furniture repairer of his acquaintance, banging doors behind him. Deb cast a scornful glance upon the smudgedbrocade. 

"What a fuss about nothing!" she brushed the subject by. 

"My brother is very particular about this room, " Miss Goldsworthyapologised for him. 

"So I see. "

"And he is very fond of this brocade, which he chose himself. Itcertainly is very pretty--don't you think so? But too delicate to wearwell. I am always frightened to see children go near it, or evengrown-up people when it has been raining, or if they have beengathering dust--it does show every spot so! And it was the mother'sfault. I signed to Mary to give him a biscuit, but his mother pickedout that cake, which had jam in it. It is very unfortunate. I don'twonder at his being vexed. "

"Why don't you have chintz covers, Moll?"

"Oh, he wouldn't like it to be covered up, " Miss Goldsworthy struck in, and seemed shocked herself at the suggested waste. Mary lifted dulleyes to her sister's face. 

"Come and have some tea, " she said. "Come, auntie; it is no use yourworrying yourself. "

And they went into the poky living room, which smelt of meals, and hadtea, and the sort of barren talk that the presence of the third personnecessitated. Mary seemed purposely to avoid a TETE-A-TETE. When MissGoldsworthy went to fetch the baby, Ruby was kept at her step-mother'sside. Only when the black-eyed boy appeared did Mary brighten into alikeness to her old self. She was a born mother, and her child consoledher. Then, in the midst of the baby worship, back came the stillagitated husband and father, the furniture man with him; and the housewas filled anew with the affair of the soiled sofa, so that Deb'spresence, as also her departure, attracted little attention. As herbrother-in-law pushed out a valedictory hand, she noticed a shirt-cuffthat had the grime of days upon it. 

"He economises in the wash, " she soliloquised, with wrinkling nostriland curling lip. "And in those filthy cheap coals that choke the gratewith dust, and in tea that is undrinkable. Oh, what a house!"

And she had not been there since. But now--

Her benevolence embraced the world, and the world included BennetGoldsworthy. It was no longer in his power to make her feel ill. Thesun of her prosperity, shining on him at her sister's side--poor, struggling, well-meaning little man!--gave him a pathetic and appealinginterest. In fact, it was to him that her maternal dispositions towardsher family drew her first. 

"Thank God, " she said to herself, "I can now make things a bit easierfor that poor child. She won't let me, I daresay, but he will. "

She took the humble tram to their suburb, and rang at their parsonagedoor. Having considerately sent word that she was coming, duepreparations had been made to receive her. She was shown into thedrawing-room, which had not a displaced chair, and where themany-coloured Axminster and the cherished brocade still looked as goodas new. Almost her first act was to search for the grease marks on thesofa--the spot was indicated by a bleached patch--and she sat down onit, alone for a few minutes. On this occasion the old aunt had beenordered to keep in the background; Ruby also, after due considerationof her claims, had been denied the share she clamoured for of theimpending excitement, and sent out of the house; Mary had had herdirections, and remained invisible for a time. She was employed ingetting Robert ready for inspection--brushing his best jacket, tyinghis best neck-tie, etc. , while he jerked about under her hands, andfreely criticised her labours on his behalf. For Robert took after hisfather as a knowing person. He was, in fact, a bright and clever lad, who knew some things better than his mother did. She was ever proud toadmit it; but his own open acceptance of superiority, and readiness tokeep it before her eyes at all times, was one of the secret crosses ofher life, weighed down with so many. However, if you marry the wrongman, you cannot expect to have the right children, and it was somethingthat this boy had the genuineness of his intellectual gifts to give heran excuse to adore him. 

"There, that will do. It is very bad form, you know, to be so fussyabout people coming, and so anxious about what they may think aboutyou, " the young authority upon etiquette instructed the fine-fibredgentlewoman, who had done him the honour to be his mother. And Marytook the rebuke humbly. 

Bennet Goldsworthy, alone, came softly into the drawing-room to receivethe distinguished guest. He had grown fat and tubby, and a phrase ofClaud Dalzell's flashed into Deb's memory as she marked the manner ofhis approach--"that crawling ass, that would lick your boots forsixpence". The noonday sun does not affect polished metal moreobviously than Deb's wealth affected him. 

"This is good of you, " he murmured brokenly, pressing her gloved hand. "This is indeed good of you!" "I ought to have been before, " shereturned graciously--it was so easy to be gracious to him now--"I havebeen wanting to come; but you cannot imagine how many hindrances I havehad. "

"Oh, but I can indeed!" with earnest emphasis--"I can indeed! And havegrieved that I was not able to be of some service to you in your--yourvery difficult position. I did not like to seem to force myself uponyou, but I hoped--I confidently hoped that you would send for me, if itwas in my power to be of the slightest assistance to you. "

"Oh, yes--thank you so much--if I had needed anybody. But there wereonly too many kind friends. "

"Aha! Yes, I expect so. " His eye lighted and his lip curled craftily. "I have no doubt whatever of THAT. 'Where the carcase is--' You knowthe rest?"

"I am not a carcase, " she rallied him playfully--for quite the firsttime in her life. 

"No, indeed; I should have said 'prey'. Ah, my dear De--MissPennycuick, you will find plenty and to spare of so-called friends, professing anxiety to serve you, when their only object is to servethemselves. "

"I expect so, " she assented, smiling. 

"So young a girl"--subtle flattery this, now that Deb was in her latethirties--"to be suddenly called to a position of such immense dangerand responsibility! But"--cheeringly--"I said when I heard of it thatMr Thornycroft had justified my high opinion of his judgment andcharacter. It is not often that great wealth comes into hands so worthyof it. "

"I am afraid they are not very worthy, " sighed Deb. Mr Goldsworthy knewbetter. He knew HER better--not only from personal intercourse, theobservation and intuition of a man trained to read character, but fromthe loving representations of his dear wife. 

"Where is she?" Miss Pennycuick asked abruptly. "Not out, I hope?"

"Out--hardly! She will be here in a moment. I am afraid, when you seeher, you will think her looking delicate. The state of her health is amatter of the most anxious concern to me. "

"What is the matter with her health? She was always well at home. Weused to think her the strongest of the family--until--"

"Until she fell into the clutches of that dreadful man, " Mr Goldsworthyconcluded for her. 

"Oh!"--Deb coloured and frowned--"that is not what I was going to say. "(What she had really been going to say was--"until her marriage. ") "Andwhy do you rake up that old story? I thought it had all been forgottenlong ago. "

"It has been unpleasantly revived, " said Mr Goldsworthy solemnly. "Andit is my duty to tell you about it, if you have not heard. "

Deb looked equally annoyed and alarmed. "What has been revived?" sheasked. 

He dropped his voice apologetically. 

"I have been hearing of his going on in exactly the same way withanother. "

"Oh, " sighed Deb, relieved that it was not Mary who had been thereviver; "then it's no business of ours, thank goodness. "

"Pardon me--it is very much our business, " he urged weightily. "Igrieve to tell you that it is your sister, Mrs Ewing, who is implicatedin the affair. Do you mean to say that you know nothing about it?"

Deb knew something, and so she put the question by. 

"I don't encourage scandalmongers. Mrs Ewing is young andthoughtless--and pretty--which naturally lays her open to ill--naturedgossip. " "My informant is one of the least ill-natured of women; she isa person of the highest principle. "

"Ah, those high-principled women--I know them!"

Mr Goldsworthy was nonplussed for the moment. He could not accept thesuggestion that Deb was not high-principled. But he gave up hisinformant. 

"There is ample evidence that the man is Mrs Ewing's lover, " hegrieved. "He has been seen with her in the most equivocal situations. Idon't wish to go into details--to mention things unfit for a younggirl's ears--"

"I hope not, " put in Deb, her patience giving out. "I am not fond ofthat kind of talk. I should not believe, either, in any nasty talesconnected with my sister, or with Captain Carey. And you ought not tolisten to them, for Mary's sake. You should not pander to yourhigh-principled ladies. You should tell them to be more charitable, andto mind their own business. "

A year ago the parson would have taken umbrage at this rebuke; he nowhastened to deprecate displeasure on the part of the one whom, of allthe world, he most desired to please. 

"Far be it from me to speak ill of anyone belonging to you, " hedeclared solemnly; but still he could not help it. 

The most good-natured person, if he be greedy, will seek to ingratiatehimself with Power by disparagement of rival suitors. He was followingan impulse that might be described as an instinct, in trying to weakenDeb's favour towards the rest of her relatives in order to concentrateas much as possible upon himself--to push back, as it were, the handsthat he imagined eagerly outstretched to her (palm upwards), that themore might be dropped into his own. He asked her if she had seen MrsBreen, and sighed over that plebeian connection. 

"I may be poor, " said he, "but I do come of a good family. It isunfortunate, perhaps, but we cannot help our prejudices. " "It is aridiculous prejudice, " said Deb, "especially in a country like this. "

"Oh, it is--it is. I own it; but--well, you know--"

She brusquely brought him back to the question of Mary's health. 

"It is Mary that I want to hear about. Tell me--before she comesin--what is the matter with her?"

He was willingly confidential. 

"She has worries, " said he--"worries that you, my dear young lady, inYOUR position, know nothing of--would not understand if I were to tellyou. "

"I have been in positions to understand most kinds of worries, " saidDeb. "What are they? Money worries?"

"Well, I have a delicacy in--"

"Oh, you need not have! I know, of course, that you cannot have beentoo well off, and I am here on purpose to do something for you, if youwill allow me. ' There was no need to beat about the bush, she knew, since Mary was out of hearing. 'Tell me exactly, if you don't mind--instrict confidence, of course. No need to trouble her--and I shall notsay anything. "

He told her, with fullness and fervour, when he had expressed his toofulsome gratitude. 

"I have done my best, Miss Pennycuick. You bade me be good to her; Igave you my solemn promise--and I can conscientiously say that I havekept my word. " Well, so he had; according to his lights he had been anexemplary husband. "But circumstances have been against me. In thefirst place, I was in error somewhat, as you know, in regard to mywife's expectations from her father. I did not marry her for her money, as you also know, but appearances were such that I naturally concludedshe would have a considerable income of her own. I did not care formyself one way or the other, but I was glad to believe that there wouldbe the means to continue to her the mode of life that she had been usedto. I acted upon this supposition, false, as it turned out, andanticipated, most imprudently, I confess, the little fortune that Iimagined to be secure. When we came here, where living is so much moreexpensive than in the country"--with no Redford to draw upon--"Isurrounded my wife with the comforts that were her due, and which Ifully believed she had every right to. " He waved his hand over thestill blooming Axminster carpet and the brocaded suite the family wasnot allowed to sit on. "I spent--we spent the little capitalrepresented by your father's wedding present--I had an erroneous ideathat it was to be an annual allowance pending the eventual division ofthe estate; and then--well, then you know what happened. "

Deb nodded. 

"Did you, " she inquired feelingly, "borrow of those professionalmoney-lenders?"

She was prepared to be very sympathetic in that case; but MrGoldsworthy repelled the suggestion with scorn. 

"Certainly not. I never borrowed money in my life. I struggled andscraped and saved, as best I could; I endeavoured in vain to augment mysmall income by little speculations--harmless little dabblings inmining shares; I--but I won't bore you with thesedisagreeables"--pulling himself up with an air of forced cheerfulness. 

"But I want to know, " said Deb. "You spoke of worries--Mary'sworries--worries now; are you still--"

He spread his hands and wagged his head. 

"I'd rather not talk about our troubles, " he sighed. "I don't want todim the sunshine of your--"

And suddenly his eye flashed and his brow contracted with annoyance. Mary--somewhat hesitatingly, to be sure--walked in. 

Robert had insisted that the pater was all wrong in his idea that itwas proper for him alone to receive the visitor, and for the mistressof the house to linger inhospitably after it was known that she mustknow of the visitor's arrival. Robert had coerced his mother into doingthe correct thing. Politely he opened the drawing-room door forher--that, of course, was absolutely the correct thing--and escortedher forward with the aplomb of a man of the world, nicely blended withthe respectfulness appropriate to a nephew and a school-boy. 

"Ah, HERE she is!" Mr Goldsworthy exclaimed heartily. 

The sisters were at once in each other's arms. Deb, pierced to theheart by Mary's aged and faded looks, was the most demonstrative of thetwo; Mary struck her after a moment as being a little reserved andchilly--as if on the watch to repel benevolence as soon as it shouldtake tangible form. Deb understood, and was warned to be circumspect. 

"And this is our boy--grown out of knowledge, eh?"

Mary stepped swiftly aside to let Robert come forward, and there was nomistaking the sentiments held in common by the parents with regard totheir son. Their two faces were mirrors for each other, suffused withthe same tender pride. 

"Perhaps the child has reconciled her to the rest of it, " Deb hazardeda hope. "She may be happy. "

For Mary smiled and moved alertly about the room. She accepted herhusband's ostentatious hand and chair, and when he resumed theconversation, or rather restarted it, on the subject of Robert'sachievements at school, she followed where he led, so long as he didnot seem leading towards Deb's pocket, backing him up in the mostwifely manner. "Can it be possible?" Deb kept asking herself, glad atheart to see such signs, which yet lessened her pity for and interestin her sister. But Mary, with all the pride of the Pennycuicks in her, was not, one to "let on". Her skeleton was locked tight in the cupboardit belonged to when visitors were about--especially such a visitor asthis--and also when they were not about, so far as she could have it so. 

So that a sort of air of entertaining "company" pervaded the room. Debfelt a constraint with her sister, and that she was making no way withher mission. But Robert stepped into the breach. With Mary's son theimpulsive lady of Redford was unexpectedly pleased. There was not atrace of Pennycuick to be discerned in him; nevertheless, he was agood-looking, intelligent and interesting boy. He sat by her on thesacred brocaded sofa while she brightly questioned him, brightlyanswering her with aptness and good sense; his parents beaming on thepair, even the father content to play second fiddle to give the son hischance. Here, at any rate, thought Deb, was material to hand for thework she had come to do. 

"I love boys, " she remarked--and so she did, as some people lovedogs--"and Robert and I are going to be great friends; aren't we, Robert?"

"It is very good of you to say so, aunt, " Robert replied, withcharacteristic propriety. 

"But, do you know, I don't think I shall call you Robert, " she went on. "It has a prim sound"--but it was the primness of himself that shewanted to break down--"and it doesn't suit a boy of your tender years. I think I'll call you Bob, if you don't mind. "

"I wish you would, " he adroitly answered her. 

"What is your bent towards, in the way of a career, Bob?"

He said he thought the law--to be a judge some day. 

"You don't care for station life?"

"Oh, he does, " his father eagerly interposed. "He loves it. But he hashad so few chances--"

"Which is your school, Bob?"

A seminary of no repute was named, and the father again intervened toregret that it was not one of the public schools. "But they, unfortunately, have been beyond our means--"

Here Mary broke in with praises of the seminary. It had such anexcellent headmaster, was so conveniently situated--really better inmany ways than one of the great schools--

And then Robert broke in. 

"My dear mother!" he ejaculated, in a compassionate and forbearing way. 

"Ah, Bob knows it is not better, " laughed Deb. "And it isn't, Mary; youare no authority, my dear. Which of the public schools do you fancy, Bob?"

He mentioned his choice, and the University scholarships that were tobe had there. 

"Debbie!" implored Mrs Goldsworthy, under her breath. 

"Hush-sh!" hissed her husband. 

"You be quiet, Molly, " Deb playfully adjured her. "This has nothing todo with you, or with anybody except Bob and me. You come and spend yournext vacation with me at Redford, Bob, and then we can talk it all overtogether. "

She nodded to him meaningly. He smiled with perfect comprehension. 

"How can we thank you, " Mr Goldsworthy murmured emotionally, for healso understood. "It is too, too--"

"It's all right, pater, " the remarkable boy silenced him. "Aunt Deborahknows how we feel about it. "

Mary sat in stolid silence, for once indifferent to her husband's dumbcommand; then tears welled into her tired eyes. She pocketed her pridefor her child's sake. It had been her hopeless longing for years togive her darling's splendid abilities full scope. 

"He will repay you, Debbie, " she said. 

"Ah, don't be so grudging--so ungenerous!" cried Deb. 

Tea and cakes were brought in, and Bob, as he was thenceforth to bestyled, waited upon his aunt in the correctest manner. He had by thistime taken on an air that seemed to say: "You and I understand theropes; you must excuse these poor parents of mine, who were not bornwith our perceptions. " And Deb, no more proof against this sort ofthing than meaner mortals, had a feeling of special proprietorship inhim which she found pleasant, although he was not exactly theheir-on-probation that she could have wished; which, of course, itwould have been preposterous to expect in a son of BennetGoldsworthy's. Bennet Goldsworthy accompanied her to the gate when shewent away, forbidding Mary to expose herself, hatless, to the wind. Andthere the benevolent aunt's "intentions" were more distinctlyformulated. 

"I wish to take entire charge of his education, if you will allow me. He is a very promising boy, and should have all his chances. Let mesend him to the Melbourne Grammar after Christmas, and as a boarder, ifyou don't mind. There are such advantages, both in position and forstudy, in living at the school. "

"I leave everything--everything, in your hands, " murmured the gratefulfather. 

"By the way"--as an after-thought--"what about your little girl?"

She was not a little girl now, and had finished with school; but, oh, the boon that a few good lessons in music and languages would be to her!

That matter was settled. 

"Well, now, " said Deb, "we must think about Mary. She is frightfullythin. I can see that she has had too many worries, as you say. She mustbe taken out of them. I want to have her at Redford with me--as soon asshe can get ready--and give her a good long rest, and feed her up, andmake her fat and strong. "

"I only wish you could prevail on her, " he sighed. "But I am afraid youwill not get her to go anywhere without me. I have a devoted wife, MissPennycuick"--even if she had not tacitly forbidden "Deborah" in herpoor days, he would not have ventured upon the liberty now that she wasrich--"too devoted, if that can be. She insists upon sharing all myburdens, though I fain would spare her. I know well that, say what Iwill, she will never consent to leaving me to struggle with them alone. "

"You have not told me what they are, " said Deb, who saw that he was indread of her going before he could do so. 

"Oh, debts--debts--debts!" he answered, with a reckless air. "Themillstone that we hung about our necks when we anticipated that shewould have money, and lived accordingly, and were then left stranded. The eternal trying to make a shilling go as far as a pound--to makebricks without straw, like the captive Israelites of old. But why doyou ask me? I hate to talk about it. " He made a gesture of putting themiserable subject aside. 

"It was very hard on you, " Deb said gently--contradicting the Deb of anearlier time and different state of things--"to have thoseexpectations, which were certainly justified, and to be disappointed asyou were. I feel that we Pennycuicks were to blame in that--"

"Oh, dear, no!" he earnestly assured her. 

"And that an obligation rests on me, now that I have the means, to makesome compensation to you--to Mary, rather. "

"It is like you to think of that. But really--"

"And I put a blank cheque in my pocket, and a stylographic pen--andwill you let me"--she drew forth the articles mentioned, and made adesk of the top rail of the gate--"will you do me the favour to acceptfrom me--what shall I say?--five hundred pounds? Would that relieveyou--and Mary--of the immediate worries?"

He said it would, with the mental reservation that it did not amount towhat he had been defrauded of by Mr Pennycuick (she had made a mistakein the designation of her gift); but the slight coolness of hisacknowledgement quickly gave place to grateful fervour as he realisedwhat the immediate five hundred pounds would do for him, and read inher words an implication that the sum was but an instalment of what shefelt to be his due. He was incoherent in his thanks and benedictions ashe slipped the cheque into his pocket. 

"And you will let me have Mary at Redford?"

"Oh, yes! She will not want to go, but I shall make her. "

"And do not tell her more than you can help about this little privatetransaction. She might feel--"

"I will tell her nothing that is likely to vex her. "

"Do not--PRAY do not. Only take these sordid worries off her shoulders, and give her what she needs, and don't let her toil and moil. Remember, it is for her I do it. " There was a little sting in that last remark, but he was too happy to feel it. 

CHAPTER XXII. 

Now, what to do for Rose. 

Rose had written warm congratulations to her sister, without mentioningany desire for a personal interview. Ever since her marriage, she hadrefrained from giving invitations to her family, leaving the initiativein social matters to them--a mark of consideration and good taste onher part which they had quite approved of; and intercourse had beenlimited to afternoon calls, more or less affectionate and informal, butstopping short at meals in common under the roof of either party. Now, however, Deb craved for a fuller sympathy with the sweetest-temperedand kindest-hearted of her sisters, and now it seemed so perfectly easyto go to her house in pursuit of it. She despatched an impulsive note:

"DEAREST, --I want a quiet talk with you about all that has happened. May I come to lunch tomorrow, so as to make a long afternoon of it? Ifnot convenient, fix a day to lunch with me; but I am not so tied as youare, and besides, I should like to have Peter's advice on one or twolittle matters of business, if it would not bother him--of course, after he comes from town. Don't keep him at home on purpose. "

To which Rose replied by telegram:

"Shall expect you early tomorrow for a long day. Peter delighted toplace himself at your disposal. "

So Deb set off next morning, full of benevolent intentions, to gatherpoor humdrum Rose and her (in his way) truly worthy husband into thesphere of her golden prosperity. Also, incidentally, to warm herself inthe light of faithful and familiar eyes. Since her final dismissal ofClaud Dalzell--although she was satisfied with that act, and ready torepeat it again, if necessary--she had been conscious of a personalloneliness, not sensibly mitigated by her crowd-attracting wealth. "Someone of my own" was the want of her warm heart. 

And Rose, with no petty grudge for past short-comings, answered thatneed with open arms. Never was hostess more cordial to honoured guest. Peter also was at home. He had been to town and back again, and nowstood upon his spotless doorstep, and anon upon his handsomedrawing-room hearthrug, determined that his house should lack nothingbefitting the great occasion. It was all in gala dress--newly-arrangedflowers, festive lunch-table, the best foot foremost; and yet, whereasthere was no hiding the self-seeker in the ingratiating BennetGoldsworthy, there was no finding him in this proud host and husband, whose desire was only to do his dear wife credit. 

Neither of them said, in word or manner, "Why didn't you come like thisbefore?" Deb knew that her welcome would have been the same, and hadhard work not to show too frankly her sense of their magnanimity. As itwas, she nearly kissed Peter in the hall--such a nice, warm, comfortable, hospitable entrance to as comfortable a home (in itsundeniably middle-class style) as she had ever been inside of--the morestriking in its effect by contrast with Mary's. Peter's cuffs were likethe driven snow; he was charmingly fresh and clean, well barbered andwell tailored; grown quite handsome, too, now that he had filled outand matured. As for Rose--"I hear, " Frances wrote from Paris, "thatpoor Rose has become a perfect tub. " Mrs Peter was almost as broad asshe was long. But what health in the sunny face! What opulentwell-being in the full curves of her figure, gowned in a fashion tosatisfy even Deb's exigent taste. 

They did not tell her it was good of her to come to see them, but theytold her in all the languages of courtesy that they were mighty gladshe had come. She was taken into the drawing-room--full of soft chairsand sofas that anybody might sit on, and with a fire of clear coals ina grate that glittered with constant polishing. But everything inPeter's establishment seemed to shine with pure cleanliness; he tookafter his mother, who, modest in other things, was fond of offering asovereign to anybody who would find a cobweb in her house. 

Deb was peeled of her furs by Peter, with the greatest deference andpoliteness, but with none of the obsequiousness that had sickened herelsewhere; he laid down her sable cloak with the reverence of one whoknew its value, and he asked Rose in a whisper if her sister would likea glass of wine before lunch. The smiling matron shook her head, andwhispered something else, which sent him out of the room. Then, whilehe skipped about in the background, attending to the wines and beers, she convoyed the guest to the very luxurious bedroom where head-nurseKeziah dandled the youngest of the Breen children. The rest had hadtheir dinners and gone out a-walking, so as not to be made too much ofby a silly mother, if it could be helped. Warm was the greeting betweenKeziah and her late mistress, and many the questions about Redford andthe old folks; but there was no hint that Mrs Moon hankered after thebig store-rooms and linen-closets, the dignities and privileges of herformer home. Her heart was with Rose's babies now. 

"There, what do you think of THIS?" she demanded, as she proudlydisplayed her charge, and, being invited thereto, condescendingly laidit in Deb's outstretched arms. 

It was a pretty, healthy creature, fat, dainty and about two monthsold, still in the whitest and finest of long clothes. "Little duck!"Deb crooned, and rubbed her cheek almost with passion on its rose-leafskin. Robert's nose, indeed, was dislocated on the spot. 

"Oh, Rosie, " she presently blurted out, "I would like to have thischild!"

"Would you?" replied Rose, all smiles. 

"No, but, seriously and without joking, I really would, you know. "

"I daresay, " laughed the plump little mother, and her laugh was echoedby Keziah as she passed into the adjoining nursery--to leave the longparted sisters to themselves. 

"Now, look here, " the guest addressed the hostess, thoughtfully anddeliberately, as soon as they were alone, "if you will give her to me, I will bring her up and educate her as perfectly as care and money cando it. She shall take the name of Pennycuick, and be my daughter, andmy heiress, and the future representative of the family. And, " sheadded, for her own inward ear, "we can live at home or somewhere, ifnecessary, where Breens and such will not have the chance to interferewith us. "

"As if I would give my baby away, " Rose sweetly jeered her--"even for akingdom!"

"You have five more, and may have another five--or twenty-five. Itlooks like it. "

"But none to spare. Besides, you won't want other people's childrenwhen you get your own. How about her being the heiress then?"

"I shall never have children of my own, " said Deb, with tightened lips. "That is why I want to adopt one. " Rose laughed the idea to scorn. 

"Of course you will!" cried she. "You must. All the money in the worldis nothing compared with a baby. I wouldn't give one of mine for twentyfortunes--not if I had to earn their keep at the wash-tub. "

"Not even for the child's own advantage?"

"It is not to any child's advantage to grow up thinking that its motherdid not care to be a mother to it, " said Rose. "Nor yet--possibly--togrow up to look down on her. "

"Rose!" Deb's guilty face flamed scarlet. 

"Or on her father, " Rose continued, with soft but firm persistence. "She must have a father too, Deb, and Peter would not give his job awayany more than I would give mine. He thinks the world of them all. He isjust as good a father as he is a husband, " with a lift of head andlighting of eye. "Come to me, my precious!" as the baby whimpered. "Come to its own mother, then! No, no, Debbie dear, you be a motheryourself in the natural and proper way; you will find it a deal betterthan being rich. Marry some good, kind man straight away, before youwaste any more of your young years. I am sure there must be dozensdying to have you. "

"Dying to have the handling of Mr Thornycroft's money, " said Deb, witha bitterness that surprised her sister. 

"Oh, no, " said she; "you are sufficient attraction without that. "

"I shall never know it. But this, " thought Deb, "is a very Breen-liketurn that the conversation is taking. These people--and Rose has becomeone of them--have quite the tradesman's idea of marriage. Any 'good, kind man' will do. They cannot be expected to understand. " She watchedRose billowing down into her nursing-chair, and pretended to herselfthat she was not envious. "It would have been a wildly-rash experimentto adopt this child, and I shall probably live to be thankful that myoffer was refused, " she inwardly argued, while her beautiful eyesmelted at the spectacle of the happy mother snuggling the babe to herbared breast. "It is a charming little creature now, but it wouldprobably grow up common, whatever its education and environment. Bloodwill tell. And if she took the name of Pennycuick, she could not passit on. After all, a boy is best. "

So Robert Goldsworthy remained in the position his gifts had gained forhim. 

After an admirable meal--in the course of which Deb made herself mostcharming to her brother-in-law, while Rose retired as much as possiblefrom the conversation, in order that he might shine to the bestadvantage--those little matters of business that had been mentionedwere discussed. They were trifles invented for the purpose ofcompliments to Mr Breen, and the serious energy with which he appliedhimself to each case, and his exhaustive treatment of it, showed histhorough enjoyment of the part alloted to him by the distinguishedwoman who was so accomplished in the art of giving pleasure--especiallyto men. Frankly, Deb always preferred a man to talk to, and she wasagreeably surprised to find that Peter was very intelligent, andacquainted with several things beside shopkeeping. Rose was simplyenchanted to find herself 'cut out' by him. When she was not stealingfrom the room to leave the coast clear, she was beaming over herneedlework in the background, still as a mouse. Not by word or lookwould she spoil his chance of proving to Deb what he really was--howmistaken in him she and the others had been. 

It was Peter who escorted the guest round the garden and stables, MrsPeter excusing herself. In the well-stocked greenhouse Miss Pennycuick, who was fond of flowers, obtained 'wrinkles' that she declared would bemost valuable to her in the management of her Redford houses--which sheimplied that he must see; in the interview with the carriagehorse--Rose had a little brougham, not, as her sisters supposed, forpaying calls on other drapers' wives, which she had small leisure for, but for shoppings and airings and taking children to dentists andpantomimes--Miss Pennycuick was instructive in her turn, feeling legsand advising about firing and bandages with the recognised authority ofan expert. Old Bruce, padding at his master's heels, was greeted byname, patted and shaken hands with, as if he had never abetted rebels;and the discovery of a litter of choice puppies gave opportunity forthe making of a little present, which was graciously received. 

After tea, Rose was invited to show her house--a further proof of hersister's tact and powers of divination. Now Peter was left behind--heused the opportunity to cut flowers for Deb to take away with her--andthe little matron was in her glory. From top to bottom, and everycupboard and corner, and the numerous up-to-date appliances, and thestocks of silver, linen, china, the ample furnishings of every part, the solid goodness of every bit of material--all was displayed withmodest pride, the complacence of one who knows there is nothing to hideor apologise for. 

"Isn't it a nice home, Debbie? Could any woman wish for a better home?"she asked again and again, unable to restrain herself. 

And Deb, with a few secret reservations, said "Yes" and "No" withkindly warmth, thinking to herself: "Happy child, to be satisfied soeasily! How much happier than we who want the moon!"

"I often wonder why I am so blessed, " Rose said, in the midst of thehouse inspection, "when poor Molly, who deserved so much more, livesthe life she does. Ah, Deb--what a marriage!"

She spoke of it exactly as Bennet Goldsworthy had spoken of hers--in aspirit compounded of benevolence and contempt, the former elementpreponderating in him, the latter in her. At the moment she wasexhibiting the complete appointments of Peter's dressing-room. 

"My husband may be a draper, " said she, "but at least he does not shavein my room. "

The survey of the house ended at the nurseries. Rose had purposely leftthe best till last. Her throwing open of the door revealed a picture socharming that it persuaded Deb to accept an invitation to dinner inorder that she might do justice to it. 

"Oh, what a delightful room!" she cried, as her eyes ran round itspictured walls, glowing in the evening firelight. 

"Not large enough now, " the smiling mother objected. "We are going tobuild new ones--a wing at the back--and turn these into bedrooms forthe elder children, who will soon be old enough to have their own. "

"Oh, what little loves!" Deb then exclaimed, her eyes upon the younginhabitants--five little fat, white, vigorous creatures in variousstages of preparation for bed. 

"There is one absent, " explained Rose, in accents of keen regret. "John, the eldest; he is paying a visit to his grandparents. This isConstance, the second"--a golden-haired girl, enjoying her nightlytreat of nursing the new baby. "And this is Kathleen"--a chubbycreature in a flannel dressing-gown, waiting for her bath; "andLucy"--being rubbed down by the nursery underling, Jane; "andPennycuick"--Deb started at the name, and was uncertain whether itpleased her or not in this connection--the baby but one, in the tubunder the hands of old head-nurse Keziah. "ARE they not sweet?"

They really were. Clean-blooded, clear-eyed, well-fed, well-kept, fullof life and fun--the pride of the maternal heart was amply justified. Deb plunged into the group delightedly, kissed them, teased them, tickled them, did everything a proper aunt should do; and Rose was inecstasies. 

"Oh, Debbie, " she pleaded, "DON'T go yet! Stay with them for a little. Stay and see baby undressed--I always do it myself--and have a bit ofdinner with us; you will, won't you? Give me my nursing apron, Jane. "

As she tied the sheet of flannel over her smart gown, she whispered toJane:

"Go down and tell Mr Breen that Miss Pennycuick is going to stay todinner. "

Then she turned up her sleeves, settled herself upon a low chair, and, with bath-tub and belaced toilet basket, and warming night-clothesaround her, performed the task that made this hour the happiest of herhappy day. As closely as the romping children allowed, Deb watched her, and marvelled at her quick skill and lightness of hand. Who would havethought that little Rose could be so clever? The healthy baby, sodeftly handled, raised no protest, but curled her toes as if sheenjoyed it; and when all was done, the snowy-robed, perfumed creaturewas laid to its young mother's generous breast, and sucked itself tosleep in five minutes. Deb, wistfully observant, began to dimlyapprehend that to wish Rose's marriage undone would be about as kind asto wish back to earth the dead whom we believe in heaven. 

Meanwhile, Peter had been bustling about after such dinner arrangementsas he could attend to. Mr Thornycroft himself had never taken morepains to please this guest. Deb enjoyed strawberries for the first timethat season, and a glass of wine that even Claud could not have carpedat. Coffee was brought to the drawing-room, from which Rose slippedaway for a whispered colloquy with her husband in the hall; the resultof which was that they came in together to ask Miss Pennycuick to dothem the honour of standing godmother to the baby. Deb put the crownupon the gracious day by promptly consenting. 

"But that, " she thought, with some chagrin, as she rolled homewards--orrather, bedwards--with Peter's flowers in the carriage besideher--"that is the extent of my tether in this direction. A christeningmug, and a bit of jewellery on her birthdays--I shall be allowed that;otherwise I can be of no more use to them than if I were a workhousepauper. They are independent of me and of everybody. "

CHAPTER XXIII. 

The years passed, and the destinies of our friend began to take finalshape. The bread cast upon the waters returned. The chickens came hometo roost. 

One winter's morning Captain Guthrie Carey brought his ship intoHobson's Bay. The agents of his company sent letters to him there. Hetook one from the sheaf, and read it carefully--read it four times. Then he tore it into little pieces and dropped it over the side. Thepilot and the first officer wondered at the concentrated gravity of hismien, at the faraway look in his cold blue eyes. Yet is was a veryshort and simple letter. There were no names inside, and it merely said:

"I returned by last mail, and am at the above address. I shall be athome tomorrow afternoon at five. Of course I am seeing nobody, so weshall be quite undisturbed. Be punctual, if possible. "

The "above address" was the big house that had belonged to the late MrEwing. "Tomorrow afternoon" was but an hour off. 

At five precisely Captain Carey shed his ulster in the palatialvestibule, and at the heels of a soft-footed man-servant, marchedthrough the warm hall and up the shallow, muffled stairs to thefamiliar drawing-room--a long room, the lower end of which was inshadow, and the upper illuminated like a shrine, with rosy lampsprojecting from a forest of chimney ornament, and a great bright redfire twinkling upon tiles and brass. The big palms were in their bigpots, spreading and bowing over settees and cosy corners; every bowland vase overflowed with the choicest flowers, although it was wintryJune. And the tea-table was ready; the old seductive chairs and tableswere grouped upon the Persian hearthrug in the old way, with thesheltering screen half round them. Indications of the desire of themistress of the house to give him special welcome were too marked andmany to be ignored. 

He was left here to meditate in solitude for a few minutes, and he didall the meditating that was possible in the time. His heart thumpedrather faster than was necessary, but his strong face was a picture ofcomposed determination. Indeed, it was not easy to recognise the youngGuthrie Carey of old Redford days in this stern, tough, substantialman, steady as a rock amid the winds and waves of incalculable fate. Just now he had the look of a military commander braced for a pitchedbattle. And the V. C. Has been won for many a less courageous enterprisethan that on which he was now engaged. 

Leaning his broad shoulders on the ledge of the mantelpiece, androasting his stout calves at the glorious fire, he watched the distantdoorway with narrowed but keenly-glinting eyes. When he saw the dimcurtain lift to let in the light from the landing and a slim woman'sfigure, he straightened himself, and set his teeth hard. It had to befaced and fought, he felt, and the sooner it was over the better forthem both. 

She came fluttering up to him, with both hands held out. How white theywere against the crape! And how wonderfully her complexion and her hairwere set off by the black robe and the fine lawn bands at throat andwrists! He loathed the mockery of the widow's weeds, but thought he hadnever seen her look so lovely. 

"Oh, Guthrie! Oh, what YEARS it seems! Were you wondering what hadbecome of me? But I couldn't--somehow I didn't feel that ICOULD--before--"

She cast herself into his arms in the most natural way in the world. Helaid one of them round her waist lightly, and kissed her brow; then, when she lifted it for the purpose, her mouth--the sweetest woman'smouth that ever made a pair of soft eyes omnipotent. After some secondsof silence, she looked at him questioningly, all a-quiver with nervousexcitement. Her delicate cheek was pink like a La France rose. 

"It was so good of you to come, " she murmured humbly. "It wasn't--itdidn't bother you? You were not wanting to do something else, were you, dear?" There was revealed in tone and manner the fact that even selfishFrances had come to care for something more than for herself. 

"No--oh, no, " he replied, rather breathlessly. "I WAS going up thecountry this afternoon, but fortunately I got your letter in time. "

"Oh, if you had! What should I have done? I couldn't stand it anylonger, Guthrie. It is four whole months--since--though it seems likeyesterday--"

"And how are you?" he broke in, taking a fresh grip of the sword, as itwere. 

He held her off from him, glancing at her shoulder, her skirt--anythingbut her eyes, which were HER sword, two-edged and deadly. 

"Oh, don't look at me!" she exclaimed, shrinking. "I hate myself inthis horrible gown--I feel so mean and hypocritical--though I do mournfor him, Guthrie. You must not think I feel happy because he isdead--no, indeed; I wish I could! But one must conform to a certainextent, mustn't one? And every respect that I can possibly show to hismemory--especially after the way he has treated me! I suppose youheard--" "What?" Guthrie had heard, but asked the question to fill time. 

"Five thousand a year, " said she, "at my absolute and entire disposal, with no restriction or condition of any sort or kind. "

She made the announcement in a level tone, and without a smile, but hedetected the triumph and satisfaction underneath; and, feeling much thestronger for it, he observed gravely that the dead man was a good man. "And I always knew it, Francie, worse luck!"

"Oh, so did I! Far--far too good for the likes of me. But--well, weneed not talk about that now. We couldn't help ourselves, could we? Andthe past is past; everything is different now. Oh, Guthrie, what it isto kiss you without feeling that I am doing wrong!"

She kissed him as she said it, pressing him to her. Of course he kissedher back, but his hands on her waist were rigid, as if he wore anevening shirt, and was afraid of her crushing the front of it. Shemight have noticed this if she had not caught a glimpse of herself atthe moment in a mirror behind him. 

"One thing, " she said, "I did draw the line at. I positively refused towear a cap. I knew--I knew you couldn't have borne THAT!" Holding hercharming head, rippled all over with goldenchestnut curls and coils, just in front of his eyes, she pleaded for confirmation of thisstatement. "You couldn't have stood seeing me in a cap, could you, Guthrie?" "As far as I can judge, " he replied, "nobody asks you to wearcaps these days, whether you're a widow or not. Why, the verygrandmothers go about in yellow fringes and things, pretending they arethirty or forty, when everybody knows they are twice that, at theleast. When I was a youngster, there used to be old ladies--my motherwas one; but the race has died out. "

"I, at any rate, am not an old lady, " Mrs Ewing remarked, with a joyoussmile. "My yellow fringes and things are all my own, and so is mycomplexion, and so are my teeth. "

Her smile widened to reveal their pearly excellence. She took his hand, and rubbed the back of it on her downy cheek, and laid the palm on hersoft, thick locks. Even yet she did not see that anything was thematter, confident in her still young beauty, and in the fact that henow knew for certain that the bulk of her husband's property was hers. How often she had wondered whether he knew or not, feeling sure that heMUST have heard the news at some of the many ports he had put intosince it had become a matter of public knowledge, and why he alloweddays and weeks, even months, to pass without making a sign. There hadalways been the cables, anyway. She put it down to his delicacy, hissense of the awkwardness of the situation, his consideration for her. 

"We will have tea first, " she said, touching the bell-button. "Then weshall not be disturbed any more. We can talk till dinner-time. Oh, howI wish you could stay for dinner, and a long, long evening! But it isbetter not to do things of that sort yet, don't you think? Better notto run risks of making scandal now that there's no longer any need forit. "

"Much better, " said Captain Carey firmly. 

"And, after all, there are lots of ways that we can meet without doinganything improper. I have thought of heaps. I can go to Sydney--I cango home, for that matter; I am a perfectly free agent. And we have nowless than three-quarters of a year. Guthrie, I want you to let me havethe twelve months good. It is a long wait, I know, but we should feelthe benefit of it afterwards--"

"Hush-sh!"

She glanced down the room in alarm, and saw the door open to admit theservant she had summoned. He brought teapot and kettle, hot cakes andmuffins, and arranged them with unnecessary carefulness on the littletable by the fireside. Hostess and guest watched his slow manoeuvreswith an impatient but fascinated gaze, and tried to think aboutsomething to talk about for his edification, and could not. 

"Thank you, Willis; that will do, Willis. I'll ring if I want anythingelse. I don't know, Captain Carey, whether you are one of those peoplewho despise tea and cake--"

They were alone once more. Captain Carey refused the profferedrefreshment. Mrs Ewing, making no effort to persuade him, took a fewmouthfuls hastily; then she set her cup down, and with a quick flirt ofthe hand, extinguished the two pink lamps. They were old-fashionedgas-lamps too. 

"We don't want lights to talk by, " she said, in a casual way. "Thefirelight is enough. I think firelight at this hour so much thepleasantest, don't you?"

"Oh, yes, " he responded desperately, and indeed was glad of the shelterof a shadow on his face; but he said to himself, with clenched handsand a long indrawn breath, "Now comes the tug-of-war. "

A very large and wide sofa, low, deep-seated, full of springs and downpillows, stood in the cosy firelight, a great, tall, curving screenbehind it. Mrs Ewing--as she had done many times before--crossed overto this sofa, sank into its yielding depths, and looking up at hercompanion, patted the empty seat beside her. The man hesitated for aninstant, and then--as he had done many times before--obeyed thesignificant gesture. But now the time for preparation, for hesitation, had expired; it was necessary to brace himself for the decisive deed. Even as she clasped her hands beneath his ear, he unclasped them, gently but firmly, and drew them down. With his back to the firelight, she could not see his face, but he could see hers, and the swift changein its expression. She was puzzled and surprised, but, as her handswere still held fast in his iron fists, resting on his knee, she wasnot conscious of the state of the case. 

"My girl, " he said, clearing his throat--she had allowed him so manyliberties that this mode of address was quite in order--"you and I canspeak plainly to each other. There's no need for us to beat about thebush, is there?"

"Of course not, " she replied, all at sea as to what this portended, butjumping to the conclusion that he was going to be proud about themoney. "It would be an odd thing if we took to being shy, at this timeof day. "

"It would, wouldn't it?" He cleared his throat again, and made a freshstart. "Look here, Francie--don't do that! Listen to me child--"

"I am not a child, sir. Allow me to inform you that I was twenty-ninelast birthday. " She was so pleased to think she was only twenty-nine, rich and free, with her life in her hands, and half a year-from thirtystill, when she might have dragged on till she was old and grey, or inher grave! "And why am I not to do that? Since when have you lost yourtaste for kisses?" Then suddenly, with an anxious cry--"Guthrie!darling! what is the matter with you?"

"Nothing, " he said hastily--"nothing, of course, except that we must beserious and sensible, and--and talk things over quietly, dear. As yousay, you are not a child. No more am I. We know the ropes, Francie, don't we? We've outgrown the delusions of boys and girls. We've had ourexperiences as man and woman--eh? You know what I mean. No need tomince matters--to go in for conventional nonsense--you and I. We cantalk straight to each other at a time like this?"

As he laboured painfully to explain, without explaining, her face fadedlike a sunny landscape when a wet fog crawls over it. For, Franciethough it was, she loved him--she loved him all she knew. 

"Guthrie, " she moaned piteously, "have you left off caring for me?"

"No, Francie. Of course I haven't. "

"Have you--while I have been away, and in so much trouble--been puttinganother woman in my place?"

"Certainly not. "

"Is it that you don't like to live on his money, Guthrie?"

"I should NOT like to live on it--decidedly not. But the fact is, Ihaven't given the money a thought. " "Then why--why are you like this?"

"I'll tell you, Francie--I'll tell you plainly. It seems infernallybrutal--but I'm sure you know I wouldn't say a thing to hurt you if Icould help it. "

"Oh, go on!"

There were red roses in her cheeks now, and a sparkle that was not allfirelight in her eyes. 

"It is this, dear--don't try to take your hands away, I am going tokeep them; I must have you listen to me till I've quite done--it isthis, Francie: Love, as we very well know--I mean our sort of love--isone thing, and marriage another--"

"WHAT? Oh, is THAT it? Ah, ah! I see now. "

"Take your own case, " said he, with a relentless air. "Haven't youproved it up to the hilt?"

"Proved what?"

"That marriage is a failure. "

"Of course, marriage is a failure when it is blundered into as Iblundered into mine, when I was too young and ignorant to know a thingabout it. That is not saying it would be a failure now. "

"It would be a dead failure, Francie. I am absolutely convinced of it. "

"Because you have grown tired of me! Because somebody else has got holdof you behind my back! Because--oh, because you men are all alike, thinking of nothing but the amusement of the hour, sucking a woman'slife-blood as if she were an orange, and throwing her aside like theuseless skin--without honour, without constancy, selfish, heartless, treacherous--"

"Hush, Francie! Don't talk rubbish. I may be like other men--I've nodoubt I am--but I'm not all that. When I make an engagement, I keep it. When I take obligations and responsibilities upon me, I do my best tofulfil them. Most men do--decent men; but they never have justice donethem in these cases. "

"In these cases!" she echoed scornfully. "Everybody knows what theirconduct is in these cases. The world is well used to it. Oh, I ought tohave known--if I hadn't been the most incredible fool! It was not forwant of warnings. But you seemed so different! The idea that you couldplay with a woman in this way--compromise her--change all her life, andspoil it utterly--and then back out! Oh! oh! Can you sit there and tellme that you have incurred no responsibility in your dealings with me, Guthrie--making me love you as I did--making me a bad woman--unfaithfulto my good husband--the most honourable, the most trustful of men--"

"Did I do that? Honour bright now, Francie. "

"Oh, this is too much!" she burst out furiously, springing from herseat, and being dragged back by his iron grasp of her hands. "Let mego, sir! I have had insults enough--and in my own house--with nohusband to protect me--"

"Sit down, " he commanded. "And for God's sake don't--don't go on likethat! I can't stand it. I am not insulting you, dear--not wilfullyinsulting you--not more than I am forced to. I only want us both tounderstand the case as it is; surely you and I are not afraid to speakout--to face the truth? You are not crying, Francie?"

"No, no! Indeed, I'm not! Don't you flatter yourself! I am not hurt, and I'm not the sort of person to go begging a man to marry me, either. I don't think--I really DON'T think that I am QUITE so poorly off asall that comes to. " Here she laughed, but only for an instant. "If youwere to go down on your knees before me, Guthrie, I would not have younow, after the things you have said to me. "

The statement calmed and strengthened him. He felt able to say the rest. 

"Quite right, Francie. Dozens of men will come courting you as soon asyou go out again, and any one of them will make you a better husbandthan I should have done; but not a better friend. I hope you willalways remember that. "

"Many thanks. Will you be so very kind as to release my hands, CaptainCarey? They ache. "

"One moment. I want to make sure of the last chance I shall get toexplain--to tell you exactly what I mean--you, who are old enough, experienced enough, to understand. I don't want to defend myself, Francie--not at all. I am not the cad to say, 'The woman tempted me, and I did eat. ' I don't blame you, dear--I don't blame anybody. A womanis a woman; and a lovely woman like you--well, the way things aremanaged in this world, I don't believe she can help herself. But lookhere, Francie, a man is a man too, and a good deal more so. If you werea girl, I wouldn't say this; but you knew--you knew what you were doingwhen you laid yourself out to be sweet and--and kind to a fellow, asyou were to me. Did you take me for an old maid or a Social PuritySociety? You know you didn't. A man does his best, but he's too heavilyhandicapped--I won't say by nature--perhaps by habit, which is secondnature--the habit of generations, inherited in his blood--and his caseis not on all-fours with your case. And especially when he is asailor--so cut off--so deprived--Very well. And so it happened--as ithappened. Never mind about the right and wrong. What's wrong today maybe right tomorrow; and in any case, no arguing can undo what's done. We'll leave that. "

She sat before him, panting, and the roses in her cheeks were white. Happily, the fire had grown a little dull by this time. 

"For myself, " he continued, speaking slowly, as if trying to thinkthings out--"for myself, whether I ought to repent or not, I don't--Ican't. Theoretically, I know it is always the man who is in the wrong, and I should have been foully in the wrong--I should be unfit tolive--if you had been an unmarried girl, Francie--or if I had beenthe--the--"

"Oh!" she moaned bitterly, grasping his point of view, if not the plainjustice of it. "But I have brought it on myself--I have only myself tothank. I made myself cheap, and must take the consequences. "

"It is not that, " he said kindly, but still feeling in hisunsophisticated brain that it was. "I don't hold you cheap, my dear. Iwant to disabuse your mind of that idea, that I am throwing anything inyour teeth. Good God, I should think not!--it would come ill from me. Ihave no conventional views about these things--none. But look here now:if you were my wife, I should never see you with another fellow withoutthinking--well, you know what I should think--and feeling myself likepoor old Ewing--Oh, I AM a brute!" It was revealed to him all at once. "Do--DO forgive me!"

"Pray don't apologise!" she cried, in a high, shaking voice. "It isbest, as you say, to speak plainly--not to mince matters--especially asthere is no one to call you to account for what you say. "

"And it would be worse for you, ever so much, " he continued earnestly. "Having got into the way of--of this sort of thing--I'm afraid I mightbe tempted again--that I couldn't honestly promise--in short, the factof the matter is that we are neither of us domesticated, so to speak--"

"There--that will do" she broke in, coldly furious, but with a volcanoin her breast that threatened eruption and devastation shortly. "Willyou let me go, Captain Carey? Or must I call my servants to myassistance? I have only servants now. "

"Yes, yes"--and he released one hand--"I will, if you'll say youforgive me, Francie. I've made an awful mess of it, I know--"

They rose together, and the other hand was freed. It was the righthand, and she returned it to him immediately. 

"Good-bye!" she said, between clenched teeth. 

He held her tightly once more. 

"May I come and see you again? May I write? I can say it better inwriting. "

"You have said all that needs to be said. There is no necessity towrite. If you write to me, I shall return the letter unopened. "

"But why? It is surely absurd for us to put on airs of dignity with oneanother. Francie, you don't mean us to part like this?"

She stepped quickly across the hearthrug and, with a passionategesture, pressed the button of the bell--evidently to summon Willis toshow him out. So he took up his hat, offended in his turn, and for thefirst time feeling fairly easy in his mind as to the way he wastreating her. But the tragedy of the moment was turned to vulgar comedyby her alarm at the fact that she had struck the bell before relightingthe pink lamps. 

"Oh, where are the matches?" she whispered excitedly. "I can't findthem. "

"Here--here!" he cried, fumbling for his own pocket box. 

And their flurried hands got mixed as she turned the taps while heapplied the light to the burners. 

The instant after they had restored the room to its normal condition, the butler appeared. Mrs Ewing turned to him with the amazingself-possession of a woman accustomed to extricate herself at amoment's notice from an awkward fix. 

"Willis, " she said sweetly--and even smiled as she spoke--"will youplease have a cab fetched for Captain Carey? He is rather late for adinner engagement. " The butler acknowledged the order and withdrew. Inthe light of the pink lamps the late combatants looked strangely at oneanother. 

"And you would have married MARY!" the woman commented upon the issueof the fight. It was both a taunt and an accusation. 

The man lifted his brows questioningly, as at a loss to comprehend hermeaning. 

"Has that anything to do with it?' he asked. 'I don't see theconnection. "

The sentences were short, but signified many things. 

CHAPTER XXIV. 

Frances Ewing was a shady name thereafter, to those "in the know". Pennycuick blood and pride notwithstanding, she seemed to lose her ownsustaining self-respect when she lost the respect of the man sheloved--when he showed her with such barbarous and uncompromisingcandour the essential difference between a mistress and a wife. Ofcourse, she "got over" that grievous affair, which, for a time, brokewhatever heart she had to break. Her freedom and her money, her youthand her beauty, were still hers, and she made the most of them; andthat most was a great deal. In her cosmopolitan sets she was a popularand distinguished figure. From one fashionably rowdy Continental resortto another she carried her rich jewels and trappings, and her personalmagnetism, and sat down for the season to a campaign of socialstratagem and sentimental intrigue--to the indulgence of her unbridledappetite for excitement and the admiration of men. And ever at the end, when it was time to move on to another BIJOU apartment in anotherplace, there was a fresh scalp at her girdle, and nothing, as it were, to show for it, until at last her vanity was tempted with a title, andshe married an Italian count, who, if all tales were true, paid thedebt that his sex owed her with heavy interest. But those tales did notreach the ears of the sisters at home. To them--with the object ofsuitably impressing them--she wrote an occasional note, of which halfthe words were titles of nobility; and the humbler relatives acceptedthe fact of her unapproachable elevation above them. The Breens madeeasy jokes upon the subject; Mr Goldsworthy's jealousy of her wasovercome by his pride in the connection. "We had a letter from mysister-in-law, the Countess, the other day, " he would amiably remark, and proceed to repeat and amplify the fashionable intelligencecontained therein, instead of taking away her character as he had beenused to do. Deborah was the only sister with whom she can be said tohave corresponded, and Deborah had a shrewd suspicion that all was notgold that glittered in Francie's lot. Deborah had the best means ofknowing, being herself a world-traveller, and what is called a societywoman, as well known in the resorts of such as Frances herself. Butalthough they seemed to run so closely, and so much upon the samelines, there was as wide a gap of social difference and non-intimacybetween them as between any two of their family. And Deb was not one tothink evil of her own flesh and blood, if it was possible to think good. 

She, too, might have filled her letters to Australia with titles ofnobility--nobility of a firmer standing than the Countess and herfriends could boast of--had she been inclined to do so. A baronialhall, dating from the Conquest--a ducal castle, not to speak of a RoyalPresence Chamber--was nothing to Deborah Pennycuick after a while. 

To see her on a crowded London staircase, laughing with a prince or aprime minister, was a common object of the season for a number ofyears; while varnishing days and first nights would have lacked charmfor the society reporter who could not place her fine figure and herFrench gowns in his pictures of these scenes. Goodwood and Cowes werefamiliar with her striking face and her expert interest in horses andyachts; Highland shooting-lodges, English hunting-fields, claimed herfor their own. Southern Europe, the Nile, Bayreuth--in short, whereversocial life was bright, comfortable and select, there she turned uppromiscuous, as the spirit moved her, to be welcomed open-armed as amatter of course. Men, young and old, continued to pay her homage, which was not just the sort of homage they paid to Frances; proposalsof marriage were, or might have been if not nipped in the bud, almostas plentiful as invitations to country houses in the autumn. And sherelished it all with singular enjoyment--until she began to feel theapproach of that winter and evening of life which has so sharp a chillfor those who have loved the sun. 

Claud Dalzell was likewise a denizen of the great world that was hersand not Francie's, and, close corporation as it is, they were never faroff each other's beat, seldom in ignorance of each other's whereabouts. At the same time, they also did not touch. It was known throughout thegreat world, which is so small, that there was a deadly feud betweenthem; and tactful hostesses took pains not to bring them intojuxtaposition. In public places, when meetings occurred by accident, only the most frigid bows were interchanged. 

For, in quite early times, when the Australian heiress, as she wasimproperly styled, was taking London more or less by storm, she chancedto overhear a brief colloquy not intended for her ears. 

"Who is that glorious woman that came in with the duchess? I don't seeher just now, but she had a red frock on, with black lace over it--darkhair and diamond stars--not half as bright and fine as her eyes, byJove!"

"It must be Miss Pennycuick--an Australian lady. She is with theduchess's party. "

"Oh, is that Miss Pennycuick? Well, now I can believe what I've heardof her being so charming. She carries it in her face. "

"She WAS charming--until she came into her money. That has quite spoilther. "

It was Claud Dalzell who said it, and Deb heard him say it. She movedoff out of the press that had brought her within reach of his coldvoice--not to be mistaken by her for any other voice--and she vowedthrough clenched teeth that never again would she come within thatdistance of him, if she could help it. 

The years as they passed only strengthened this determination. Eachproud inclination of the head, each ceremonious lift of the hat, addedbitterness to their mutual resentment--to his feeling that she wasspoiled by her money, and to her feeling that he wilfully misjudgedher. The breach was widened by their unconcealed flirtations--adescription mentally applied to the most ordinary man-and-womanacquaintanceships on either side, but not inappropriate in all cases. Claud ever loved the company of handsome women who appreciated him; Debnaturally inclined to nice men in preference to the nicest women; andeach liked to show the other that he or she was still of highimportance to somebody. Rumours of impending marriage were continuallybeing wafted to his ears or hers, but nothing came of them. He wasconfirmed in luxurious bachelorhood; she was aware of manyfortune-hunters, and could not bring herself to value any of herdisinterested suitors at the price of her freedom. So the one-timelovers drifted more and more apart, until somehow they lost sight ofeach other altogether; and meanwhile the years made them old withouttheir knowing it. 

She was unreasonably upset on one occasion by the offer of a specificfor grey hair from a fashionable London hair-dresser. It was absolutelypermanent, harmless and undetectable, he said. "But I am not grey, " sheindignantly informed him. Whereupon she saw his keen professional eyewander about her brow as he murmured something about the faintbeginnings that might as well be checked. At home she studied thematter carefully in a strong light, and called Rosalie, her maid, toaid her. The little Frenchwoman assured her that a microscope wasneeded to detect a white thread in that beautiful mass of darknut-brown. With a microscope, no doubt, as many as half a dozen mightbe discerned dimly, just where it waved back from mademoiselle's face. 

That same afternoon she and Rosalie left town for one of theircountry-house visits. It was a weepy autumn day, and she was not asfresh as usual--the hair-dresser, combined with some troublesomeshopping, had tired her--and the disquieting suspicion laid hold of herthat she was more easily fatigued than she used to be. While readingher novel in the train, she counted her years, and compared herselfwith the women she knew whose ages were recorded in the Peerage, andwho could therefore be proved to be as old as herself. Some of themwere wrinkled hags. Carelessness or ill-health, doubtless, shereflected; and neither charge could be laid at her door. Heigh-ho! Thathorrid man!

It was dark night when they reached the little station belonging to themansion that was their goal. A dozen other guests and their servantsand baggage crowded the platform, and half-a-dozen carriages andluggage-brakes the yard behind; and Deb was at once in charge of a tallfootman, Rosalie struggling through the press with jewel-case anddressing-bag, chattering French to one of her familiars in the rear. Distracted stationmaster and porters uncovered to the stately woman asshe passed. It was all a matter of course to her these days. 

She was too late for the big tea-party; the men had gone to thesmoking-room, the women to their own firesides. After a brief butaffectionate interview with her titled hostess, Deb was soon at hers, slippered and dressing-gowned, sipping the jaded woman's stimulant, warming the damp and dismalness out of her, assuring herselfconfidently that she was not an old woman, and had no intention ofbecoming one. 

Certainly, when Rosalie had dressed her, she was entitled to an easymind. The best of everything tonight, in vindication of her stillunimpaired beauty and potency. Shimmering brocade of her favourite red, and lace like fairy work; and then that magnificent satin-white breastand massive throat, and the stately head crowned with the famous fivestars, whose flashing made the eye wink, and which yet were dimmed bythe light of her dark eyes. She surveyed herself with full content whenthe last touch had been given her, and her slow sweep a-down corridorsand grand staircase was a triumphal march. She knew that her entranceinto the crowd downstairs could no more fail of its customary effectthan could the appearance of the sun next morning--or, one shouldrather say, the announcement of dinner to the tired and hungry shootingmen. 

She was met at the foot of the grand staircase by her host, andimmediately surrounded. In the close press of friends she did notnotice the strangers; time was too short and they were too many. A lordof her acquaintance, who still hoped to make her his lady, took herinto dinner, and called upon all her powers of wit and repartee to meethis conversational tactics during the meal. It was an exhilaratingencounter, and of sufficient interest to keep her "eyes in the boat". Moreover, the table was immense, and the chief of the strangers sittingon her side of it, a long way off. 

After dinner there was little comedietta played on the boards of thetoy theatre belonging to the house. Many of the ladies were in theirplaces before the men, still craving repose after their hard day'swork, could hoist themselves from their chairs in the dining-room. Deb, having helped to coach one of the amateur performers, was early in herseat in front. Some of her admirers did manage to squeeze in beside andbehind her from time to time, but the particular stranger haughtilyheld aloof. 

Then, when the play was over, there was an impromptu dance, for thetheatre was an ANNEXE to the ball-room. It was the young folk who beganit, but older ladies joined in, and all the men but the hardenedsportsmen, who saw a chance to sneak to their snuggery and gun-talkbefore the time. The really old women, obviously past their dancingdays, sat around, and looked on and gossiped to one another. And for atime Deb sat with them. 

She was certainly tired--for her--and the fact struck her that she hadnot danced for a long time. She had shirked balls, having only too manyentertainments to choose from. She thought it likely that she would bestiff and heavy on her feet from want of practice--a horrible idea toher, who had once danced like a feather in the wind. A good stone hadbeen added to her weight since she had last waltzed with satisfactionto herself; that also was not a pleasing thought. So when her dinnerlord essayed to entice her, she shook her head. A dozen other men, andthe cream of them too--there was comfort in that--followed his example, and made her charming compliments when she said laughingly that she was"too old for these frivolities". 

"Too old--gracious heavens!" they apostrophised space. It washeart-warming to hear them. 

But they went off easily, and were soon dancing with the younggirls--sylphs as airy and agile as she had once been. And by degreesshe drew apart from the old ladies and their talk, which she hated toseem, even to herself, to belong to, and presently found herself in theextraordinary position of sitting alone. She leaned back in her chair, and with eyes half shut, looked at the whirling couples, and dreamed ofthe days--the dances--the youth--that were no more. 

She saw, not this splendid saloon, but a shabby small room in an oldbush house--the walls not panelled with paintings by R. A. S and starredwith clusters of electric lights, but with wreaths of homely evergreensand smelly kerosene lamps. And amid the happy throng that jostled forroom to dance there, a girl and a young man, newly betrothed, anticipating an immortal paradise in each other's arms. 

And she looked up, and saw Claud Dalzell watching her. 

He was horribly aged--illness, it seemed--and had grown quitewhite--that splendid lover with whom she had danced, as no girl hereknew how to dance, in the golden prime of everything! Their eyes met, and there must have been in both pairs something that neither of themhad seen before. He crossed to her side at once, and she did not freezehim when he got there. 

"How do you do? I have been wondering if you were going to recogniseme. "

"How do you do? I didn't know you were here. I never saw you until thismoment. "

"I have been standing there for ten minutes. "

"I did not notice. I was thinking--" "You were--deeply. I was trying toguess what you were thinking of. "

"I wonder, did you?"

"I wonder. Was it, by any chance"--he dropped his voice--"Five Creeks?"

She was quite startled and discomposed by this extraordinarydivination; having no time to decide how she would take it, she filledthe embarrassed moment with a laugh. 

"Goodness! I'd no idea that my face was such a tell-tale. I believe Iwas. That funny old room, with ridges in the floor, and the ceilingnearly on your head--how DID we manage to dance in it?"

"Well, we did manage somehow, didn't we?"

They gazed at the figures wheeling past them, blankly unresponsive tocasual stares and smiles. They seemed to hear the rotten flood-gates, shut so long ago, creak on their rusty hinges. 

"Heard anything of the Urquharts lately?"

"Yes. Alice was married the other day--to a widower with fourteenchildren. She has not been very happy at home, I fear, with Harold'swife. Harold has the place now, you know. Jim gave it up to him when hemarried. "

"When who married?"

"Harold. "

"What's Jim doing?"

"He is my manager at Redford. "

Mr Dalzell smiled darkly. "He likes that, I suppose?"

"I don't know whether he likes it or not, I'm sure, but I do. I knowthat everything's right when he is there. "

"Married?" "Lawks, no! The most confirmed old bachelor on the face ofthe earth. "

They fell silent again, still gazing into the room. Deb lay back andfanned herself; Claud leaned forward and nursed his knee. He ought nowto have asked news of her sisters, but he avoided mentioning any ofthem. 

"Been back lately, Deb?"

"Not for years, I am ashamed to say. "

"Anybody living at Redford?"

"Miss Keene and a few servants only. Too bad, isn't it? Oh, I must gosoon and see the old place. But this European life--somehow, the longeryou live it the less you feel you can live any other. "

"I used to feel that. But now--one gets awfully tired of things--"

"Oh, I don't!"

"But then you keep so horribly young, don't you know. "

He turned and looked at her. She flushed up like a girl. 

"Thank you. That's a very pleasing compliment, although I know youcannot mean it. "

"I'd like not to mean it. I'd like to have found you as old as I ammyself. "

"How cruel of you! Not that you are such a Methuselah as you would tryto make out--"

"There are not five years between us, " he broke in sharply. 

"I know. "

Back went memory in a flash to a succession of childish birthdays, their love-tokens and festive celebrations. His was in November, andhis "party" was usually a picnic. Hers was in May, and was "kept" inthe house, with big fires and a tea-table crowned with a three-tierediced cake, and blind-man's-buff and turn-the-trencher in the evening. She recalled wild contests with an imperious little boy, who couldnever conquer her except by stooping to it; and the self-conscioussilliness of their behaviour to each other when they grew from childreninto boy and girl. 

"Not much fun in birthdays now, Deb. " He seemed to comment on herthoughts. 

"Oh, well!" she sighed vaguely. 

And at that instant the music stopped. Someone gave the signal toretire from the ball-room, bedwards. They were parted by the crowd thatgathered about them when the dancing ceased, and he did not find heragain even to say good-night. 

CHAPTER XXV. 

The shooting men were up first, to their early breakfast. It seemed toDeb a matter of course that Claud would be of this virile company; itwas his saving grace as a man, when he was young, that he was a keenand accomplished sportsman. After an indifferent night, she rose lazilyand late; found, as she expected, only a few more women in thebreakfast-room, and ate her own meal alone at one of the little tables. The hostess drifted in amongst the last, and stopped a moment to shakehands and exchange a word. 

"It seems a beautiful day, " she said, "and we shall be making up aparty by-and-by to go out and lunch with the guns. You will join us, ofcourse?"

But Deb thought of Claud amongst the guns, and of the horrible risk ofappearing to run after him; and she replied sweetly that, although shewould have loved the outing, she was afraid she must stay at home, owing to important letters that had to be written for the afternoonpost. 

"All right, " said the hostess, "I'll stay too--there are plenty withoutme--and we'll have a drive later on. "

She passed to her breakfast-table, and Deb rose and went upstairs, tosee what she could find to attend to in the way of pressingcorrespondence. 

She had the status of a married lady in this great house, aseverywhere; that is to say, a sitting-room of her own--a very cosyplace between tea and the dressing-bell. Just now, however, Rosalie wasbusy in it. The maid offered to retire to the adjoining bed-chamber, but Deb said, "Oh, never mind; go on, " and gathering her blotting-bookand papers, went downstairs again to make herself comfortable in thelibrary. She loved a good library to sit in, and generally foundprivacy therein at this time of day. 

The library here was magnificent in stately comfort--books inthousands, busts, old masters, muffling Turkey carpets, a great, bright, still fire, and armchairs so big and soft that it was strangethey could stand empty. She drew up one of them and sat awhile, toasting her feet and turning precious leaves--it was the intervalcovered by Claud's breakfast--and then set herself to the business shewas supposed to be engaged in. 

"Dear Francie, --I tried at half-a-dozen shops to match your Chinesesatin, but nowhere could I get the exact shade. If you like I will tryagain when I go back to town, but if I were you I would not attempt tomake it go with any modern stuff, which could not help looking crudebeside it; I would have quite another material and colour. What do youstay to--"

She paused reflectively, the tip of her pen-handle between her teeth, her eyes fixed absently upon the green park beyond the open window, composing a gorgeous costume in her mind. Before she could even decidewhether to advise a ball-dress with CREPE DE CHINE, or a tea-gown withOriental cashmere, one of the noiseless library doors swung back, and aman came in. Without noticing her still figure, he strolled over to acertain shelf, opened a book that he wanted, and stood, with his backto her, turning over the leaves. 

So he had not gone with the men. How horrid! And what a nuisance thathe should find her here! Well, she was not going to put herself out forhim. She lowered her pen softly, and began to scratch the paper, overwhich she bent absorbedly. He turned round. "Oh, I beg your pardon--"

"Oh, it's you, Claud! Good morning! Why, I thought you would be outwith the guns this fine day. "

"Fine day, do you call it? There's a wind like a knife. And you sithere with the window wide open--"

He marched towards it, and shut it with violence. It was a great glassdoor between stone mullions. Above it and two fellow-sheets ofglittering transparency, three coats of many quarterings enriched thecolour-scheme of the stately room. She watched him with the beginningof a smile upon her lips. The humour of the situation appealed to her. 

"I like an open window, " she remarked mildly. "If you remember, Ialways did. "

He came towards her, looking at her gloomily, looking himself thin andgrey and shivery--but always like a prince. 

"You have more flesh to keep you warm than I have, " said he, quiteroughly. 

"Thank you!" She bridled and flushed. Her massive figure, for a womanof her years, was perfect; but of course she was as sensitive as thewell-proportioned female always is to the suspicion that she was toofat. "You have not lost the art of paying graceful compliments. "

"I meant it for one, " said he, replying to her scoffing tone. "You putme to shame, Deb, with your vigour and youthfulness. I know how old youare, and you don't look it by ten years. And you are a beauty still, let me tell you. It may not be a graceful compliment, but at least itis sincere. Even these girls here--"

"Nonsense about beauty--at my time of life, " she broke in; but shesmiled behind her frown, and forgave him his remark about her flesh. "You and I are too old to talk that sort of stuff now. "

"Do you think I am so very old?" he asked her, standing before herwriting-table, as if inviting a serious judgment. 

She glanced quickly over him. His moustache was white, his ivory-tintedface scratched with fine lines about the eyes; he stooped at theshoulders, and his chest had hollowed in. Yet she could have returnedhis compliment and called him a beauty still. He was so to her. Everyline and movement of his body had a distinction all his own, and "Whata shame it is, " she thought, "for that profile to crumble away beforeit has been carved in marble. "

"We are in the same boat, " she answered him. "There are not five yearsbetween us. "

"Five years put us out of the same boat, " he rejoined, "especially whenthey are virtually fifteen. Deb, I know you think me an old man--don'tyou?"

"What I think is that you are a sick man, " she said kindly. "Are you, Claud? You used to be so strong, for all your slenderness. What is thematter with you?"

"Everything--nothing--only that I feel old--and that I haven't beenused to feeling old--and that it's so--so loathsome--"

"I'm sure it is, " she laughed, rallying him. "I can understand yourbeing sick, if you have come to that. But why do you let yourself? Whydo you think about it? Why do you own to it--in that abject way? Inever do. I'm determined not to be an old woman--until I am obliged. And I don't paint, either, " she added, "and my hair is my own. "

He seemed to study her cheek and her hair. She coloured up, dipped herpen, and looked at her unfinished letter. He wandered off a step ortwo, and returned. 

"Do you know this thing of Hamerton's?" he inquired, in a casual way, extending the volume he held. 

She took it, laying down her pen. A considerable literary discussionensued, during which he fetched more books from the shelves to showher. It began to appear that he meant to spend the whole morning withher, possibly taking it for granted that it was her desire to have him. That idea, if he entertained it, must be corrected at once. She resumedher pen with a business-like air. 

"Deb, " said he then, "do you mind if I read here for a little while? Iwon't disturb you. It's so nice and quiet--away from those chatteringwomen--"

"Oh, certainly!" she politely acquiesced. "But don't you think they'llwant you, with all the other men away? Now's your opportunity to bemade much of. "

"I don't care to be made much of just because I am the only man. "

"Oh, but you would always be more than that, of course. "

"I'm not more than an old fogey when the young fellows are around. Theywill take no notice of me at tea-time. Well, I'm getting used to it. I'm getting to know my place. " "If that was your place, you would soonvacate it. "

"How can I vacate it?"

"When people begin to take me for an old fogey, they'll not have thehonour of my company in their houses. "

"That's very well for you--wait till the time comes. And I suppose youlike it, anyhow. You seem to enjoy all this"--waving a hand around--"asif you were a girl who had never seen anything. I'm sick and tired ofthe whole show. "

"Then don't have any more to do with it. Go home. "

"Home! What home have I?"

"A lovely flat in town, they tell me, where you give the best dinners, and ladies' theatre parties and things--" "Pshaw! I am hardly everthere. I hate the racket of London in the season--I'm not up to itnowadays--and you wouldn't have me stranded in Piccadilly at this timeof year, I presume? I'm obliged to spend the winter down south--and bythe same token I must soon be getting off, or these east winds and dampmists will play the deuce with my bronchitis--"

"Oh, it's bronchitis, is it? I knew it was something. I suppose you'vebeen coddling yourself with hot rooms and all sorts of flannel things;that's the way people make themselves tender, and get chills and chestcomplaints, and get old before their time. "

"The doctors insist on flannel--the natural wool--all of them. "

"The greatest mistake in the world. I used to wear it because I thoughtthe doctors ought to know, and I was always getting colds. Now I neverlet a bit of wool touch my skin--haven't for years and years--and neverknow what it means to have a cold. "

"That is contrary to all the traditions, " he remarked seriously, addressing her handsome back; for she was still supposed to be writingher letter. "I can't believe that it is due to not wearing flannel, Debbie. It's your splendid vitality--your being so different from otherpeople--"

"Nothing of the sort! You try it. Not just now, of course, with winterbeginning, but when warm weather comes again--"

And so on. The hostess broke in upon their TETE-A-TETE while they werestill engrossed in this interesting topic. She was drawn into it, andmade a disciple of by Deb, who attributed all her own blooming healthand practical youthfulness to linen underclothing, combined with plentyof fresh air. And after all, since letter-writing was hopeless, she didgo out to lunch with the guns. Claud remained alone and disconsolate bythe library fire. She was due to leave the house next day, and left, although conscious of a strange hankering to stay; and during theinterval gave Mr Dalzell no further opportunity to talk about hisbronchitis--and other things. He was not aware that she was to go sosoon until she was gone; and then he found himself with livelierfeelings than had stirred his languid being for many a day. He was notonly annoyed and disappointed at being deprived of the refreshment ofher stimulating society; he was incensed with her mode of departure, which seemed to imply an intention to evade him. 

"Does she still think that I am after her money?" he asked himself, with scorn of her mean suspiciousness. "Just because I was magnanimousenough to ignore the past!"

He went down south, to play a little at Monte Carlo and cruise a littlein the Mediterranean--to kill time through the detestable winter, whichmade itself felt wherever he was; and she went to London to see aboutFrancie's gown, and up north to bracing Scotland, and down to Wellwoodfor Christmas, and back to the racket of London in the spring; andneither of them had spent a lonelier time in all their lives. Quite afresh and peculiar sense of homelessness and uncomforted old age tookpossession of them both. 

All through the kaleidoscopic transformation-scenes of the "season", through which she moved magnificently, old-maidhood notwithstanding, she was unconsciously seeking him. It was her impression, from all shehad heard of his tastes and ways, that he could not keep away from thatcommon rendezvous of his class and kind. She did not find him, but allthe same he was there. He returned from his winter haunts sooner thanhis wont, while still the April winds were full of menace for him, exposed himself to those winds seeking her, caught a chill, neglectedit--a most unusual thing--and fell into an illness that confined him tohis bed for many weeks. 

It was not until June that Deb heard of it. He was truly so much of anold fogey now in the society of which he had once been such adistinguished ornament that his disappearance was long unnoticed. Andwhen at last someone noticed it, in Deb's hearing, the light andcallous way in which his trouble was referred to went to herheart--knowing all she knew. One of her generous impulses came to heron the spot, and an hour later she was at the door of his chambers, inquiring after him. 

His man--a very jewel of a man--received her at the door, gravely, cautiously, keeping it half shut. He reported his master mending, butstill weak, and not able to see anyone. Females of all kinds weresternly discouraged by this prudent person, from force of old habit. 

"Oh, of course not, " said Deb off-handedly. "Just give him my card, please, and say I'm very glad to hear he is not as ill as I feared. "

On pain of dismissal from the best service he had ever known--and hehad known it now for a long time--Manton had to find the lady'saddress. As soon as it was supplied to him, Claud sent for her to comeand see him. 

"Are we not old enough now to dispense with chaperons?" he wrote; andthe sight of his hand-writing after all these long years moved herstrangely. "If you think not, bring the deafest old post of youracquaintance. Only DO come. I haven't had anybody to speak to for aweek. "

"Of course we are old enough, " commented Deb, as she read the words. "The idea of fussing about chaperons and that nonsense at our time oflife!" And she proceeded to array herself in her most youthful summerdress, which was also the choicest of her stock, taking the utmostpains to match toque and gloves, while full of indignation against hisfriends for so shamefully neglecting him. 

Boldly she ascended to his sitting-room in the wake of tight-lippedManton, who presently brought tea, and at intervals tended the fire, apparently without once casting an eye upon her. Claud was up anddressed in her honour, while fit only for his bed. In the midst of therefined luxury that he had gathered about him, he looked but the ghostof a man, worn with his illness and the fatigue of preparing for her. It was one of those English summers that never answered to its name, and he sat in a sable-lined overcoat--considered more respectful than adressing-gown--in a heat that almost choked her. 

But with swelling heart she hurried to his side, and, after greetings, drew a chair close up to his, took the hand he silently extended, andheld it in a long, warm, maternal clasp. Manton retired and shut thedoor. The invalid lay back on his cushions, and closed his eyes. Thevisitor, watching him, detected an oozing tear--the first she had everseen there. 

"How did it happen?" she crooned, and followed the question with manymore of the same sort; to which he replied as to a mother or a nurse. 

"It's this beastly climate, " he complained. "It upsets me everytime--though this is the worst bout I've had yet. I really can't standit, Debbie. Even in June, when you'd think you were safe--just look atit!"

It was raining slightly as he spoke. 

"Well, why do you try to stand it?" said she. "Why not come back toyour own country? You'd be safe there, if anywhere. " "I've beenthinking of it, " said he. "It has been in my mind all winter--thethought of that good, soaking sunshine that we used to have and thinknothing of. The Riviera isn't a patch on it. Aye, I'd get warm there. But what a life--now. I am not like you--I've got nothing and nobody togo back to--I should be giving up everything--the little that I haveleft. And God knows life is empty enough as it is--"

"Well, I'm going, " she broke in. "And am I nobody?"

He sprang up in his chair. "You--YOU going?"

"Time I did, " she laughed. "I haven't set eyes on my property and mytwo sisters since goodness knows when. " He held out his shaking hands. His face was working pitifully. 

"Debbie, Debbie, " he wailed, like a lost child, "will you take me? Willyou have me?"

She caught him in her strong arms. 

"Dearest, we will go together, " she murmured. And he fell, sobbing, onher breast. 

It was not in the least what she had meant to say or to do; but theappeal was irresistible. It was too terrible to see him--HIM, her youngprince of such towering pride and beauty--brought down to this. 

But she soon had him out of his slough of despond, and climbing thehills of hope again with something of his old gallant air. The rapidityof his convalescence was astonishing. By the end of July he was wellenough to be married. 

CHAPTER XXVI. 

The first letter signed "Deborah Dalzell" was addressed, strange tosay, to Guthrie Carey--not to the commander of the SS APHRODITE, viahis shipping office, but to Guthrie Carey, Esq. , Wellwood Hall, Norfolk. 

For a great change had taken place in the circumstances of her oldfriend. 

One day, a few years earlier, he had been called from thesea--somewhere off the coast of South America--to take his place as aland-owner and land-dweller amongst the great squires of England; quitethe very last thing he could have anticipated in his wildest dreams. Three sons of the reigning Carey had been capsized in a gale while outyachting. The reigning Carey, on hearing of the catastrophe, had beenseized with a fit that proved fatal in a few hours. His eldest son'swife, as an effect of the same shock, had given birth to a still-bornmale infant--the sole grandson. One brother had died childless; anotherleaving daughters only; the third, Guthrie's father, was also dead. Thus the unexpected happened, as it has a way of doing in this world, and the t'penny-ha'penny mate of old Redford days had become the headof a county family. 

His experiences had trained him for the change. He took it soberly, without losing his head. A bristling array of blood-enemies weregradually transformed into a circle of respectful friends; some of themassisted him to settle himself in his unfamiliar seat, to teach him theduties of his high station. He was teachable, but independent, notshutting his eyes and opening his mouth to swallow all the old-worldcreeds they chose to put into it, but studying every branch of thescience of landlordism in the light of his own intelligence andbeliefs. When he had fairly mastered the situation, he married one ofhis cousins. 

He was in his robust middle-age, which comes so much later to men thanto women, she was well on in her thirties--a comely, sensible, well-bred young lady, and a most excellent coadjutor to a squire new tothe business. An eminently wise selection, said his brother squires, when the engagement was announced. The wedding was a great familyfunction and county event. It meant that the Careys, instead of beingsplit up and scattered to the winds, remained together, united inamity; it meant that the dignity of the old house was to be kept up. When, a year later, Wellwood rang bells and lit bonfires in honour of ason and heir, nothing seemed wanting to confirm the general impressionthat our Guthrie was not only a wise but a singularly fortunate man. 

It was an impression that Guthrie shared. From the point of view thathe had now reached in life, he believed himself favoured beyond thecommon lot. He loved Wellwood, full of the memorials of his ancientrace; he enjoyed his settled and comfortable place therein, after thehomeless roving of so many years--the feel of solid land under his feetand under his life, for which every sailor pines, despite whateverspell the sea may lay on him. He was proud of his perfect-manneredwife, who was also his good friend and confidante; he was egregiouslyproud of his handsome boy. And the day of the young romance--of thegreat passion--of those sordid "little fires" which beckon to men whosenature craves for warmth and whose "yule is cold"--that day was past. "Love is one thing and marriage another, " he had once said, withoutreally meaning it; but he had spoken truer than he knew. Moreover, theshocking statement was not nearly so awful as it seemed. The veryconditions of married life are fatal to love, as love is understood bythe yet unmarried lovers--insanely sanguine, of human necessity--askingthe impossible, and no blame to them, because they are made so; but nomatter. That thing which comes afterwards, to the right-minded andwell-intentioned, and which they don't think worth calling love--thatsober, faithful, forbearing friendship, that mutual need which enduresall the time, and is ever more deeply satisfied and satisfying insteadof less--is no bad substitute. 

Yet how the world of imagination dominates the world of fact! How muchfairer the unseen than the seen! How much more precious the good wehave not than the good we have! In his private desk in his privatestudy, Guthrie kept--just as old Mr Pennycuick had kept hisvalentine--a faded, spotted, ochre-tinted photograph of poor littleLily in the saucer bonnet with lace "brides" to it that she was marriedin; and when Wellwood was humming with shooting parties and the like, and its lady doing the honours of the house with all the forethoughtand devotion that she could bring to the task, the stout squire wouldbe sitting in his sanctum under lock and key, gazing at that sweetgirl-face which had the luck to be dead and gone. Lily in theretrospect was the faultless woman--the ideal wife and love's youngdream in one. "I have had my day, " was the thought of his heart, as helooked across the gulf of strenuous, chequered, disappointing years tothat idyll of the far past which her pictured form brought back to him. "Whatever is lacking now, I HAVE known the fullness of love andbliss--that there is such a thing as a perfect union between man andwoman, rare as it may be. " It will be remembered that he was married toher, actually, for a period not exceeding five weeks in all. 

And Deborah Pennycuick, who would have made such a magnificent lady ofWellwood--who was, in fact, asked to take the post before it wasoffered to the cousin--she came to spend Christmas under his roof whilestill a spinster, on the tacit understanding that neither was a subjectfor "nonsense" any more. Deb and Mrs Carey were close friends. Deb wasthe godmother of the heir. The homelikeness of Wellwood was intensifiedby her intercourse, while there, with English Redford and thedescendants of that brother with whom old Mr Pennycuick had been unableto hit it off--humdrum persons, whose attraction for her lay in theirname and blood, and the fact that they could show her the arms andportraits of her ancestors and the wainscotted room in which her fatherwas born. It was to Wellwood that she went to be married. From the oldhome of the Careys she was driven to the old church of the Pennycuicks, full of mouldering monuments to a nearly vanished race; it was buriedin its rural solitude, far from railways and gossip-mongers andnewspaper reporters, and the wedding was as quiet as quiet could be. Guthrie was acting brother, and gave her away. He never, of course, disclosed the secret that was his and Francie's, honest brother as helonged to be; but perhaps, even had she known it, and her own austerechastity notwithstanding, she might have been broad-minded enough tojudge him kindlier than is the wont of the sex which does not know all, and have still held him worthy to be to her the friend he was. As sheknew him, she loved him sister-like, and turned to him naturally whenshe needed a brother's services. And so it was to him that she wrotefirst, at the end of the short wedding-day journey--just to tell himthat she and her bridegroom had arrived safely, and that Claud wasstanding the fatigue much better than they could have hoped. 

She did not write to Frances until she had her husband on the highseas. She did not write at all to Mary or Rose, not wishing them toknow of her marriage until she could personally 'break it' to them. Itwas not difficult to ensure this, since for many a year they had allbeen so separated by their respective circumstances that they were nolonger sisters in the old Redford sense. The business of each was herown, and not supposed to interest the rest. Only such domestic eventsas were of serious moment were formally reported amongst them, and werenever deemed serious enough to use the cable for. 

The pair came home very quietly. Sydney was the port of arrival, andhere Deb divined on the part of her husband a desire to be left inpeace--to recruit after laborious travelling in the care of his devotedand accomplished man--while she went forward to "get the fuss over". Those sisters were the shadows upon his now sunny path, although he didnot say so; he wanted to get to Redford without having to kiss them andtalk to their offensive men-folk on the way. So Deb proposed to do whatshe felt he wished, and paid no heed to the dutiful objections which hecould not make to sound genuine in her ears. She telegraphedinstructions to Bob Goldsworthy to engage rooms for her and to meether, signing the message "Aunt Deborah"--her only herald. 

Bob was duly at Spencer Street--elegant in curled moustaches and afrock-coat--become a swell young barrister since she had seen him last. He was sure of the impression he would create upon his discriminatingaunt, and had no notion that her first flashing glance at him wasaccompanied by a flashing thought of how her adopted son would toosurely be ranked by her more discriminating husband with the "bounders"of his implacable disdain. On the platform--while explaining that heknew it was not the proper thing to do in a public place--he embracedthe majestic figure in the splendid sable cloak. Deb said, "Bother theproper thing!" and kissed him readily--charily, however, becauseconscious of teeth that were not Pennycuick teeth, and perverselyobjecting to the faultless costume. But, looking at the frock-coat, sheperceived mourning-band upon the sleeve. Another encircled hisglittering tall hat. 

"Not--oh, Bob!--not your mother?" she gasped. 

He shook his head, and asked a question about her luggage. 

"Aunt Rose--your uncle--?"

"Oh, Aunt Deb--don't! She is my aunt, I know, but he--" Bob spreaddeprecating hands. "They are both well, I believe. I think I heard thatthe fiftieth baby arrived last week. Is that your maid in the brown--"

"Oh, but, Bob--tell me--they haven't lost any of those nice children, Ido trust!"

"I should hardly have been in mourning on their account. No--fat andtough as little pigs, by the look of them. It is my father, Aunt Deb. Ithought you knew. " "What!" She stopped on their way towards Rosalie andthe luggage van. "You don't say--"

"Yes--a couple of months ago. The mater wrote to you. "

"I have been wandering from place to place--the letter never reachedme. "

"Pneumonia, supervening upon influenza--that is what the doctors calledit; but it was really a complication of disorders, some of them of longstanding. Between you and me, Aunt Deb, he took a great deal more thanwas good for him latterly, and that told upon him. His blood was bad. You know he was always a self-indulgent man. "

Deb nodded, forgetting that it was a son who spoke. She was saying toherself, "Bennet Goldsworthy, whom we made sure would live for ever!Bennet Goldsworthy, of all people! What a relief that will be toClaud!" And then she thought of her widowed sister, with a rush of pityand compunction. He was her husband, after all. 

Bob's light attention to the subject was already gone. He was staringat one of the great trunks covered with foreign labels. Rosalie wastelling him how many more Mrs Dalzell had. 

"Oh, yes, " said Deb, confused and crimson, "I forgot to mention--Isuppose you don't know--that I am married. To an old friend of ourfamily--your mother will know him well. By the way, Bob, I must go andsee her at once. We'll have some lunch first; I must wash and change myclothes. Then will you stay at the hotel and settle Rosalie, and see tothings? No, I would rather go alone. Stay in town and dine with me--anddon't look so shocked, my good boy, as if I'd cut you off with ashilling. My marriage will make no difference to you. " "AuntDeb!"--with dignified reproach. "As if I thought of that. "

But somehow she felt sure he did think of it. 

They had luncheon together at the hotel, and sat awhile to digest itand to talk things over. While they sipped coffee, he told her how hehad furnished his bachelor rooms--the artistic woodwork, the curios, the colours, how he had hunted for the right shade of red, what he hadgiven for a particular rug which alone would blend and harmonise. Shewas brightly interested in these things, and promised to go and seethem. She was to go to lunch next day--he thought he could safelyundertake not to poison her with bad cooking or unsound wine. He livedin chambers in Parliament Place. This engagement booked, she asked himfor his mother's address. 

Mary lived in a small street in Richmond. 

"Such a slum!" said Bob disgustedly. "But she would do it, in spite ofall that I could say. And rushed there, too, when he had hardly beendead a week. It was not decent, as I told her, to be advertising thesale two days after the funeral. But she is a peculiar woman. "

"She is a Pennycuick, " said Mrs Dalzell reprovingly. "She would notcare to go on living in a house that she had ceased to have the rightto live in. I should not myself. "

"But she might have gone to another place. "

"You must insist on her going to another. "

"I am afraid my influence is not enough to persuade her. "

"My dear boy, I am convinced that if you asked her to walk into aburning fiery furnace, she would do it to please you, without amoment's hesitation. "

"She is that way in some things, poor dear; but in others--I may talktill I have no voice left, and she won't listen. And she was set onthis scheme. She has a mania for--for that sort of thing. One wouldnever believe that she was your sister. She would hate to live likeother people. She simply loves to be a nobody. I can't understand it. You try your influence with her, will you?"

"Well, order a carriage for me, and I will put on my things. "

He pressed her to allow him to escort her, which was obviously theproper thing. When she refused again, and went off, like any nobody, alone, he returned to his chambers, leaving Rosalie to the unimportantpersons whose business it was to look after her. 

Mrs Breen's house was in East Melbourne, and Deb directed the coachmanto drive there first. She remembered the fiftieth baby that was but afew days old. 

"I must see how the poor child is doing, " Deb said--not alluding to thebaby. 

And soon she saw again the exquisitely-kept garden--large for thatlocality--and the spacious white house almost glittering in the sun. She had sniffed at the bourgeois villa--she thought it bourgeoisstill--but who could help admiring those windowpanes like diamonds, andthat grass like velvet, and that air of perfect well-being whichpervaded every inch of the place? As the carriage entered the fine, wrought-iron gates, a flock of little Breens, attached to aperambulator, two nurses and five dogs, were coming out of it; and shestopped to accost and kiss them. Each child was as fresh as a daisy, its hair like floss silk with careful brushing, its petticoats asdainty as its frock, its socks and boots immaculate. There was Nannie, her godchild, shot up slim and tall from the dumpling baby that heraunt remembered, showing plainly the milky-fair, sunny-faced, wholesomewoman that she was presently to become. Deb gazed at her with aches ofregret--she had thought them for ever stifled in Claud's all-sufficingcompanionship--for her own lost motherhood, and of lesser but stillpoignant regret that she had not been allowed to adopt Nannie in BobGoldsworthy's place. The joy of dressing and taking out a daughter ofthat stamp--of having her at home with one, to make the tea, and tochat with, and to lean on! Old Keziah came to the door--Keziah sleekand placid, like the family she served--delighted to welcome thedistinguished traveller, but still more delighted to brag about thelast Breen baby. 

"A lovely boy, without spot or blemish, " said Keziah, three times over. "And that makes eleven, and not one too many. And Miss Rose doing fine, thank you. I'll go and prepare her for the surprise, so it don't upsether. "

Constance, quite a grown young lady, met her aunt on the stairs;Kathleen and Lucy rose from the piano in the drawing-room, where theyhad been entertaining their mother at a safe distance with theirlatest-learned "pieces"; they too had to be greeted and kissed--andsweeter flesh to kiss no lips could ask for. "My husband may be adraper, " Rose had often said, "but I'll trouble you to show me a dukewith a handsomer family. "

Mentally, Deb compared the cool, flower-petal cheeks of her Breennieces with her Goldsworthy nephew's mouth, covering those unpleasantteeth. It would have been fairer to compare him with her Breen nephews, but there the contrast would have been nearly as great. John, atbusiness with his father, and Pennycuick, learning station managementwith the Simpsons at Bundaboo, had the fresh and cleanly appearance ofall Rose's children; in physical matters they were as clean as theylooked. Bob did not look unclean, but with all his excessive smartness, he looked unfresh. That look, and the thing it meant, were his father'slegacy to him. 

At last Deb reached her sister's room. It was another addition to theever-growing house, and marked, like each former one, the ever-growingprosperity of the shop supporting it. The fastidious travelled eyeappraised the rich rugs and hangings, the massive "suite", thedelicately-furnished bed, and took in the general air of warm luxuryand unstinted comfort, even before it fell upon Rose herself--Rose, fatand fair, and the picture of content, sitting in the softest ofarm-chairs, and the smartest of gowns and slippers, by the brightest ofwood fires, with a tableful of new novels and magazines on one side ofher, and a frilly cradle on the other. 

"My husband may be a draper, " she had remarked at various times, "buthe does give me a good home. "

Deb, so long homeless amid her wealth, conceded at this moment, withouta grudge, that Rose's humble little arrow of ambition had fairly hitthe mark. 

They embraced with all the warmth of the old Redford days. A few hastyquestions and answers were exchanged, and their heads met over thecradle. 

"You poor child!" Deb exclaimed, as a matter of form. "Haven't you donewith this kind of thing yet?"

"Oh, " said Rose, "I should feel lost without one now. And we wantedanother boy--we have only three, you know. Isn't he a darling?"

Number eleven, fast asleep, was fished from his downy bed and laid inhis aunt's arms, eagerly extended for him. His clothes might have beenwoven by fairies, and he smelt like a violet bed in spring. 

Strange thrills--sharper than those that Nannie had set going--shookDeb's big heart as she cuddled and kissed him. 

"The older I get, " she confessed, "the greater fool I am about a baby. And you do have such nice babies, Rose. "

"Yes, " simpered Rose. "They ARE nicer than most, certainly--I'm sure Idon't know why. " Her eyes gloated on the white bundle; she fidgeted toget it back. "Ah, Debbie, I wish--I wish you knew--"

"I know you do, my dear, " laughed Deb, a little queerly, and shereturned the baby in order to hunt for her handkerchief. "And if youmust know the truth, so do I. It's tantalising to see you with morethan your share, while I have none--and never shall have, worse luck!Well"--blowing her nose cheerfully--"it's no use crying over spiltmilk, is it? And I tipped the can over myself, so I can't complain. How's Peter?"

Rose told her how Peter was--"so dear, so good"--and then had so muchto say about the children, one by one, through all the eleven of them, that it was quite in a hurry at last that Deb disclosed her secret. AndRose not only sustained no shock--which would have been bad forher--but could see nothing in the marriage worth fussing about, exceptthe fact that it came too late for a family. Such a sordidly domesticperson was she! She mourned and condoled over this spilt milk--so surethat poor Deb was but hungrily lapping up drops with the dust of thefloor--that Deb grew almost angry. She took back her own words, andsaid she was glad there were no children to come between her and herhusband, who needed only each other. She implied that this union had ahigher significance than could be grasped by a mere suckler of fools(nice fools, no doubt) and chronicler of small beer (however good thebrew). She believed it, too. Love--great, solemn, immortal Love, passionate and suffering--was a thing unknown to comfortable, commonplace Rose, as doubtless to Peter also. They were dear, goodpeople, and fortunate in their ignorance and in what it spared them;but it was annoying when ignorance assumed superior knowledge, andwanted to teach its grandmother to suck eggs. Was it come to this--thatmarriage and a family were synonymous terms? No, indeed, nor everwould, while intelligent men and women walked the earth. Deb reservedthe more sacred confidences for Mary's ear. Mary had loved--strangelyindeed, but tragically, with pain and loss, the dignified concomitantsof the divine state. Mary would understand. 

CHAPTER XXVII. 

Mary's house was a chill and meagre contrast to that of Rose, but therewas nothing cold in Mary's welcome. To Deb's 'Darling! darling!' andsmothering embrace of furs, the slim woman responded with a grip andpressure that represented all her strength. Deb, although not theeldest, was the mother of the family, as well as the second mother ofBob. 

"Where is he?" were Mary's first words--and Deb smiled inwardly to seeher as absurd in her mother's vanity and preoccupation as Rose herself. But this was a case of a widow's only son, and the visitor was thankfulfor such a beginning to the interview. "Where is he?" cried the anxiousvoice. "He was to have met you. And he never fails--this is not likehim--"

"Oh, " Deb struck in easily, "he was there all right, looking after hisold aunt like a good boy. He wanted to bring me, but I told him hecould be more useful looking after Rosalie and my things. I thoughtwe'd rather be by ourselves, Molly--poor old girl! You know I neverheard a word until he told me just now. Your letter did not reach me. "

They kissed again, in the passage of the little house. 

"You will send away the carriage, Debbie?" Mary urged, without visibleemotion. "There are stables in the next street. You will take off yourhat and stay with me a little?"

"Indeed I will, dearest, if you will have me. Are you alone?"

"Quite alone. "

"Where's the old lady?"

"Oh, dead--dead long ago. "

"And Ruby?"

Mary looked confused. 

"Ruby? Ruby is--don't you know?--an actress in London. Doing very well, they tell me--"Miss Pearla Gold" in the profession. "

"Gracious! Why, I've seen her! Burlesque. Tights. The minx! Well, shemust be coining money, anyhow. I hope she doesn't forget to make somereturn for all the trouble she has been to you. "

"She forgets everything, " said the step-mother, "and we are thankfulfor it. Bob hates the thought; it is hard on him, who is so different. Don't allude to it before him, please; he feels it too keenly. Debbie, what did you think of my boy?" "Oh, splendid!" was the cordialresponse. "I could hardly believe my eyes. "

"Is he not?" the fond mother urged. "And it is not only his appearance, Debbie--they say he is the cleverest lawyer in Melbourne. He is solearned, so acute! He has a practice already that many a barrister, well known and of twice his age, might envy. "

The pale woman--for her bricky colour had faded out--thrilled andglowed. 

"Yes, he told me, " said Deb; "and it was good hearing indeed. But Ialways knew what he had in him. ' To herself she said: 'Why, if he is sowell off, does he let her live like this?"

Poverty--though decent poverty--proclaimed itself in every detail ofthe mean terrace-house, which stood in the most depressing streetimaginable. It made the wealthy sister's heart ache. 

"And how are you yourself, Debbie?" Mary remembered to ask, as she shutthe door upon the departing carriage. "You look well. How is Francie?We want you to tell us all about her grand doings. Bob is greatlyinterested in his Italian aunt; he thinks he would like to take avacation trip to see her some day. By the way, did he tell you thatRose has another? Isn't she a perfect little rabbit? And quitedelighted, Keziah says. "

As she talked in this detachment from her personal affairs, she led theway up bare stairs to her small bedroom. The resplendent woman behindher took note of the widow's excessive thinness, the greyness of herstraight, tight hair, the rigid lines of a black stuff gown that hadnot a scrap of trimming on it--not even the lawn sleeve-bands widowsuse--and thought of Bennet Goldsworthy's old-time annoyance when hiswife was proved to have fallen behind the mode. And as she expatiatedupon the charms of Rose's eleventh baby, Deb's bright dark eyes rovedabout Mary's room, in which she recognised a few of the plainerfurnishings of the nuptial chamber of the past. 

But not a trace of the person who had been so much amongst them once. His boots on the floor, his clothes on the door-pegs, his razors andbrushes on the toilet-table were gone; so were a basin and ewer fromthe double wash-stand; so was the wide bed. In place of the latter asmall one--originally Bob's--had been set up, at the head of which layone large pillow fairly glistening with the shine of its fresh, although darned, linen sheath. Carpet and curtains, essential to thedeparted housefather, had disappeared; the bare windows stood open towhat fresh air there was; the floor, polished, and with one rug at thebedside, exhaled the sweet perfume of beeswax and turpentine. It wasall so pathetic to the visitor, so eloquent of loss and change, thatshe exclaimed, catching her sister in her arms:

"Oh, you poor thing! You poor, poor thing!"

Mrs Goldsworthy returned the embrace tenderly, but not the emotionalimpulse. 

"You are so dear and kind, " she said, in a gentle, but quite steadyvoice. "I am so glad you came--so thankful to have you; but we won'ttalk about that, if you don't mind. I think it is best not to dwell ontroubles, if you can help it. Tell me about yourself. I suppose youhave had lunch? Well, then, we will have a nice cup of tea. Take offthat heavy cloak--what lovely fur! And your hat too--what a smartaffair! You always have such taste. No, I am not wearing crape; it issuch rough, uncomfortable stuff, and so perishable; and the rule is nothard and fast nowadays, as it used to be. It would be stupid to make itso in a climate like this. Do you want a comb, dear? How brown yourhair keeps still! Then let us go downstairs to the fire. "

The fire was in a little bare parlour, as austerely appointed as thebedroom. A tea-table was drawn up to the hearth, the kettle placed onthe coals. There seemed no servant on the premises, but the neatnessupstairs was repeated below; everything was speckless, polished, smelling of its own purity. Well, it was a good thing poor Molly couldinterest herself in these matters, and her resolve not to brood overher troubles--if it was genuine, and not only a heroic pose--both nobleand wise. So Deb reflected; and such was the calmness of the emotionalatmosphere, the cheering effect of tea and rest and sisterlycompanionship, the discursiveness of the talk, that she soon foundherself telling Mary the secret that she was so sure the widow wouldhear with special sympathy and understanding. 

"It is awfully selfish, " she began, "to bother you with my affairs atsuch a time as this, but you've got to know it some time. The factis--some folks would say there's no fool like an old fool, and perhapsyou'll agree with them; but no, I don't think you will--not you, foryou know. . . The fact is--don't laugh--but I'm sure nobody can help it--Ihave been and gone and got married, Molly. There!"

And, after all, it seemed that she had not come to the right place forsympathy and understanding. Mary did not laugh, but she stared in awooden manner that was even more hurtful to the feelings of the newwife. 

"Well?" she cried brusquely, after a painful pause. "Is there any justcause or impediment that you know of? You look as if you thought I hadno business to be happy like other people. "

"Oh, if you are happy! But I am so surprised. Who is it?"

"Guess, " said Deb. 

"I could not. I haven't an idea. Some Englishman, of course. "

Deb shook her head. 

"European, then? Some prince or count, as big as Francie's, or bigger?"

Deb wrinkled a disdainful nose. 

"It is no use, Moll; you would not come near it in fifty tries. I'lltell you--Claud Dalzell. "

"What--the deadly enemy!" This time Mrs Goldsworthy did laugh. Debjoined in. 

"Funny, isn't it? I feel"--sarcastically--"like going into fits myselfwhen I think of it, it is so screamingly absurd. And how it happened Ican't tell you, unless it is that we are fallen into our dotage. Isuppose it must be that. "

"You in your dotage!" Mary mocked, with an affectionate sincerity thatwas grateful to her sister's ear. "You are the youngest of us all, andalways will be. Do you ever look at yourself in the glass? Upright as adart, and your pretty wavy hair--so thick, and scarcely a grey threadin it! Of course, I don't know how it may be with him; I have not seenhim for such ages--"

"Oh, he is a perfect badger for greyness--not that I ever saw a badger, by the way. And he walks with a stick, and has dreadful chronic thingsthe matter with him, from eating and drinking too much all his life, and never taking enough exercise. Quite the old man, I should havecalled him a few months ago. But he is better now. "

Mrs Goldsworthy gave a little shudder, and her unsympathetic gravityreturned. 

"I see, " she sighed. "Your benevolent heart has run away with you, asusual. His infirmities appealed to your pity. You married him so thatyou might nurse and take care of him--"

"Not at all!" Deb broke in warmly. "And don't you talk about hisinfirmities in that free-and-easy way; he is no more infirm than youare. Did I say he was? That was my joke. He always was the handsomestman that I ever set eyes on, and he is the same still. No, my dear, Ihave not married him to take care of him, but so that he may take careof me. I'm lonely. I want somebody. I've come to the time of life whenI am of no account to the young folks--not even to Bob, who would notgive me a second thought if I was a poor woman. No, Molly dear, it isno use your pretending; you know it as well as I do. And quite naturaltoo. It is the same with all of them. Nothing but money gives meimportance in their eyes. And what's money? It won't keep you warm inthe winter of your days--nothing will, except a companion that is inthe same boat. That is what I want--it may be silly, but I do--somebodyto go down into the valley of the shadow with me; and he feels thesame. ' Something in Mary's face as she stared into the fire, somethingin the atmosphere of the conversation, drove her into this line ofself-defence. 'Oh, there is no love-making and young nonsense in ourcase--we are not quite such idiots as that comes to; it is just that webegin to feel the cold, as it were, and are going to camp together tokeep each other warm. That's all. "

Mary remained silent. 

"Well, I must go, " said Deb, jumping up, as if washing her hands of adisappointing job. "The carriage must be there, and Bob will bestarving for his dinner. No use asking you to join us, I know. But youmust come to Redford soon, Molly--or somewhere out of this--when youfeel better and able. You shall have rooms entirely to yourself, andneedn't see anybody. I will come tomorrow, and you must let me talk toyou about it. "

Mrs Goldsworthy was stooping to sweep a sprinkle of ashes out of thefender--she was like an old maid in her faddy tidiness--and when sheturned, her face was working as if to repress tears. Deb caught her up, a moan bursting from her lips. 

"Oh, what a brute I am! when you--poor, poor old girl!--have to finishit alone. But, darling, after all, you have had the good years--a childof your own--a home; we shall get only the dregs at the bottom of thecup. So it is not so very unfair, is it?" Then Mary's pent emotionissued in a laugh. With her face on her sister's shoulder, she triedherself to silence it. 

"I can't help it, " she apologised. "I would if I could. Debbie, don'tgo! Oh, my dear, don't think I envy you! Don't go yet! I want to tellyou something. I may never have another chance. " "Of course I won'tgo--I want to stay, " said Deb at once. 

And she stayed. The coachman was dismissed to get his meal, andinstructed to telephone to Bob to do the same. The sisters had a littlepicnic dinner by themselves, washing up their plates and dishes in theneat kitchen, Deb insisting upon taking part in the performance, andsat long by the fireside afterwards. Fortunately, although the seasonwas late spring, it was a cold day; for the clear red fire was the onebit of brightness to charm a visitor to that poor house. It crackledcosily, toasting their toes outstretched upon the fender-bar, meltingtheir mood to such glowing confidences as they had not exchanged sinceMary was in her teens. No lamps were lighted. The widow was frugal withgas when eyes were idle; her extravagant sister loved firelight to talkin. 

But for a while it seemed that Mary had nothing particular tocommunicate. Deb did not like to put direct questions, but again andagain led the conversation in the likely direction, to find Maryavoiding it like a shying horse. She would not talk of her husband, butinterested herself for an hour in the subject of Guthrie Carey, Guthrie's wife, his child, his home, discussing the matter with acalmness that made Deb forget how delicate a one it was. Then Mary hada hundred questions to ask (probably on Bob's account) about theCountess, of whom she had known nothing of late years, while Deb hadlearned something from time to time, and could give an approximatelytrue tale. Quite another hour was taken up with Francie's wrongs andwrong-doings, as to which Deb was more frank with this sister than shewould have been with Rose. 

"It is no use blinking the fact, " she said straight out, "that Francieis no better than she should be. I can't understand it; no Pennycuickthat ever I heard of took that line before. She has a dog's life withthat ruffian, no doubt; and of course the poor child never had a chanceto enjoy the right thing in the right way--though that was her ownfault--"

"I don't think, " Mary broke in, "that ANYTHING is ANYBODY'S fault. "

"That's a most dangerous heathen doctrine, my dear, but I'll admitthere's something in it. Poor Francie! she was born at a disadvantage, with that fascinating face of hers set on the foundation of so light acharacter. She was too pretty, to start with. The pretty people get sospoiled, so filled with their own conceit, that they grow up expectinga world made on purpose for them. They grab right and left, if theplums don't fall into their mouths directly they open them, because itgets to be a sort of matter of course that they should have everything, and do exactly as they like. "

"And the plain ones--they are born at a worse disadvantage still. "

"No, they are not. Look at Rose. Francie, with her gilded wretchedness, thinks Rosie's lot quite despicable; but I can tell you, Molly, she isthe most utterly comfortable and contented little soul on the face ofthis earth. She would not change places with a queen. " "But Rose is notplain. Rose is the happy medium. And THEY are the lucky ones--theinconspicuous people--the every-day sort--"

"What's luck?" Deb vaguely moralised. "I suppose we make our luck. Itdoesn't depend on our faces, but on ourselves. "

"Ah, no!" Mrs Goldsworthy received the well-worn platitude with alaugh. "We don't make anything--we are made. It is just a dance ofmarionettes, Debbie. Poor puppets of flesh and blood, treated as ifthey were just wood and nails and glue! Who set us up to make a game ofus like this? Who DOES pull the strings, Debbie? It is a mystery to me. "

Then Deb waited for what was coming next. 

"Possibly it will be cleared up some day, " she murmured, putting outher strong, beautiful hand to touch her sister's knee. "Whether it is afairy tale or not, one must cherish the hope--"

"Not I, " Mary cut in swiftly--that same Mary who was once conspicuousin her family for pious orthodoxy. "No more experiments in humanexistence for me! A few years of peace and cleanness, as I am--as I nowam--I hope for that, and for nothing more; I don't want anythingmore--I'd rather not. To be let alone for the rest of the time, andthen to be done with it--that sums up all the hope I have, or need. "

"Ah, my dear--"

"No, Debbie, don't look at me with those eyes--don't pity me in thattone of voice. I am only a heathen against my will--not sobroken-hearted as not to care what happens to me, which I believe iswhat you think. I am not even sorry--I wish I was, but I can't be; infact, I am so happy, really, that I am going about in a sort of dream, trying to realise it. "

"HAPPY!"

"Perhaps 'happy' is not the word. I should say unmiserable. I am moreunmiserable than I have ever been, I think, since I was born. "

Deb's swift intelligence grasped the truth. "Ah, then she was not soinsensate as we thought!"--but made allowance for what she diagnosed asa morbid condition of mental health. 

"Are you happier than you were at Redford--young, and loved, and witheverything nice about you--?"

"Yes. Because then, although, of course, I did have everything, I hadno idea of the value of what I had. You can't be really happy unlessyou know that you are happy. I did not know it then, but now I do. "

Deb's glance flashed round the poor room, and out of the window intothe squalid street; she thought of Bob, who almost openly despised themother who adored him; she calculated the loneliness, the poverty, the--to her--ugliness of the existence which Mary's "as I am" wasintended to describe; and she groaned aloud. 

"Oh, my dear, was it really so awful as that--that the mere relief fromit can mean so much to you?"

"I am not going to complain, " said Mary. "It was not awful by anybody'sfault--certainly not by his. He did his best; he was really good to me. It could not have happened at all, except through his being good tome--doing what he did that night. I am not in the least bitter againsthim; he was as he was made just as I am. It had to be, I suppose. Themaker of the puppets didn't care whether we belonged or not; the handthat pulled the strings, and tangled them, jerked us into the miretogether anyhow--" "Oh, don't!" pleaded Deb. "Don't blaspheme likethat! What is religion for if not to keep us from making blunders, andto help us to bear it when they are made--and to trust--to trust wherewe cannot see--"

Deb was unused to preaching, and broke down; but her eyes were sermonsmore impressive than any of the thousands that Mary had heard. 

"Some day, " said Mary, "when I get into a place where I cannot hearreligion spoken of, nor see it practised, I may learn the value of it. I hope so. I have a chance of it now--the way is clear. I am throughthe wood at last. "

Deb drew her filmy handkerchief across her eyes. 

"Yes, I know. " Mary smiled at her sister's grief. "But it is only forthis once, Debbie dear. I did want to let you know--to have the delightof not being a liar and a shuffler for once. I shall not say suchthings again. I am not going to shock anybody else, for Bob's sake. Bob, of course, must be considered; after all, it was his father. Noneof us, even the freest, can be a free agent altogether; I understandthat. I shall hold my tongue. The blessed thing is that that will besufficient--a negative attitude, with the mouth shut; one is not drivenany longer to positive deceit, without even being able to say that youcan't help it. Oh, Debbie, you have been a free woman--why, why didn'tyou keep so?--but with all your freedom, and all your money, you don'tknow the meaning of such luxury as I live in now. "

Deb gazed at her sister's rapt face, glowing in the firelight, andwondered if the brain behind it could be altogether sane. 

"To call that HAPPINESS!" she ejaculated, with sad irony and scorn. 

"If you must fix a name to it--yes, " the widow considered thoughtfully. 

"After all, 'unmiserable' does not go far enough. I AM happy. For, Debbie"--turning to look into the dark, troubled eyes--"I'm cleannow--I never thought to be again--to know anything so exquisitelysweet, either in earth or heaven--I'm clean, body and soul, day andnight, inside and outside, at last. "

"Oh, POOR girl!" Deb moaned, with tears, when she realised what thismeant. 

"Rich, " corrected Mary--"rich, dear, with just a roof and a crust ofbread. "

"Well, " said Deb presently, "what about that roof and crust of bread?Since we are telling each other everything, tell me what your resourcesare. Don't say it is not my business; I know it isn't, but I shall bewretched if you don't let me make it mine a little. How much have you?"

"I don't know. I don't care. I haven't given money a thought. Itdoesn't matter. "

"But it does matter. You can't even keep clean without a bathtub and abit of soap. But what am I thinking of?--of course, you will settle allthat with Bob. "

The little word of three letters brought Mrs Goldsworthy down from herclouds at once. 

"Oh, no!" she cried quickly, almost fearfully. "On no account would Iinterfere with his arrangements, his career. He would do everythingthat was right and dutiful, I am sure, but I would sooner starve thantake charity from my own child. But there's no need to take it fromanybody. I have all I want. "

"How much?"

"I couldn't tell you to a pound or two, but enough for my small wants. "

"They do seem small, indeed. Where are you going to live? Won't youcome to me, Molly? Redford is big enough, and it's morally yours asmuch as mine. You should have your own rooms--all the privacy youlike--"

"No, darling--thank you all the same. I have made my plans. I am goingto have a little cottage somewhere in the country, where there is nodust, or smoke, or people--where I can walk on clean earth and grass, and smell only trees and rain and the growing things. Alone? Oh, yes!Of course, I shall see you sometimes--and my boy; but for a home--allthe home I can want or wish for now--that is my dream. "

"I don't think, " said Deb, "that I ever heard human ambition--andhappiness--expressed in such terms before. " It was the final result ofMary's experiment in the business of a woman's life. 

Deb drove back to her hotel, thoughtful and sad and tired. When Rosaliehad left her for the night, she wrote to Claud by way of comfortingherself. She told him what she had been doing--described her interviewswith Rose and Mary respectively, and the impressions they had left onher. 

"Of all the four of us, " she concluded her letter, "I am the only onewho has been fortunate in love. I found my mate in the beginning, before there was time to make mistakes--the right man, whom I couldlove in the right way--and we have been kept for each other through allthese years, although for a long time we did not know it. And now weare together--or shall be in a few days--never to part again. It is theonly love-story in the family--I don't except Rose's, because I don'tcall that a love-story--which has had a happy ending. "

CHAPTER XXVIII. 

Down the middle of the big T-shaped wool-shed, in two rows of six penseach, with an aisle between them, the bleating sheep were massed. Theyhad been driven into that aisle and thus distributed, as a crowd ofsoldiers might be packed into their pews at church, and twelve littlegates had then been shut upon them. Each gate had a corresponding oneat the opposite end of the pen, opening upon a broad lane of floor, andfacing a doorway into outside pens and the sunny paddocks of thebackground. Between gate and door, on his own section of the boardedlane, a sweating, bare-armed man with shears performed prodigies ofstrength and skill. Every few minutes he snatched a heavy sheep fromthe pen beside him, flung it with a round turn into a sitting posturebetween his knees, and with the calm indifference to its violentobjections of the spider to those of the fly that he makes into aparcel, sliced off its coat like a cook peeling a potato. The fleecegently fell upon the floor, as you may see an unnoticed shawl slip froman old lady's shoulders, and before it could realise what had happened, the poor naked animal found itself shot through the doorway, to staggerheadlong down the sloping stage that was its returning path to freedom. Twelve of these stalwart and strenuous operators, lining the long wallsat regular intervals, six a side, were at it with might and main(payment by results being the rule in this department of industry), andattendant boys strolled up and down, picking the fleeces from the floorand carrying them to the sorter's table. One was the tar-boy, whosebusiness it was to dab a brushful of tar upon any scarlet patchappearing upon a white under-coat where the shears had clipped tooclose. The sorter or classer stood behind his long table, above and atright angles to the lines of sheep-pens and shearers. Near him oneither hand were racks like narrow loose-boxes, built against thewalls; behind him the hydraulic press cranked and creaked as itsattendants fed and manipulated it, and the great bales, that otherswere sewing up, weighing, and branding, were mounting high in thetransepts of the building--the two arms of the capital T. The air wasthick with woolly particles and the smell of sheep; the floor was darkand slippery, and everything one touched humid with the impalpablegrease of the silky fleeces circulating all about the shed. Strict, downright, dirty business was the order of the day. 

The manager--Jim Urquhart, grey-bearded, in a battered felt hat and aslouchy old tweed suit--stood by the sorter's table, his wide-ranging, vigilant eye suddenly fixed upon it. As each fleece was brought up, shaken out, trimmed, tested with thumb and finger, rolled into a lightbundle, inside out, and flung into one or another of the adjacentracks, he followed the process as if it were something new to him. Theshade of difference in the texture of the staple of one fleece ascompared with another appeared of more concern to him than the absolutedifference, which seemed to shout for notice, between Deborah Dalzelland the other features of the scene. 

A snowy, lacy petticoat all but swept the greasy floor. An equallyspotless skirt, fresh from the laundry, gathered up in one strongpendant hand, gleamed like light against its background of greasywoodwork and greasy wool. The majestic figure of the lady of Redfordadvanced towards him. Her lord strolled behind her. Often--but not formany a long day--had the vision of her beautiful face come to Jim inthis fashion, a radiance upon prosaic business that it was not allowedto interfere with; now, for the first time, his eye avoided, his heartshrank from recognising it. 

Then he lifted his gaze at last, for she was close beside him. And whata ray of loving old-comradeship shone on him from those star-brightorbs of hers, undulled by the years that had lightly frosted her darkhair. She put out her hand, and held it out until he had apologised forhis greasy paw, and given it to her warm grasp. 

"Why haven't you been to see me--to see us?" she asked him, smiling. "Didn't you know we came home last night?"

"I thought you might be tired--or unpacking, " Jim lamely excusedhimself. "But whenever it is convenient to you, Deb--Mrs Dalzell--I amalways close by; I can come at any time. "

He looked at her husband. 

"Claud, you remember Jim?"

It was so many years since the men had met that the question was notuncalled for. They nodded to each other, across the enormous gulf thatseparated them, while Deb explained to her husband what an invaluablemanager she had. Jim had grown homelier and shabbier with his advancingyears; Claud more and more exquisitely finished, until he now stood, inhis carefully-careless costume--his short, pointed beard the same toneof silver-grey as his flannel suit, his finely-chiselled features thehue of old ivory--a perfect model of patrician 'form'. Only there wasplenty of vigour still manifest in the bushman's bony frame, while theman of the world wore a valetudinarian air, leaning on the arm of hisregal, upright wife. 

"Eh, isn't it like old times!" she mused aloud, as her eyes roamedabout the shed, where every sweating worker was finding time to gaze ather. "I see some of the old faces--there's Harry Fox--and oldDavid--and isn't that Keziah's grandson? I must go and speak to them. "

She left her husband at the sorter's table, that he and Jim might getreacquainted--men never learned to know each other while women were inthe way--and it seemed to them both a long time before she came back. Claud asked questions about the clip, and other matters of business;and he criticised the manager's management. 

"Rather behind the times--isn't it?--for a place like Redford. Ithought all the big stations sheared by machinery now. "

"I've only been waiting for Miss--Mrs Dalzell's return to advise her tohave the machines, " said Jim, scrupulous to give Deb's husband allpossible information. 

"We must have them, of course. I believe in scientific methods. "

Mr Dalzell did not ask Jim how his sisters were, and how his brotherswere getting on--did not remember that he had any. And when Deb cameback, to be gently but firmly ordered out of that dirty place by hernew lord and master, the latter failed to take, although he did notfail to perceive, the hint of her eyes that Jim should be asked todinner. 

"No, " said he, linking his arm in hers as they left the shed, "nooutsiders, Debbie. I want you all to myself now. "

And the words and tone were so sweet to her that she could not be sorryfor the possible hurt to Jim's feelings. She was young again today, with her world-weary husband making love to her like this. That theoryof their having come together merely to keep each other warm on thecold road to the grave was laughingly flung to the winds. She laid herstrong right hand on his, limp upon her arm, and expanded her deepchest to the sunny morning air. 

"Oh, Claud! Oh, isn't it wonderful, after all these years! You rememberthat night--that night in the garden? The seat is there still--we willgo and sit on it tonight--"

"My dear, I dare not sit out after sunset, so subject as I am tobronchitis. "

"No, no, of course not--I forgot your bronchitis. This is the time foryou to be out--and this air will soon make another man of you, dear. Isn't it a heavenly climate? Isn't it divine, this sun? Look here, Claud, we've got some capital horses--or we had; I'll ask Jim. What doyou say to a ride--a long, lovely bush ride, like the old rides we usedto have together?"

Words cannot describe the pang that went through her when he shook hishead indifferently, and said he was too old for such violent exercisenow. 

"Stuff!" she cried angrily. --

"Besides, I haven't been on a horse for so long that I shouldn't knowhow to sit him, " he teased her lazily. "You wouldn't like to see metumble off at your hall door, before the servants, would you?"

"Oh, Claud! And to think how you used to ride!"

But of course she knew this was a joke, and laughed it off. 

"It's nothing but sheer indolence, " said she, patting the hand on herarm--that shapely ivory hand, with its polished filbert nails--"and Isee that my mission in life is to cure you of it. Come, we will make astart with a real country walk. "

She began to drag him away from the bowered homestead, but he plantedhis feet, and took his hand from her arm. 

"Not now, Debbie, " he objected gently, but with that subtle note ofmastership that had struck so sharply into Jim's sensitiveness; "it ismail-day, and the letters will be at the house by this time. "

"What do letters matter to us?"

"That we can't tell until we see them. "

They went in out of the sunshine to their arm-chairs in the shade. TheEnglish mail had arrived, and it was very interesting. Letters fromlords and ladies, piles of papers of fashionable intelligence, voicesfrom that world which one of the pair had already begun to hanker to beback in, although not yet distinctly conscious of it. The bride fetchedher work-basket, and busied herself with a piece of useless embroidery, while the bridegroom read aloud to her passages from the epistles ofhis titled correspondents, and from the printed chronicles of theirdoings here and there. She had dreamed of his reading again the sort ofthings that he used to read, while she sewed and listened; but in thelife that he had lived and grown to there had been no room for learningand the arts. He had dropped them, with his health and hishorsemanship, long ago. The coroneted letters and the MORNING POSToccupied them until luncheon. 

At luncheon, as at every other meal--despite the new husband'sexpressed desire to have his wife to himself--his valet was present asbutler, watching over the dyspeptic's diet, and seeing that the winewas right. Neither master nor man trusted anybody else to do this. Itwas a large crumple in Deb's rose-leaf, Manton's limpet-like attachmentto Claud, who seemed unable to do anything without his servant's help, and the latter's cool relegation of herself to the second place in theMENAGE. It was all very well for HER to give her husband the premierplace--she did it gladly--but for Manton to take possession of Redfordas a mere appendage of his lord's was quite another matter. It wasstill the honeymoon, and he might do as he liked--or rather, as Claudliked; but it was not difficult to foresee the day when the valet whodictated to her cook would become too much for the proud spirit of thelady of the house, with whom it had ever been dangerous to make toofree--or to foretell what would happen then. 

Claud dozed through the afternoon--like most idle and luxurious men, hedrank a great deal of wine, which made him sleepy--and Deb took theopportunity to go all through her house and put everything in order. They met again at tea, and had a stroll about the garden, arm-in-armand happy. Dinner was a rather silent function. Deb wished for Jim, andregretted her easy abandonment of him; Claud never talked when he waseating--the business was too serious, and Manton was there. But whileher husband smoked over his coffee, serene and charming, she sat alonewith him, revelling in his wit and gaiety, telling herself that he wasindeed the splendid fellow she had always thought him. 

Then they went up to the big drawing-room--he was used to bigrooms--and he flung himself at full length upon one of the downycouches, and she put silk pillows under his head. 

While she was doing it, he pulled her down to him and kissed her. 

"It's nice, isn't it?" he murmured in her ear. 

For answer, she pressed her lips to his ivory brows and his droppedeyelids. Her big heart was too full for speech. 

"Now I am going to play to you, " she whispered, and went off to the oldpiano, that the tuner had prepared for this sacred purpose. 

What years it was since she had cared to touch piano keys! And neversince the love-time of her youth had she played as she did now--all theold things that he had ever cared for, with the old passion in them. . . . 

And while she played--he slumbered peacefully. 

* * * * *

Jim, when his day of hard work was over, went back to his manager'shouse--all the home he knew--had a bath, put on clean clothes, ateperfunctorily of roast mutton, and bread and jam, and sat down with hispipe on the top step of his verandah, where he hugged his knees andwatched the stars come out. He was a confirmed old bachelor now, "set", his sisters said, in his bachelor ways. None of them lived with him, tokeep his house and cheer him up. It was too dull for them (with themistress of Redford never there), and besides, he did not wantcheering; for himself, he preferred dullness. An old workinghousekeeper "did" for him, cooking his simple meals--eggs and baconalternating with chops for breakfast, and mutton and bread and jam forhis tea-dinner, with a fowl for Sundays--keeping his few plain roomsclean and his socks mended. A hundred or two a year must have coveredhis household expenses; the hundreds remaining of his handsome incomewent to shore up the weak-kneed of his kindred, who had the habit offalling back on him when their funds ran out, or anything else wentwrong with them. 

He was a great reader. Books lined the walls of his otherwise meagrelyfurnished rooms--they represented the one personal extravagance that heindulged in--and newspapers and magazines came by every mail. In theseand in his thoughts he lived, when not intent upon the affairs of theestate, which in the eyes of some appeared wholly to absorb him. Tonight his thoughts sufficed. The latest parcel from Mullens' layuntied, the new American periodicals with wrappers intact. Deb was homeagain--that was enough food for the mind at present. 

But, oh, what a home-coming! His own and only "boss" no longer, asheretofore, but subject to a husband who clearly meant to be hismaster, and as clearly meant him to have no mistress any more. Neitherin the way of business nor in the way of sentiment could she be againto him what she had been throughout his life--the altar of hissacrifice, the goddess of his simple worship, his guide, his goal. Hemust not hope, nor try, nor even long for her now. That one lastcomfort was taken from him. 

Well!. . . 

He walked about, while the fiercest paroxysm racked him. As some of usin our pain-torments rush to lotion or anodyne, he sought the soothingof the starry night, the cool darkness that had so often brought himpeace. To get away from the faintly audible tinkling of the shearers'banjo and their songs, he strolled in the opposite direction, and thatwas towards the dark mass of the trees encircling her house--her home, in which he had no part. Mechanically he noted a garden gate open--shehad left it so--open to the rabbits against which its section of themiles of wire-netting fencing the grounds had been so carefullyprovided, and he went forward to shut it. Being there, he had a distantview of the big drawing-room windows, thrown up and letting out widestreams of light across the lawn. And while he stood to gaze at them, picturing what within he could not see, he heard the piano--Debbieplaying. 

And so she had an appreciative audience, although she did not know it. Below her windows, out of the light, Jim--poor old Jim!--sat like astatue, his head thrown back, his eyes uplifted, tears running down hishairy, weather-beaten face. It was the most exquisitely miserable hourof his life--or so he thought. He did not know what a highly favouredmortal he really was, in that his beautiful love-story was never to bespoiled by a happy ending.